Page 9 of Daddy Knows Best

"I—" My voice cracked. I cleared my throat, tried again. "No. No problem."

My body moved before my brain could mount further protest. One step, two, then I was lowering myself onto his office carpet. The fibers pressed into my knees through my tights, grounding me in the surreal reality of what was happening. I was kneeling on the floor of a behavioral therapist's office because he told me to. Because somehow this was supposed to fix my maxed-out credit cards.

"Good." The approval in that single word shouldn't have made warmth bloom in my chest, but it did. "Hands on your thighs, remember. Palms flat."

I adjusted my position, hyperaware of every movement. My pencil skirt rode up slightly, the satin lining cool against my skin. His lemongrass cologne wrapped around me, mixing with something deeper—leather from his chairs, the vanilla candle on his bookshelf, that indefinable scent of authority.

"Now." He moved to stand directly in front of me. I kept my eyes forward like he'd instructed, which meant staring at his belt buckle. Simple silver, nothing flashy. "You're going to count five slow breaths aloud. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Focus on the rhythm."

"Okay." The word came out breathy, not at all the professional tone I'd aimed for.

"Begin."

I inhaled, the air shaky in my lungs. "One."

The exhale trembled past my lips. I could feel him watching, cataloging every tell. My therapist—was that what he was?—circled slowly to my left, those weightless footfalls barely disturbing the air.

"Two." Steadier this time, though my hands pressed harder into my thighs.

He continued his path behind me. Out of sight but impossibly present, like gravity had shifted to orbit around him. The vulnerable stretch of my neck tingled with awareness.

"Three."

My breathing had found a rhythm, but everything else spiraled. This position—submissive, exposed—should have triggered my stubborn streak. Instead, something in me settled. Like a puzzle piece clicking into place after years of trying to force it somewhere it didn't belong.

"Four."

He completed his circle, stopping just outside my peripheral vision. The latex glove caught the light as he flexed his fingers. Such a small movement, but my breath hitched.

"Continue," he prompted, voice low enough to raise goosebumps along my arms.

"Five." The word dissolved into a whisper.

"Excellent." He stepped behind me again, and I fought not to turn. To maintain the position he'd put me in even though every nerve screamed for more information. "You respond well to structure when it's properly applied."

His footsteps paused. The office air hung thick with anticipation, with the weight of whatever came next. Then—movement. The whisper of fabric as he leaned down.

"This part is important, Emily." His breath stirred the hair at my nape. "Actions have consequences. Your spending serves as a maladaptive coping mechanism. We're going to create new associations. This punishment forgives you for all your past mistakes and overindulgence."

I opened my mouth to ask what he meant, but his gloved hand settled on the hem of my skirt. Just resting there, latex against satin, but my words evaporated.

"Stay in position. Stay silent."

The hand smoothed down once, a clinical assessment that still made my thighs clench. Then he straightened, stepped back, and in one fluid motion—

Thwack.

The swat landed across the fullest part of my ass, firm enough to bloom instant heat through my skirt and tights. Not painful exactly, but shocking in its deliberateness. In the way it claimed space in my body without apology.

My teeth sank into my lower lip, trapping the sound that wanted to escape. Not quite a moan, not quite a gasp, but something dangerously close to both. My hands curled againstmy thighs as warmth spread from the point of impact, radiating outward like ripples in still water.

"Good girl."

Two words. That's all. But they hit harder than his hand had, sinking into some deep, desperate place I didn't know existed. My eyes burned with sudden moisture—not from pain but from the overwhelming relief of being seen. Corrected. Claimed, in some indefinable way.

He peeled off the glove with the same precision he'd put it on, dropping it into a small bin beside his desk. Like this was routine. Like he hadn't just tilted my entire world off its axis with one calculated swat.

"You may stand."

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