Page 11 of Daddy Knows Best

"No," he agreed. "It doesn't. You're in charge. And you have help now."

The gold star caught the light, winking at me like a promise.

I let out a long, lingering sigh.

"You've done intense emotional work." Dr. Whitlow's voice came gentle but sure. "Your nervous system needs help regulating. Can you stand?"

I tried, but my legs had other ideas. They trembled like I'd run a marathon. His hand appeared in my peripheral—steady, patient, palm up in invitation rather than demand.

"I got you."

Three words that shouldn't have meant everything. But when my fingers wrapped around his, when he pulled me up with careful strength, something in my chest cracked wider. Not breaking. Opening.

He guided me to the beanbag in the corner—plush, navy, big enough to swallow me whole.

My romper rode up as I sank into it, but modesty felt pointless after showing him the ugliest parts of my insides.

He grabbed a fleece blanket from a basket, mint green like my outfit, and wrapped it around my shoulders without touching more than necessary.

"Your body processed trauma today." He settled cross-legged on the floor, close enough to monitor but far enough to maintain those precious boundaries.

"The nervous system often needs physical release after emotional breakthrough.

It's why people shake after accidents, why we cry at unexpected moments. "

I pulled the blanket tighter, its softness a buffer against too many feelings. "I feel . . . buzzy. Like my skin's too tight."

"That's the trapped energy. We can work with that.

" His tone shifted to what I'd started thinking of as his doctor voice—clinical but caring.

"There's a therapeutic technique that helps discharge that energy through guided self-touch.

It's not about pleasure, though that may occur.

It's about giving your body permission to release what it's holding. "

The words landed in my belly, sending ripples through already sensitive places. "Self-touch?"

"You would touch yourself while I guide your breathing and focus. Romper stays on, but you can unsnap for access. No insertion, just external stimulation. I don't touch you at all—only provide verbal guidance."

My face burned hotter than the sun. He was describing masturbation. Therapeutic masturbation, but still. "And that's . . . normal? In therapy?"

"In somatic trauma therapy, yes. The body keeps score, as they say. Sometimes it needs help closing the loop on intense experiences." He studied my face, reading whatever was written there. "Your safe word applies. You can stop anytime. This is only if you feel it would be helpful."

Helpful. Would orgasming in my therapist's office while dressed like an escaped daycare resident be helpful?

My body seemed to think so, already responding to the suggestion with warmth and wetness.

The vulnerability of the drawing session had cracked me open.

Maybe I needed this final break to put myself back together.

"Okay." The word came out breathy. "I mean, yes. I consent."

"Good girl." There it was again, that praise that hit me in places that had no name. "Lie back against the beanbag. Get comfortable. Blanket can stay or go—your choice."

I kept it, needing the weight and warmth. The beanbag cradled me as I shifted, trying to find a position that felt stable. My hands rested on my thighs, uncertain.

"We'll start with breathing." He had shifted into guide mode, voice dropping to that hypnotic register. "Four counts in through your nose, six counts out through your mouth. Just breathing first. Let your body settle."

I closed my eyes, following his count. In for four—hold—out for six. The rhythm felt like waves, washing away the lingering traces of tears and snot and shame. My muscles loosened by degrees, sinking deeper into the supportive foam.

"Good. Keep that rhythm. Now, very slowly, move one hand to your belly. Just resting there. Feel it rise and fall."

My hand obeyed before my brain could protest. The romper's cotton was soft under my palm, warmed by my body. Each breath moved my hand up and down like a boat on gentle swells.

"When you're ready—no rush—let that hand drift lower. Outside the clothes for now. Just pressure, just presence."

This was happening. I was really going to do this. My hand slid down, pausing at the junction of thigh and pelvis. Even through cotton and underwear, the heat radiated. I'd been wet since putting on the romper, body responding to vulnerability in its own language.

"That's it." His approval washed over me. "Now unsnap when you feel ready. Take your time. This is for you."

My fingers fumbled with the snaps, each pop loud in the quiet room. Cool air met damp underwear, making me gasp. I slipped my hand inside, finding slick heat that had been building since I'd walked in his door.

"Slow circles first. Let your body wake up gradually."

His voice became my anchor, something to follow when thinking became impossible. I circled my clit with light pressure, charge building in my belly. This was different from my usual rushed self-care—slower, more intentional. Guided.

"Breathe, Emily. In for four, out for six. Let the sensation build with the breath."

Emily. My name in his mouth while I touched myself sent lightning through my nerves. My circles grew firmer, finding the rhythm that made my hips lift. The beanbag shifted under me, accommodating my movement.

"You're doing so well. So responsive. Your body knows what it needs."

The praise wound through me like smoke, making everything hazier. My free hand clutched the blanket, needing something to ground me as pleasure built. His presence filled the room—not touching but everywhere, watching me come apart by degrees.

"A little faster now. Follow what feels good."

Good was an understatement. My fingers found the perfect pressure, the spot that made colors burst behind my eyelids. My breath hitched, disrupting his careful count, but he didn't correct me. Just kept that steady presence, that low guidance.

"Let it build. Don't chase it. Let your body tell you what it needs."

What it needed was more. More pressure, more speed, more of his voice saying things like "good" and "responsive" and my name.

I was climbing toward something vast, bigger than the usual quick release of shower orgasms. This felt like standing at the edge of a cliff, wind whipping my hair, about to jump.

"You're close." Not a question. He could read my body like those receipts—every tell catalogued and understood. "When you reach the edge, you have permission to let go. Full permission to feel everything."

Permission. The word cracked something open. I'd spent years denying myself—not just things but feelings, pleasure, the right to want. But here, in this impossible moment, someone was giving me permission to fall apart.

"Please—" The word escaped without thought. "I need—"

"I know what you need." His voice dropped lower, more command than guide. "Let go, Emily. Now."

The orgasm crashed through me like a wave breaking on stone. My back arched off the beanbag, romper riding up, thighs shaking as pleasure rolled through in devastating waves. I heard myself cry out—wordless at first, then his name.

"Daddy!"

The moment it left my lips, I knew I'd crossed a line. Not Dr. Whitlow. Not Doctor. Not even Nate.

Daddy.

It was a terrible mistake.

But the orgasm didn't care about boundaries, wringing me out until I collapsed back into the beanbag, boneless and buzzing.

Silence filled the room, broken only by my ragged breathing. I couldn't look at him. Couldn't face whatever expression he wore after watching me come while calling him that.

"I'm sorry," I whispered to the ceiling. "I didn't mean to say—"

"Shh." His voice held no judgment, just warmth. "Bodies do what they need to do. You're safe. You did perfectly."

Perfectly. Even in my mistake, he found something to praise.

My body hummed at a frequency I'd never felt before, like I'd been taken apart and reassembled with better instructions. The romper's snaps hung open, cool air kissing oversensitive skin.

"Stay still. I'm getting aftercare supplies."

His voice had returned to pure professional, but underneath I heard something else. Not strain exactly, but conscious control. Like he was holding himself in check through will alone.

I heard the mini-fridge open, liquid pouring. His footsteps returned, and then he was kneeling beside the beanbag, close enough that I could see the pulse in his throat. Quick, like mine.

"Strawberry milk." He held out a bottle warmed to body temperature. "Sip slowly. Your blood sugar probably dropped."

My hands shook as I took it, careful not to let our fingers touch. The sweetness coated my throat, childhood comfort in liquid form. He watched me drink with that clinical assessment, but his eyes kept dropping to my mouth.

"I'm going to clean your face. That okay?"

I nodded, not trusting words yet. The cool cloth was heaven against flushed cheeks, wiping away tears and snot and the salt of exertion. When he reached my throat, his hand paused.

"Your pulse is still elevated."

"I wonder why," I managed, and immediately wanted to bite my tongue. But the corner of his mouth twitched—almost a smile.

"Post-orgasmic physiology can take time to regulate." So clinical. So controlled. So at odds with the way his pupils had dilated when I'd called him Daddy. "Keep drinking."

I finished the milk while he sat back, maintaining that careful distance.

"How do you feel?" The question came loaded with professional concern, nothing more.

"Floaty. Empty but full. Like . . ." I searched for words that wouldn't cross lines. "Like something got reset."

"That's exactly what happened. Your nervous system discharged trapped energy. The regression work opened pathways, the physical release closed the loop." He stood with that lazy grace, extending a hand. "Think you can stand?"

This time when our palms met, the contact sparked. He had to feel it too—the way the air charged between us, how my breath caught, how his fingers tightened fractionally before releasing. But his face remained carefully neutral as he pulled me up.

"Steady?"

"Yeah." The lie came automatic. Nothing about me was steady. Not with my romper hanging open, not with the memory of his voice guiding me to climax, not with the way he wasn't quite meeting my eyes.

"Your clothes are behind the screen. Take your time changing. I'll prepare your homework materials."

Homework. Right. This was therapy, not whatever my body thought it was. I clutched the blanket around me and shuffled to the changing area on legs that still felt like water.

Peeling off the romper felt like shedding skin.

Each piece of adult clothing—pencil skirt, work blouse, sensible bra—added another layer between me and what had just happened.

By the time I'd finger-combed my pigtails out, I almost looked like someone who hadn't just orgasmed in her therapist's office.

The Emily in the mirror had glassy eyes and looked thoroughly debauched, yet somehow cleaner than before. Like someone had scraped her insides with steel wool and found something shiny underneath.

When I emerged, Dr. Whitlow was standing at a corkboard labeled "Progress Art." My Money Monster drawing hung from two pins, the gold star catching the light. Beside it, he'd written "Week 2 - Breakthrough" in that same precise handwriting.

"Visible progress matters," he said without turning. "You'll see this every week. Remember how brave you were today."

Brave. That's one word for writhing on his beanbag while he watched. I approached slowly, aware of every inch of space between us.

"Your homework." He handed me a sheet with bullet points, fingers careful not to brush mine. "Daily breathing exercises, two minutes minimum. And I want you to develop a self-soothing ritual that doesn't involve spending."

I scanned the list. "Scented hand cream?"

"Or tea, or a specific song, or stretching. Something sensory but affordable. Ten dollar maximum investment." He moved to his desk, pulling out another cash envelope. "Week three allowance. Same rules apply."

Seventy-five dollars in crisp bills. Another chance to prove I could handle this. That today meant something beyond the obvious.

"Dr. Whitlow," I started, then stopped. What was I going to say? Thanks for helping me masturbate? Sorry I called you Daddy?

"Boundaries remain critical," he said quietly, not looking up from his notes. "What happened today was therapeutic intervention. Nothing more. I need to know you understand that."

The words stung even as I recognized their necessity. "I understand."

"Good." He finally met my eyes, and for just a second, his control slipped. Heat flared in his gaze, want so naked it made my knees weak. Then it was gone, locked back behind professional distance. "You did exceptional work today. True vulnerability. That's . . . rare. Very, very rare."

"Same time next week?" My voice came out steadier than expected.

"Thursday at four."

I wouldn’t miss it for the world.