Page 12 of Daddy Knows Best

I t felt like my life was on fast-forward.

The only thing that mattered, the only thing I looked forward to every week was seeing Daddy.

I had to stop thinking of him like that.

It had been seven days since I'd called him Daddy. Seven nights of replaying that moment on his beanbag, my voice cracking around the word while pleasure rolled through me in waves that left me gasping.

My Week Three envelope crinkled between sweaty fingers—$14.

10 left, every receipt paper-clipped with the precision of someone trying to prove they had their shit together.

Bus fare, Tuesday. Generic ibuprofen from CVS.

A used poetry collection that cost three dollars and made me cry for reasons I couldn't explain.

All documented, all within budget, all evidence that I was being good.

"Emily, honey. Don't you look lovely today." Mrs. Delgado’s eyes tracked down my dress with grandmotherly approval that somehow made me blush harder. "He's just finishing notes. Have a seat."

I folded into the indigo armchair, hyperaware of how the wrap dress rode up my thighs. The homework sheet emerged from my folder. I wanted to look over it one more time, make sure it was perfect.

Daily breathing exercises—check.

Self-soothing ritual—I'd bought lavender hand cream for $8.99 and used it religiously—check.

Everything completed, every box ticked, model patient report card.

My pulse hammered against my throat. Between my legs, that telltale warmth bloomed—the body's early warning system that I was about to do something stupid. The bee socks seemed to pulse from inside my purse, and I pressed my thighs tighter together.

"Ready for you," Ms. Delgado called, and I shot to my feet so fast the room spun.

She watched me with those wise eyes that missed nothing—not my flushed cheeks, not my trembling hands, not the way I smoothed my dress three times before taking a single step.

"You okay, sweetheart?"

"Perfect," I lied, voice pitched too high. "Just excited to show my progress."

Her expression said she wasn't buying it, but she held the door anyway. "Go on then. Don't keep the doctor waiting."

The hallway had never felt longer. My body moved on autopilot while my mind raced through possibilities: Would he comment on my dress? Would he notice the gloss? Would there be another earned nurture, another chance to be close?

I knocked once, heard his low "Come in," and stepped through the door into air that crackled with seven days of accumulated want.

He stood behind his desk in charcoal gray—always gray, like he'd made a uniform of control. His eyes lifted from whatever he'd been writing, and for one unguarded second, I watched him take me in. The dress. The gloss. The way I clutched my envelope like a life preserver.

"Ms. Carter." Professional distance, but his voice dropped half an octave on my name. "Please, have a seat."

I was already drowning, and we hadn't even started.

He spread my receipts across his desk like tarot cards revealing my future, each one examined with the focus of a jeweler checking for flaws. I watched his fingers move—those careful, clinical fingers that had cleaned my tear-stained face last week—and tried not to imagine them elsewhere.

"CVS, $6.41." He aligned the receipt with the others. "Within budget. Good choice on generic."

"The name brand was three times more." My voice came out steadier than expected, riding high on the need for his approval.

"Poetry collection?" He held up the handwritten receipt from the used bookstore. "Interesting. Tell me about that."

"Mary Oliver." I shifted in the chair, wrap dress whispering against leather. "I needed something beautiful that didn't cost a fortune. Words instead of things."

Something flickered across his face—surprise maybe, or recognition. He set the receipt down with particular care. "That's excellent redirection. You're learning to feed different hungers."

The praise hit me in the sternum, warm as whiskey. My whole body leaned toward him without permission, desperate for more words like "excellent" from his mouth.

"Final balance, $14.10." He pulled out a small certificate from his drawer, already filled out in his precise handwriting. "Zero overage for the second consecutive week. This level of consistency merits acknowledgment."

The paper transferred from his fingers to mine—official North Point Mental Health letterhead declaring me "Financially Responsible" for Week Three. Such a small thing, but my eyes burned with sudden tears.

"Thank you," I whispered.

"You've earned more than paper." He stood with that liquid grace, moving to the leather wingback. "Today's session includes earned nurture. No regression, no correction. Just reinforcement of the safety you've created through discipline."

My mouth went dry. "What kind of reinforcement?"

"Lap sit. Five minutes of guided grounding while in supportive physical contact." He settled into the chair, gray slacks pulling across his thighs. "It helps the nervous system integrate positive achievements. Completely optional, of course."

Optional. Like anything about being near him felt optional when my body magnetized toward his presence.

"I consent," I said quickly, before wisdom could interfere.

He patted his thigh once—such a simple gesture that sent lightning through my core. "Sideways position. We'll maintain appropriate boundaries while providing the contact your system needs."

I stood on legs that barely remembered their function. The space between his chair and mine felt vast as an ocean, but then I was there, lowering myself across his lap.

"Comfortable?" His voice rumbled through his chest where my shoulder pressed.

Comfortable wasn't the word. Alive, maybe. Burning. Home. "Yes."

"Good. I'm going to read a grounding script while you focus on breathing." He produced a small card from his breast pocket, his other arm still steady around me. "Just listen and let your body settle."

But settling felt impossible when I could feel everything—the solid muscle of his thighs beneath me, the rise and fall of his chest, the way his cologne wrapped around me like expensive smoke.

The script began, something about roots and earth and safety, but the words dissolved against a more pressing revelation.

He was hard.

Not fully, not obviously, but there—a telltale thickness pressing against my hip through his slacks. My pussy clenched in response, going from warm to soaking in seconds. I tried to focus on his words about breathing and grounding, but my body had its own agenda.

Without thinking, I shifted. Just a small movement, adjusting my position. But it pressed me more firmly against that growing hardness, and a whimper escaped before I could stop it.

His reading stuttered for just a second. "Focus on the breath, Emily."

But his voice had roughened, and hearing my name like that—graveled with want he couldn't quite hide—destroyed my last thread of control. I rolled my hips. Deliberate this time, a slow grind that made us both exhale sharply.

"Daddy." The word fell from my lips like a confession, like a plea, like the only true thing in the world.

His arm tightened around me. "Emily. We can't—"

But I was already moving again, chasing the friction that made thoughts scatter. His erection pressed full and insistent now, and I ground against it with the desperation of a week's worth of fantasies made real.

"Please." I turned my face into his neck, lips brushing his throat. "I've been so good. I did everything right. Please."

His breathing had gone ragged, chest heaving beneath my cheek. The hand holding the script trembled. But he didn't push me away. Didn't restore the professional distance that kept us safe.

"Fuck." The curse cracked from him like breaking glass. "Emily, you have to stop."

But his hips lifted slightly, pressing back against me, and that involuntary response undid us both. I turned fully, shifting to straddle his lap, dress riding up until only thin lace and his slacks separated us. His hands found my waist—to steady or stop me, I didn't know and didn't care.

"I can't stop thinking about last week." The words tumbled out between panting breaths. "About how you watched me. How you told me when to let go. How you—"

"Emily." My name came out strangled, desperate. His fingers dug into my waist, and I could feel him fully hard beneath me now, could feel myself soaking through lace and probably his pants too.

I looked at his face—really looked. His pupils were blown wide, that careful control cracking at every edge. A muscle jumped in his jaw. His lips parted around harsh breaths. He looked wrecked. He looked hungry. He looked like a man about to break his own rules.

"Just once," I whispered, leaning closer until our breaths mingled. "Just let me—"

I closed the distance between us, pressing my lips to his in a kiss that started soft—a question more than a statement. For a heartbeat, he went perfectly still. Then his mouth opened beneath mine with a groan that vibrated through my bones, and suddenly we were devouring each other.

His tongue swept into my mouth, tasting faintly of spearmint.

It was everything I'd wanted for seven days.

One hand tangled in my hair while the other gripped my hip, holding me against him as we kissed like drowning people finding air.

I moaned into his mouth, grinding harder, feeling him thick and perfect beneath me, right where I needed—

His hands turned to iron on my waist, and the kiss died between us like a light switch flicking off. One second I was drowning in him—his taste, his heat, the desperate sound he'd made against my mouth—and the next, he was pushing me away with enough force to make me stumble.

"Stop. Now." The words came out raw, like they'd been ripped from somewhere deep.

I reached for him, confused and aching. "Nate—"