Page 15 of Daddy Knows Best

"The intervention protocol allows for temporary suspension of normal boundaries to address acute crisis.

" He picked up his tablet, checking something on the screen.

"For the next ninety minutes, I'm not your therapist. I'm your crisis counselor with expanded authority to implement immediate behavioral corrections. "

From beside the door, he lifted something I hadn't noticed—a small canvas tote bag, the kind yoga moms carried to farmer's markets. But the way he held it, the careful way he set it on my cleared coffee table, made it seem like something else entirely.

"Stand up." The command cut through my tears. "Wipe your face. We have work to do."

I struggled to my feet, using the couch for support. My hands shook as I wiped at my cheeks, probably just smearing the mascara worse. But I was vertical, which felt like an achievement.

He reached into the tote with deliberate movements. The first item emerged—a bar of lavender soap, handmade from the look of it, wrapped in cotton string. Then a pacifier clip, adult-sized, pale pink silicone. Finally, a leather strap, worn smooth with use, maybe eighteen inches long.

My breath caught. I knew what these were. Had seen variations in my late-night research spirals, reading about domestic discipline and behavioral modification. The soap for lies. The pacifier for self-soothing. The strap for . . .

"We correct." His voice had dropped to that register that bypassed my brain and went straight to my body. "Then we care. That's how we fix what's broken. Do you understand?"

The items sat on my coffee table like promises or threats. Maybe both. But underneath my shame and exhaustion, something else stirred. Relief. He'd come for me. Even after I'd destroyed everything, he'd spent his pre-dawn hours saving me from myself.

"Yes," I whispered.

"Yes, what?" The prompt came automatic, testing.

I swallowed hard, tasting wine and regret. "Yes, Daddy."

Something shifted in his expression—satisfaction mixed with resolve. "Good girl. Now we begin."

He guided me to the kitchen with a hand between my shoulder blades, firm pressure that kept me moving when my legs wanted to fold. The sink loomed like a monument to my failures—dishes from days ago crusted with shame, wine glasses bearing lipstick fossils from my spiral.

"Last night, when you bought those items, you were lying to yourself, weren’t you?”

“Yes, Daddy. I told myself that if I bought those things, I would fix me.”

“But you knew that was a lie, didn’t you?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“No more lies." He turned the water on, testing the temperature with methodical care. "Those behaviors poisoned your progress. We clean them out first."

The lavender soap emerged from his hands, paper wrapping crinkling as he revealed the pale purple bar. The scent hit immediately—floral and astringent, nothing like the synthetic sweetness of store brands. This was punishment disguised as aromatherapy.

"Open." The command came soft but absolute.

My jaw trembled as I parted my lips. He steadied my chin with one hand, clinical in his touch, then pressed the bar between my teeth. The taste exploded immediately—bitter flowers flooding my tongue, coating my mouth with consequence. My eyes watered, nose burning from the intensity.

"Two minutes." He set his phone on the counter, timer already running. "Don't bite down. Let it rest on your tongue. Think about the lies it's washing away."

Two minutes stretched like hours. Lavender oil seeped into every taste bud, turning my mouth into a garden of regret. Tears tracked down my cheeks—not from pain but from the overwhelming nature of being held accountable. Of someone caring enough to correct me.

Saliva pooled, threatening to drip. He noticed immediately, grabbing a dishcloth to catch the overflow. His movements stayed clinical, efficient, but something in his eyes had gone molten watching me submit to this consequence.

The timer chimed like salvation. He removed the soap, letting me rinse and spit, the water running purple with dissolved lies. My mouth felt stripped clean, raw in a way that went beyond physical.

"Living room." His hand returned to my back, guiding me through my apartment's obstacle course of poor choices. "The strapping happens on the loveseat."

Loveseat. Where I'd binged Netflix and wine, numbing myself with consumption. Where I'd placed orders for things I didn't need with money I didn't have. The fabric still bore stains from spilled drinks and tears.

"Lower everything." He stood back, giving me space but watching to ensure compliance. "Pants and underwear at your ankles. This isn't about humiliation—it's about accessing the areas that need correction."

My hands shook on the waistband of yesterday's sleep shorts. They puddle at my feet along with the expensive lace that had seemed so important when I'd bought it. Cool air hit bare skin, raising goosebumps and worse—awareness of how exposed I was.

"Bend over. Palms flat on the cushions."

The position made everything worse and better. Worse because my ass was raised, presented for punishment like an offering. Better because I couldn't see his face, couldn't read whatever professional distance he was maintaining while preparing to strap me.

The leather whispered as he drew it from the bag. "This is a dire situation. There will be twenty strikes. You'll count each one and say 'Needs before wants.' If you miss count or forget the phrase, that strike doesn't count. Clear?"

"Clear." My voice came out high, scared.

"Additionally." The pacifier clip appeared in my peripheral vision. "Every fifth strike, we pause. You'll take the pacifier and focus on breathing. This isn't about endurance—it's about processing the correction mindfully."

He clipped it to the collar of my sleep shirt, the weight of it a reminder of what was coming. Then he moved behind me, and I felt the air shift as he found his position.

The first strike landed without warning. The leather cracked across both cheeks with surgical precision, blooming heat in its wake.

"One!" The word exploded from me. "Needs before wants!"

"Good." His approval made the sting worth it. "Continue."

The second landed lower, catching the curve where ass met thigh. The leather had weight to it, density that the paddle had lacked. Each impact sank deep, sending ripples through muscle and nerve.

"Two! Needs before wants!"

By the fifth, my voice had gone ragged. The heat built in layers—surface sting over deep warmth, spreading until my entire backside felt like it had been redesigned by fire. He paused, and I heard him move to my side.

"Pacifier." Not a request.

The silicone slipped between my lips, and instinct took over. I sucked, drawing comfort from the repetitive motion while my ass throbbed in time with my heartbeat. The pause wasn't mercy—it made me hyperaware of what had happened, what was still coming.

"You're taking this well." His hand didn't touch me, but I felt him studying his work. "Breathe through your nose. We resume in thirty seconds."

Thirty seconds to exist in this space between punishment and care. To feel small and held accountable. To know that someone gave enough of a damn to stop my spiral with leather and structure.

The pacifier disappeared. Position resumed. The strap sang through the air.

Six through ten blurred together, each strike building on sensitized skin. My counting grew desperate, words tumbling together: "Eightneedsbeforewants! Nineneedsbeforewants!"

But he heard each one, acknowledged them with the next precise strike. Never overlapping completely, never striking the same spot twice in a row. He wielded that strap like a surgeon, creating a map of consequence across my burning skin.

Another pause at ten. Pacifier between my lips while I sobbed around it, snot and tears making breathing complicated. But I didn't safeword. Didn't even consider it. This was what I needed—payment for the destruction I'd caused, delivered by someone who understood the weight of it.

Strikes eleven through fifteen tested new limits. The leather found virgin territory—the tops of my thighs, the tender crease where cheek met leg. Each impact forced sounds from me that bypassed language, primal acknowledgments of his authority.

"Fifteen! Needs—fuck—needs before wants!"

"Language." But his tone held amusement rather than censure. "Five more. You're doing beautifully."

Beautifully. The word made me cry harder than the strap. When the pacifier appeared again, I took it gratefully, sucking like it could save me from drowning in sensation.

The final set broke me completely. Sixteen landed with devastating accuracy on already molten skin. Seventeen caught the sweet spot that sent lightning through my core. Eighteen and nineteen alternated cheeks with mechanical precision.

By twenty, I was sobbing too hard to count properly. "Twen—twenty—needs before—before—"

"Wants," he finished for me. "Good girl. It's done."

Done. The strap disappeared, but the fire remained. My legs shook, threatening collapse, when his hand found my elbow.

"Up. Carefully."

He hauled me vertical with easy strength, my shorts and underwear still tangled around my ankles. The room spun, endorphins and pain creating a cocktail that made standing complicated. But he was there, solid and steady, letting me lean into his chest for one breath before stepping back.

"Corner." He pointed to the bedroom doorway. "Nose to the wall, hands laced behind your neck. The pacifier stays in. Ten minutes to process what just happened."

I shuffled toward the corner, each step reminding me of the fire he'd lit across my backside. The position felt more humiliating than the strapping—standing there like a scolded child, ass burning in the open air, sucking on a pacifier while he watched.

"Timer starts now." His phone chimed. "Don't move. Don't speak. Just think about why this was necessary."