Page 20 of Daddy Knows Best

I wanted everything to be perfect.

The fairy lights needed adjusting—not because they'd moved, but because my hands needed something to do besides shake. I wound the amber strand one more time around the curtain rod, stepping back to check the glow. Soft. Warm.

From my laptop, the Backstreet Boys crooned about wanting it that way, volume set just loud enough to settle my nerves.

I padded to the nightstand where Tuesday's delivery waited.

The rattan cane lay across folded tissue paper like some kind of sacred object.

Twenty-four inches of flexible correction—or in tonight's case, sensation.

I lifted it with careful fingers, testing the weight Nate had demonstrated during our planning dinner.

Light enough for control, substantial enough to leave marks if we wanted.

The handle fit my palm perfectly, wrapped in wine-colored leather that had already shaped to his grip. I gave it an experimental swish through the air. The sound made my stomach flip and my thighs clench, body already translating possibility into want.

This wasn't about punishment anymore. Not tonight.

I set the cane back in its tissue paper nest, aligning it just so. Beside it, the black silk blindfold looked innocent as a sleep mask. The kind of thing normal couples might use, if normal couples also left handwritten agreements on their beds detailing exactly what would happen at 8 PM sharp.

My reflection caught me off guard—naked except for white cotton panties I'd need to lose.

The cropped cami Nate had approved barely covered my breasts, hem ending just below the curve.

Every time I moved, air kissed the underside, keeping my nipples peaked and sensitive.

The bee socks came next, pulled up to mid-calf, their tiny insects marching in formation.

"Uniform complete," I told Sir Reginald, who watched from his tower with feline judgment. He'd been banished to the living room for the evening, bribed with treats and a new catnip mouse. "Don't look at me like that. This is healthy. This is choosing."

He yawned, unimpressed by my personal growth.

The panties slipped down my legs with decisive movement. No backing out now. I folded them neatly, adding them to the dresser drawer where good girls kept their underwear when Daddy said they weren't necessary.

My phone showed 7:47. Thirteen minutes until he was due. Thirteen minutes until the scene would begin.

The consent sheet drew me back to the bed.

My handwriting looked shaky but determined, each agreement carefully copied from our Tuesday negotiation.

Yes to blindfolding. Yes to light impact play with the cane.

Yes to the vibrator he'd show me later. No to punishment language—this wasn't about correction.

Yes to pleasure, to surrender, to being his good girl because I chose it.

At the bottom, my signature waited for its partner. Emily M. Carter, dated today, promising to ask for what I needed. To use my words. To trust that wanting didn't make me greedy—it made me human.

My body hummed with readiness—nipples tight against thin cotton, pussy already slick with possibility, skin hypersensitive to every shift of air. But underneath the arousal lived something better: peace.

T he time came, and the door swung open to reveal Nate in clothes I'd never seen him wear—ink-black chinos that fit perfectly, forest-green crew neck that turned his eyes into storms.

"Hi, little bee." His voice carried that particular rasp that meant he'd been thinking about this as much as I had.

"Hi, Daddy."

He stepped inside, and I barely got the door closed before his free hand found my waist. The kiss started soft—a greeting, a check-in, a "hello, I missed you since lunch.

" But when I made a small sound against his mouth, his control slipped.

He pressed me back against the door, tongue sweeping in to taste and claim.

My hands fisted in his sweater, pulling him closer, the cane still gripped in one fist adding awkward angles to our embrace. When his teeth caught my bottom lip, tugging gently, my knees forgot their job.

"Careful," he murmured, steadying me with hands that spanned my ribs. "We have procedures to follow."

"Procedures." I tried to sound disapproving, but it came out breathy. "Very sexy."

"Everything's sexy when you're involved." His thumb stroked the bare skin between cami and hip. "Been thinking about you in those socks all day."

"Just the socks?"

"The socks. The cane in your hand." His forehead pressed to mine, breathing ragged. "My perfec girl."

The praise settled warm in my belly, mixing with the ache he'd started. But he was already pulling back, retrieving his duffel with movements that spoke of regained control.

"Bed," he said simply. "Time to make things official."

I led him through my apartment, aware of how the cami rode up with each step. His presence filled the small space, making everything feel charged and important. Sir Reginald's protesting yowl from the living room earned a chuckle.

"Banished?" Nate asked.

"With treats and toys. He'll survive." I set the cane carefully on its tissue paper. "Though he might guilt-trip me for days."

"Worth it," he said, then stopped short at the bedroom threshold. "Emily. This is beautiful."

I saw it through his eyes—the amber glow softening everything, the sunflower standing guard, the bed made with hospital corners because some habits from therapy stuck. The consent sheet waited on navy cotton, my signature already dry.

"Wanted it perfect," I admitted.

"It is. You are." He set the duffel by the nightstand, then surprised me by taking both my hands. "Before we start—how are you? Really?"

The question grounded me, pulling me back from the edge of pure want. "Nervous. Excited. Proud of the money thing—did you see my folder?"

"I saw. Seventy-three dollars saved." His thumbs stroked my knuckles. "That's over six hundred in a year if you keep this pace."

"Math during foreplay. Very hot."

"You’d be surprised what I find hot." He squeezed my hands, then released them. "Ready to review?"

We settled on the bed, the consent sheet between us like a map to buried treasure. I picked it up with hands that barely trembled, clearing my throat.

"I, Emily Carter, consent to the following activities on this date." My voice started thin but grew stronger. "Blindfolding for sensory enhancement. Light impact play with rattan cane, focused on buttocks and thighs. No punishment language or disciplinary framing."

"Witnessed," Nate said formally. "Continue."

"Use of vibrator for arousal and orgasm control.

Optional use of glass anal plug, size small.

" Heat flooded my face, but I pushed through.

"Goal is pleasure through consensual power exchange.

Not correction. Not behavior modification.

Just—" I looked up to find him watching with such intensity my words faltered. "Just us."

"Just us," he confirmed. "Safewords?"

"Bee for green, all good, more please." The words came easier now, familiar from three weeks of negotiation. "Lavender for slow down, need adjustment. Sunshine for full stop, scene ends immediately."

"And your new addition?"

My thighs pressed together at the memory of that particular negotiation. "Daddy, more—specific request for escalation. Because sometimes I want—" I swallowed hard. "Want things harder. Faster. More intense. But might not have words in the moment."

"Good girl." He took the paper, scanning my additions. "Limits?"

"No marks visible in work clothes. No insertable toys beyond what's agreed. No recording or photos during scene." I watched him nod at each point. "And—and you have to tell me if something feels wrong for you too. Promise?"

"I promise." He set the consent sheet aside, reaching for his duffel. "Speaking of agreements—time to show you the options."

The velvet pouch emerged like something from a jewelry store, midnight blue with silver drawstrings. His hands worked the closure with the same precision I'd watched for months—careful, intentional, impossible to look away from.

"As discussed." The heart-shaped vibrator appeared first, rose-gold and smaller than I'd expected. "Rechargeable, waterproof, quiet enough for apartments with thin walls."

"You researched vibrators for acoustic properties?"

"I research everything for you." No shame in the admission. "This has twelve settings. We'll start with three."

He set it on the tissue paper next to the cane, then drew out the plug. Clear glass caught the amber light, turning it into captured sunset. Smaller than my thumb, tapered to a safe base decorated with a single rose etched in the glass.

"Optional," he emphasized. "Your choice, in the moment. We've prepared, we've discussed, but you still decide."

"I know." I touched the glass carefully, finding it room temperature and perfectly smooth. "It's beautiful. Less medical than I expected."

"Nothing medical about tonight." He returned both items to the pouch. "This is personal. Private. Ours."

The words hung between us as he produced a pen from his pocket. He signed the consent sheet with quick strokes, then dated it, making everything real.

"There." He capped the pen with finality. "Officially documented. Officially us."

I stared at our names together on the paper, evidence of choices made. Three weeks ago, those signatures would have been on termination paperwork. Now they promised something entirely different.

"Hey." His finger tipped my chin up. "Where'd you go?"

"Just thinking. About how we got here. How you saved me from myself and lost your job and—"

"Gained everything," he interrupted. "Emily. I need you to hear this before we start." His hand cupped my cheek, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth. "I didn't save you. You saved yourself. I just held the flashlight while you did the work."

Tears pricked my eyes. "Nate—"