Page 21 of Daddy Knows Best

"No tears yet. Save those for later, when they're the good kind." He kissed me softly, just a brush of lips. "Now. Three deep breaths, then blindfold on. Can you do that for me?"

"Yes, Daddy."

He shifted back, giving me space while staying close enough to monitor. I closed my eyes, finding the rhythm he'd taught me. In for four, hold, out for six. The first breath shook. The second steadied. The third felt like diving into deep water—committed, irreversible.

When I opened my eyes, he held the blindfold between us like an offering.

"Ready, little bee?"

"Ready."

Silk settled over my eyes like a kiss, soft and absolute. The world disappeared in stages—first the amber light, then the shapes of furniture, finally even the suggestion of brightness. Nate's fingers worked at the back of my head, tying the blindfold with careful knots that wouldn't catch my hair.

"Too tight?" His voice came from everywhere and nowhere, the darkness making sound three-dimensional.

"Perfect," I breathed.

Without sight, everything else sharpened. The whisper of his clothes as he moved. The vanilla candle mixing with his cologne. My own breathing, suddenly loud as thunder. I sat frozen on the bed, hands twisted in the sheets, afraid to move in this new geography of darkness.

"Lie back." His hand found my shoulder, guiding me down to the pillows. "Arms at your sides for now. Just feel."

The mattress dipped as he moved, but I couldn't track where. Then—the lightest touch. The cane tip drew a line from my ankle to knee, barely there, raising goosebumps in its wake. I gasped at how such gentle contact could feel like lightning.

"Sensitive already." Not a question. He could read my body like his old case files, cataloging every response. The cane traced my other leg, slower this time, pausing at the hem of the bee sock. "These stay on. Need my little bee properly dressed."

The tip traveled higher, ghosting over my inner thigh.

I spread my legs without thinking, chasing contact, but he moved to my arms instead.

Light touches from wrist to shoulder, then across my collarbones.

The cane whispered over the swell of my breasts through thin cotton, making my nipples peak harder.

"Beautiful," he murmured. "So responsive. Show me more."

The exploration continued—lazy figure-eights on my stomach, circles around my hip bones, always light, always leaving me wanting more. When the cane finally traced the crease where thigh met hip, I whimpered.

"Use your words," he reminded me. "What do you need?"

"Touch me." The darkness made honesty easier. "Please, Daddy. Actually touch me."

"I am touching you."

"You know what I mean."

His chuckle rumbled through the space between us. Then a different sensation—the vibrator humming to life, its note low and promising. But instead of where I ached for it, he pressed it to my inner wrist. The vibration traveled up my arm, surprisingly intense.

"Everything's connected," he said, moving the vibe to my other wrist. "Every nerve leads back to center. Let me show you."

He painted me with vibration like an artist—the inside of my elbows, the dip of my throat, the valley between cloth-covered breasts. Each touch sent pulses through me, building charge with nowhere to go. When he finally brushed it over one nipple, I arched off the bed.

"Steady." His free hand pressed my hip down. "We have time."

Time. It barely meant anything anymore. It became elastic in the dark.

He played my body like an instrument, alternating between cane traces and vibrator kisses, never quite where I needed.

My cami had ridden up to just below my breasts, and he took full advantage, buzzing patterns on exposed skin until I shook with want.

"Please." The word had become my only vocabulary. "Please, Daddy. Please."

"Wrists," he said simply.

I offered them without hesitation, feeling silk wrap around. The binding was loose enough to slip if I tried, but the symbolism held me tighter than any rope. I was choosing this. Choosing to be bound, to be his, to surrender control I'd gripped too tight for years.

"Good girl. Now we begin."

The first cane strike landed exactly where he'd promised—the thickest part of my ass, a quick snap that bloomed into warmth. Not punishment hard, but enough to make me gasp.

"One," I said automatically, then caught myself. "Wait, I don't have to count?"

"No counting. No earning. This is for you." Another strike, slightly lower. "Just feel."

So I did. Five strikes painted across my backside, each one building on the last. The pain was different when divorced from shame—cleaner somehow, transforming to heat that pooled between my legs. Between sets, he rubbed the warmed skin with his palm, spreading the sensation.

Then the vibrator returned, finally pressing where I needed it. Even through the cotton of my cami, against my aching nipples, the sensation made me cry out. But he kept it light, teasing, never quite enough.

"Check in," he said, pausing a moment.

"Bee. Fuck, bee. More, please more."

Another set of strikes, these across my thighs. The rattan was flexible enough to wrap slightly, catching sensitive inner skin that made me writhe. But writhing just pressed my pussy against the bed, adding friction that wasn't nearly enough.

"So wet," he observed, clinical tone at odds with the rough edge in his voice. "Making such a mess already."

The vibrator found my nipple again, on higher speed this time. I pulled against the tie binding my wrists, not to escape but to feel the restraint. To know I'd given up control. That all I had to do was feel and want and trust him to provide.

"Ready for more?" He moved between my legs, and I felt the heat of him even through his clothes. "Show me where you need it."

I spread my thighs wider, shameless in the dark. "Please. Please touch my pussy. I need—"

The vibrator pressed against my clit through soaked cotton, and my words dissolved into moans. He held it there, steady pressure while I bucked against it, chasing the orgasm that had been building since he'd walked through my door.

"That's it," he encouraged. "Take what you need. So perfect, so—"

Close. I was so close. My bound hands clutched at air, every muscle pulling tight, right on the edge—

He lifted the vibrator away.

"No!" The denial ripped from my throat. "No, please, I was right there!"

"I know." He soothed me with long strokes down my thighs, avoiding where I throbbed. "That's the point. Building you higher. Trust me?"

"I trust you," I panted. "But I might die."

"You won't die. You'll fly."

He built me up again—vibrator on my clit, against my entrance, never quite inside. The darkness made everything more intense, each touch a surprise. When I got close, he knew—could read it in my breathing, my tension, the way I chanted his name.

And he stopped. Again.

"Please," I sobbed, past pride. "Please, Daddy. I need to come. I'll do anything."

"Anything?" The vibrator traced my inner thigh, so close to where I needed it. "What happened to my patient girl?"

"She's dying. Deceased. Murdered by evil Daddy who won't—oh fuck—"

He'd pressed the vibrator directly on my clit, high speed, while his other hand delivered three quick strikes to my already glowing ass. The combination of pain and pleasure scrambled my brain, sent me rocketing toward climax.

This time, I knew he'd stop. Could feel him reading my body, waiting for that perfect moment. So when he lifted the vibrator, I was ready.

"Daddy, more," I gasped. "Please. More. Need more."

The new safeword. Request for escalation. Permission to take me higher, harder, past what he'd normally allow.

His intake of breath was sharp. "You sure?"

"Daddy. More." Clearer this time. "Please. I can take it. Want to take it. For you."

"Fuck," he muttered. "You perfect, perfect girl."

The vibrator returned, but now accompanied by his fingers.

Two slipped inside me while the vibrator worked my clit, and the fullness made me keen.

The cane was forgotten—all his focus on driving me higher than before.

His fingers curved just right, finding that spot that made me see stars even in darkness.

"Don't come," he ordered. "Not yet. Show me how good you can be."

I bit my lip hard enough to taste copper, fighting my body's desperation. Everything pulled tight—thighs, stomach, bound wrists straining against silk. I was balanced on a knife's edge, one breath from falling.

"Please," I whispered. "Please, Daddy. Can I—can I please—"

"Look at you." His voice had gone wondering. "So beautiful like this. So mine." His fingers pressed deeper, the vibrator relentless. "Come for me, baby. Now. Let go now."

The permission shattered me. I came with a scream that probably scared Sir Reginald, my whole body convulsing around his fingers. The orgasm rolled through me in waves, each one bigger than the last, until I was sobbing from the intensity.

But he didn't stop. Kept the vibrator on my oversensitive clit, fingers still working inside me.

"Again," he commanded. "Give me another."

"I can't—"

"You can."

Through the overwhelming sensation, I found truth.

The second orgasm hit before the first finished, crashing over me like a tide. I thrashed against the restraints, against his hands, but he held me steady. Controlled my pleasure like he'd once controlled my spending—with absolute authority and devastating care.

When he finally lifted the vibrator, I was liquid. Bones dissolved, brain offline, existing only as sensation and breath in the perfect dark.

Light returned in stages—first as orange glow through silk, then shapes emerging like sunrise, finally Nate's face coming into focus above me. His control had cracked completely, eyes wild and dark, cheeks flushed with exertion or want or both.

He smoothed hair from my face with trembling fingers. "You did so well. So perfect. How do you feel?"