Page 4 of Daddy Knows Best

The words landed between us, final as a gavel. I smoothed my skirt, suddenly aware of the silk pressing against my skin, and wondered for a moment, if he had X-ray vision.

Probably not, right ?

He closed the contract, then met my eyes. “What I do here isn’t traditional therapy,” he said. “It’s closer to behavioral conditioning, with layers of structure that most patients lack outside of childhood. Are you familiar with DDLG?”

I blinked, caught off guard by the acronym. "Um, I'm not familiar."

His expression didn't falter, but a glint of anticipation danced in his eyes. "DDLG stands for Daddy Dom/Little Girl. It's a type of dynamic that some find beneficial for their growth and behavior modification."

My heart thudded uncomfortably in my chest. "I-I don't think I understand..."

He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled once more. "It's about nurturing and guidance, structure and support. The Little seeks care and discipline from their caregiver, establishing a bond based on trust and obedience."

“So . . . I pretend to be a kid?”

He leaned forward, his voice gentle but firm. "In this dynamic, you can experience a sense of safety, support, and structure that may help you navigate through your challenges. It's about tapping into different parts of yourself to address underlying issues and provide a framework for growth."

The idea felt like a door opening to a realm I had never considered. A realm where vulnerability was met with care, discipline was wrapped in understanding, and growth was nurtured through trust.

“In this office, DDLG is a set of symbols—rituals that frame power exchange for therapeutic ends. No ageplay, no regression past what’s comfortable for you. You remain Emily Carter, twenty-eight, fully consenting adult.”

I exhaled a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.

“The point isn’t to infantilize,” he continued. “It’s to give your brain a shortcut to safety, structure, and discipline. We use a ‘little’ headspace not as fantasy, but as medicine.”

He flipped open a laminated sheet and slid it across the desk. The rows were color-coded. Green, yellow, red. I tried to focus, but my vision fuzzed out at the columns: Behavior, Reinforcement, Aftercare.

He pointed to the first cell. “Verbal Correction. If you exceed your spending limit, I’ll address it directly. Clear, unemotional, immediate.”

My cheeks burned. I nodded, afraid if I spoke I’d reveal the static in my head.

“Next: Written Lines. You’ll copy a statement—fifty times, one hundred, depending on the infraction. Not as punishment, but to burn the lesson in.”

That one sounded almost quaint.

He pointed to the next row: Impact. “If you consent, there is the option of physical correction. Hand, paddle, or cane. Never more than ten strokes at a time, never bare skin unless you explicitly request it.”

My breath stuttered. My thighs pressed together so hard my knees ached.

“Then there’s Corner Time. Simple, but effective.” He pointed at the last cell. “Aftercare is always mandatory. Check-in, hydration, decompress.”

The words hit me like a data dump. My brain tried to process: Would I actually have to kneel in a corner? Write lines like a kindergartener? Would he really paddle me?

The thought sent a hot pulse through me. I tried to kill it, but it only multiplied.

He watched me with the patience of a long-haul trucker. “Have you experienced any of this before?”

“Not even a little bit,” I said, mortified.

He nodded. “Then we’ll start light. Only what you’re comfortable with. If anything doesn’t feel right, you use the safeword. We stop immediately.”

I nodded. My mouth was too dry for speech.

He flipped to the next page—a chart, my name already filled in at the top.

“Weekly allowance is $75. Non-negotiable. Any spending over that, you document and bring to me next session.”

“What happens if I go over?” I sounded like a kid asking what the boogeyman did to his victims.

He pointed to the chart. “As we discussed. First infraction: Verbal Correction. Second: Written Lines. Third: Impact, if you’ve consented. If not, we double the lines.”

“And if I—” I swallowed. “If I do well?”

His eyes softened. “Reinforcement. Praise, extra privileges, even small rewards. Positive feedback is the backbone of habit change.”

It was all so clinical, so stripped of emotion. But every word made my heart thud harder.

He placed the consent form between us, a pen balanced on top. “You don’t have to sign today. Think on it, talk to your friend. But if you do, we start immediately. Are you ready, Emily?”

My hand reached for the pen before my brain caught up. I signed on the line, my signature shaky but legible.

His smile was small, almost private. “That’s commitment. I respect that.”

I clung to those words like a trophy.

He gathered the paperwork, filed it in a lockbox, and then said: “Your first check-in will be one week from today. In the meantime, track all spending. No judgment, no shame—just data.”

Nate steepled his fingers, elbows on the desk, and his tone dropped half an octave. “Before we finish, there’s one rule that overrides all others.”

I braced, expecting a lecture on homework or tardiness.

He continued, “This is a professional relationship. I am your therapist, not your partner. No romance, no personal involvement outside of these walls. If either of us crosses that line, therapy ends. Immediately.”

The words hit like ice water, sluicing the heat from my neck to my toes.

He held my gaze, neither apologetic nor soft. “Fiduciary duty means I act in your best interest, always. Blurring roles damages outcomes. It’s non-negotiable.”

My pulse drummed in my ears. I thought of the ink on my consent form, still fresh, and how badly I wanted him to break his own rule.

“Understood?” he asked, not a trace of doubt in the question.

I forced a swallow. “Yes, Doctor.” My mouth tasted of steel, and I barely caught myself from adding “Daddy” as a joke. It would have landed like a grenade.

"Before you leave." He opened a drawer with the same precision he'd used to dissect my spending patterns. "A baseline exercise."

Black nitrile gloves. The kind doctors wore for examinations, except the way he snapped one onto his right hand made it feel like something else entirely. Something that sent heat pooling low in my belly despite every rational thought screaming that this was insane.

"I need to assess your response to structured authority." His voice stayed clinically neutral, but his eyes—God, his eyes held something darker. "This will help me tailor our future sessions."

He wheeled his desk chair aside with one hand, creating an empty space on the plush carpet. The afternoon light slanted through his blinds, painting golden stripes across the floor where he pointed.

"Kneel here. Hands on your thighs, palms down. Eyes forward."

The words hit me like physical things. Kneel. Such a simple command, but my knees locked, rebellion flaring despite the contract I'd just signed. Or maybe because of it.

"Is there a problem, Emily?" He tilted his head, studying me like I was a particularly interesting case study. Which I supposed I was.

"I—" My voice cracked. I cleared my throat, tried again. "No. No problem."

My body moved before my brain could mount further protest. One step, two, then I was lowering myself onto his office carpet.

The fibers pressed into my knees through my tights, grounding me in the surreal reality of what was happening.

I was kneeling on the floor of a behavioral therapist's office because he told me to.

Because somehow this was supposed to fix my maxed-out credit cards.

"Good." The approval in that single word shouldn't have made warmth bloom in my chest, but it did. "Hands on your thighs, remember. Palms flat."

I adjusted my position, hyperaware of every movement. My pencil skirt rode up slightly, the satin lining cool against my skin. His lemongrass cologne wrapped around me, mixing with something deeper—leather from his chairs, the vanilla candle on his bookshelf, that indefinable scent of authority.

"Now." He moved to stand directly in front of me. I kept my eyes forward like he'd instructed, which meant staring at his belt buckle. Simple silver, nothing flashy. "You're going to count five slow breaths aloud. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Focus on the rhythm."

"Okay." The word came out breathy, not at all the professional tone I'd aimed for.

"Begin."

I inhaled, the air shaky in my lungs. "One."

The exhale trembled past my lips. I could feel him watching, cataloging every tell. My therapist—was that what he was?—circled slowly to my left, those weightless footfalls barely disturbing the air.

"Two." Steadier this time, though my hands pressed harder into my thighs.

He continued his path behind me. Out of sight but impossibly present, like gravity had shifted to orbit around him. The vulnerable stretch of my neck tingled with awareness.

"Three."

My breathing had found a rhythm, but everything else spiraled. This position—submissive, exposed—should have triggered my stubborn streak. Instead, something in me settled. Like a puzzle piece clicking into place after years of trying to force it somewhere it didn't belong.

"Four."

He completed his circle, stopping just outside my peripheral vision. The latex glove caught the light as he flexed his fingers. Such a small movement, but my breath hitched.

"Continue," he prompted, voice low enough to raise goosebumps along my arms.

"Five." The word dissolved into a whisper.

"Excellent." He stepped behind me again, and I fought not to turn. To maintain the position he'd put me in even though every nerve screamed for more information. "You respond well to structure when it's properly applied."

His footsteps paused. The office air hung thick with anticipation, with the weight of whatever came next. Then—movement. The whisper of fabric as he leaned down.

"This part is important, Emily." His breath stirred the hair at my nape. "Actions have consequences. Your spending serves as a maladaptive coping mechanism. We're going to create new associations. This punishment forgives you for all your past mistakes and overindulgence."

I opened my mouth to ask what he meant, but his gloved hand settled on the hem of my skirt. Just resting there, latex against satin, but my words evaporated.

"Stay in position. Stay silent."

The hand smoothed down once, a clinical assessment that still made my thighs clench. Then he straightened, stepped back, and in one fluid motion—

Thwack.

The swat landed across the fullest part of my ass, firm enough to bloom instant heat through my skirt and tights. Not painful exactly, but shocking in its deliberateness. In the way it claimed space in my body without apology.

My teeth sank into my lower lip, trapping the sound that wanted to escape. Not quite a moan, not quite a gasp, but something dangerously close to both. My hands curled against my thighs as warmth spread from the point of impact, radiating outward like ripples in still water.

"Good girl."

Two words. That's all. But they hit harder than his hand had, sinking into some deep, desperate place I didn't know existed. My eyes burned with sudden moisture—not from pain but from the overwhelming relief of being seen. Corrected. Claimed, in some indefinable way.

He peeled off the glove with the same precision he'd put it on, dropping it into a small bin beside his desk. Like this was routine. Like he hadn't just tilted my entire world off its axis with one calculated swat.

"You may stand."

I didn’t want to stand—I was desperate for more.

My legs shook as I pushed upright. He offered a hand—bare now, warm—and I took it without thinking. His fingers wrapped around mine, steady and sure, pulling me to my feet with effortless strength. The contact lasted maybe three seconds. It seared itself into my memory like a brand.

"Same time next Thursday." He moved back behind his desk, already reaching for his tablet. Professional distance restored as if the last five minutes hadn't happened. "Bring every receipt from this week. Every coffee, every impulse purchase, every penny spent. We'll review them together."

"Right. Okay. I'll—yes." Words. I had forgotten how to make them work properly.

He looked up then, and for just a moment, that controlled mask slipped. Something hungry flickered in his expression before disappearing behind professional calm. "You did very well today, Emily. Better than I expected."

The praise shouldn't have made me want to kneel again. It did anyway.

"Thank you," I managed, gathering my purse with hands that only trembled slightly. "I'll see you Thursday."

"Thursday," he confirmed, already turning back to his work. Dismissal clear.

I made it to the door on autopilot, muscle memory navigating what my scrambled brain couldn't. The waiting room materialized around me like stepping between dimensions—soft watercolors and that damned coloring nook with its fruit-scented markers.

So normal. So utterly at odds with what had just happened behind that closed door.

"All set, honey?" Ms. Delgado glanced up from her computer, and I swear to God she winked. Like she knew. Like everyone who walked out of that office carried the same shell-shocked expression I was desperately trying to hide.

"All set," I lied, signing whatever payment form she slid across the counter without really seeing it. "Thursday at four?"

"Already in the book." Her smile held too much knowing warmth. "Dr. Whitlow seems very optimistic about your treatment plan."

Treatment plan. Right. That's what we were calling it.

As I walked home, my bottom burned and my heart pounded harder than it had for years.