Page 7 of Daddy Knows Best

The clinical distance in his voice contrasted sharply with what he was describing. My face burned, but lower, heat pooled in places that had no business responding to punishment.

"After completion, we'll have mandatory aftercare. This is non-negotiable. You'll need time to process the experience safely." He paused, studying my face. "Are you prepared to begin?"

Prepared seemed like too strong a word. But I was here, consent given, consequences accepted. I stood on shaky legs, smoothing my skirt.

"Yes." The word barely qualified as sound. "I'm ready."

He stepped back, giving me space to approach his desk. The surface gleamed in the afternoon light, cleared except for a box of tissues placed thoughtfully at one corner.

I positioned myself at the edge, hands flat on the cool wood. Behind me, I heard him move into position, the whisper of fabric as he rolled his sleeves.

"When you're ready, Ms. Carter. Adjust your clothing and we'll begin."

My hands trembled as they found my hem. This was happening. Three days of discipline undone by rose-scented wax and a sale sign.

Time to pay the price.

The hem of my skirt felt like it weighed a thousand pounds as I lifted it to my waist. Cool air kissed the backs of my thighs, raising goosebumps that had nothing to do with temperature.

My fingers hooked into the waistband of my underwear—practical cotton, thank God, not the lace that would have made this even more mortifying—and slid them down to mid-thigh.

The city sprawled beyond the window, oblivious to my position. Bent over Dr. Whitlow's desk, ass exposed, waiting for punishment like the overgrown child I apparently was. The walnut surface pressed cold against my forearms as I tried to find a position that felt less . . . everything.

"Good." His voice came from directly behind me, low and controlled. "Remember—count aloud, then 'Needs before wants.' Clear?"

"Clear." The word squeaked out, my throat tight with anticipation.

I felt him shift, the subtle displacement of air as he raised the paddle. My whole body tensed, bracing for—

CRACK.

The first strike landed squarely across the fullest part of my ass, sending shock waves through tissue and nerve. Not gentle like last week's warning tap—this meant business.

"One," I gasped, remembering just in time. "Needs before wants."

The sting bloomed outward, sharp heat spreading like spilled wine. I'd barely processed it when—

CRACK.

"Two. Needs before wants."

He'd found a rhythm already, methodical as a metronome. Each strike landed in slightly different territory, painting heat across my skin in careful strokes. By the fourth, my voice shook. By the sixth, tears pricked at my eyes.

But underneath the spreading fire, something else built.

Each impact sent vibrations through me, and my position—hips tilted, legs spread for balance—meant those vibrations found every sensitive place.

My clit throbbed in time with my punished flesh, confusion mixing with arousal in a cocktail that made thinking impossible.

"Six," I whimpered, the words fracturing. "Needs before—ah—wants."

"Need a break?" His voice cut through my haze, professional concern overriding everything.

"No, don’t stop," I heard myself say, and meaning it. The pain was real, building toward something I couldn't name, but stopping felt impossible. "Please—keep going."

A pause. I imagined him processing my request, the "please" that had slipped out without permission. But when he spoke, his tone remained clinically neutral.

"Four more. You're doing well."

Well. The praise shouldnt have sent warmth flooding through me, but it did. I pressed my forehead to the desk, breathing through my nose as he repositioned.

CRACK.

"Seven! Needs before wants."

This one overlapped previous strikes, igniting already-sensitized nerves. My hips jerked involuntarily, seeking escape or contact, I couldn't tell which. The movement pressed my clit against the desk edge, sending lightning through my core.

No. This couldn't be happening. I couldn't be getting aroused by punishment, by the humiliation of bent-over correction in my therapist's office. But my body didn't care about shouldn't and couldn't. It only knew the building pressure, the wet heat gathering between my thighs.

"Eight." My voice broke completely, tears streaming. "Needs—needs before wants."

Two more. Just two more and this would end. I could survive two more without completely humiliating myself, without—

CRACK.

The ninth strike landed lower, where ass met thigh, and my world whited out. The pain and pleasure tangled into something beyond separation, building toward an edge I couldn't back away from. My fingers clutched the desk edge, knuckles white, as every muscle drew tight.

"Nine," I sobbed, barely coherent. "Needs before—please—wants."

I was begging. For what, I didn't know. For it to stop. For it to never stop. For the final strike that would either destroy me or set me free.

He paused again, longer this time. I could feel his assessment, the way he catalogued my shaking legs, my tear-wet face pressed to his desk, the way my hips moved in tiny, involuntary circles.

"Last one," he said quietly. "You've done so well, Emily. One more."

Emily. He'd used my name. That small humanity in the middle of clinical correction undid me. When the paddle raised again, I was already teetering on the edge of something vast and terrifying.

CRACK.

The final strike landed with decisive force, and my world exploded.

The orgasm crashed through me without warning, without permission, without any possibility of hiding it.

My body convulsed, pussy clenching around nothing as waves of release rolled through me.

A sound escaped—half sob, half moan—as I shattered apart on his desk.

"Ten," I whispered brokenly, aftershocks still rippling through me. "Needs . . . before . . . wants."

Silence filled the office, broken only by my ragged breathing. Shame flooded in as the endorphins ebbed, hot and thick. I'd just climaxed during a professional behavioral correction. My therapist had witnessed me coming apart, literally, from punishment meant to fix my shopping addiction.

"Well," Dr. Whitlow said after a moment, voice carefully neutral. "That's a response I haven't seen before."

I wanted to die. Wanted the floor to open up and swallow me whole. My legs shook as I pushed myself upright, hands fumbling to lower my skirt, pull up underwear over skin that felt like it belonged to someone else.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, unable to meet his eyes. "I didn't mean—I couldn't—"

"Emily." His voice gentled, though he maintained physical distance. "Physical responses during impact play aren't uncommon. The body processes intense sensation in various ways. There's nothing to apologize for."

Impact play. He made it sound so clinical, like my orgasm was just another data point in treatment. Maybe that's all it was to him.

"Turn around, please."

I did, finally meeting his gaze. His expression remained professionally neutral, but something flickered in his eyes—surprise? Interest? It vanished before I could identify it.

"What did we learn today?" The question came soft but expectant.

My mind felt like scattered papers in a windstorm. What had I learned? That my body betrayed me in new and mortifying ways? That punishment and pleasure lived closer together than I'd imagined?

"To honor my budget," I managed, voice raw. "And myself."

The words came from somewhere deeper than thought, surprising us both with their clarity. Because that's what I'd violated, wasn't it? Not just the seventy-five dollar boundary, but the promise I'd made to myself to change.

He nodded slowly. "Yes. Exactly that."

His hands were gentle as he helped me upright, steadying me when my legs threatened to buckle. Every nerve ending from waist to thigh sang a complicated song of pain and lingering pleasure.

"Easy," he murmured, guiding me away from the desk. "Take your time."

I shuffled more than walked, each step reminding me what had just happened. Not just the punishment—I'd been prepared for that. But the way my body had betrayed me, coming apart under his professional correction like some Pavlovian response to authority.

"Sit or stand?" He gestured to the wingback chair, letting me choose.

"I—stand. I think." Sitting felt impossible with my ass on fire and my dignity in shreds.

He nodded, wheeling his desk chair over. "I'm going to apply lotion now. It'll help with the sting and prevent marking. I need you to raise your skirt again."

My hands shook as I complied, lifting the fabric with none of the charged anticipation from before. Now it just felt exposed. Vulnerable. Small.

The snap of nitrile gloves made me flinch. He pumped lotion into his palm, warming it between his hands with the same care he'd shown setting out the paddle. When he touched me, I bit back a whimper.

"Too cold?"

"No. It's—fine."

That was a lie.

His touch was clinical but thorough, spreading the cooling aloe over heated skin with firm, circular motions.

Each pass of his hands sent conflicting signals—soothing the burn while reminding me why it burned.

My body, apparently incapable of appropriate responses, started heating up again despite my mortification.

"The redness is even," he said, like discussing the weather. "No welting. You took it well."

Took it well. Like I'd passed a test instead of climaxing on his desk like some—

"Stop." His voice cut through my spiral. "Whatever you're thinking, stop. Shame serves no purpose here."

"How can you tell what I'm thinking?"

"Your shoulders are climbing toward your ears, and you're holding your breath. Classic shame response." He applied more lotion, movements steady. "What happened was physiological. Nothing more, nothing less."

Physiological. Such a clean word for the mess I'd made.

"All done." He peeled off the gloves, dropping them in the waste basket. "You can lower your skirt."