Page 8 of Daddy Knows Best

I did, grateful for even that small coverage. But standing was becoming an issue—my legs trembled, and the drop in adrenaline left me feeling hollow. Fragile.

He must have noticed because he settled into his desk chair and patted his thigh once. "Come here."

"I—what?"

"Aftercare includes grounding through physical contact. Sitting sideways on my lap will take pressure off the affected area while providing stability." He said it like prescribing medication. "Unless you'd prefer to remain standing?"

Standing meant continuing to shake apart by degrees. Pride warred with need, and need won. I approached carefully, lowering myself across his thighs with all the grace of a newborn giraffe. His arm came around my waist, steadying but not constraining.

"Better?"

I nodded, not trusting my voice. It was better. Also worse. Also completely outside any framework I had for understanding therapy. His body radiated warmth through his clothes, solid and steady where I felt liquid.

"Drink." A bottle appeared in my hands—vanilla almond milk, warmed to body temperature. "Small sips."

The sweetness coated my throat, washing away the salt of tears I hadn't realized I'd shed. We sat in silence while I drank, his thumb moving in absent circles against my hip. Such a small motion, but it anchored me to the present. To this moment where I was safe despite being split open.

"I'm sorry," I whispered into the quiet. "About . . . what happened."

"I told you, there's nothing to apologize for."

"But it's not—I mean, people don't just—" I gestured helplessly. "In therapy."

"This isn't traditional therapy." His voice rumbled through his chest where I leaned against him. "Physical correction can trigger various responses. Tears, anger, arousal—they're all within normal parameters."

Normal parameters. Like my orgasm was a data point on a graph.

"Does it—" I swallowed, forced myself to continue. "Does it happen often? With other clients?"

A pause. His thumb stilled on my hip.

"Every client responds differently," he said carefully. "What matters is how we process and integrate the experience. You've shown remarkable courage today."

Not a real answer, but I didn't push. Maybe I didn't want to know if other women fell apart on his desk. If he held them after, feeding them warm milk while they tried to piece themselves together.

"Five minutes," he said softly. "Then we'll discuss your plan for week two."

Five minutes to exist in this bubble where punishment became care, where professional boundaries stretched to include whatever this was. I let my head rest against his shoulder, breathing in that lemongrass cologne mixed with something earthier. Human.

His breathing deepened, chest rising and falling in a rhythm that pulled me toward drowsiness. The fire in my skin had mellowed to warmth, spreading through me like good whiskey. Everything felt soft-edged, floating.

"Time," he said, but neither of us moved immediately. His arm tightened fractionally before releasing, and I felt rather than heard his exhale.

I stood on steadier legs, the bottle empty in my hands. He rose too, moving to his desk with careful precision. When he turned back, he held a fresh envelope.

"Week two," he said, offering it like a benediction. "Seventy-five dollars. Make it last."

Our fingers brushed in the transfer. Such a small contact, but it crackled with everything unsaid. Everything that couldn't be said within the careful boundaries he'd drawn.

"I will," I promised, meaning it more than I'd meant anything in months. "I won't—this won't happen again."

"The overspending or the orgasm?"

Heat flooded my face at his directness. "Both?"

"The first is within your control. The second..." He paused, something unreadable crossing his expression. "Physical responses aren't moral failings, Emily. Don't add shame where it doesn't belong."

The way he said my name—professional but tinged with something warmer—made my chest tight. This was dangerous territory. The careful clinical distance that made this work was fraying at the edges, and we both knew it.

"Thursday," he said, moving toward the door. "Four o'clock. We'll review your progress."

"Nate," I said, then caught myself. "Dr. Whitlow. Thank you. For all of it. Even the—especially the hard parts."

He held the door open, but his eyes met mine with unexpected intensity. "That's what I'm here for. To guide you through the hard parts."

The words hung between us, laden with meaning that had nothing to do with financial counseling.

But then his professional mask clicked back into place, and I was walking through the door, through the waiting room where Ms. Delgado offered a knowing smile, out into afternoon sunshine that felt too bright for my tender skin.

The envelope weighed nothing in my purse, but its presence felt massive. Seventy-five dollars to last seven days. A chance to prove that today's pain—and unexpected pleasure—meant something.

My bottom throbbed with each step toward the bus stop, a reminder that lasted far longer than my usual credit card shame. But underneath the physical discomfort lived something else: determination.

Week two would be different. It had to be.

Because the alternative meant facing Dr. Whitlow's disappointment again, and worse—disappointing myself. The first I could maybe handle. The second would break me.

The bus arrived, and I fed my cash into the slot with careful precision. $2.50 from the new envelope. Recorded in my notebook with the time and purpose.

Seventy-two fifty left. Seven days to go.

I could do this. I would do this.

Even if my body had other ideas about what happened when I failed.