The Daddy Treatment

by Ava Sinclair

  I walk over to her and put a finger under her chin. “My dear, we both know you’ve done more than talk to strangers. A lot more.”

  The quiver in her chin has moved to her voice. “How do you know what I’ve done? And even if you’re right, it doesn’t give you any right to details about my private life.”

  Of course, she doesn’t know that I already know the details. I already know she’s been intimate with more than one man, motivated by the desperation to feel the love her father never gave her. I’ve mapped her memories, her desires. They are all on a file, and I could spend hours explaining the program Chance Brockman and I developed. I could explain to her how we now operate quietly within the corrupt government we once served, bidding against traffickers for contracts allowing us to reform women like her. But she’s not here for history or science lessons. She’s here to learn. After years of working behind the scenes and overseeing other transformations, it’s my turn. I’m not going to be distracted.

  “You’re wrong. I have rights to everything now, Sugar.”

  She jerks her head away. “Why do you keep calling me that?”

  I think of the memory of her mother calling her Sugar, of how she liked it. It made her feel good. I want to make her feel good again, but she doesn’t know that.

  “Because Sugar is sweet. And once you’ve had a taste, it’s addictive.”

  “No, that’s not sexual at all,” she says.

  I resist the urge to chuckle. She has a witty side that I like.

  “I have something for you,” I say. “Sit down.” I motion to a chair. She eyes it distrustfully, as if it may leap up and grab her, but then complies. I reach into my pocket for the gift I have for her. I’m starting small, unlocking small memories of when she was happy.

  Sugar looks at the little box I’m offering. “Please,” I say.

  She takes it hesitantly and I step back, watching as she opens it. Calling her Sugar was a direct memory stimulation. This is a little more indirect. The necklace she lost as a teenager was the only gift her father ever gave her. She’d prized it, even if he had won it at the fair. I’ve taken pains to make sure this one is just similar enough to trigger a vague memory. That necklace had been a flower head—a daisy. The chain was cheap, and like the pendant had tarnished soon enough. This one is made of the finest gold. The pendant is a delicate locket with a rose on it. A new flower from a new daddy, one who will always love her.

  I can tell by the way she stares at it that she is grasping at something, something from her past. Sugar runs the tip of her finger across the embossed surface of the locket. Then she shuts the box and hands it back.

  “I don’t want gifts.” She’s looking away, and I know it’s because she does, in fact, want the necklace. It’s made her feel something, even if she can’t recall having that feeling.

  “I insist,” I say. “And you have to obey me now, remember?”

  I take the box, remove the necklace, and walk behind her. I unclasp it and put it around her neck, putting my hands under the glossy curtain of her hair as I fasten it around her warm neck.

  “There.” I move my hands to her shoulders as the locket drops to the swell of her breasts.

  She lifts the locket. For a moment, I think she’s going to jerk it off. Instead, she looks up at me. “What did Mitzi have in her ass? Did that start with a piece of jewelry like this?”

  Her guard is back up. She won’t easily let it down.

  “We aren’t going to talk about Mitzi, my dear. We’re not going to talk about anyone else except you. I have other things to show you.”

  “A sex dungeon?”

  I take her hand and lift her to standing. I’d really wanted to delay the lesson I’m about to teach her, but she’s stubborn. Her only weapon now is mockery. It gives her the upper hand to paint me as some kind of pervert intent on using and discarding her like other men in her life.

  Sugar is already resisting as I pull her over my knee.

  “No! No! Don’t!”

  “I’m sorry, Sugar, but you’re being very disrespectful and I’ll not suffer these insults.”

  I have to will my cock not to rise as I raise her skirt and get my first glimpse of her white cotton panties. This is not the time to make my own desires known. I will not act on them until I have her trust. I will not give vent to my passion until I have made her aware of her own.

  I raise my hand and bring it down. She’s steeled herself for the first blow, and suppresses her cry as the print of my hand blooms on across her bottom like a pink stain. My second blow is harder, catching the lower half of her bottom. The cheeks flatten and rebound as a second handprint forms. It’s hard for her to keep quiet. I feel her tense and pant as I lay my palm against the warm surface of her skin. I give the reddened buttock a squeeze.

  “You can express yourself, young lady, but respectfully.” I raise my hand and bring it down again. She’s crying softly in spite of herself. My hand is on her buttock again. I level another spank, and this time when my hand closes on her rapidly heating cheek, I curl my fingers, dipping two between her thighs, the tips resting against the outer lips of her pussy. With the skin now bare, she’s more sensitive and there it is, the light tremor I detect running through her body at my touch.

  “Are you going to try and be more respectful, Sugar, or do I need to spank you harder?” Does she hear the strain in my voice? It’s all I can do not to nudge my fingers between the tightly pressed seam, to test her for the first dewy wetness of arousal that I suspect accompanied the tremor. “Answer me.”

  “I’ll be more respectful.” There’s fear in her voice, but I don’t think it’s fear of being spanked. This lesson was not just to remind her of my authority, but to introduce her to the lure of submission, the desire to yield in spite of herself.

  I tip her off my lap with no small measure of regret. She is shaking slightly as I pull her panties back into place. Her face is flushed with humiliation, her eyes brimming with tears. I want to kiss them away. I want to taste those parted lips.

  Not yet.

  “I understand why initial impressions have left you with certain… conclusions. And I will not deny that some of the women who go through our program develop attachments to their guardians.” I pause. “But that happens sometimes, Sugar. The women who come here have been starved of paternal love. It’s like a nutrient they need to move into a state of full happiness. When you’re starved of something and get a taste, sometimes you want more.”

  Sugar has grown quiet and I can’t tell if it’s because she’s thinking about what I said or afraid that a stinging rebuttal will earn her another stinging spanking.

  “Come along,” I say. “I have something else to show you.” I turn to walk away and look back when I realize she isn’t following me. “Sugar, I said come.”

  She’s dropped her hand to her sore backside but stops rubbing it when she catches me looking. She moves towards me but doesn’t meet my eyes as I open the door.

  Chapter 6

  Sugar

  I wish I knew what the end game was. I wish I could get a handle on what’s going on. I feel like everything that’s happened so far has been designed to unnerve me. Just when I think I’ve distilled this place down to some agenda, something happens to throw me off balance.

  I avoid looking at Dr. Crane, who is at my side. His large hand has moved to my lower back as we walk. He’s guiding me back through the house, back up the stairs. My bottom, which had nearly stopped hurting, throbs anew beneath my ridiculous dress. I know the spanking I just received could have been worse, but the real discomfort today is in the reminder that he can do this to me whenever he likes.

  I’m powerless here.

  I’m aware of the locket on my breast. This, too, is unnerving. I got the oddest feeling when I saw it, sort of a déjà vu. Is he trying to ingratiate himself to me by giving me an expensive necklace? If he is, then why would he turn around and make me cry? And then there’s the whole business with the other w
oman, Mitzi. Try as I might, I can’t shake the image of her bent over, her dress flipped up at the waist, her legs parted. She was wearing striped socks and sneakers, but it was her bottom that drew my eye, the bottom hole obscured by the golden flange marked with a B.

  Does he expect this of me? I cast a sidelong glance at my companion. Before all this, he’d have been the kind of man I’d have surreptitiously stared at. He’s tall, handsome, obviously rich. And he’s powerful enough to have brought me here, influential enough to take me beyond the reach of the law. He’s treated me like a child. He’s put me over his knee. He’s already pushed one thing into my bottom. I think of how it felt to be restrained, of the sting as the slick bolus breached my resisting sphincter to slide into my ass.

  “Penny for your thoughts.”

  We’re on the third landing and the question makes me color with shame.

  “Sorry. I’m not in a sharing mood.” I don’t look at him as I reply. We are on the floor below the one I woke up on. He leads me down a hallway not unlike the others. I hear the sound of laughter behind a door.

  “These are the bedrooms, Sugar. Yours is ready now. I hope you like it.”

  I’d assumed the bedroom I woke up in would be mine. But I was wrong. At the end of the hallway, Eli Crane opens a door and I find myself staring when we walk inside. Once again, I have another déjà vu moment.

  It’s a beautiful room with cream colored walls and tall windows overlooking a rose garden. The focal point of the room is an antique white poster bed with a delicate lace canopy and soft pink duvet. A matching wardrobe stands to the side. There’s a fireplace, a bookshelf, and in the corner a teddy bear that’s as big as I am. It sits on the floor beside a stuffed cat the color of orange marmalade. I walk over and pick up the cat. Something about it seems so familiar. It’s soft and floppy in my arms, huggable. I’m seized by the overwhelming desire to do just that — to hug the toy to my chest but resist the urge. I’m too conscious of the man watching me. He’s given me a child’s paradise; I won’t capitulate by acting like the little girl he obviously wants.

  “Do you like her?” He nods at the cat.

  “She’s okay.”

  “You should give her a name.”

  “Sandy.” The word is inexplicably out of my mouth before I can stop it, much to my frustration. Why would I name it? I look up at Dr. Crane. A small smile plays on his lips. He looks pleased, like I’ve passed some sort of test. I look back at the cat, puzzled at myself, at the situation. The cat stares back. Its pupils are large in its green glass eyes. Its whiskers are stiff in its round little cat face. I absently touch one.

  “This is the nicest room.” He moves away from me. “And the largest, with the best view.”

  Am I supposed to thank him? I walk to the windows, examining them.

  “They don’t open, Sugar. And the glass is unbreakable.”

  “You read my mind.” I turn back to him. “I won’t give you what you want.”

  “You don’t know what I want,” he says.

  I glance down at the cat and then at the bed. It looks inviting.

  “I’m tired,” I say.

  “Hmm. Then you can take a nap until lunch. How does that sound?”

  “If you’re going to leave me alone, it sounds great.”

  Dr. Crane puts his hands in his pockets. For a moment, he looks as if he’s going to say something.

  “Nora will fetch you down to lunch in two hours. You’ll be meeting some of the other girls, and then…” He pauses. “I’ll see you at lunch.”

  He leaves the room. This door locks, too, once he’s on the other side. I stand there pondering his last comment. And then…what? For the first time, I wish he’d said more. But at least I’m alone now. I walk to the bed and kick off my shoes. The mattress I climb onto is so soft. I lay down, hugging Sandy the cat to my chest. She feels just like I imagined she would.

  Chapter 7

  Eli

  Women who go through our program are taken through a series of steps that involve the subtle triggering of memories, the breaking of barriers, and the rebuilding of a broken spirit through love and discipline. I know from watching others go through this process that the early days can be difficult. A daddy must be strong. He must steel himself to his ward’s cries and pleas, knowing that what she’s going through is necessary.

  I try not to think of what’s going to take place this afternoon. Thanks to the memory downloads, I know everything about Sugar’s past. I know how little she had, and how much little things meant, from the necklace she doesn’t remember getting to the beloved stuffed cat her mother was unable to retrieve after an abusive boyfriend threw them out of the house. It is one of the memories she’s repressed. The stuffed cat’s name was Sandy. Somewhere, the memory of that cat is relegated to a dark place with all the other lost things Sugar can’t bear to remember. But just as I bring her along mentally, I must bring her along physically. Today she will get a full medical exam. This too, will be revealing.

  First, though, we will have lunch. Nora brings her at noon, and I’m hoping that the gathering of young women and their guardians will make a better impression than the initial one made by Mitzi, who is conspicuously absent.

  Lunch is being served in one of the manor’s loveliest rooms, a large glass atrium teeming with exotic plants. Little tables for couples are set up all around. Each is draped with a white tablecloth and set with fine china, gleaming flatware, and crystal water goblets. Among the things the women here are taught is the social graces. It’s a pleasure to see young women raised without manners adopt impeccable etiquette.

  “Welcome, Sugar.” I walk over and take her hand. “This is where you will be taking many of your meals now.”

  I sweep my hand towards the tables, where other couples are already sitting. Some of the other wards look her way. Each is dressed in some variation of old-fashioned girlish clothing, but the ones who’ve been here the longest have taken to personalizing their looks. The absent Mitzi, for instance, prefers colorful socks and sneakers. Others insist on party dresses and patent leather shoes, while a few are drawn to modest gingham prints with pinafores, stockings, and buckle boots. Curiously enough, these tastes seem to complement those of their guardians. The more colorful or conservative the guardian, the more colorful or conservative his ward.

  At the nearest table, Col. Blake Bingham sits with his ward, Penelope. He’s older, but still very striking with steel gray hair and a patrician manner. Penelope, a plump blonde, looks prim and pretty in a dress that makes her look as if she stepped from the pages a Victorian storybook. When she sees us, she leans over and whispers to her daddy, who smiles and nods. I feel Sugar tense as Penelope rises from her chair. I know she’s overwhelmed to see so many other women, and her experience with Mitzi has made her nervous.

  But Penelope is different, and the one I would have had her meet first if Dr. Brockman had not jumped the gun with his ward.

  “Hello.” She holds out her hand to Sugar. “I’m Penelope.” When my ward scoffs and looks away, Penelope withdraws her hand. “That’s all right. I was freaked out after I came here, too.” She pauses. “We’ve all been where you are. At one point, we’ve all been the new girl who climbed into a police van and then woke up here. We all understand.”

  She doesn’t give Sugar a chance to respond. Instead, she just turns away and goes back to Col. Bingham. I’m impressed by how Penelope has finessed her introduction. She doesn’t give my ward the opportunity to insult her. She accepts—and respects—Sugar’s reticence.

  “Our table is over here.” Eyes follow us as we move to a table by a huge standing fern. I pull out the chair and Sugar, who’s remained quiet, takes a seat. As soon as we are settled, maids come over with lunch. Today it’s tender pot roast with porcini mushrooms, fresh mashed potatoes with herb butter, glazed carrots, and German chocolate cake.

  Sugar stares at the food hungrily, and in her eyes, I see wistfulness not just for the comforting meal, but fo
r the strength she wishes she had to refuse it on principle. But she knows the alternative, and that’s enough justification for her to pick up her fork.

  “Napkin first,” I say, nodding to the one by her plate. “It goes in your lap.”

  “I’m not a savage.”

  “I didn’t say you were. Napkin.” I keep my tone low, so as not to draw attention to the mild scolding. Sugar puts the fork down and spreads the napkin in her lap.

  She doesn’t look at me as she eats. She has a good appetite, which pleases me. Too many girls are raised to be ashamed of their bodies, to be ashamed of their appetites. Sugar isn’t skinny, but I wouldn’t object to seeing a few more pounds on her. I like softness in a woman.

  “Is the food to your liking?” As she so often does, Sugar ignores my question to ask another.

  “Where’s that other one? Mitzi?”

  “If I had to guess, she’s been made to skip lunch and instead is standing in a corner, holding her dress up to display a cherry red, paddled bottom.” I lean slightly forward. “A good daddy is consistent. His little one can always count on him to love and correct her. He will never let her down. He will never leave her.”

  Sugar looks down, but before she does, I catch a flicker of something in her eyes. Once again, I’ve struck a chord.

  I change the subject. “Did you sleep well? I’d like to think that little kitty cat was a good companion.”

  I don’t expect an answer and am surprised when she replies. “Yes. The bed is comfortable. And…I like the cat. I think…” She furrows her brow. “I think I may have had one like it when I was a little girl. I can’t quite remember, but I think it was lost.”

  I smile to myself. “Well, you have a new one now. And if it is a comfort, then you can think of this little cat as having found its way back to you.”

  “Hello.” We are interrupted by another young woman. This one is Layla, the ward of the most unlikely dominant I’ve ever met, an introverted Japanese researcher. Like Mitzi, she’s one of the more colorful wards, even if her guardian, John Lang, is quiet. The two are adventurous, and I suspect that underneath her colorful frock, Penelope is wearing a soft rope harness designed to keep a plug in her ass, since she’s among the girls who craves the constant reminder of her daddy’s strict control.