I barely slept after Daddy caught me. The rest of the night was a feverish blur of shame and unbearable arousal. I tossed and turned, thighs sticky with my own juices, replaying his deep, commanding voice over and over in my head. By morning I was a mess — pussy swollen and aching, nipples hard enough to cut glass. When the text came at noon telling me to come downstairs to the basement studio at exactly 2 p.m., my hands shook so badly I almost dropped my phone.

This was really happening. I was going to watch — no, help — with one of Daddy’s live sessions.

I chose my...