Oh, hearing him say it right into their ear is so much better than reading his words on a screen, than hearing them murmured through tinny laptop speakers. When he calls them baby, when he calls them his needy little slut, shocks of pleasure shoot down their spine, making their toes curl in their pumps. There's none of the fear or apprehension they'd imagined, the embarrassment of being chastized and punished in real life only making them want him more.

"Y-Yes, Daddy," they whine, quietly sulking as they're dumped onto the bed, losing physical contact with him. So they hurry to do what he says, eager to feel his hands on them again, the press of his body to theirs, his mouth... Shivering, they unbutton the blouse and shuck off their slacks, kicking each garment off the bed one by one as they shed them. Finally free of their stupid business casual interview attire, Kurt looks like themself again, naked and flushed and freckled, so hard between their legs, exactly how Molloy knows them.

Panting, they scramble into place as told, hands and knees in the center of the bed, presenting for Daddy—and the rest of Los Angeles, if anyone knows to look, their form entirely visible through the glass wall. It doesn't deter them. Kurt is a natural at this, spreading their legs and arching their back so deep, their shuddering spine curving attractively for Molloy. For Daddy. "P-Please..."