Daddy! Read online

  "So," he began, rubbing his hand up my still tense arm gently. "Let me guess what you did all afternoon, besides pacing. I bet I can guess what you didn't do quite accurately—you didn't take any of the relaxing breaths I asked you to take?"

  I was amazed at how overwhelming the impulse to bury my face against his neck was. It was very nearly impossible to resist! But I did, stiffening in his arms then trying to move away, but I wasn't much allowed to.

  "Instead," he continued smoothly, "you spent the afternoon all worried and tense and dreaming up all sorts of awful scenarios where we break up because of what you blurted out and I throw you out of here in disgust and your world comes crashing down around you." His hand began to rub with just the perfect amount of pressure right between my shoulder blades, where he knew I carried a lot of my anxiety. "How am I doing so far?"

  "Much too well," I replied, then I deliberately craned myself away from him so that I could look into his eyes while I said what I felt needed to be conveyed to him, in support of me being horrified at what I'd done and terrified that I was going to lose him because of it. "But, as a matter of fact, what you've just described, that overwhelmingly negative reaction of my partner—is exactly what has happened to me in the past when I've revealed…that part of me to men I was dating."

  I literally watched him bare his teeth while hearing him growl from deep in his chest at that, and it conversely relaxed me and made my clit jump at the same time. "Well, those guys were some real winners, weren't they? Someone actually kicked you out?"

  I nodded emphatically. "Yup. Said that what I wanted was disgusting and all sorts of other choice words, pushed me out the door and locked it behind me. At night. In January. In New Hampshire. It was about fifteen degrees out. We'd been dating for about as long as you and I have been dating. If you don't believe me, you can talk to Bette. I had to call her to come and get me."

  "Of course, I believe you." He cupped my cheeks in his hands. "No wonder you're so wary about what happened. I'm sorry; I had no idea any man would react that way! I mean, everyone has needs, and part of becoming a couple is blending those needs together, hopefully."

  For some reason, his words—that I knew were intended to soothe—only made me more nervous, and I began to babble. "But it's not a need I absolutely have to have fulfilled—it's never really been fulfilled, so it's not something I miss the reality of. I'm utterly ecstatic at our life together—and you are incredibly wonderful for me and to me—in bed and out! And you've taken to being my Dom like a natural and…and…" The tears began to flow again, no matter how hard I fought for them not to as my words tumbled over each other in my haste to reassure him about how I had no expectations that he would fulfill this need for me. "I'm not gonna ask you to do this for me, too—it's—it's not something—I-I'm just f-fine without it. Really, I am!"

  "Baby love," he sighed, pulling me back to him and holding me more tightly than before, cocooning me with his body as best he could while using his hands and tone to comfort me. "Shhhhh. I want you to be quiet and just listen to me, okay?"

  I nodded, but his expression told me that he wanted more of an acknowledgement.

  My "Yes, Sir," was soft and tentative, and I don't think he realized that it was my little answering him already.

  "Good girl." His hand cupped my cheek as the other lay against his chest. "I want you to really hear what I'm saying and take it into your heart." The tip of his index finger tapped firmly over where my heart was. "And your mind." It moved to tap my temple. "Being your Dom comes naturally because I am a dominant person, and being that way with you clicks very much with something inside me. You definitely have been given your way for entirely too long and you're a bit spoiled, and Lord knows I love to discipline you. And wipe away your tears and croon to you afterwards—" he sighed almost longingly. "The whole damned experience is incredibly powerful to me on every possible level, and I'm sorry if I haven't told you that enough or emphatically enough to make you believe that it's not some chore I resent or that I'm struggling to do."

  He was apologizing to me?

  "Being your Dom is not some kind of favor I'm doing for you, Tahlia." He moved me enough so that he could look me in the eye. "It fulfills a basic, primitive need in me that I have to take care of you, and it allows me to do so in a very intimate, emotional and physically satisfying manner. Understand?"

  "Yes, Sir," I whispered, trying to look down, but his hands prevented me from doing that, so my eyes remained locked with his when he spoke his next words.

  "Good. And being your Daddy—if that's what we decide should happen—is going to extend that intimacy, deepen it and bring us closer in every possible way. It's going to be an utter and complete joy to me."

  Chapter 3

  I leaned away from him again, and this time, he let me, so that I could stare up into those dark blue, almost violet eyes of his. Mine were saucer wide, and I was biting my lip. What he was saying was what I had literally dreamt of for as long as I could remember, and that had only become more acute when I met him. Nowadays, when he was gone, and I allowed myself to fantasize about having a Daddy, it was always him. But I ruthlessly never allowed those lovely dreams to carry over into our real life.

  "You don't h-have to say that, you know—"

  "I do know, little one, and I promise you that I wouldn't say it unless I really felt it. Ours is a relationship built on trust and honesty, right?"

  As soon as his fingers left my chin, my eyes were downcast. "Yes, Sir." Again, it was a higher, much more childish voice that came out in answering him, but I—either consciously or unconsciously—spoke very softly, and I was relatively sure that he wouldn't notice that very subtle change. But I had underestimated him.

  "There you are," he greeted in a warm, rumbling tone that sent equally potent fissures of desire and somehow relaxation through me at the same time. When I looked hesitantly back up at him, he smiled broadly. That voice of his was utterly perfect—coaxing—carefully not demanding—welcoming and loving, all at once. "I've seen you peeping out at me sometimes, looking like you wanted to come forward and meet me, but I wanted you to determine the best time to do that yourself, pumpkin. Perhaps I was wrong in allowing you to do that, but that was what I thought at the time. But things advanced a little quickly for you all of a sudden, yesterday, huh, and now here we are?"

  It floored me how quickly his demeanor and his tone had the tensions that had coiled within me relaxing almost against my will, my little taking baby steps—still cautiously, though—towards him as he sat there holding me loosely. "You're perched on my lap like a little bird, ready to fly away from me at any moment, at any sign of danger. But there won't be any of those, I promise you, babygirl," he vowed, gathering me to him. He did so slowly, so as not to startle me, which was a subtlety that a lot of men might forget. Being grabbed and held against my will at that point would have been a grave misstep that probably would have caused me to take flight as he had thought I might.

  But instead, he closed his arms very carefully around me, as if he had all the time in the world, letting me become accustomed to him holding me when I was little, not assuming that it was exactly the same thing as holding me when I was in an adult headspace.

  Damn, he was going to be devastating at this, if I let him! He had monumentally good instincts for it, as he had about Domming me, too. He had insisted that we not jump into the deep end of that, either.

  We'd both recognized that that was what we desired after a lot of talking, and once we had agreed that it was something we wanted to fulfill for each other, he didn't really change his behavior towards me much, especially at first. He'd always been a delightfully protective man—almost old fashioned in his manners, although not one with caveman-like beliefs or behaviors in the least. He was—unexpectedly—overtly, unabashedly caring, too. Both of those traits simply amped up a notch or two, and I just ended up not being able to simply laugh off his concern about my persistent cough, or my tendency towards insomnia
, or my preference for ignoring his occasional command for me to come to him. Or not come…in a different situation, of course. I should have known that he would take the same approach with this.

  When he had me curled up on his lap, cuddled against his broad chest, he reached for a butt ugly knit throw his mom had made years ago that lived on the back of the couch, unfolding it over the two of us and tucking it in around me. Then he confessed, "I don't know this part of you well enough to know if you're shivering because you're cold or just out of a nervous reaction, but either way, this is nice and cozy, isn't it, little love?"

  I nodded my head as he reached for a remote, and the music playing from his Bluetooth speakers was no longer classical selections but lullabies, instead.

  Mane murmured, "I think you should take a little nap, sweetie. It's been a trying time for you, and you've worried yourself down to a nub, I can tell."

  My insistent but still quiet, "But I don't wanna take a nap," was ruined by a big yawn as I nonetheless settled myself more comfortably against him.

  His soft chuckle vibrated beneath my ear. "Of course, you don't," he agreed, kissing the top of my head. "And if you didn't have a Da—someone watching over you," he corrected himself, "you might be able to get away with doing that. But I am that someone now, and I think you should close your eyes—not for long, though. I don't want to play hell with your sleep patterns. Just a kitten-nap, 'cause you're too young to be a grown-up cat, and then we'll talk some more when you wake up."

  I wasn't too thrilled at the last part of his speech, but I could feel myself falling asleep, even against my will. He wasn't doing anything that he hadn't done for me a hundred times before, holding me on his lap and stroking my hair, rubbing my back up and down lazily while applying no pressure at all. He wisely wasn't trying to massage in any way, just establish a reassuring rhythm that acquainted a part of me that was new to him—and very tentative about being near him—with his touch.

  But despite the newness, which was usually an issue for me that caused a certain amount of stress, I could feel the tension and anxiety seeping away from me in a way they hadn't at any time before in my entire life, and it affected every part of me—mentally, physically, and sexually. I became utterly boneless, surrendering to it, even though I could recognize—hazily—that there were still small, paranoid pockets of my mind that wanted me to fight against it, wanting to warn me and thus protect me from potential hurt or harm.

  But the rest of me overwhelmed those parts. This was Mane, and he was making certain that it felt too good to me not to just let go completely, and let someone else—him—worry about all of the adult stuff that usually ran through my mind in a worried loop—taxes and whether the door was locked and whether there was food and bills and housework, unnecessary concerns about our relationship, friends and family, work. The list was infinite.

  But he had made us a warm, cozy world unto ourselves. He was strong and supportive beneath me, his arms wrapped protectively around me, and it was just what I needed, apparently.

  I was out like a light within about three breaths from the time he stopped murmuring quietly, sleeping more deeply than I had since I was a child about the age to which I had so easily regressed.

  When I awoke, he whispered, "Good evening, sleepyhead," while kissing my forehead. "You can take your time waking up, lovey. There's nothing you need to get done, nothing that requires your attention. You're much too young to have any demands on your time—and as closely as I can manage it for you, you're not going to have a care in the world. Beyond not being naughty or disobedient, that is."

  Normally, when I woke up, I sat up in bed immediately and opened my eyes. I just wasn't the type to be comfortable waking up slowly and lazing around in bed. If I was conscious, I wanted to be up and doing something.

  There were always—and I mean always—papers to correct, grades to enter, lesson plans to write, and that didn't begin to address all of the crap around the house, which always awaited me, too, even on summer vacation.

  But, even though I was awake, his arms kept me close, and I couldn't move very much. Instead of that bothering me, as it might have if I'd slipped into being big, it felt wonderful, and I remained—pretty much—a limp little dishrag, still occasionally snoring softly and not even having opened my eyes yet.

  When I'd finished stretching and yawning again, Mane adjusted the blanket over me again, gathering me a little more tightly to him.

  It was then, in that quiet, idyllic scene, that my stomach decided to make its protest known, having not been fed much since my lunch with Bette besides fear, anxiety, and worry.

  Mane laughed loudly. "Sounds like someone's got a rumbly-tumble." He leaned down and nuzzled my ear. "Someone only ate a bite or so of dinner, which is not going to become a habit, I can assure you."

  I tensed a bit and tucked my face into the curve of his neck against his displeasure.

  A long finger stroked gently over my cheek. "But I can understand why you weren't hungry, kitten, so you'll get away with it—once. But not again. Understand?"

  At first, I only nodded, then moved far enough away from him to whisper huskily, "Yes, Sir."

  "So, chicken fingers and French fries for second dinner?" he asked.

  I gave him a disbelieving look. Aside from the occasional meal out—usually on a special occasion—or splurge like Mac's, Mane was one of those people who ate disgustingly healthily and was always trying to encourage me to eat better. He definitely didn't keep those kinds of things around. I think the most sinful thing I'd ever stumbled across in his pantry—until now—was a bottle of real maple syrup, with which he made—very occasional and very excellent—waffles.

  "Really?"

  "Really. Don't think you'll be eating like this all the time, baby doll, but this is a special occasion, and I wanted to have something on hand that you would really enjoy. I even have dessert, if you eat all your dinner and are well behaved."

  I dared to pout a bit at the stipulations, glancing up at him to see how it was being received, but he was chuckling.

  "That is one serious pout you've got going on there," he complimented—complimented—as he moved out from under me, leaving me on the couch to head for the kitchen.

  I followed him, of course, switching into big and offering automatically, "What can I do to help?"

  He was already reaching into the freezer to grab the frozen fingers and fries, but he put them back when he saw that I had gotten up. He didn't yell at me or appear angry in any way, nor did he even move particularly quickly. But what he did do was meet me halfway, taking my hand almost casually and guiding me back to the sofa, motioning for me to sit back down, which I did.

  I opened my mouth to repeat my offer, but he tilted his head and put his finger over his mouth, which silenced me and, for some reason, put me right back into little.

  "My bad for not having told you what I expected you to do and not do." He sat next to me and brought my eyes to his, as one would do with a small child to make certain that their attention does not wander. "It's Friday, and you're on summer vacation, which is perfect, because I know you have no work to do. I want you to be little with me this whole weekend, and I will do my best to make sure that you never feel you have to adult. And that means that cooking is off limits. Three year olds—correct me if I'm wrong about what your age is, usually—are not to go anywhere near the stove. Hmm?"

  He was absolutely right in his estimate, of course.

  Still, I couldn't help myself. I agreed, but there was no mistaking that I wasn't happy about it.

  "What's with the sigh?"

  I squirmed a bit under his gaze, then said, carefully not looking at him, "But I like helping."

  He reached out and tickled me slightly, just once, because he knows I hate to be tickled, but it got me smiling and looking back at him. "Well, that's a very good thing, and I want you to help—with things that are age appropriate," he stated firmly. "At certain points this weekend, I'll give you some sm
all chores to do, but that's up to me. Until I assign you something, you don't have any chores. Tonight, you're just to be your little self. Unless there's some kind of emergency, I don't want to see or hear from your big. I don't want you doing big things, but much more importantly for you, I know, my little worrier, I don't want you to have so much as one big thought. If I get even an inkling that you're bigger than you ought to be, you'll get your bottom warmed. Capice, bambina?"

  "Yes, Sir."

  Mane turned on the TV and Bugs Bunny's classic exploits appeared. Of all cartoons, he was my favorite, because my dad and I used to watch them together.

  Knowing his DVD collection intimately, as I did, I knew he didn't own this yesterday. So, I asked automatically, without thinking, my voice several octaves lower than it had been in the past few hours, "When did you manage to acquire—no!"

  I hadn't even begun to finish the question before I found myself over his lap, but by the time I got to the "no!", it was definitely not said in my usual voice.

  He made alarmingly short work of taking my shorts and underwear down to mid-thigh, no further—just far enough to completely bare my behind and the tops of my thighs. It was just the right amount to make me feel exposed but not sexually so, and, seconds later, I was feeling much more than that. I was feeling thoroughly spanked, but in an altogether different way from usual. I couldn't explain it if I had to, but it was not at all the same experience as being spanked by him when I was big.

  And it was perfect.

  My feet began to drum on the couch immediately in protest. His hand was vicious, normally, and it wasn't a lot of levels down from there, even now. There was no warm up, and he definitely wasn't taking it easy on me, even though this seemed to be a bit of a trial weekend for us. I had to wonder if that was deliberate—that he was setting a tone that he intended to continue, rather than being totally indulgent all weekend, then having to play catch up in the discipline area later on.