by Maren Smith
Daddies who comforted. Daddies who caressed. Daddies who took away cell phones, washed out mouths with soap, gave corner time and spankings, and who dispensed sexualized punishments that included oral, vaginal, and even anal penetration. These were some of the most educating stories he’d ever read in his life. So much so that by the time he got to the out-and-out porn, all he could see in his mind was Britney coming home from work, with that shy blush stealing up into her cheeks as she took off her coffee-stained blouse and handed it over to Daddy to be cleaned.
He could see her sitting on the edge of her bed in nothing but a pair of bikini panties, hugging one of those so-called stuffies and chatting about her day while Daddy picked out pajamas—no, not pajamas. Those covered too much and were too hard to get into. Any Daddy of Britney’s would definitely put her in a nightshirt. Something that didn’t quite come down far enough to hide her panties from view and which, with very little difficulty, could be divested of entirely.
Like if she spilled something on herself, or if she misbehaved. Nothing too serious. He honestly couldn’t picture Britney being a major misbehaver. But she might sass a little, or pout, or maybe she’d say no when Daddy told her it was time for all sleepy Littles who worked the third shift to get their sexy butts to bed. In which case, Daddy would have to do what all Daddies did when their authority was being tested—he would take her by the arm, put her across his knee and, with a deaf ear tuned to her fussing and pleading, he’d apply the flat of his hand to the seat of her panties until it wasn’t just her face stained that beguiling shade of pink.
“I could do that,” Ommin said out loud, startling himself. He could do every part of that. Hell, he could all but feel Britney fussing and pleading as he pinned her across his lap right now. As little as she was, it would be no hardship at all to hold her down, capturing her legs in the vise of his own. Because when this Daddy was given reason to spank, there would be no holding still for it. She’d know it too, and back her little hand would dash in a vain attempt to ward off what was coming. Which would not only result in his having to pin her arm now too, but add to her punishment. He could damn near feel the elastic stretch as he hooked her panties and skimmed them down to her ankles, providing Ommin with an unobstructed view to everything that would be his. His to love, his to cherish, his to punish whenever and however he deemed it necessary.
Where in the hell had this pervy bone come from?
He looked down at his lap. Yeah, his Daddy shark-y bit was standing at full attention, straining hard to break free of its truly uncomfortable denim prison.
For all the good it would do him. It wasn’t like he could call Britney at the radio station to ask if that tattoo on her wrist meant what Google said it did. Worse than that, she probably already had a Daddy because, of course she did. Women like Britney always had a guy. She was too damn hot, cute, sweet, fun and funny not to. His fantasies were just exactly that. Fantasies.
He was about to close out his search thread when a forum advertisement on the side caught his eye. FetLife—the new Facebook for the kinky and BDSM-inclined. What would be the chances, he wondered, that Britney might actually have an account on there?
The thought was too tantalizing. He couldn’t resist clicking that link, but once in, he found he couldn’t do anything until he made an account. Should he, or shouldn’t he? What was he even going to say? He stared at the header for a long time, but the only thing that popped into his head was Britney’s sunny voice saying ‘Daddy Shark’ over and over again, followed by ‘New details just in: Superhero Ommin Jones is a super-big perv!’
Daddy S became his FetLife handle. In all the other fields, he put the bare minimum of information required to gain access to the search engine. And there he came up against his next obstacle. There were 2000 kinky people in the San Francisco area, of which Britney may or may not have been one.
Ommin almost closed out the browser. He was still stifling a sigh when, of its own accord, his hand found the mouse and his fingers started clicking. Picking up his sandwich, he scrolled through profile pictures, eyeing and discarding one potential possibility after another, all the while mentally scolding himself because seriously, this all ran in the ass-opposite direction of the person he had been all his life.
Two days ago, he’d been a pleasantly comfortable nobody, lost in the California crowds. Now look at him—he was a superhero (complete with moniker, no less), a half-ass radio celebrity (giving out autographs like a movie star), and the newest member of the world’s biggest kinky (practically porn) site on the inter—holy shit, he found her. Little Britney, sandwiched in between a domme using a man as a chair and an ass that had been so thoroughly whipped that there wasn’t an inch of unbruised flesh left on it.
Her profile picture didn’t include her face. Only her wrist, but he’d know that blue-ink tattoo anywhere.
His heart leapt and his stomach dropped, but he still clicked on her profile. Little seeking her Daddy Dom. Don’t jump the gun, he told himself, but when he saw she’d last updated her profile only four days ago, he dropped his sandwich and positively devoured his way through her info page. Unlike his, she’d provided all kinds of details on herself, her kinks, her likes and dislikes, and most importantly, the type of Daddy she was looking for.
And oh, was that an education. She had an extensive paragraph devoted to FetLife fetishes that ran the gamut from ‘toys’ and ‘flirting’ to ‘the sound of him unbuckling his belt’ and ‘baby, I know it hurts, just take it for Daddy.’ He read through every single one of her fetish phrases.
“I can totally do that,” he marveled out loud, but first there were things he had to do. Popping his last bite of discarded sandwich into his mouth, he brushed off his hands, cracked his knuckles, and got down to the very serious business of crafting himself into a Daddy Dom. He filled out his profile in its entirety with the title of Daddy Dom seeks one special Little, and it wasn’t a lie. He was looking for one Little, one in particular, and it was her alone that he was most interested in getting to know.
Filling out his profile was only half the battle, however. When he was done, he sat in front of his laptop for almost forty minutes, tweaking his likes and dislikes, searching through fetishes that appealed to him, re-reading Britney’s profile, and finally, he bit the bullet and sent her a private message. He kept it short and to the point: I enjoyed our time at the station today. Would you like to meet me for coffee? And then he sent it before he could chicken out.
She was absolutely going to refuse, and he knew it. Because this whole scenario was too crazy to actually work in his favor. There was just no—
A sudden knock at his front door snapped him out of FetLife world and back into his paparazzi-swarmed reality. ‘Gentle giant,’ he’d just described himself. The irony of suddenly being this annoyed as he stalked across the living room wasn’t lost on him. But now he also had ‘not afraid to spank’ listed on his brand-new kinky profile page, and it was about time that flock of vultures outside found out exactly what that meant.
Unlocking the door, he ripped it open and stuck his most authoritative finger in the beak-nosed face of the badly sweating man in a soggy, brown three-piece suit standing where a welcome mat would have been, if only he’d had one.
The man was tall, although not as tall as Ommin. He was skinny too, his suit hanging on a frame so scrawny he seemed on the verge of malnourishment. His face shone with moisture as he stared first at Ommin’s finger and then up at Ommin himself.
His Adam’s apple bobbed in a convulsive swallow, right before his eyes lit up and he grinned. “You’re him,” he warbled, his watery voice cracking. “You’re really him. I am so pleased to finally get to meet you!”
Ommin jumped when the sweaty man grabbed his authoritative finger. For a moment, he thought the other might have been about to shake it. He wasn’t at all prepared to have the man erupt in a near girlish squeal of delight, right before he exploded in a gush of clear liquid that rained down all over th
e threshold and his feet.
“What the—” Ommin stared at the water dripping off his hand, at the wet empty clothes lying on the floor, and the viscous puddle that slowly began to ooze its way into his apartment.
A flash of light startled him. He leaned out far enough to see the group of stunned reporters and paparazzi huddled at the far end of the hallway, staring silently back at him. They recovered their wits first, and suddenly the air was alive with the snapping of cameras and the party-strobe effect of multiple flashes going off.
Yanking back inside, Ommin slammed his door.
“My… clothes,” gurgled the puddle. With all its scattered droplets slowly gravitating back to join the main body, the liquid oozed its way into his living room. “Please… get my… clothes.”
Closing his eyes, Ommin stifled a sigh. With ‘new details at ten’ singing through his brain, he opened the door long enough to snatch in the soggy suit. The paparazzi caught it all. With rapid-fire clicks of their cameras sounding like the angry chitin-clacks of many hungry insects, they surged forward. Ommin slammed the door again before anyone could get that highly coveted shot inside his apartment, and it was a good thing too. Because when Ommin turned around, there was a naked man gradually re-solidifying on his carpet.
Because of course there was. This was Ommin’s life.
Chapter 3
“I’m so terribly sorry,” the sweaty man said for the third time, as he pulled his pants up over his bony hips and buckled them tightly into place. “I just get so excited sometimes.”
“Who are you?” Ommin asked. And he wished he didn’t sound so irritated when he said it, but he could still hear the reporters talking in the hall and, frankly, this was one of the strangest things that had ever happened to him. And he could morph into a fish, for crying out loud.
“Oh, sorry.” Pausing with his button-up shirt half on, the other man stuck out a sweaty palm. “I’m Jim, or, uh… as you can call me, Liquidman!”
“Liquidman.” Ommin’s tone must have said everything he was thinking, because Jim’s smile faded.
“Yes, well… It’s one of those self-explanatory nicknames.” He brightened again. “Like Sharkman. Admittedly, your skills are much more awesome and… well, let’s face it, useful, than mine. But, hey! I can’t tell you how happy I was to see you on the news.”
Laughing and shaking his head, Jim buttoned up his shirt, and all Ommin could do was stand there wondering if this was going to be his new normal. Just, every few days someone new would fall into his path and it would either be someone like Britney, whom he couldn’t wait to get to know better, or it be someone who exploded into a watery mess the first time he touched them.
Baffled, Ommin finally just asked, “Why?”
Half in and half out of his brown jacket, Jim paused all over again. He looked surprised. “Because I thought I was the only one. I mean, I’ve gone my entire life afraid to be with people because at any given minute—”
He cupped an invisible bomb in the air, made a water exploding/splashing sound, and looked at Ommin again, fingers still raining invisible water and flicking off the occasional droplet that immediately trickled its way back to him the second it hit the floor.
“I’m not very good at controlling it. I wish I was.” He brightened. “Still, I’m better than I used to be. And, again, for the longest time I thought I was the only weirdo in the world. I’m so glad to finally meet someone else who can do, you know… things!”
Ommin’s laptop chirped a familiar notification.
Jim brightened even more. “Somebody loves you,” he said, shrugging into his jacket and adjusting his suit. When Ommin only stared at him, he gestured to the laptop and tried again. “You’ve got mail,” he parroted, in a near perfect imitation of the battle cry that launched AOL.
His life could not get any weirder.
The last thing he wanted to do was check his email with ‘Liquidman’ in his living room, especially if that email had a chance of being from Britney. That was an awfully quick response time though, wasn’t it? It honestly could be from Britney.
Holy shit. What if it was from Britney? What if she was saying no?
What if she was saying yes?
The draw to find out was stronger than the call of the sea, and before he knew it, Ommin was—not running, exactly, but a dude could definitely speed walk to check who that message was from.
Holy. Shit.
Britney had answered him. It was right there, number one on his email screen, a reply to his message sent through FetLife.
God help him.
He sat down. Fortunately, his chair was right there, otherwise he might have dropped all the way to the floor.
“Mind if I get a drink of water?” Jim called hopefully.
“Help yourself,” Ommin heard himself say. Because, why not? It would give him time and some much-needed space while he read what would in all likelihood be a rejection letter.
“Ooo!” Jim said from the kitchen. “Sandwich fixings.”
“Help yourself,” Ommin called again, rubbing his hands on his jean-clad thighs. One deep breath became two. As braced as he was going to get, he clicked on the email. He had to log back into FetLife in order to read it.
And then he read it again.
It was very short, very direct. Very to the point.
And she did not say no.
I had no idea when I said that at the studio, I swear. Yes, I’d love to meet for coffee!! I’m off now, actually. Or is that too soon?
She’d love to, with not one but two exclamation points.
Holy shit, she’d love to right now.
Ommin fell back in his chair, every fiber of his body vibrating with carefully muted excitement. First things first, he quickly looked up coffee shops near her radio station, then sent another message back. He included his cell phone number, his personal email address separate from FetLife, the name and address of a coffee shop near her station, his estimated time of arrival, and then, fingers poised over the laptop keys, he agonized over something Daddy-Dom-ish to say that wouldn’t also come across as creepy considering it was their first coffee date.
See you soon, he wrote. Then quickly added, Be good and hit send before he could overthink it.
He was going on a date with Britney. He collapsed back in his seat again, staring at her email confirmation. One click took him back over to her profile page. He stared at that next, because he wasn’t just going on a date with Britney, he was going on a date with Little Britney when supposedly he was a Daddy.
Was he being dishonest? Was he making a huge mistake?
“Ooo,” Jim said around a mouthful of sandwich, this time from directly behind Ommin’s chair. “Kinky.”
In a flash, Ommin slapped his laptop closed and swiveled far enough to give Liquidman an unobstructed view of his quiet irritation.
Water bottle in one hand, taking another bite of his sandwich in the other, Jim was oblivious. “Bro, you’ve got a girlfriend? That’s awesome. Gives me hope.”
“I’ve also got a date,” Ommin said pointedly. “Right now, in fact.”
Jim held up both food and drink. “Say no more, my friend. Say no more. I’ve got places to go anyway. I appreciate your hospitality.”
Ommin had never felt more relieved than he did finally walking Liquidman to the door. Had he known Jim was going to hug him, he would have waited until that was over before escorting him out into the hall, because not only did that squishy hug come at him from out of nowhere, but it was accompanied by an immediate volley of camera flashes from the half dozen reporters lined up patiently along the wall directly opposite of him.
“Stay you,” Jim said, complete with a sniffle into Ommin’s chest. Then he was gone, walking off down the hallway to the accompanying hail from a few hopeful reporters. “Bro code, dudes,” Ommin heard Jim tell them. “I’ve got nothing to say.”
“What’s it like being a fish?” asked the guy across the hall from him as he arched onto tip
toes, all the better to snap pictures of the inside of Ommin’s apartment.
Ommin shut the door. He didn’t have anything to say either. He’d also had enough. Taking off his shirt, which now had a massive wet spot in the form of Jim and his embracing arms, he called the local police and asked what he had to do to get rid of the people in his hallway.
Come to find out, all he had to do was make a phone call. Less than fifteen minutes later, eight police cars with lights flashing and a wagon were parked outside his apartment, and every photographer and reporter inside his building was arrested for trespassing.
“It won’t hold them for long,” one officer knocked at his door to tell him. “They’ll be out probably as fast as we get them booked in, but that should give you an hour or so of peace. Plus, they’ll probably stay out of your building now that they know you’ll call.”
“I appreciate it,” Ommin said, shaking his hand. But when the officer continued to stand there, hesitating, after a couple blinks, Ommin asked, “Got a pen?”
The cop grinned and Ommin autographed a blank page of his notepad.
“Do you want me to make it out to anyone in particular?”
“Officer Marcus Bradley. Hey, would you mind saying ‘best buds’ on there?”
“Best… buds…” Ommin repeated, obligingly writing it down. After that, he got a pen and carried it in his back pocket.
As he was waving the officers off, his cell phone vibrated.
I’m at the shop, Britney’s text read.
I’m running late, he immediately replied. Got waylaid by reporters, but on the way now.
No problem.
Normally, Ommin either walked or took the bus, but this was important. Tonight, he caught a cab. Although faster than the bus, he was almost twenty minutes late when he finally got there.