Then he lifted me up, onto my feet, holding my hand until he was sure I was steady. "What would you like to have for breakfast?" he asked, already knowing what I was going to say."
"Waffles, waffles, and more waffles!"
"Good choice! Bacon or sausage?"
"Depends. Is either of them real?"
He was always trying to slip in turkey "bacon" or turkey "sausage", claiming he couldn't tell the difference.
But he didn't have a little's discerning—fussy—palate.
That got him chuckling. "No, they're both real. Those I did pick up on the way home from work, yesterday afternoon."
"Then, both?" I asked hopefully, but with not much real hope of a "yes".
"Nope," he vetoed cheerfully. "Pick one."
"Bacon, please."
"Excellent—that's what I wanted, too!"
I stood near the kitchen, but not in it, heeding his rule about me not being old enough to be in there. What he'd just said puzzling me a bit.
Some men might have missed my confused, pondering look, but not my Daddy. "What is it, angel? What's got you thinking so hard on a lovely Saturday morning?"
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
Mane came over to me, squatting down in front of me and looking up at me. "You can tell me anything, at any time, you know? I want to know everything you think about, always. Okay? You're safe with me."
I bit my lip, wanting to ask, but still not sure.
He winked. "Even if you think you're not, you still are, pumpkin."
I decided to be brave and drew a breath. "You—you wanned bacon."
"Yes."
"And you're the Daddy."
He was gorgeous when he smiled. "Yes."
"So, why didn't you jus' say 'we're havin' bacon'?"
"That's a very good question." His eyes found mine as he took one of my hands in his, the other cupping my cheek. "Because you're my baby, and I love you. So, when I can, I'll give you a choice about things. Bacon or sausage—I don't much care, really, so that was easy. But there'll be a lot of times when I won't give you a choice about things—even things I know you won't like. But you are my star, the center of my world. What you want, what you need, what you feel, comes way, way, way ahead of anything about me. It's all about you, babygirl."
I ducked my head down, blushing furiously, but Mane just kissed the top of my head and headed back into the kitchen.
After that, I wasn't really sure what to say or do. "Can I help, please, Daddy?"
"Of course, you can! I can tell you're a very good helper! Why don't you take this stuff into the living room and set it all up on the coffee table?" He piled plates, silverware, butter, syrup, and napkins onto a tray, then handed it to me. "Too heavy?" he asked, eying me closely as I turned around carefully.
"Nuh-uh."
"Thank you, sweetie."
"Welcome, Daddy."
"When you're done, let me know."
"Done."
He trotted into the living room. "Wow, you're quick! Good job!" Then he turned on the TV and put it onto cartoons again, this time Animaniacs. "You stay in here and watch TV. I'll bring breakfast in soon, and we can eat together, then we'll figure out what we want to do for the day."
But before he left, he noticed that I had yet to sit down. I was watching the adventures of Wakko, Yakko, and Dot from a standing position. So, Mane, realizing immediately what the problem was, went into our bedroom and rescued our softest pillow from the bed, which he put down on the couch for me. "Poor princess. Your feet'll get sore if you don't sit down."
"I know, but—" I turned to see what he'd done and went to sit down. "Much better." I craned my head back. "Thank you, Daddy."
"You're welcome, little one." He headed for the kitchen again. "Be good. No changing the channel."
"Yes, Daddy."
Breakfast was wonderful. He didn't feed me again, but then, waffles with butter and syrup didn't much lend themselves to hand feeding, anyway. And they were sublime, as always. When we were done, he let me help clean up, thanking me for the help as we wandered back to the living room. Mane was big on manners.
"Well, what should we do? We could go to the beach or take a drive up the coast—we should do as much of both of those things as we can before it gets to peopley out there and Route 1 becomes a parking lot. The fourth's coming right up, and we'll want to hole up in here for that weekend. We could go down to Boston, if you like, and go to the Aquarium or the Museum of Science, or we could go to the IMAX in Reading, if they're playing something fit for a little."
They weren't, unfortunately. They were showing some kind of Star Wars iteration that neither of us was interested in, and besides, he said it was too old for me, anyway.
So, we ended up going up the coast, stopping at Long and Short Sands in York to beachcomb. It was kind of stupid, probably, to go to Maine and do what we could have done right across the street from his house, but it was a very nice drive. There wasn't enough traffic to be annoying, and since we'd had a pretty big breakfast, we had linner—a combination of lunch and dinner—at a family style place I'd been going to since I was a kid that had great, fresh seafood and large portions, although, since it was past Memorial Day, they'd already converted over to "season" pricing, so it was a bit expensive.
I got "the look" from him when I reached for my purse—full on, chin down, looking out at me from beneath a furrowed brow.
"I don't think so, little girl. You put that back right now, before you get your little bottom smacked."
I gasped in surprise. We'd slipped easily into conversing as adults, and that was a sharp reminder that was not who I was this weekend. And I did exactly as I was told, too, not at all willing to put that past him, especially since I was sitting sans pillow on a hard, wooden chair. But I could see that it was going to put a serious crimp in something I'd been trying to do ever since we got together.
He made more than I did. It was a hazard of teaching for a living. No one did it for the money, because there wasn't any to be had! But the Navy had been taking care of him forever—and until this posting, he'd lived in housing they'd provided for him wherever he ended up, so he hadn't had rent or a mortgage to pay, and he'd been able to build up a nice nest egg. The house his parents had given him was fully paid for, so even here, in his home port, all he had to worry about were taxes and upkeep.
Mane wasn't rich by any means, but he was definitely better off than I was. And, even if he hadn't been, he was the kind of man who would have been careful with his money and would still have insisted on paying for everything, anyway.
I was an independent woman. No one bought me things any more, unless Bette covered the lunch bill sometimes, and I didn't count Christmas or birthday presents from anyone. I paid my own way. I liked it that way. If I did go out with a guy, I didn't feel any sort of obligation towards him if I ordered what I wanted—lobster, if the craving hit, or a porterhouse steak so that I had something to eat on for a couple of days—when I was paying for my own dinner.
But Mane would not have that. It almost torpedoed the relationship before it began, because he wouldn't let me pay for our first meal out together, and I was livid. When we got back to his car, though, he turned in his seat and took my hand, explaining patiently that he wasn't trying to be a jerk at all. He was trying to be a gentleman, as his mother had taught him to be, and that the fact that he had paid did not mean that he expected anything from me at all—not even so much as a kiss goodnight—unless I wanted to.
My thoroughly disbelieving look must've said it all, because he busted out laughing.
"Are you for real? You open doors, you pay for dinner, and you want to act properly because of your mother?"
He had frowned. "Well, when you put it that way…"
But I had always tried to pay, and I had always gotten shot down. Until he started Domming me, and then he had banned me from even offering.
This time, he said, in a disapproving tone that rubbed me the wrong wa
y in little, "I can see that that's a rule I'm going to have to add to the accumulating list of them, young lady, which is something we're going to discuss, this evening."
We had been sharing an enormous apple cobbler—minus the alamode, due to my issues with dairy—but I put my spoon down at his tone. "Daddy?"
He was busy moaning orgasmically over the dessert, so he didn't see my reaction at first. "Yes, babygirl?"
I wasn't looking at him, but I knew the moment he saw my expression, because he covered the hand that was on the table with his own, stroking his thumb over the back.
"What is it, lamb?"
"Did I do something wrong?"
"Is your bottom newly sore?"
I frowned, answering tentatively as I shifted in my chair. "No."
"Have I told you that you're going to get a spanking and explained to you why?"
"No."
"Then, you're not in trouble. Two easy ways to tell." I was still frowning a bit at that answer. "Look at me, Tahlia."
"You know I don't play games. I didn't when I was essentially your Dom, and I won't now that I'm your Daddy. I might have decided to punish you purely for my own amusement as your Dom, but I certainly won't do that as your Daddy. That wouldn't be fair at all. I'm not going to try to catch you out or trip you up. When I decide on your rules, I'll tell you what they are and add and subtract from them as needed, through frequent discussions with you. But I think they're going to be pretty set. I won't hide any from you in hopes of tricking you into earning a punishment. You know that's not how I am."
I nodded. He was an extremely honorable man, and he actually worked at being that way.
"I always want you to be happy and healthy, so that's what the rules will aim for. I want them to mean something to the both of us, not be silly, frivolous things to bolster my ego and make you feel bad about yourself—just the opposite. I want them in place to help you do the right thing, to do the thing you know I'd approve of. And if you choose not to, then that's what spankings are for." He sought my eyes. "Okay, sweet pea?"
I nodded, for real, this time. "Yes, Daddy."
He fed me a spoonful of cobbler, then pressed a bit of the ice cream onto the tip of my nose, making me laugh.
"And it occurs to me that my tone of voice might have been off when I mentioned adding that rule, too, and I'm sorry if that's what made you worry unnecessarily that you were in trouble." He grinned at me and fed me another spoonful. "I'm new at this Daddy gig, you see, and I'm not always going to get everything right, even though I definitely want to. So, I'll be more careful about how I say things like that in the future, baby, I promise."
"That's okay, Daddy," I said, covering his hand with mine this time and saying in my most serious voice, "I want you to know that you're not in trouble…this time."
The reward for my efforts was the fact that he laughed so hard that he nearly did a spit take with his cobbler.
I took a perverse sense of pleasure in that.
Chapter 7
It was a glorious day and a glorious weekend. Because I didn't have to work, he convinced me to stay until he had to go in, Monday morning, instead of leaving Sunday night.
When we got back from our day out, it was only about three in the afternoon, and he announced as soon as we got in the door that he was going to put me down for a nap.
He expected me to follow him into the bedroom, but I was dragging my feet as much as I dared, whining, too, as much as I dared, "But I don't wanna take a nap!"
I could hear him chuckling from where I was, still closer to the front door than to him.
Mane came to lean his shoulder against the door jamb, crossing his arms over his chest and fighting not to smile at me, I could tell. "Wouldn't you think, peewee, that a little girl whose bottom is in the sad shape yours is in would be a little less likely to pout?"
"No," I answered instantly and truthfully, wondering immediately if I shouldn't have said it, but it just made him throw back his head and laugh.
He began to stalk slowly towards me. "So speaks a real and true little!" He chuckled, still bearing down on me.
I had half a mind to try to escape, but I wasn't good at hiding my intent from him.
"Do you really want another spanking for running away from your Daddy, honey?" he asked in such a calm, practical tone that I hated him.
My sigh was terribly put upon. "No," I peeped. "But I don' wanna nap, neither!"
He pulled me into his arms. "Then you have to think what your Daddy would want you to do."
"No, I hafta decide which one is the worst fate. And a nap is way better than a spanking."
He looked a little bemused, then said, "Okay, whatever gets you to the right decision, I suppose. I don't guess I'm likely to understand a little's logic."
"It's very easy, Daddy. It's the logic of the least unpleasant consequence when faced with having to do something you don't wanna do."
"Uh huh," he said, producing the freshly washed jammies I'd been wearing.
"You got the stain out! Thank you!" I said as he changed my pseudo-diaper and popped me into them, leaving both of them collected around my calves, for some reason. "I liked the ice cream, but I was sad that I'd ruin'd them."
He looked glad to hear that, for some reason. "You didn't ruin them, lovey. And I'll get you a couple more of them—in different patterns—for the summer. Maybe we could look at them together when you wake up from your nap."
I humphed, wanting to spend time with him looking at things for me, but not wanting to be reminded that I was expected to go to sleep in a few minutes.
But he certainly hadn't forgotten. Nor had he forgotten what he'd said he would do to me every time I had to go to sleep, because as he pressed the pacifier into my mouth unexpectedly, he pressed his own warm, open, wet mouth onto my clit.
I yelped behind the binky, hips naturally arching myself up against his ravenous tongue. "Give me your hands, little one."
This time, instead of having me hold onto the headboard, he looped his strong fingers around my wrists instead, pinning them into the mattress, one next to each hip.
He drew back just a bit, in order to mutter—his lips still against me, "There now. Daddy's got you. Time for Daddy to make you come so you can sleep well. I know that your kitty's gotten all het up in your diaper, hugged by all of that softness and warmth. So, I'm going to take the edge off for you. You just lie still and let it happen. Daddy's not going to stop until he's worn you out—not now, not tonight, either."
I tugged at my hands—I don't know why. I wasn't going to do anything in particular with them. I guess I was testing his resolve, and he passed with flying colors, clamping down a bit harder. "No, baby. Don't resist; it'll just make things harder. You don't want your Daddy to have to paddle you again, do you? I will, if you continue to resist me. Wouldn't that be horrible when your pretty little bottom is still so sore? This morning, it was almost purple in a few spots before I stopped."
I swear, I could feel every bit of that purple!
As he was lavishing that now continually swollen bud with his lips and tongue, he let go of one of my wrists. I thought he might trail his fingers down my groove to fill me with them, but instead, he reached beneath me, cupping and then squeezing the very area he was speaking about, reviving the awful throbbing in my taut, swollen skin that had died down to a dull, background roar.
How he managed to sound so stern and yet so sorry to have punished me, while causing me to feel very punished, indeed, by his own hand, I'll never know. But it went straight to the heart of everything I'd ever wanted in a Daddy, how I'd always wanted a Daddy to be with me and to me.
Of course, I tried to move away, to lift myself out of his hand, and that meant offering myself up to him even more fully as he devoured me whole.
Every time he lifted his head to speak to me, he was teasing me at the same time, leaving me hanging, needing his mouth on me. His hand reclaimed my wrist, but not before he'd done the same to the other side, and
the damage was done. He'd proven to me that I really was Daddy's girl—a paddled little girl—thoroughly punished and now thoroughly pleasured, and there was nothing I could do about either situation. I was moaning constantly as he lapped me up, licking down to my entrance, loudly savoring my own dew, then back up again, held captive for it all.
"That's it, babygirl," he whispered huskily against me. "Daddy's going to make you come, whether you want to or not. Then, when he decides you're sated, he'll tuck you in and turn the lights down, so that you can have a good, long afternoon nap. That's the best thing for my little girl—to have a set bedtime that Daddy makes her keep and a schedule, so she always gets put down in the afternoon, and of course, she gets a very thorough punishment if she's naughty—"
There was nothing for it when it crashed over me but to give myself up to it—to him—when he had deliberately built that wave to a tsunami that would just about wipe me out. To keen and cry with it—and I did, over and over again—as his mouth rode my wildly bucking hips, never leaving me, never not flicking over and over me with the tip or pressing the flat of it over all of me at once as he drew muted circles over my heated flesh or licking me, top to bottom.
As a result, I was buffeted from peak to peak, never really allowed to come down from those towering heights, never even beginning to recover in any way, carried off out to sea, but never beyond the enormous waves of sensation that he was continually causing in me.
Finally, I found it within myself to whisper exhaustedly, "Mercy, Daddy. Mercy. Please."
He chuckled his way away from me. "Well, well, well. I'll take that as a compliment, my lovely little girl."
I could barely focus my eyes, but I could see that his face was literally dripping with my juices, and he looked unbearably happy with himself. An errant thought flitted through my muddled head. How could I possibly have gotten so lucky?
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