Page 8 of Daddy!

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.

---