Page 9 of Daddy!

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 small 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.

Spankings had never been recreation for us—well, not often, anyway. They were meant to correct what he considered to be faults in my behavior, and I trusted him absolutely to set those parameters and enforce them.

This was really no different in that way. I could understand—intellectually, anyway—why he wasn't going easy on me. He'd just told me that I wasn't to be big, and there I was, being big, literally a second later.

All of this adult philosophizing in my head stopped very quickly, though, because this was quite the first spanking as a little, and it wasn't long before I wasn't anywhere near able to maintain my composure. I very rapidly descended into the same kind of crying, pleading, kicking and squirming that one would expect from a three-year-old whose fanny was being thoroughly tanned by a parental figure who knew what he was about.

Mane was always very careful to evenly distribute the swats—which was something others didn't bother to pay any attention to. He was also sure to land most of the smacks where he knew they would have the most impact—right on that tender spot where butt became thigh.

I had allowed myself to become so deeply little that, even when he was no longer punishing me, even when he'd turned me over and was cradling me tenderly, pressing his lips to my wet cheeks and rocking me, I continued to sob as if I was being scourged by a cat o' nine tails.

"What did I tell you about thinking you're a big girl?" he asked gently, holding me like a baby and drying my tears with his thumb.

Rebellion against being treated in the manner I had craved as long as I could remember was surprisingly close, but I curbed it and did my best to continue to let my little have the rudder.

"Don't!" I wept pitifully.

That made him laugh. "Well, that's succinct, anyway. And right."

He stood with me in his arms—which always amazed me, since I'm no lightweight—then put me down, still curled up as I had been on his lap, on my side, with a pillow beneath my head and the throw over me, just in case. He even put a box of tissues on the table near me.

"I want you to stay right here—in fact, if you need to get up, I want you to ask me for permission before you do."

Still sniffling, I let him know that I understood.

"And don't go changing the channels or trying to stream anything more adult. You're too little to watch things that I haven't approved for you, and I haven't had a chance to lock out channels I don't want you to watch yet." He patted my bottom and headed back to the kitchen.

I lay there, some of myself feeling a bit guilty that he was doing all of the work, and watched cartoons. He didn't just leave me to my own devices, either. He checked in with me frequently—asking me things from the kitchen and once coming in just to lay eyes on me, taking the opportunity to retuck the throw around me.

When Mane returned, it was with a tray of crispy, crunchy oven baked fingers and fries, along with ketchup for the fries and slightly warmed barbeque sauce for the chicken, as well as a small bowl of green beans with butter, salt and pepper.

As I sat up, tailor fashion, he put the food on the table and brought it closer to the couch, then sat next to me and tucked a napkin into my neckline. Giving that a critical eye, he mumbled, "Add bibs to the list."

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