Page 18 of A Daddy for Christmas 2: Kitt

He turned his head to the side and put both hands over his eyes.

“No, I can’t talk about it. Please don’t make me.”

“You’re going to talk about it, Kitten, because I can’t help you if I don’t understand. Now spill it.”

He squirmed and huffed and looked everywhere but at me, but I wasn’t going to let him off the hook that easy. Once he finally realized it, his shoulder slumped, and he turned to me with a tear-stained face.

“It was my Pop. My grandfather. He used to fly his own small plane. And-and he died in a crash. I-I can’t stand the idea of being on one of them now. I just can’t.” He reached over and touched my arm with his free hand. It was even trembling, which I thought was a nice touch.

“I think I’m going to need more information. Tell me all of it.”

He looked over at me and began wringing his hands. I was beginning to realize it was one of his coping mechanisms. “It-it was when I was a kid. He was taking me to Florida for the weekend. We began to take off and—something went wrong. I don’t know what. He tried to land again. We crashed, and I don’t remember much more after that. I woke up in the hospital.”

“You were in the plane with him.”

“Y-yes. I don’t remember much though. And I don’t want to.” He looked over at me and took my hand in his.

“Please, Rio. Please, please. I’ll do anything you say. I’ll be so good. I promise! Please don’t make me get on a plane. I’ll have a panic attack.”

I blew out a breath. Of course, I couldn’t make him now. Now that I knew he’d been in an actual plane crash with his grandfather—who haddied. Damn it. I didn’t even have time to check the info before our plane took off. I couldn’t believe I was letting him get away with this shit.

“Damn it, you’re a lot of work. Okay, then, since you’re freaking out so damn much about it, we’ll drive back to Atlanta. Though I’d advise you to get some help for that someday soon.”

“Okay,” he said again, in a meek little voice that was a total lie. He didn’t have a meek bone in his body. “Yes, sir. I will. I promise. And thank you. Thank you so much.”

“Whatever,” I growled back at him, because I didn’t believe a word of it, and I’d just agreed to probably another day or two on the road with this little psycho. “But you’re a total pain in the ass, and I want that on record.”

“Yes, sir. I know. Duly noted.”

I shot him another look to see if he was mocking me, but he seemed sincere enough, considering what a little fraud he was. I turned around at the next off ramp and headed back in the direction of Albuquerque, planning to hit I-40 again.

He sat back in his seat, like he was greatly relieved, and he sighed and began staring out the window. I thought I might get a little peace then, but I soon heard his stomach growling.

“Are you fucking serious?” I asked him.

He smiled sheepishly at me. “Sorry. I didn’t have dinner and Ben, that’s my friend Jack’s Daddy, said he’d buy us chickennuggets and macaroni and cheese later.” He shrugged. Rubbed his stomach and looked out the window again. “I’m so hungry.”

He glanced over at me hopefully, but I ignored him. He sighed and turned to look out the window, still rubbing his stomach, the little shit.

We needed to have a talk soon, so I could learn more about him. It struck me that his brother hadn’t told us the whole story, and he’d been less than honest about Kitt.

He seemed to be younger than his chronological age. Or he did at times, anyway. I’d heard of Littles regressing at times. Was this it? He was twenty, not quite twenty-one if you went by his birth certificate. He still acted more like a young teenager at times. Maybe even younger than that. I wondered if it was because he’d been sheltered by his family or if there was something wrong with him mentally. I didn’t think that was true—he’d been sharp enough to outwit me a couple of time—but I wasn’t totally sure. Maybe it wasn’t so strange that his father had wanted him to have a guardian after all. Emotionally, he was kind of a mess.

It didn’t fit in with his history of going to gay dance clubs or his wild spending, or the way he smoked too much and drank too much—but then again, maybe it did. It was exactly the kind of silly, reckless behavior a very young teenager might get up to when he was unsupervised, not made to follow rules and had plenty of money at his disposal. Jazz gave him a generous allowance and he had his own credit cards.

Jazz said Kitt had some kind of strange “kink,” and he didn’t like to talk about it. And Kitt had seemed pretty much at home in that Littles room with his friend. Was Kitt a Little? More specifically, a Middle? Could that be the secret Jazz was keeping?

I’d been to more than a few BDSM clubs myself over the years, though I’d never seriously been interested in being aDom. Not for too long anyway. I wasn’t interested in whipping, flogging or caning anyone, for one thing, whether or not they wanted it or liked it. Nothing wrong with it, but it just wasn’t my thing. I’d seen a few Daddy Doms though, and that intrigued me a bit more, especially the more dominant Daddies and their Littles.

But the ones I noticed the most were the “caretaker” type of Doms. They were called Daddies because they acted almost like caregivers to their partners. They seemed to have such an extremely close relationship with their Little, who trusted their Daddy to know what they needed and to never abuse their power over them. The Little made themselves vulnerable to their Daddy and showed a side of their personality that was sensitive and really important to them.

Was there some guy that Kitt had trusted in that way? Had Kitt been with someone like that when his father caught him? Jealousy took me by the throat. I didn’t see him as being a really young Little. Littles could act like really young children—like from two or three to around six. Middles, on the other hand, were usually interested in acting a bit older.

They weren’t typically interested at all in babyish stuff like bottles, diapers, pacifiers, onesies, and so on. Or maybe some did, but it wasn’t the norm, from what I’d seen. In my somewhat limited experience, Middles were more often like twelve or thirteen, loving clothes and video games and music and all the latest dances. Their Daddies put them on an allowance and made strict rules for them to follow. Often, they liked things like wearing pretty clothes. Or they might like being a Swiftie and wearing the friendship bracelets, though to be fair, plenty of adults did that too. I glanced over at Kitt’s wrists, and he was still wearing his red and green beaded bracelets, as in multiples—maybe ten or more of them now—the colors of Christmas, ofcourse. I wondered if he changed them by seasons. Some of the little “beads” were tiny Santas and Elves.

And Middles always, always seemed to have a lot of attitude, from what I’d heard. They weren’t unlike some bratty submissives in that regard, except they needed even more direction from their Doms. Or in this case, their Daddy. Sometimes they could even be a little hyper-sexual too, especially with someone they considered—or wanted to be—their Daddies. Kitt definitely ticked that box. I was shocked by how jealous I felt that someone else might have acted like his “Daddy.” I fucking hated the idea. I don’t know why it bothered me so much. God knew that if anyone ever needed to be looked after and told what to do, it was Kitt. And I was a little surprised at how abhorrent I found the idea of anyone else doing that job. Except maybe…me.

“So anyway,” I said, clearing my throat in a bit of alarm at that idea, “You’re hungry?”

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