Page 64 of Blade
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June
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“You got me toaster waffles!” I sit taller and giggle when Daddy pulls the waffles out of the freezer and pops them in the toaster. I know it was hard for him to make this purchase. He always feeds me foods I like, and he never forces me to eat anything yucky, but he’s held off on toaster waffles.
He chuckles. “It was against my better judgment. Do you have any idea what these things are made of, Little one? They have almost no nutritional value whatsoever.”
I continue to giggle. “Daddy, they’re not supposed to be nutritious. They just taste good. Besides, your weird real maple syrup is nutritious, right? I mean, it comes directly from a tree, so it’s practically a vegetable.”
Daddy laughs, but he’s staring at me indulgently. “Under no circumstances will real maple syrup ever be considered a vegetable, naughty girl, but I’ll let you have the waffles, and I’ll even let you feed yourself if you agree to eat two scrambled eggs with cheese on them first.”
I sigh dramatically. “Two… Daddy, I won’t even be hungry for the waffles after all that protein.”
He shrugs. “Take it or leave it, Little one. And I will be feeding you the eggs myself, so don’t even think of arguing that one.” He nods toward the other side of the kitchen. “Unless you’d like to spend some time standing in the corner before breakfast.”
I shake my head. “No, Sir.”
The hardest thing I do most days is force myself not to give away how he affects me by not squeezing my thighs together while I pretend to think he’s the biggest ogre on the planet. I’ve perfected the art of eye-rolling, which technically is not allowed. I’m pretty good at whining, sighing, groaning, and dragging my feet when I’m supposed to be heading for a nap or bath time.
The truth is I love this lifestyle I’ve stumbled upon, and I’ve learned to fully grasp every aspect of it. I’m a professional Little now. I love nap time. I also love baths. But I love the drama of pretending I abhor them both even more. It’s expected of me. It’s part of the dynamic.
I might be able to stiffen my thighs instead of squeezing them together most of the time, but what I can’t do is keep my nipples from hardening when Daddy gives me that look, the one that tells me I’m two seconds away from a timeout.
I talk to Simone often. Most of my understanding about age play has come from her. But an interesting twist is that both of us have to get permission from our Daddies to talk on the phone. When I want to call her, it’s a process. I go to Blade, he contacts Camden, and the two of them set up a time for our call. Asking permission to use the phone is a sneaky form of submission in and of itself. I feel so very Little when I ask Daddy if I can visit with my new friend.
I’ve spoken to Simone about my weird appreciation for timeouts, and she thinks I’m hilarious. She says she doesn’t know any Littles who like to stand in the corner. It’s usually a perfect deterrent for naughty girls who don’t like spankings or—and this is even harder to grasp—Littles who do like spankings.
Apparently, Simone really enjoys getting spanked, so much so that she reaches orgasm from the punishment. I haven’t been spanked, so I don’t suppose I know if I would like it or not, but it’s hard to imagine enjoying having my bottom paddled.
Maybe I’m equally odd for the same reason, though. Timeouts make me horny. Every. Single. Time. And Daddy knows it. We have this entire routine where I misbehave and he reprimands me. This alone makes my heart flutter. When Daddy looks at me sternly and then tells me how naughty I am, it’s like foreplay.
But then he points to the corner.
My panties get wet immediately. We go through this whole thing. I drag my feet. He tacks on more time. I whine, his voice gets growly. I roll my eyes, he lifts both brows. By the time I get to the corner, I’m whimpering from the need to be touched.
The next part of the routine involves me assuming the position where I put my forehead against the wall and clasp my hands behind my back. Then I part my feet, but never wide enough for Daddy. So I spread them wider, but still not wide enough. Then he sometimes puts something between my bare feet—often one of his shoes end-to-end.
And then I stand there, knowing he’s behind me. Watching. I can’t keep from going into my head. If I sway, he orders me to stay still and sometimes starts my time again. Though how would I know if he really lengthens my timeout or not since he doesn’t tell me how long I’m supposed to stand there in the first place?
The point is that I sway so that my dress will brush against my nipples. Daddy knows that. He also likes to ask me if my panties are wet. And every time he asks, they get wetter.
But yesterday, he added a new twist to our game, and I haven’t been able to get it out of my head ever since. There’s a solid chance I will end up in timeout today before breakfast is over because of it.
He took my dress away yesterday afternoon when I got to the corner. No, that’s not entirely accurate. He didn’t touch me. He made me pull it over my head and hand it to him before he pointed toward the corner so I could assume my naughty position. He did it so I couldn’t rub my nipples against my dress, but making me stand in the corner wearing nothing except my panties nearly caused me to orgasm without his touch or his words.
When Daddy clears his throat, I jerk my attention from the corner I’ve been staring at to him. He’s smirking as he hands me a sippy cup of apple juice. He noticeably has not pushed the lever on the toaster for my waffles to cook. Instead, he fills a plate with the cheesy eggs and comes to sit facing me. “Are you going to keep your left hand out of the way, or do you need me to restrain you?”
“I’ll keep it in my lap, Daddy.” I don’t really love it when he fastens my wrist to my side before putting my tray on. My right arm won’t fit between my chest and the tray with the cast in the way, so he doesn’t have to restrain it. It’s trapped. I can, however, wiggle my left arm free if I want.
The thing is, I like it when Daddy feeds me. It makes me feel nurtured. And I don’t enjoy restraints. They don’t make me horny. Instead, they tend to give me anxiety, so I’m willing to keep my hand under the tray.
I keep eyeing the waffles while I dutifully eat my eggs until Daddy chuckles. “Are you worried I’ve forgotten your favorite part, Little one?”
“You didn’t push down the lever so they’ll toast, Daddy.”
“I figured you’d rather I do so after you eat your eggs so they won’t be cold.”
