Chapter 7 Teddy
Teddy
“Hooo-haaaa!” I roar, my Al Pacino impression leaving a lot to be desired but nonetheless full of enthusiasm.
“Hoooo-haaaaaaaa!” Skeet squeals, taking it somewhere else entirely as he waves his arms above his head.
Skeet and I burst through the door of my apartment, still giggling from the improv exercises we did in class.
The evening acting session ran long tonight, but it feels worth every minute.
My cheeks hurt from smiling so much, and my voice is a little hoarse from all the character voices we practiced.
“Romper time!” Skeet declares, already kicking off his shoes and heading straight for the small pile of clothes I keep folded on the couch for nights like this.
He grabs one of my spare pastel colored rompers—the soft, stretchy kind with little ruffles on the straps—and wiggles into it right there in the living room.
I do the same, slipping into my favorite ruby-red one with tiny white hearts.
The fabric feels cozy and safe against my skin, the perfect signal that it is time to let the big stresses of the day melt away.
“Movie star stuffies night!” I announce in my best dramatic Hollywood voice, clapping my hands.
Brando sits proudly on the arm of the couch, his floppy ears perked as if he knows exactly what is coming. Skeet’s stuffie, a fluffy unicorn named Zane, joins him.
We push the coffee table aside and start building our set with whatever we have on hand—couch cushions become a grand staircase for the red carpet, a couple of stacked shoeboxes turn into a makeshift stage, and I dig out my tub of Lego bricks to create a sparkling city skyline backdrop.
We spread out juice boxes, strawberry for me, apple for Skeet, a big bowl of popcorn, and a bag of gummy candies shaped like little stars and hearts.
The sugar and the silliness help us drop straight into Little Space.
My shoulders relax. The constant worry about auditions, bills, and that confusing pull toward Kirill fades into the background. Right now, I am just Teddy the aspiring movie star, playing pretend with his best friend and fellow Little.
“Okay, okay,” Skeet says, arranging Brando and Zane on the makeshift stage. “Tonight’s movie is The Great Stuffie Heist! Brando is the clever detective bunny, and Zane is the glamorous unicorn thief who steals all the sparkly jewels.”
I laugh and grab a handful of popcorn, tossing a piece into my mouth. “And I’m the director! Action!”
We dive in, acting out scenes with exaggerated voices and wild gestures.
Brando investigates by hopping across the Lego skyline while Skeet makes Zane twirl dramatically and steal a shiny keychain we pretend is a priceless diamond.
We switch roles every few minutes, dissolving into giggles when one of us trips over a cushion or delivers a line in the silliest accent possible. Juice boxes get sipped through straws with loud slurping sounds, and we cheer every time a stuffie escapes or solves the mystery.
It feels so good to let go like this.
No schedules.
No grumpy clients.
No dark, commanding Russian men who make my stomach flip and my thoughts go places they probably should not either…
We collapse onto the couch after a particularly chaotic chase scene, both of us breathing hard from laughter. Skeet pops a gummy star into his mouth and sighs happily.
“You know what happened a few weeks ago,” he says, his voice dropping into that mischievous, conspiratorial tone we only use when we are deep in Little space. “I went to that private club downtown… the one that’s super discreet for Littles. And… I got spanked by a Daddy. Like really spanked.”
My cheeks heat instantly.
I’m not a prude. Far from it. But the blush that floods my face has nothing to do with embarrassment over the topic. It is because the second he says the word spanked, my mind flashes straight to Kirill…
I picture his large, firm hand coming down on my bottom, that accented voice telling me I have been bratty and need correcting. The way he would hold me in place, calm but unyielding, turning my protests into whimpers and then something much hotter.
Skeet notices my reaction immediately. His eyes widen with delight. “Oh my gosh, you’re blushing so hard! Tell me everything. Is it because of that hot gym guy? The one you mentioned. You know, the older one with that whole sexy salt-and-pepper thing?”
I cover my face with both hands for a second, peeking through my fingers.
The rompers, the juice boxes, and the stuffies make it easier to be honest. We are safe here. Just two Littles having a sleepover vibe in the middle of the week.
“Okay, fine,” I admit, lowering my hands.
My voice comes out small and giggly. “It’s him.
Kirill. Every time I think about him being all bossy and commanding, I get this…
flutter. And when you said spanked, I imagined him doing it to me.
Like, over his knee in that private gym or something.
His hand is probably huge. And he would probably say something like You will learn to speak to me properly, boy in that deep voice. ”
Skeet squeals and kicks his legs in the air, nearly knocking over the popcorn bowl. “That sounds so Daddy! Tell me more. Does he look like he gives good spankings? Firm but fair? Or the kind that leaves you sore and sorry but also all tingly?”
We both dissolve into excited laughter, rolling on the couch together. I grab a pillow and hug it to my chest, still blushing but unable to stop smiling.
“I don’t know!” I squeal. “I barely know him. But the way he just decides things… it makes me feel small and squirmy in the best way. Like he could handle all the big scary stuff and still make time to correct me when I get too sassy.” I pause, popping a gummy into my mouth.
“Is that weird? That I keep thinking about it even though he’s kind of terrifying? ”
Skeet shakes his head, eyes sparkling. “Not weird at all. That’s the magic. The scary part makes the safe part feel even better. You should totally let him be your Daddy someday. Imagine the aftercare and snuggles!”
We keep giggling and talking until the sugar crash hits and we end up curled up on the couch with our stuffies, whispering silly what-if scenarios until my eyelids grow heavy. It is exactly the kind of night I need—light, fun, and free from the heavy pull Kirill has on me during the day.
The next morning comes too soon.
Like way too soon.
My alarm buzzes at 5:00 a.m., and I drag myself out of bed, still smiling a little from last night’s playtime.
Bobby promised he would meet me at the gym for an early session to make up for missing a couple lately.
I need the company and the extra motivation.
My schedule is still a mess thanks to Bobby’s sessions, but a good hard early session with him will help make up for that.
I get to the gym, change into my gym gear, and start warming up on the shoulder press.
Minutes tick by.
No Bobby.
I check my phone—nothing. He is a no-show again. Irritation bubbles up fast. I get it, life happens, but we made a plan. I am already tired from squeezing everything in, and his flaking stings more than it should.
Then the door to the free weights area opens, and in walks Kirill.
Tall, broad, his hair perfectly in place, that dark commanding energy rolling off him like always. He heads toward the benches, but I cannot hold it in. The frustration from the schedule chaos, Bobby’s no-show, and all the confusing feelings I have about him spill over.
I march straight over before he even sets his bag down.
“You know what?” I snap, voice sharper, cheeks red, hands on my hips.
“This is getting ridiculous. First you just decide I’m training Bobby with zero discussion.
Then you drag me for coffee like it’s no big deal.
Now your precious nephew is supposed to meet me here and he’s not showing up, and everything feels upside down because of you and your bossy ways.
You can’t just snap your fingers and rearrange people’s lives whenever you feel like it! ”
My words come out in a rush, bossy and irritated.
Part of me knows I am pushing it, but the Little side that played with stuffies last night is still close to the surface, making me braver than usual.
“So. Yeah. I’m not happy,” I continue. “And it’s all your stupid silly fault.”
Kirill’s expression shifts. The calm, unreadable mask hardens into something darker. He does not raise his voice. He does not need to. Instead, he steps closer, towering over me, and grips my upper arm firmly but not painfully.
“Enough,” Kirill says, voice low and controlled, that accent wrapping around the word like a command. “You do not speak to me that way. Not in public. Not anywhere.”
“Whatever!” I bark back. “I mean it. You’re a big, stupid, silly Russian fool.”
“Boy, be careful,” Kirill says, his eyes locked in on mine. “Be very careful.”
“You want to see careful?” I ask, my voice full to the brim of sass. “Careful this… bleurrrrrgh!”
I blow a long, hard raspberry in Kirill’s direction.
But Kirill doesn’t respond. Not verbally anyway…
Before I can protest, he steers me with quiet authority toward the private locker room area at the back of the gym, the one reserved for premium members and usually empty this early.
My heart pounds.
I should pull away, but something in his tone makes my knees feel weak.
Kirill pushes the door open, guides me inside, and locks it behind us with a soft click. The room is small, clean, with benches and lockers lining the walls. No one else is here.
“Kirill, wait—” I start, but he cuts me off.
“You have been bratty and disrespectful,” Kirill says calmly, sitting on the bench and pulling me closer. “Boys who talk back like that need correction. They need discipline. They need their assess heated.”