Nikolaus
The night before Charlie’s birthday, I towel-dry his hair and lay him out on the changing table. A single lamp casts a warm glow over the nursery. Charlie’s adorably pudgy legs kick with restless energy as I fasten a fresh diaper around his hips.
Charlie’s been in and out of little space since early afternoon.
Usually, when he’s deep in his own little world, words slip away, but tonight he looks up at me with bright eyes and just talks, talks, talks.
And while I love all versions of him, I must say it feels rewarding to see him slip into a happy, excited, carefree state more often the longer he’s in my care.
I saw the first glimpse of this more playful side when we swam the other day, and I’ve been hoping for a repeat.
“I know what I wanna do,” Charlie suddenly says.
“Oh, do you?”
He nods vigorously, a grin spreading across his face. “Uh huh.”
“Well, what is it, baby?”
He wriggles, lashes fluttering. “I wanna go to a craft store.”
I blink into the soft lamplight. “A craft store?”
“Yep!”
“That’s what you want to do to celebrate your birthday?” I ask.
He sits up just enough to lean on one elbow. “Mhm. Part of it.”
I arch an eyebrow.
He fidgets again, voice earnest as he continues, “The craft store has those little kits—like painting kits and build-your-own volcano kits and stuff.”
“Volcano kits,” I repeat, as if tasting the words.
He nods, delighted. “And then maybe we could stop at a grocery store.”
“A grocery store?”
“For snacks.” He laughs, small and breathy. “And ice cream cake.”
“Anything else?” I ask, pulling him close.
His entire face brightens. “We’ll come home and do the kits and eat the snacks.”
“That sounds perfect, sweetheart. We could even have the crafts and snacks delivered if you’d like to skip the trip to the stores.”
He looks affronted. “Noooo. I want to pick them out in person. It’s better that way.”
I find myself grinning back at him, not so much at the childishness of the request, though that is irresistible, but at the way he’s becoming comfortable enough to express his wants.
I press a light kiss to his temple, and he squirms in that happy, self-sabotaging way—desperate for affection, equally desperate to pretend he’s not.
“You are absolutely right,” I tell him. “We’ll go to the craft store and the grocery store. You can pick whatever you want.”
He glances up, squinting with sudden suspicion. “Even if it’s expensive?”
“Anything you like,” I promise, holding in a chuckle. He’s in a $17mil penthouse, concerned that I’ll be stingy with his birthday craft budget. God, he’s so fucking perfect.
He seems to weigh my response, then wraps his arms awkwardly around my neck and buries his face in my shirt.
I feel his whole body loosen, all that helium-bright, fizzy energy leaking out in a sigh.
If he’s aware of the ways he tests my boundaries—pushing, retreating, desperate not to overstep—he doesn’t let it show.
I’ve learned not to take it personally. His entire life, he’s been trained to expect less, to ask for less.
I want to teach him extravagance.
I want to turn him into a spoiled little prince.
Fuck, why does that make me so hard?
Charlie notices and gasps. “Daddy, your thing is poking me in the tummy.”
Lord, have mercy.
“Is it?” I glance down, feigning surprise, and Charlie lets out a peal of giggles, a sound so pure I want to bottle it.
He’s soft and heavy in my arms, the faintest hint of post-bath warmth clinging to his skin, his face still damp at the temples, hair curling at the edges.
He’s naked aside from his diaper, and looks up at me with those trusting, mischief-lit eyes.
He’s not the least bit self-conscious, not now—not even as I palm the roundness of his belly and tap my fingers there. “It’s not my fault you’re so cuddly,” I tell him. “Daddy has a hard time controlling himself.”
He wriggles with pride, beaming. “Is it because I’m cute?”
I lean in, my beard tickling his cheek. “So fucking cute,” I rasp. “What am I supposed to do? I’m only human.” I graze my teeth along his jaw, and am rewarded when he shivers and buries his face in the crook of my arm.
He’s so easy to please—he nearly vibrates with anticipation just from the threat of my touch.
I carry him to the daybed and have him lie back, then kneel above him, my palm spanning his chest. His hands grab at me with the clumsy insistence of a toddler, and he’s all giggles and gasps, legs bicycling in the air as I tickle and nuzzle at the soft skin beneath my hands.
The crinkle of his diaper is loud in the quiet room, and I trace the edge with my fingertips, letting my thumb dip under the waistband.
Charlie’s laughter softens, dissolving into a hiccupy whine. “Daddy…”
“What is it, baby?”
He looks up at me, wide-eyed and greedy, lips already parted as if tasting what he wants but not quite able to ask.
He’s so open like this, so honest. He doesn’t know how to hide anything from me.
“Can I have snuggles, please?” he whispers, though the word “snuggles” is already loaded, trembling with more.
With need.
“You want snuggles?” I echo, flicking his nipple.
He nods, shy but certain, the way a toddler asks for a forbidden treat. “Snuggles and… maybe more.”
He is flushed, pupils blown to near-black, mouth wet and wanting. There’s a new tension in his hips, an uncoordinated grind against his diaper that would make me laugh if it weren’t so painfully endearing. My hand cups the side of his face.
“Tell Daddy what you want.”
He squirms, embarrassed. “I want your cuddles and…” He wets his lips. “And your Daddy cock. Please.”
I let the silence stretch, savoring the heat rising off him.
“That’s a big ask for such a little boy,” I eventually purr.
He whines, “Daddy, please…”
It’s not the words that do it—it’s the trembling in his voice, the desperation of it.
I lean forward, bracketing his trembling body with my arms, and the way he cranes his neck, exposing the pale slope of his throat for me, makes my cock pulse against the grey sweatpants I haphazardly threw on after the bath.
My mouth finds his, and he makes the sweetest, most grateful sound, like I’ve given him the world.
He tastes like strawberry toothpaste and kisses back with eager, open-mouthed abandon, lips soft and plush, tongue clumsy and hungry. I pet his hair, cup the back of his head to keep him steady as I bear down on him, deepening the kiss until he’s gasping for air.
“Daddy,” he pants, and the word is a prayer, barely a sound at all.
My hand slides from his cheek to his chest, palm flat, fingers splayed to cover as much of him as possible. He’s so warm here, so alive beneath me. I run my thumb over the delicate swell of his pec, then lower my mouth to follow the same path, biting gingerly at his nipple.
He quivers, hands fluttering up to grab my shoulders and then dropping away, as if he’s so needy he doesn’t know what to do with himself. His knees rise, feet drumming the mattress, legs spread wide in invitation even as he tries to hide his face in my chest.
“Please, Daddy,” he whispers. “Please, please. I need you. I achy down there.”
I lift his chin, and he blinks up at me, eyes glassy, pupils huge.
I stroke his hair and call him my good boy, my beautiful baby.
The words come out soft, and his breath goes all shaky and shallow, like he can’t hold it in.
I could draw this out for hours, but he’s so wound up it would almost be cruel.
Instead, I cup the crinkle of his diaper, palming the padded heat beneath.
He bucks into my hand and mewls, so I squeeze, hard enough to remind him who’s in charge, then ease off and knead gentle circles up and down the length of him.
“Such a needy baby,” I coo, thumbing the tapes open, the sound of each rip making his thighs twitch. When his diaper falls open, his cock springs free, slick and throbbing.
I take him in hand, and he lets out a long, shameless moan. I want him pliant and wet for me, so I press his legs up, hiking his ankles over one of my shoulders while I spit into my other palm and reach beneath, teasing behind his balls.
He gasps when I circle his hole, and when I push the tip of my finger inside, he flinches, squeaks, then sighs, going boneless.
“That’s it,” I croon, working him open gently. “Daddy’s got you. I’m gonna make it all better.”
His desperate little whimpers are my favorite music.
I carefully slide a second finger inside, feeling him flutter and squeeze down. He whines and claws at my forearm, overwhelmed by sensation.
I never stop telling him how good he’s being, how soft he feels, how perfectly he takes me. His whole body is shuddering, wrung tight as a violin string, and I know he could come just from this—just from my hand and my words in his ear. But I want to give him everything. He deserves it.
I deserve it too.
I shove my sweats down, freeing my cock. Immediately, Charlie’s transfixed, sheer hunger reflecting in his eyes.
I stroke his cheek and rub his lips with my thumb. “You want Daddy to fill you up?” He nods, mouth parted, and doesn’t even try to hide his shudder. “Use your words, baby.”
“I want you,” he says, voice quivering. “I want Daddy’s cock. Please.”
Yeah, this boy is mine. I can barely breathe for how sweet he looks, how soft and open and trusting. I line myself up and push in, slow at first, stretching him with care. He groans and clings to me, thighs quaking, diaper slipping underneath him.
He’s tight as usual, but so slick and desperate for it that I can’t stop myself from sinking in all the way.
The way his breath hitches—every little tremor—goes right through me.
I’m so far gone I can barely remember how to pace myself, but I force it, bottoming out with a shudder and staying there, letting him get used to the stretch.
Charlie wraps his arms around my neck, clutching tight, nails scraping at my nape.