Chapter Twenty-Four
Me
Remind me again why I thought whining about my personal drama with some random was a good idea.
Kris
You’re not whining, you’re processing. Healing, even.
Me
Ugh. Boring.
Kris
I thought you liked your therapist?
Me
Just because Roberto is hot doesn’t mean I like crying in front of him.
Even if he does give Daddy vibes.
Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking.
Isend the last text with a winking emoji.
It’s been three months since Kris and I reconnected. Three months of getting to know each other over text messages and coffee catchups. Three months of being friends without even a hint of kinky sexy fun times.
Three months of regretting turning him down at The Grove that night.
Well, no, that’s not true. I had a proper revelation that night.
I wanted him to be my Daddy so badly…but I knew that if I gave in to that desire without facing all of my hangups, I’d just keep repeating history.
I’d just keep freaking out that he would eventually leave, or I’d keep pushing until he did.
I’m not an idiot. I never have been.
When I finally stopped and let myself see the pattern forming in all of my relationships, I could see that, yeah, I tended to run away as soon as I liked someone a bit too much. That’s why the scene play used to appeal to me: it was never about connection. There was no risk of becoming attached.
Of course being at the camp changed that for me.
How could it not? Instead of only regressing for short bursts with the intention to hook up and part ways, I was regressing for myself, and that small crack in my routine is what opened the floodgates for the real me to start pouring out.
The me who likes regressing without getting off.
Who likes playing with other Littles and Middles.
Who wants a Daddy for emotional connection as well as kinky fun sex.
And that terrified me. It still kind of does, honestly.
I’m still super into all the same kinky things I was before I went to camp, but now I also need more out of my regression time.
I can’t just rock up to The Grove to brat and jerk off with someone.
I need to relax into my headspace, which still fluctuates between Middle and Little depending on just how stressful my week has been.
And I’m still a brat.
Case in point: I can’t help poking the bear that is Daddy Kris.
I’ve been pretty well behaved for the past three months. I haven’t been able to keep myself from flirting completely, but I haven’t said “Fuck it” and demanded that he be my Daddy after all, either. But that second part? That’s getting harder and harder not to do.
Kind of like my dick.
I’m pretty sure my dick is sick of the sight of my hand at this point. Working on my mental health has meant making the voluntary choice not to hook up with any Daddies, not just Kris. And, honestly, at this point I am happy to admit that I don’t want any other Daddies, either.
But I do want Kris.
I just don’t know how to tell him that I want him, seeing as I’m the one who told him I couldn’t be the Boy he wanted.
I turned him down. He respected that. (That was fucking hot, by the way.) But now if I tell him I do want to be his Boy…
will he feel like I’m just messing with him?
I’d probably feel that way in his shoes.
Kris’s reply to my deliberately taunting message comes through after a few more minutes.
Kris
I don’t think it’s a good idea to call your therapist Daddy, Benjamin.
A full-body shiver runs through me.
I live for the moments where he gives me the proper name treatment.
Me
Why not?
I smother a giggle when, instead of a text, my phone rings in my hand. I’m in the breakroom at work, so I glance from side to side before I answer the call with far-too-much innocence in my tone. “Hello…”
“You know exactly why calling him Daddy would be a bad idea,” he responds, bypassing a greeting entirely. He’s doing his best to sound patient, but I can hear the undercurrent of frustration in his voice, and I hope it’s because he’s a little bit jealous.
So sue me, I want to be wanted. I never said I was perfect.
“Is it ’cause he might already be someone else’s Daddy?” I goad him, speaking with exaggerated innocence. “Because I can share. Sharing can be fun.”
“Benjamin…”
I burst into peals of giggles, glad that I’ve got the breakroom to myself for now. It’s only two in the afternoon, and most of the nurses and doctors usually aim to push their breaks later, if they get to take them at all.
“You keep this behavior up, Benji, and I will punish you. Just because we’re friends and I’m not your caregiver doesn't mean I’m not still a Daddy.”
Yeah, I’m really glad I’ve got the breakroom to myself. His authoritarian voice and threats of punishment are getting me hot under the collar and achingly hard beneath the belt. Or, I guess, beneath the elasticized waistband of my powder pink scrubs.
I still have two hours left of my shift, so I know what I’m about to do is monumentally stupid, but I do it anyway.
“What kind of punishment are we talking about, Daddy?”
He inhales sharply, then groans. I swear he mutters “Fuck” under his breath before he answers, “No touching yourself until I say so, for starters.” I whine in protest, and even though he’s not here, I know he’s smirking at the sudden shift in control of the conversation.
I can hear it in his voice. “And, if you continue to be naughty, I’ll take control of your potty breaks again as well. ”
Yeah, he knows exactly which buttons to push with me.
“Daddy…” The title is a plea. For what, I’m not quite sure.
Do I want him to continue? No. (Yes. God, yes.) Do I want to beg for more lenient punishments? Yes. (No. Fuck no.) Do I wish he was here with me? Yes! (Hell the fuck yes!)
“You’re going to be a good boy for the rest of your shift, aren’t you?”
I sigh and pout. “I mean, I don’t want to lose my job, so I kind of have to be.”
“Uh-uh, no sassing. That’s your only warning.”
I roll my eyes. “Yes, Daddy.”
Another beat of silence passes before he says, “And no rolling your eyes, either.”
Jumping in my seat, I glance around guiltily. “How’d you—”
Kris chuckles. “I know brats, honey. You’re not the first Boy to push my limits.”
Oh, I do not like the tables being turned on me. I’m supposed to be reveling in his jealousy, not feeling jealous because he’s talking about being with other Boys.
“Don’t sulk,” he practically croons, sounding even more smug now.
“I made my feelings pretty clear when we talked about all of this, didn’t I?
” When I don’t reply —because I don’t want to, not because I have a stupid lump in my throat— his tone loses all hint of playfulness.
“Benji, I still want to be your Daddy and nobody else’s.
I’ve had zero interest in chasing other Boys at The Grove, or in being in a relationship with anyone else.
Not that I want to rush you into a relationship.
Or push you into one at all if you just want to be friends with a non-sexual Daddy/Boy dynamic on the side, okay?
You just took me by surprise when you called me Daddy and flirted, so I’m sorry if I’ve taken it too far just now. ”
“You haven’t,” I force myself to speak around the obstruction in my windpipe.
Seeing as I work in a hospital, I should really have that looked at.
Swallowing and lowering my voice, I tell him, “I want you to be my Daddy, Kris. And I want…I want to give a relationship a go, too, if I haven’t blown my chance at that.
” I can think of something much better to blow, honestly.
Through sheer willpower alone, I hold the sex joke back and remain serious.
“I’ve never been in a relationship, so I’ll probably fuck up, but I like you a lot.
Oh, and I lied before. I’m really bad at sharing. ”
I glance up at the cheap, white plastic clock on the wall above the kitchenette and grimace. I’ve got, like, two minutes left on my break. I don’t want to wrap this call up right now, though. Not until I know where we stand.
What kind of dumbass starts a conversation like this on their break at work?
“I’m bad at sharing my Boys, too,” he replies, as if he’s making some kind of confession.
“At least I am when I really like the guy. And I do really like you, Benji. You haven’t blown your shot.
I’ve been happy to wait. I am still happy to wait.
And, to be honest, I think we needed the time to get to know each other a bit better anyway. ”
“True.” The past few months have been really nice, even if I have given myself the worst case of blue balls I’ve ever seen in my life. “Who knows how long it would have taken me to learn about your weird snow globe thing.”
A bark of surprised laughter echoes down the line. “Brat. It isn’t weird to collect snow globes when you go on vacations.”
“Whatever you say, Daddy.”
He snorts. “Get back to work, honey. Your break is over. We can talk when you get home tonight. After your therapy appointment.”
There’s no point in whining about not wanting to go.
Not when I know how important it is. Even though sometimes I feel like it’s a waste of time, I know that even in the short amount of time since I started the twice-a-week sessions at The Little Community Center, I’ve come a long way from where I started.
“I’ll call you when I get home,” I agree, then we say our goodbyes and, after silencing my phone, I slip it back into my locker and head out of the breakroom and back into the hustle and bustle of the hospital’s hallways.
***