Chapter 50
“ H ere you go, Mr. Poodles,” Maya said as she picked up the stuffed poodle from his bed. “I’ve got some medicine for you that is going to make you feel all better. Mr. Poodles! No! You’ll like this medicine, I promise.”
“Mr. Poodles is acting up, huh, Bébé?”
“Papa! I tolds you before, I’m Dr. Bébé,” she said with a huff.
“I apologize. You did tell me that and I forgot,” Matthieu told her.
“And yes, Mr. Poodles is being very naughty about taking his medicine. He’s worried that I’m going to give it to him in his butt-butt. But it’s better that way. He just doesn’t believe me.”
They’d been at the cabin for four nights now and it felt idyllic. She had been on edge the first two days, but Matthieu had just been so patient and understanding.
And commanding.
Firm without being a dick. And she’d gradually started to relax. Today, it had been so easy to slip into Little headspace. Especially with all the things he’d bought her Little. He’d been overly generous and she hadn’t known how to accept such generosity to begin with.
She now had lots of patients for her vet clinic. As well as Mr. Poodles there was Hammy the hamster, Cara the cat, Donny the deer, and Minister the mouse. Not to mention her vet’s coat and equipment.
Everything she needed to be a top-notch vet.
And those weren’t the only things he’d bought her; she had a new Lego house to build. And some Little clothes, most of which had strawberries on them.
She was in heaven. Being able to let go of her worries and just live in the moment . . . it wasn’t something that she’d experienced for a long, long time.
And Matthieu had given this to her . . . which made her fall even more in love with him.
It was something she’d desperately needed even if she hadn’t realized it.
“I’ll remember that next time you need medicine,” Matthieu told her.
She turned with narrowed eyes to him. “What does that mean?”
“It means next time that you need medicine in your bottom, I’ll remind you that Mr. Poodles had to get it in his bottom for his own good. So will you.”
She gasped. “Papa! I don’t need medicine in my butt-butt!”
“Well, not right now, no. But when you’re ill, you will.” He sat next to her on the floor and reached over to lightly tap her bottom. She was sitting up on her knees to keep her bottom off the floor because she’d been spanked that morning for talking badly about herself.
That was before she’d slipped into Little headspace. Her Little didn’t say bad things about herself.
She scowled at Matthieu. “I don’t like things up my butt-butt, Papa.”
His gaze heated. “You don’t? That’s interesting. That wasn’t in your list of limits.”
She gasped, feeling herself growing red. “Papa! That’s not what we’re talking about!”
“It’s not?” he mused. “Interesting. So, my dick and fingers are all right but medicine isn’t?”
Sheesh.
Was he really going to make her spell this out?
“Yes, that’s right. No medicine up my butt-butt.”
“Mr. Poodles thinks the same,” he told her.
“Yes, but Mr. Poodles doesn’t get a choice,” she informed him. “This is for his own good.”
“Well, medicine up your butt would be for your own good,” he informed her. “And you don’t really get a choice, either. Since I’m the Papa.”
“Papa!”
“Actually, I did get a few medical supplies with these other packages, just in case you got ill.”
“I don’t feel ill!” She clenched her bottom cheeks together.
“No? Are you sure about that? Because you look a bit flushed. I think Papa should take your temperature.”
What the heck? How had this happened?
She shook her head frantically. “No, no, no, Papa! I don’t need my temperature taken.”
“That’s too bad. It’s for your own good.” He disappeared into the bathroom.
Well, at least he would be taking it orally or maybe he had a thermometer that went in her ear or something.
She finished fixing up Mr. Poodles. “There you are, Mr. Poodles, you’re going to feel all better soon.”
“I’m glad that Mr. Poodles is feeling better,” Papa told her. “You’re a very good vet.”
“I knows it, Papa.” She turned and nodded to him. Then she saw what he held in his hand. It looked like a glass tube that was at least the thickness of his little finger. “What is that?”
“The thermometer. Come climb on the bed, please.”
She saw that he’d laid a towel down on the foot of the bed.
“That isn’t a thermometer!” she cried.
“Of course it is.”
“Where does it go?” she asked suspiciously as he set it down on the bedside table.
“In your bottom, of course.”
Oh, heck no.
Not. Happening.