Chapter Eight: Drake

D addy.

Anson called me Daddy.

I know Vince said that Anson’s the kind of guy who leaps in headfirst, and we’ve somehow gone from ‘just friends’ to ‘let’s see where this takes us’ in a matter of minutes, but none of it feels like we’re going too fast.

Instead, it feels good. It feels right.

“We should talk some more about limits and rules,” I say, once the euphoria of hearing my crush call me Daddy has melted into a low thrum of happiness. “Especially if we’re going to do this as more than just friends.” Tilting my head to the side, I ask, “Are you feeling Big enough to do that?”

Anson nods. “I am. Not gonna lie, getting all snuggly on the couch with you now that I’ve got a belly full of cocoa is really making me want to be Little, but I’m still Big right now. Or, y’know, Big enough.”

“Okay, well, like I said, my hard limits are CNC and rape play. I need you to give your verbal consent any time we try something new. I don’t like my Boys to swear when they’re Little, but during sex is an exception to the rule. Because we don’t know whether you’re the kind of Little who wants or needs Daddy to make all of your decisions for you, I won’t set any rules like that yet, but I do like to look after my Boys in every way possible. So, I want you to tell me if there’s anything you need or want from Daddy. Anything at all, okay?”

“And if it’s not something you’re comfortable with?”

“That’s what safe words exist for. I’ll call a yellow light and we can talk about my concerns. But I can’t imagine many situations where that might be necessary.” After a beat, I confirm, “Are you comfortable with the traffic light system, or would you prefer to use different safe words?”

“Traffic lights work for me.” Anson offers me a small, shy smile. “And I’d like you to make decisions for me while I’m Little. All decisions. What I’m eating, what I’m wearing, when it’s bathtime or bedtime…Anything and everything, really.” He sighs and shrugs. “My day job is high responsibility and often high stress. I resented having to make additional decisions as a Daddy. I should have realized it was because I needed a break from the responsibility in my life, not more of it.”

My heart squeezes, but I don’t want to focus on the ‘should have’s of the situation. Instead, I keep the focus of the conversation on our negotiations. “Okay, well, let’s start off with me making the decisions and if it’s not working for you, say yellow or red and we can talk about it.”

“Okay, that sounds good to me,” he agrees. “And, um, my hard limits as a Daddy were pretty much the same as yours. I don’t really know what my limits as a Little are.” The shy smile morphs into something a little more playful. “I know diapers are a major hurdle for some people, but I’m already wearing one, so…”

I can’t help chuckling. “What about wetting? Is that a limit for you?”

Anson shrugs easily. He’s relaxed and not even mildly ruffled or embarrassed by the question. “It never bothered me as a Daddy. I think, if I get deep enough into Little space, it’s probably something I’d do. I really do like the idea of letting go of all my Big worries and responsibilities, even going to the potty.”

It blows my mind just a bit that he’s so at ease with the concept. I sit back heavily, processing it.

“What’s wrong?” Anson asks, turning so he can frown at me. “Is it a limit for you? Because I don’t think it’s something I need —”

“No, no,” I hurry to reassure him. Reaching out, I take his hand and squeeze it. “It just means a lot that you’re so comfortable with me that you’re even considering it. That you trust me so much already. Most of the other Boys I’ve been with have needed some time to ease into it, even if they’ve done it with other Daddies before, because it’s kind of huge being that vulnerable with someone new. So, yeah, I’m just kind of wowed by how much you obviously trust me.”

“Well, you’re my friend,” he says slowly, “and I do trust you. But…I’m also a doctor. It takes more to embarrass me than the idea of peeing in a diaper. Only,” he adds, “I won’t use a diaper for more than that. Going further feels more medical than kinky to me, is all.”

I nod. “Whatever you’re comfortable with. We can just see where this exploration takes you. We’ve got time.”

Anson relaxes again and grins. “I like hearing that.”

I still find it difficult to believe that this beautiful man could want more with me than just a holiday fling. If it was anyone else, I’d be concerned that he was just choosing me as the easy, convenient option. But we’ve been running in the same social circle for a while, and I’ve never gotten the impression that Anson is anything other than genuine. If he says that he wants to try a real relationship with me, I’m going to trust that he means every word.

“I like it, too,” I tell him. “So, I guess the final rules I want to enforce are open communication and honesty. I know it’s common sense, but if we’re not being honest with each other, it’s not going to work out.”

The fire is still crackling away behind the metal grate, but it’s a different kind of warmth which suffuses me when Anson smiles broadly and says, “You’re speaking my language, Daddy.”

“Okay, so,” my belly flutters with uncharacteristic nerves, “did you want to try finding Little space? Are you happy for me to take things from here? I know you said you wanted me to make the decisions, but is there anything in particular you’d like to start with?”

Anson purses his lips adorably, then looks over at the TV mounted on the wall across from where we’re seated. “I know we were both in a Grinchy mood, but…could we cuddle and watch a Christmas movie? A kids one? I…I think I kind of miss Christmas already.”

I try not to feel like a failure of a Daddy as I glance around the bare living room. In past years, I’ve hung tinsel and lights on the walls and stockings by the fire. I don’t even have a tree this year, though I do have a gift for Anson to unwrap on Christmas morning. It’s impersonal, because I didn’t anticipate our relationship becoming more than friends —and certainly not Daddy and Boy— but at least I have something to give him.

“I’m so—”

“Nope,” he holds up his index finger and waggles it at me. “Don’t be sorry, Daddy. Neither of us was expecting this—“ he waves his hand over himself “—when we made plans to hide out here for Christmas.”

“Even so,” I grumble, wanting to give him a Holiday worthy of his first time experiencing it as a Little, “I could have at least hung some lights.”

Anson looks out the window. “The snow’s really coming down now. Maybe, if we’re stuck here for a couple more days, we can decorate together? Christmas isn’t for a couple of days anyway, so we have time and not a lot else to do. If…if you wanna, I mean.”

I don’t even need to think about it. Pulling him in for a hug, I kiss the top of his soft, blonde head, breathing in the scent of my shampoo. It fills me with a possessive sort of joy, having him smell like me. “I’d like that, sunshine.”

Watching him smile shyly when I use his new nickname makes me want to do it again and again and again. It seems to help him let go of his Big headspace, too, because he gets a little squirmy and pitches his voice higher and sweeter when he says, “So…a Kiss-Moose movie, Daddy?”

I pluck the TV remote from the coffee table and then twist in my seat, bringing my leg up onto the couch and maneuvering us around until I’m reclined lengthways on the couch and Anson is lying against me, his back against my chest. Yeah, one of my legs is now dangling off the side of the couch, but we’re comfortable.

I get one of my many streaming services loaded up and we start flicking through our options until Anson squeals excitedly and points at the screen. “ A Muppet Christmas Carol! ” He twists his head to look up at me imploringly. “Please, Daddy? That one?”

His big, blue eyes are wide and pleading, his face lit up with genuine joy.

I didn’t have any plans to say no, but even if I did, this look on his face would have changed my mind.

He’s going to be dangerous when he realizes what that look does to my resolve.

“Of course, sweetheart,” I agree easily, and doing so earns me another happy squeal and a tight cuddle. “You like The Muppets, huh?”

“I love them! I grew up watching them. I know all the songs, and probably most of the lines, too. But I promise not to say them. I know it’s distracting.”

I am not a fan of the melancholy end to his otherwise happy ramble, or the way he’s just hung his head and folded in on himself. It’s a glimpse into his real childhood, maybe, and not a happy one.

I press play on the movie and wrap my arms around him. “You can sing as loud as you want and say all the lines, sunshine. I want to see my Boy enjoying himself. Plus,” I lower my voice as if I’m divulging the most secret of all secrets, “I know all the words, too.”