Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

Deke

I wonder if Windy Howell has any idea she's a submissive, much less a Little. She's so young I doubt she's had much chance to explore her own kinks and inborn needs. I think back to what intimacy was like when I was her age. The way most of the time all that was necessary was finding a warm and willing partner. The idea of Windy fruitlessly searching out men who could appreciate the way she naturally responds to a need she probably doesn't even realize she has sends acid pooling in my gut.

Guys her age likely can't see past her fantastic body to focus on putting that body through its paces to serve a Master. Based on her comments about how people behave when they find out she likes toys and superheroes, I'm also wagering none of her previous boyfriends have caught on to the treasure they've missed their shots with.

I'm not missing my shot, though. Age has opened my eyes enough to know that I want a Little girl of my own. A sweetly obedient submissive who will understand my need to make rules for her to follow, but sometimes have fun breaking them so I can punish her little backside. I want Windy Howell to be mine. I want Windy Howell to let me be her Daddy.

"Did you eat before practice this morning, little lush?" I'm not sure if she's even noticed the way her stomach is gurgling and growling, but I have.

"Umm, I had a protein drink on my way over to the field house. That counts, right?"

It absolutely does not count. Windy's an athlete. A tiny dynamo of one who plays a position demanding a ton of endurance and physicality. A protein shake from a package is nowhere near enough nutrition for a body doing as much work as she puts hers through. It's no wonder she bit the turf today. Her body's running on empty.

"I'm going to see that you eat, babydoll, then I'll let you study while you rest those injuries." Ignoring the way she sputters and makes excuses from the bed, I take the four steps across the room to her mini fridge to take stock of the food options. What I find just pisses me off.

"Windy, I'm going to need you to explain why this refrigerator has nothing but junk food and crap in it. Little girl, you know better than to treat your body like this, especially during the season when you're working it as hard as you must."

If she were already as mine for real as she already is in my heart, she'd be bare-bottom over my knee for an ass-roasting right now. I try to temper my anger with the reminder that she doesn't know yet that she's mine, so she's got no way to know the rules she's breaking by eating this garbage.

"I-I'm s-sorry Coach Mc-um—Deke. It's just that normally I get my meals in the sports commissary with the team, so I only keep snacks here in my room. But Coach Vanderman's had me coming in for punishment conditioning for breaking the alcohol rules so I'm at the fieldhouse before the kitchens are open," she stammers.

Those big brown eyes of hers fill with tears and a single droplet trails over the apple of her cheek into the corner of her mouth. My tongue curls behind my teeth, wanting to lick the salty drop from her. To taste her tears. Soon I'll have that right.

"Right, that makes a little bit of sense. You have been in the training center very early this week. Still, the presence of all this junk food tells me you either already had it all here, or you ordered a grocery delivery of it. Either way, very questionable decision-making, babydoll."

Her expression is contrite, but I don't let that sway me. This girl needs a keeper, clearly. The timing may be terrible, but I've waited too long to find a Little girl of my own to risk waiting on a possibly never moment when the time is right.

"New plan. I'm taking you to get some breakfast, then you'll do another round with the ice packs when we get back. It's about time to cycle them off for now, anyway."

Windy nods her head at me and begins to unwrap the makeshift ice compresses I've Macgyvered for her knees. It's important to alternate ice and warmth following an injury to prevent swelling and keep the muscles loose, but too much of either is a bad idea.

I bundle Windy into a hoodie and some sweats from a pile of folded laundry on a chair by her desk. The fall morning chill is lingering and the last thing he needs on top of her banged-up knees and sore palms is a virus. I dress her like a life-sized doll, feeding each socked foot through the soft pant legs and tugging the oversized sweatshirt over her head. She raises her arms obediently to help me get her top on, and pride steals my breath.

Windy is so authentically in tune with my domination it feels as though she was created exactly to be my perfect girl. She watches me dig around a bin with shoes by her door, her eyes big and full of curiosity. No arguments though, just complete willingness to let me care for her.

"Come on, babydoll. Let's get these sneakers on so I can get food into that tummy. I bet it's growling. Isn't it?"

My question gets a shy nod of agreement. One day she'll know the rule to use her words when Daddy asks her a question, but we're not there yet. I repeat the word ‘yet' silently as I slip her tennis shoes on her feet and tie the laces. I can hardly wait for when yet comes.