He wipes away my tears. “Feel better?”
“Yes, Daddy.”
“Why don’t you spend some time in your playpen this morning? You need some downtime. I think you should take today off from researching.”
I’m so relieved my shoulders drop as I nod. “Thank you, Daddy.” I glance over at the playpen though and then back at him. My lip trembles as I meet his gaze. “Will you be in your office?”
He hesitates a moment. “Would you rather I work at the kitchen table so you can see me?”
“Yes, Sir.”
He smiles and kisses my forehead. “I can do that, baby girl. I just think you’ll feel better in the enclosed space. I know it calms you when you’re agitated.”
“Yes.” It does. I’ve grown to love the playpen for that reason. It shrinks my world down to only what he permits me to have. There used to be a bunch of toys in there, but Daddy took them all out last week. He realized I was overwhelmed. Now he only hands me two or three things when I’m inside. The mesh sides allow me to see out while giving me a cozy calm feeling.
Daddy lifts me up and carries me to the playpen. He places me on my back and heads to the shelves out of my reach. “What would you like to play with? How about a coloring book?”
“Yes, please.” A coloring book is perfect. It gives me something to do to take my mind off things. I need that this morning.
I take the crayons and coloring book from Daddy and roll onto my tummy to open it up to the last page I was on. I can’tfocus yet though, so I roll onto my side and watch Daddy moving around through the side of the playpen. I calm when he gets situated at the table.
I run my hand along the side of the playpen. It’s obviously not something that could really keep me safe or pin me in. I could climb over the edge in seconds if I wanted to. It’s symbolic. It represents my place in our arrangement. I take all the aspects of my regression seriously. Most of them are symbolic. Obviously, with the exception of the padlock, I can get out of a car seat or a stroller or a highchair or even my crib.
I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling, thinking about the difference between the boundaries Daddy sets that are meant to confine me by my choice and the ones that seriously restrain me.
He knows the more I’m literally restrained, the stronger my reaction is. Like when he padlocks my harness. That I can’t escape. If he didn’t take it off, my only option would be to find a knife and cut through the nylon. It wouldn’t be easy.
The other two restraints he uses to totally immobilize me are on the changing table and in my crib. Both allow me to stop resisting what’s expected of me. Even though I don’t fight him about using my diaper, it’s much easier to let go of my control when I have no choice.
Any other boundaries I face throughout the day are ones I agree to adhere to as part of my regression. I could defy them, but then I’d end up with a spanking. Plus, I don’t want to disobey Daddy. I like to please him.
When we’re in the living room, he often puts up the baby gate to the hallway. I assume he realizes I don’t like to be in a different room from him. The gate tells me I must stay in the living room or kitchen area. I’m not permitted to wander through the rest of the house where he can’t see me.
It’s probably more so I can seehim.
I wonder how I manage to sleep when he leaves my nursery. Perhaps the sedative calms me. Though I’m not sure how much of it I’m still getting. Like the suppositories he holds inside my bottom every morning, I think he is weaning me off the sedative too. I still sleep soundly.
Eventually, I roll onto my belly again and glance at Daddy. He’s working hard at the table, his mind focused on his computer.
I pick up a crayon and let myself be Little Melody. I really enjoy her.
Chapter Twelve
Two months later…
I know I’ve been naughtier than ever this morning. I can’t seem to stop myself. In fact, I’ve been increasingly more disobedient for the past week.
I’ve cried several times, nearly to the point of tantrums. I’ve thrown toys out of my playpen. I’ve refused to eat, saying I wasn’t hungry. I’m currently kicking my feet around so Daddy can’t get my shoes on.
Finally, he lifts me off the floor, spins me around, and flattens my tummy over his lap. He grips my wrists at the small of my back before removing my diaper.
I squirm in his hold until the first hard swat hits my bare bottom. I stiffen from the shock and hold my breath while Daddy peppers my bottom harder than usual. When he’s done, he carries me into the nursery, straps me to the changing table, and puts a new diaper on me.
He doesn’t meet my gaze or acknowledge the fact that I’m whimpering. I hate that I’ve been so disagreeable. I don’t want tobe. I have a great deal of anxiety, and I don’t know how to voice it.
I’m scared to tell Daddy the underlying reason why I’ve been misbehaving.
Daddy removes the straps from my wrists and stands me on my feet. He shakes a finger in front of me, holding my shoulder with his other hand. “I know you enjoy restraints, baby girl, but you haven’t dreamed of the type of confinement you’re going to experience this afternoon if you don’t shape up.”
