I shook my head. “No, Daddy.”
“Good.”
He came to a stop and patted me on the ass again before he let me go, and then he walked to the fridge, opening the door and taking out eggs, bacon, and cheese. I watched him, my hands clasped in front of me, silent and patient as any good boy should be—or how I thought they were supposed to be.
“Over in that breadbasket on the counter are tortilla shells. Can you get them for me?” he asked, and I moved as soon as I knew what he wanted and did as he directed. When I returned, he stood beside the stove and switched it on, grabbing a cast-iron pan from out of the oven, where he apparently kept it.
“Good. Come here.” I moved closer, and he took the tortilla shells from me with a kiss as a thank-you, tossed them on the counter, and then shifted me so I stood in front of the stove with him at my back. “The breakfast quesadilla I like has scrambled eggs, cheese, and bacon. Do you know how to scramble eggs?”
I winced and sent him sad eyes over my shoulder. “No, Daddy.”
He laid his hands on my waist and squeezed reassuringly. “That’s okay. You get to learn today. To scramble eggs, we need to crack eggs into a bowl with a tiny bit of milk and salt and pepper. Here.”
JP grabbed a bowl from one of the cupboards below the counter and set it on top. He handed me two eggs, and I stared at them carefully, too embarrassed to tell him I hadn’t even cracked one in my life. He didn’t ask, though, and instead grabbed another egg and knocked it gently against the counter. The eggshell split and he used his thumbs to pull it apart, the yolk sliding perfectly into the glass bowl, before he threw the remaining shell into a small can beside the sink.
“Compost,” he said simply when I gave him a questioning look. “Your turn.” He laid his hands on my hips and then slipped them under my borrowed shirt, his fingers curving and nails gently digging into my belly just above my waistband. Nerves ate at my gut, but I took a deep breath and centered myself. I wanted to make my Daddy proud.
Laying one of the eggs on the counter, I held the other firmly in my palm, not too hard to break it but just enough to give me confidence, then pressed the egg against the countertop like JP had, before knocking it there a few times. Nothing happened, not even a small crack.
JP laid a kiss against the back of my neck, and I sucked in a deep breath. “Harder, boy. Just a bit.”
“Yes, Daddy,” I said dutifully as I knocked the egg against the counterjusta little harder. The shell cracked this time, and I let out a breath of relief and sent a grin at JP over my shoulder. “I did it.”
“You did.” He kissed my cheek this time and then my lips. “Now break it apart and do the next one.”
This was how we spent the early morning—JP guiding me through the instructions of making a quesadilla. We cooked the bacon in the cast-iron pan, which wasn’t that hard. I seasoned the eggs before I dumped them in the same pan we’d used to make the bacon, and then I scrambled them. Next, he showed me how to brush olive oil over a tortilla and fill it with the ingredients before browning it and melting the cheese. JP mostly let me do the work on my own, and I took pride in every step of the process. My Daddy used his hands to direct me, touching my hips, arms, and shoulders, like the perfect teacher, and I reveled in the feel of his skin on mine.
I found making quesadillas easy once I got past cracking those damned eggs, and when I was done, I had two folded tortillas with cheese, bacon, and scrambled egg in the middle. I presented them on a plate to JP with a wide grin on my face, and his proud smile made my heart thump against my ribs.
“Good boy. These look amazing.”
“Thank you, Daddy,” I murmured, heat flushing across my cheeks as he took the plate from me and grabbed one of the quesadillas, raising it to his mouth. I watched, holding my breath as he chomped a big bite and chewed thoughtfully. He didn’t say anything for too long, and my gut dropped. It tasted horrible, it had to, but then he smiled and licked his lips when he’d swallowed the piece in his mouth.
“Perfect, boy, just like you.”
I might have let out an embarrassing squeal, completely uncharacteristic of me, as I danced around in a circle on the spot. When I’d made it around to facing him again, I stopped abruptly and pressed my lips together. “Thank you, Daddy.”
He laughed, and it was rich and warm and I melted right there with the sound. “Come here. Taste it.”
I cuddled in closer to him, and he raised the quesadilla to my mouth, which I obediently opened without him asking. The taste exploded on my tongue at first bite and I couldn’t help the moan that escaped me as I ate up the yummy egg, bacon, and cheese.
He laughed harder. “Exactly. See, Max, youcando anything you put your mind to.”
I nodded as I swallowed down the food. All at once a realization crossed my mind, and I shot around to turn off the burner I’d forgotten, before I checked to make sure everything else important was switched off as well. He let me, not questioning what I was doing as he took another mouthful. I wanted to ask him how he could be so calm, if he’d dealt with anyone who’d had OCD in the past, but I was too scared. What if he told me about a previous boy? The thought made me sick. JP had exes, but I didn’t want to think about them, about how much more experienced they would have been compared to me.
“When you’re done, come sit down,” he ordered gently.
“Daddy….” I stopped when I’d placed the cold food back in the fridge and turned to him. “Have you ever thought… about ordering me to stop this?”
“Stop what?” He sat down on a chair at the table and stared at me carefully.
“My OCD. You could tell me to stop worrying over the stove and how clean things are.”
“Do you want me to?” he asked, though he didn’t look too confident about it.
I shrugged. “I don’t know.” Stepping forward, I took the seat beside him and opened my mouth when he held out the quesadilla. I chewed on my bite before I spoke again. “Why don’t you?”
“Because OCD isn’t something that can be switched off, boy.” He rested the tortilla on the plate and ran a hand over my cheek. “These things we’re talking about are compulsions, ones that clearly upset you when you can’t see them through. As a Daddy, I want to make things easier on you, not harder. If I ordered you to stop checking plugs or cleaning or putting things a certain way, I’d have to know that youwantedme to order you. The last thing I want is to upset you or make your OCD harder on you. Safewords are there as a protection, yes, but I will never make you question your trust in me. Do you understand?”
