“You don’t have to use this, honey,” Kris reminds me as he closes the sticky tabs over my hips. “But it’s there as protection in case you do stay this deeply regressed for a while longer.” He lets that sink in, then meets my gaze, adding, “And there’s nothing wrong with using it in either case, okay? Daddy’s here now, and I’ll change you if you need it.”
Jesus.
It’s like my heart has decided to sprint.
Daddy’s here now.
The gently spoken words are perfect, but they make my stomach turn.
He’s not my Daddy. He’s too good to be my Daddy. I proved that by leaving the camp —and leaving him— without so much as agoodbye.
He deserves a Boy who would have at least said goodbye. He deserves a Boy who knows exactly who they are and how their regressions work. He deserves a Boy who doesn’t push peoples’ buttons in self-preservation.
He deserves a Boy who isn’t as fucked up as me.
Besides, I’ve never had a long-term Daddy and I wasn’t looking for one. I’m still not. I’m not good enough to keep one. He’d get bored of me or annoyed with me eventually. Most people do.
Hell, no matter what he says, I’m sure Anson and Bear and Ash would rather I just fuck off, too.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Benji, what’s wrong?”
Kris’s concern shakes me back out of my thoughts at the same moment his big, warm palm cups my cheek and his thumb smooths moisture away from my temple.
Wait.
Moisture?
Blinking, it takes longer than it should for me to realize that I’m crying.
“Honey, talk to me.” He’s moved to the side of the table, his face peering down at mine with an expression that matches his tone, with dark eyebrows pinched over narrowed eyes, and his lips pursed. His free hand slides into my hair, stroking softly. “Is the diaper too much after all?”
“No,” I croak, shaking my head.
His face runs through a complicated set of micro expressions before he cautiously asks, “Was it me calling myself Daddy? Because you don’t have to—”
“You’re the best Daddy,” I blurt, wanting to reassure him. I feel like it would have worked, too, if I didn’t also startsobbing.
What is going on with me?
“Okay, okay, come here.” Kris eases me up into a seated position and then pulls me against his chest in another strong Daddy hug. He doesn’t shush me, just holds me as I bawl against him, smoothing his hands up and down my back until I finally start to calm down. I don’t know how long it takes, but when my breathing slows to slight shudders, he murmurs, “Feel better now?”
It almost sets me off again.
However, I do feel lighter after that emotional purge, so I nod. “Sorry.” The words comes out with ‘w’s instead of ‘r’s. Some distant part of me knows that’s unusual.
“You don’t have anything to apologize for.” He waits a beat. “Are you feeling up to talking about it?”
If anything, I feel even more little than I did before, so I shake my head. Words are harder to form now. My head feels like it’s full of cotton, but in a floaty way. It’s strange, but nice. Like everything that was making me sad or worried is muted, smothered under the marshmallow fluff that has taken over my brain.
“Hmm, nuh-uh,” I tell him. “Words…bad.”
“I see,” he chuckles. “That’s okay, we can talk later. Let’s get your shorts on now.”
After I climb down from the change table, Kris helps me step into the clean shorts one leg at a time. They’re a couple of sizes larger than my usual, but with a short inseam, so they probably don’t look too ridiculous as they hang loosely around my hips. It’s not something I’m worried about now, but once my adult headspace re-engages, I’ll probably cringe anyway.
Moving around in the new shorts feels weird, though. But then I realize it isn’t the shorts, it’s the diaper. The way the leak guards and cuffs sit around the spaces where my legs join my body makes me widen my gate a bit for comfort’s sake, and the diaper itselffeels clunky. Even with the looseness of the shorts, it’s probably very obvious that I’m wearing the padded protection.
Weirdly, that makes me feel smaller. More vulnerable. Littler.
