I live for the moments where he gives me the proper name treatment.
Me
Why not?
I smother a giggle when, instead of a text, my phone rings in my hand. I’m in the breakroom at work, so I glance from side to side before I answer the call with far-too-much innocence in my tone. “Hello…”
“You know exactly why calling him Daddy would be a bad idea,” he responds, bypassing a greeting entirely. He’s doing his best to sound patient, but I can hear the undercurrent of frustration in his voice, and I hope it’s because he’s a little bit jealous.
So sue me, I want to be wanted. I never said I was perfect.
“Is it ’cause he might already be someone else’s Daddy?” I goad him, speaking with exaggerated innocence. “Because I can share. Sharing can be fun.”
“Benjamin…”
I burst into peals of giggles, glad that I’ve got the breakroom to myself for now. It’s only two in the afternoon, and most of the nurses and doctors usually aim to push their breaks later, if they get to take them at all.
“You keep this behavior up, Benji, and Iwillpunish you. Just because we’re friends and I’m not your caregiver doesn't mean I’m not still a Daddy.”
Yeah, I’mreallyglad I’ve got the breakroom to myself. His authoritarian voice and threats of punishment are getting me hot under the collar and achingly hard beneath the belt. Or, I guess, beneath the elasticized waistband of my powder pink scrubs.
I still have two hours left of my shift, so I know what I’m about to do is monumentally stupid, but I do it anyway.
“What kind of punishment are we talking about, Daddy?”
He inhales sharply, then groans. I swear he mutters “Fuck” under his breath before he answers, “No touching yourself until I say so, for starters.” I whine in protest, and even though he’s not here, I know he’s smirking at the sudden shift in control of the conversation. I can hear it in his voice. “And, if you continue to be naughty, I’ll take control of your potty breaks again as well.”
Yeah, he knows exactly which buttons to push with me.
“Daddy…” The title is a plea. For what, I’m not quite sure.
Do I want him to continue? No. (Yes. God, yes.) Do I want to beg for more lenient punishments? Yes. (No. Fuck no.) Do I wish he was here with me? Yes! (Hell the fuck yes!)
“You’re going to be a good boy for the rest of your shift, aren’t you?”
I sigh and pout. “I mean, I don’t want to lose my job, so I kind of have to be.”
“Uh-uh, no sassing. That’s your only warning.”
I roll my eyes. “Yes, Daddy.”
Another beat of silence passes before he says, “And no rolling your eyes, either.”
Jumping in my seat, I glance around guiltily. “How’d you—”
Kris chuckles. “I know brats, honey. You’re not the first Boy to push my limits.”
Oh, I donotlike the tables being turned on me.I’m supposed to be reveling in his jealousy, not feeling jealous because he’s talking about being with other Boys.
“Don’t sulk,” he practically croons, sounding even more smug now. “I made my feelings pretty clear when we talked about all of this, didn’t I?” When I don’t reply —because I don’t want to,notbecause I have a stupid lump in my throat— his toneloses all hint of playfulness. “Benji, I still want to be your Daddy and nobody else’s. I’ve had zero interest in chasing other Boys at The Grove, or in being in a relationship with anyone else. Not that I want to rush you into a relationship. Or push you into one at all if you just want to be friends with a non-sexual Daddy/Boy dynamic on the side, okay? You just took me by surprise when you called me Daddy and flirted, so I’m sorry if I’ve taken it too far just now.”
“You haven’t,” I force myself to speak around the obstruction in my windpipe. Seeing as I work in a hospital, I should really have that looked at. Swallowing and lowering my voice, I tell him, “I want you to be my Daddy, Kris. And I want…I want to give a relationship a go, too, if I haven’t blown my chance at that.”I can think of something much better to blow, honestly.Through sheer willpower alone, I hold the sex joke back and remain serious. “I’ve never been in a relationship, so I’ll probably fuck up, but I like you a lot. Oh, and I lied before. I’m really bad at sharing.”
I glance up at the cheap, white plastic clock on the wall above the kitchenette and grimace. I’ve got, like, two minutes left on my break. I don’t want to wrap this call up right now, though. Not until I know where we stand.
What kind of dumbass starts a conversation like this on their break at work?
“I’m bad at sharing my Boys, too,” he replies, as if he’s making some kind of confession. “At least I am when I really like the guy. And I do really like you, Benji. You haven’t blown your shot. I’ve been happy to wait. I amstillhappy to wait. And, to be honest, I think we needed the time to get to know each other a bit better anyway.”
