Her hands are wrapped around a cup of hot cocoa, and mine cradle a Chai tea.
She scoops a spoonful of whipped cream into her mouth and moans. “Okay… so you don’t have to tell me anything,” she says, “but just know that I’m dying of curiosity. The next time you see me, I might be in a coffin. Imagine my obituary: ‘Abigail Cooper, died of intense curiosity at the young age of thirty-seven.’”
I smile. “Actually, I want to tell you everything.”
A huge grin practically splits her face in two.
I tell her all about playtime, and I don’t spare on the details. If Mr. Boss Man could hear me, I’d certainly be in for a hard spanking.
“Wow. Who knew you were so naughty, little Gretchen. You look so innocent,” she says. “It’s obviously all an act.”
I laugh. “He’s the one who makes me naughty. I didn’t even know I liked that kind of stuff.”
She sips her cocoa. “It sounds fun. It’s typical Girl-Daddy stuff.”
“What stuff?” I ask, confused.
“Girl-Daddy stuff,” she says again. “It’s what they call it in the BDSM community.”
“What?”
She smiles. “He’s the Daddy, and you’re his little girl. He coddles you, pleases you, calls you sweetie, or good girl, you know?”
It does sound familiar.
“He’s the one in control, the Boss Man, and he dominates, but also takes care of you, makes sure you’re enjoying the experience, makes sure he pleases you.”
I’m speechless.
“Daddies are controlling, but very giving. They’re all about pleasuring their woman. I mean… you and Boss Man have the whole Boss-Secretary thing going, but it’s essentially the same thing.”
I smile. “How do you know all this?”
“I was in a relationship like that, just before Daniel,” she tells me. “It was fun. He called me his sweet girl, and I called him Daddy. He loved to spank me when I was bad.”
I shake my head, speechless.
“Lord knows I have Daddy issues with everything I went through when I was young,” she goes on. “And you probably do too.”
I think about my absent father. He left when I was twelve and I barely ever saw him after that. I haven’t spoken to him in over two years, not since Ethan’s birth.
I’d never thought about the dynamic I share with Weston, but she might definitely be on to something. Perhaps I secretly crave being cared for. In my every-day life, I’m the one who needs to take care of Ethan and handle everything. And I do it all by myself. It’s exhausting. And with Weston, I can just let go and be taken care of.
“Well, I don’t know about all that,” I say, “but we’re certainly having fun.”
“Just be careful,” she warns me. “Men like him usually have a lot of baggage.”
* * *
When I arriveat my desk on Thursday, I’m surprised to see another bouquet, a dozen white roses. I inhale their scent, giddy. I know they’re from him of course, and I’m thankful for his kindness. But it’s all getting kind of silly.
I walk down the small hall and knock lightly on his wall before I round the corner of his office.
“Come in,” he calls out.
He’s leaned back in his chair, feet up on his desk. He’s flipping through a magazine. He takes his feet off his desk and puts down the magazine when I approach.
“Thanks for the flowers. You shouldn’t have.”
