It had been one of those days.
Everything should have been wonderful -- it was the Friday before a long weekend and he was expecting me at 7pm, sharp. He'd promised to cook dinner and I was looking forward to spending most of the weekend in his bed wearing nothing but his collar, a few bruises, and a satisfied smile. My boss had been full of tedious little "projects" all day, with lots of details that needed my attention. Despite my plans to leave work early, my last client of the day had run over, so I was late leaving the office. And then the Metro was delayed. And then, walking the few short blocks from the station to his townhouse, the sky opened up and it poured.
My carefully chosen outfit was a sodden mess, and I had a run in one of my stockings from tripping over my heels trying to avoid a puddle, which I fell in anyway, splashing myself with dirty, muddy water. I'd spent hours this morning taming my curls into mostly straight, sleek, shiny waves, but the first raindrop turned all my efforts back into wildly frizzy curls again. My mascara dripped down my cheeks, another casualty of the rain, and I swiped it away impatiently as I hurried up the steps and rang the bell.
"Hello, pet," he said, answering the door with a smile, even though I looked like a half-drowned poodle. "I know I said I wanted you to arrive wet and ready for me, but I think you took things a little too far."
My laugh sounded brittle, shaky, uncertain.
"And you're late," he chided with a brief kiss, turning back to the kitchen where the warm smell of food made my stomach growl.
I stood on the mat in the entryway, dripping and disheveled, watching him return to the preparations I'd pulled him away from, looking too perfect in his crisp white dress shirt, with the sleeves rolled up and the top buttons undone. If he'd stepped back into the black dress shoes sitting at the base of the stairs and put on the tie hanging on the railing, he could have gone back to work, looking as put together as he probably had been all day. And I was not fit to step off the doormat, afraid I'd drip all over his spotless floors.
"Come on in," he called from the kitchen. "There's towels in here if you want to dry off before dinner." I wanted to, but my feet wouldn't move. I wanted to turn around and grab my bag and close the door quietly behind me and not make a mess of his perfect shirt, his house, his everything. I was a disaster, and he deserved better. But I wanted more than anything to stay, even if I knew I shouldn't.
"Pet?" he called again. "You're too quiet. Are you okay?" I heard the steady chop, chop of the knife, the quiet jazz he preferred lilting from the radio in the kitchen. I felt tears clogging my throat, burning behind my eyes as I stood frozen on the doormat.
I must have made a choked little sound because he came out from the kitchen with a towel, his teasing smile fading into concern as he saw me still standing there, my knuckles white on the handle of my bag, beginning to shiver in my cold, sodden suit as mascara ran down my cheeks in pathetic black tears. His concern brought a flush of embarrassment and I started to step back, reaching for the doorknob behind me, turning away so I didn't have to see the concern become pity as the cool metal refused to turn under my slick fingers.
"Stop," he said firmly. He reached for me and I flinched away, caught up in my own head. "That's enough," he said in his soft, dangerous voice. He frowned and stepped into my space, crowding me up against the door. His strong hand cupped my cheek, fingers clamping on my jaw and forcing my tear-stained face up to meet his worried dark eyes.
"Oh, baby," he murmured, looking down at me with concern. "Shhh, don't cry sweetheart. I'm sorry. I didn't see how bad it was." He swiped away a dark teardrop with his thumb; his tenderness only brought more tears, more shame, more embarrassment, until I shook with it. He held me tightly and let me sob against the white perfection of his shirt, uncaring that I was soaking wet and my makeup was running everywhere.
"Tell me," he soothed, rubbing his hand in small circles against my back. "Tell me everything, sweetheart. Let it all out." His arms around me didn't ease as I sobbed out my small, petty, horrible day against his shoulder. All the ugly words and terrible things I was thinking just poured out of me along with the tears in a scalding rush that left me feeling empty and shaken.
He listened to everything without comment or complaint, even when I was harsh with myself. He waited until the tears slowed to a trickle and the sobs became harsh shuddering breaths and my desperate grip on his shirt eased. Gently, he stroked the curls away from my face and pressed a slow kiss on my forehead. He took a deep breath and looked down at me. I waited for the impatience, the frustration. I expected him to be tired of my self-doubt, of my turning small disasters into larger ones...but it didn't come.
"I know you're waiting for me to punish you, pet," he began. I sighed, waiting for the exception, the pity. "And I'm going to," he continued firmly, "Because you need to know I mean what I say and that the rules we've established matter." His eyes were warm and dark and drowning deep as he smiled down at me. "But I don't think that's what you really need from me tonight. It's not what I need to give you." He cupped my face in both hands, rubbing his thumb over my lower lip. "I need you to be my good little girl tonight. Let Daddy take care of you."
My breath hitched in my throat. My Master almost never refers to himself as Daddy. I've called him that playfully, teasingly, but that isn't generally how our relationship works. Oh, we've talked about it, about the aspects of Daddy/little girl relationships that we admire and enjoy, but we've never explored that dynamic between us. He was asking me for a lot of trust, but he was promising me something, too, and I could see the weight of that promise in his eyes, in his smile, in the gentle, implacable strength of his hands.
I was afraid, uncertain, but I nodded, taking a deep, ragged breath. I trusted him.
"Yes," I told his shirt buttons, my voice barely more than a whisper. I took one more shuddering breath and found the words clogging my throat. "Please, Daddy."
He crushed me against his chest, hugging me breathless, then stole the rest with a long, hungry kiss. "That's my good girl," he said with a cautious smile. There was something in his expression, possessive, protective, but also pleased, as if he'd expected me to resist and was relieved that I hadn't.
He picked me up unexpectedly and I yelped in surprise, kicking my feet a little. "No,"
I begged. "Put me down!" He didn't stop. "I'm too heavy!"
He paused at the foot of the stairs, still holding me, the hand on my back fisting in my wet hair. "Do little girls get to tell their Daddies 'no'?" he asked, a hint of warning in his tone.
"No, but --"
"No 'buts', baby girl. Do you think I'm incapable of carrying you wherever I want you?"
"No, Master, but I don't want to -- "
"I said, no 'buts', little girl. Does it matter what you want?"
I squirmed a little, but his hands held me still as he waited, not altogether patiently, for me to find the correct answer. Finally I managed to squeak out, "No, Daddy," before he started back up the stairs as if I'd never interrupted.
"That's right," he murmured, stroking my back. "You don't have to worry anymore, baby. I've got you." He set me down in his bedroom, kissing my forehead sweetly. "Take off your wet things and leave them there," he admonished briefly before disappearing into the bathroom. I heard the sound of running water splashing into the Jacuzzi tub. Shivering, I stripped, dropping my wet things into a small pile. He returned just as I finished, ushering me into the tub as if I was something delicate and fragile and precious.
The water was warm and full of bubbles, and he sat on the edge and watched me smile in delight when he turned the jets on. Already I felt warmer, the chill from the rain seeping away in the hot, fragrant water. He actually laughed when I reached up and gave him a handful of bubbles for a beard, wiping them off to decorate my nose instead.
"Do you want me to wash your hair?" he asked, running his fingers through my long wet curls.
"I can do it," I said, reaching for my favorite coconut-scented shampoo.
He took the bottle out of my hands. "That wasn't what I asked," he said, a hard note creeping into his voice. "I know you can. The question was, 'Do you want me to?' "
I wanted to say yes. I was tired and hungry and his hands felt exquisite as he played with my wet hair, his strong fingers massaging my scalp. I knew I should say no. He doesn't need to wait on me; I can take care of myself. If he had pushed, I would have said no, taken the bottle back, and washed my own hair.
I don't know what he saw in my face or the tense lines of the muscles in my back that changed his tone from chiding to tender. Instead of simply taking the shampoo and washing my hair, he slid closer and wrapped his arms around me. He pressed his lips against my damp shoulder, and the sweetness of his kiss made my chest ache.
"Say yes," he whispered against my ear. "Let Daddy take care of you, now."
"Yes," I finally whispered back. "Please?"
"Please what?"
"Please, Daddy?"
"Good girl."
