The Institute, Daddy Issues(88)

“Yes, Papa,” I whispered at once, not ask­ing what “help” he was talk­ing about. I didn’t need to—I already knew be­cause his other hand was cup­ping my pussy. Without an­other word, Salt had slipped one long fin­ger into my slip­pery folds and star­ted circ­ling my swollen clit. It was a slow, gentle mas­sage that had me climb­ing the walls in very short or­der. Be­fore I knew it I was com­ing as he slid the thick black plug home in­side me. Com­ing with his name on my lips and my en­tire body on fire for his touch.

It oc­curred to me now, as I shif­ted on the booster seat and felt the plug move within me, that I was get­ting alarm­ingly used to my part­ner’s big hands on my body. He could touch me any­where and I didn’t mind—while I was in Little-space I felt like he owned me. It was a dan­ger­ously ad­dict­ive feel­ing.

Not much longer, I told my­self. I won’t have to dress like this or wear this damn plug much longer. We’re close here—I can feel it. Already Mandy had been hint­ing that she had some­thing im­port­ant to show me after din­ner. And when Berkley in­vited us to the Dad­dies' Lounge, she nod­ded at me and winked broadly.

I was al­most sure we were go­ing to be offered Please once we got to the lounge. Or more likely, Salt would be offered some to give to me. And then we would have all the evid­ence we needed to bust this place and bring the en­tire In­sti­tute tum­bling down.

But then what? Would we just go back to nor­mal—to our reg­u­lar re­la­tion­ship? Our reg­u­lar part­ner­ship? I looked up at Salt and couldn’t ima­gine that. I liked be­ing able to crawl into his lap for com­fort and play­ing his Baby­girl. I liked his big hands on my body, touch­ing me in­tim­ately, mak­ing me come. I couldn’t ima­gine go­ing back to the time when we had only touched cas­u­ally or not at all. Couldn’t ima­gine just be­ing friends where there was so much more between us now.

My, my—didn’t take you long to change your tune, did it? whispered a sar­castic little voice in my head. What about Age Play be­ing “sick” and “dis­gust­ing”?

I felt a surge of shame. The voice was right. Was I really so ready to em­brace this weird kink just be­cause of some Daddy is­sues I might have? Right now I had an ex­cuse to do this, to play these roles with my part­ner—we had to, we were un­der­cover and had no choice. But how would Salt feel if I told him that I wanted to con­tinue do­ing this kind of thing once this case was over? Would he think I was sick? Or weak? Would he be dis­gus­ted? Would he even want any­thing to do with me ro­mantic­ally once we were out of here or would it be busi­ness as usual?

He won’t be dis­gus­ted, I told my­self un­eas­ily. He’s the one who in­sists that I call him “Papa” while we play. He must like it on some level—right?

But maybe he was only telling me to call him by our role-play­ing names in or­der to keep some kind of dis­tance from our reg­u­lar re­la­tion­ship. Maybe he would be happy to be done with this charade, happy to walk away from the In­sti­tute when this was all over…

Maybe he would want to walk away from me.

The thought nearly stopped my heart in my chest. Though I hadn’t meant to do it, I had some­how al­lowed my­self to be­come de­pend­ent on him—on the way he com­for­ted and held me and just let me be Little. In a way, it was al­most as though I had found my way back to the trust­ing in­ner part of me who had been hid­den since child­hood. I was cau­tiously let­ting her out into the light—that little girl who had been so hurt and bruised by her father’s be­trayal. But would she be hurt all over again once this was all over?

“…must drink all of your punch if you wish to visit the lounge with your Daddy.”

“Huh?” I looked up, real­iz­ing that the words were dir­ec­ted at me. Berkley was star­ing at me sternly and point­ing to the glass of bright pink punch in front of me. I couldn’t repress a shiver. Ugh—why did they in­sist on serving this stuff with every meal? It really was dis­gust­ing.

“I think it’s yummy,” Mandy chirped. To­night she was on her best be­ha­vior—she hadn’t been sent un­der the table once. She giggled and drained her glass of punch, then looked at me chal­len­gingly.