Negotiation: Daddy P.I. 0.5

by E J Frost

  “Did you read anything about it?” I ask, forcing myself back to the topic. “Diapering and putting me to bed in a crib and stuff?” It’s not really my thing, but if he wants to try bad-baby, I’ll do it for him.

  “No. Is that what it’s all about? Would it turn you on?”

  I shrug. “I haven’t done it for real before. Lew made me wear a diaper once and it wasn’t a turn-on. It was kind of ridiculous, actually. But he didn’t go the whole nine yards.” Logan himself kind of diapered me with the towel after our werewolf sex, for which I was grateful, but he didn’t want me to actually use the diaper the way Lew did. Which I refused to do. Which led to the first of several big arguments about the limits of my submission, not that I even knew what hard and soft limits were back then, but those arguments, and maybe my ignorance, and definitely my cowardice, eventually split us up.

  “Would you like to do that, though?”

  “I don’t know.” Thinking about it doesn’t feel very sexy. “I’m not sure how I’d feel about sex when I was that little.”

  He rubs his hand over his face. “That’s a point. I’m not sure how I’d feel about that, either. What age do you usually play?”

  Oh, no, I thought he understood? “I don’t, um, play an age.”

  Those dark eyes search mine. “Sorry, that was the wrong question, wasn’t it? What age do you usually feel?”

  I feel like I’m thirty-two, but that’s not really what he’s asking, and I love that he’s trying so hard to understand my little headspace, so I tell him more than I’ve ever told my other Doms. “I don’t feel a specific age. I feel the way I did before all the adult stuff began weighing me down. I feel young and free and, mmm, unfettered. I think that’s the right word.”

  Logan grins. “That’s a good word. How old were you when the adult stuff began weighing you down?”

  “I guess around fourteen.” I know exactly when it was. My first year of high school, when everything crashed in on me. As wonderful as he is, that’s not something I’m ready to tell him about. Particularly not over the phone where I can’t curl up in his arms.

  “That’s the little I saw at my club, isn’t it?” At my nod, he continues. “I like that little. She’s a naughty girl I love to play with. But I also like when you go younger and play hide-and-seek and suck your thumb. Could that be part of bad-baby?”

  I sucked my thumb until I was fourteen and Maman made me get braces. “Sure.”

  “Mmm, I’ll do some more reading and see what flips my switch. I’m guessing you don’t have any of the baby gear?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t have a nursery or anything.”

  I have teddy bears, including the teddy buried under the pillow the phone is propped against, but my teddies are not something I show to my Doms. There’s being little, and then there’s the soul-deep comfort of sleeping with my teddies. My Doms don’t need to know about that.

  “Don’t worry about the gear. I can get whatever we want through the club. You’d be amazed at what some of the members have.” He grins into the phone. “I don’t know if I told you this already, baby doll, but the Daddy thing is really working for me. I haven’t been this fired up in years.”

  I grin back and the slight discomfort of talking about my kink fades back to the usual warm glow I feel when I’m with Logan. “Really?”

  “Yeah. I can’t believe I’ve missed out on this for so long. I’ve seen couples that must have been Daddies and Mommies with their littles, but it never registered.” Logan taps his temple. “But it’s in here now. So I hope you’ve got plenty of time available, baby doll. ‘Cause we’ve got a lot of playing to do.”

  I stroke my middle finger down the edge of the phone, wishing it was his jaw. “Yes, Daddy. As much time as you want.”

  “Mmm.” Logan stretches back into the pillows; his grin goes from Wolf-Daddy to German shepherd. He looks happy and relaxed, which makes me happy and relaxed, too. “Let’s talk about that. I’m kind of addicted to schedules, so I’ll have one for each day on the cruise, and I’ll do one for you, too, so you know when your time’s yours and when it’s mine. How many hours a day do you usually spend working?”

  I shrug. “Depends. If I’m on a writing jag, ten or twelve hours. But I burn out pretty fast writing that much. It’s more usually six or seven hours. Sometimes it’s just one or two. I write every day, though.” That’s a discipline I got into before my first book even came out.

  “Can we compromise on six a day while we’re on the cruise? Two in the morning or evening and four in the afternoon? That way we can eat together and still have plenty of time for play.”

  “Yes, sir, that would be great.” Although I can’t keep any schedule when I’m on my own, I love the idea of him giving me one. Knowing he cares enough to plan each day for me lights me up. “Did you do that with your other subs? Give them a schedule?”

  “Some.” He doesn’t elaborate. “How about we get started on it now? It’s twelve-forty.” A glance at the clock confirms he’s right, even though it feels like five minutes since we started talking. “My baby girl needs at least seven hours of sleep. So from now on bedtime is absolutely no later than midnight. You can have one story and then I want you to go to sleep. If you wake up before eight, you roll over and go back to sleep. Do you have any of your fairy tales handy?”

  I nod. I always keep a book of them next to my bed. At the moment, it’s the Lyons version of One Thousand and One Nights.

  “Pick one story. A short one. And read it to me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I pick “The Ebony Horse,” which I read a few days ago and is long enough to feel satisfying but not so long it will antagonize Logan. Whether it’s the lack of sleep over the last few days, or Logan commanding me to sleep, I feel my eyelids getting heavy as I read. I stifle a yawn or two as I read the last page, and when I finish, I’m more than ready to put the book away, turn off the light and go to sleep.

  “Night-night, baby doll,” Logan whispers to me, his voice warm and soft in the dark, like an extra blanket.

  “Night-night, Daddy. Best phone date ever,” I say around a yawn.

  “Oh, Emmy, we’ve got so much to come. Have sweet, baby girl dreams and text me when you wake up. Turn off your phone now.”

  Reaching out from the nest of blankets I’ve pulled up to my chin, I do. Then I grab the teddy that’s behind the phone, drag it under the covers with me, curl around it and close my eyes.

  Visits with my mother are never fun. She doesn’t laugh much anymore, and when she does, it’s about things the rest of us can’t see or hear. I gave up trying to talk to her about the people she used to know. I don’t mention Francis or Ash, my mother’s two sisters, or the cousins. They’re all strangers to her now. Instead, I read to her, or play one of the games her doctors say are supposed to slow her memory loss. Today, I bring along One Thousand and One Nights and read her “The Ebony Horse” because it makes me smile.

  She gives me her vague smile back and rearranges the fresh flowers I’ve brought her. I bring them every week. I’ll have to have flowers delivered while I’m away. Another thing to do before I go. I read her another story, then cut the visit a few minutes short so I can speak to Jenetta about my trip.

  Jenetta, the home director, welcomes me with the same wide, white smile that she gave me four years ago when I first brought my mother here. It was that smile that sold me on this home. Not the nicest, or the newest, that I visited, but that smile reassured me that the lady in charge cared, when I wasn’t sure anyone else did. When I felt so lost and alone caring for this woman I’d known all my life, who was becoming a stranger to me.

  Jenetta rises and comes around her desk when I knock on her open door. The door to her office is always open. I love that about her. She takes my hand and leads me to one of the two chairs facing her desk. She sits in the other one, beside me. She never faces off across the desk. I’m not a people person; I have no intention of ever doing anything that has me i
nterfacing with the public, but if I did, I’d take Jenetta as my role model.

  She pats my hand, her coal-black hand covering mine as it rests on the chair’s cracked faux-leather arm. “How was your visit with Vi?” she asks me.

  “The same. How’s she doing? No outbursts?”

  “None at all.”

  It was Jenetta who warned me that people with dementia sometimes act out. People who would never have hurt a fly before they developed the disease. The whole world becomes an incomprehensible, alien place. Bewildered, frightened, they rail against it. But my mother’s never done any of that. She’s just slipped gently, terrifyingly gently, into the twilight.

  “I saw The Princess Bride in her room. Is she reading it?”

  Jenetta shakes her head and gives me a softer, sadder version of her usual smile. “One of the volunteers was reading to her. She says she can’t understand the marks on the page anymore.”

  I swallow the tightness in my throat and let out a long breath. My mother loved to read. It was her gift to me, her love of books. Now it’s gone. When she’s already lost so much. “Well, I just wanted to let you know I’m going out of town for two weeks. I, um, was invited on a cruise to Mexico. It’s a little last minute, or I’d have given you more warning.”

  “We’ve got the emergency contact number for your brother if anything comes up, but I’m sure Vi will be fine while you’re gone. Do you have a contact number on the cruise?”

  My cell, but she already has that. “Sorry, I should have—do you mind if I make a call?”

  “Of course not. Do you want some privacy?”

  “No, this will only take a second.” I take out my phone and dial Logan, glad that I haven’t changed his contact name over to “Big Daddy Dom NYC” yet, which I intend to do, just to tease him.

  He answers on the first ring, “Emily, everything okay?”

  “Yes, um, I’m just with the director of my mother’s care home and she’s asked me for a contact number on the cruise. I was just, I was wondering if I could give her your number? If that’s okay?”

  “Yes, it’s okay. Text me the number of the care home after you’re done so I’ve got it, too.”

  “Thank you, uh—” I almost say “sir,” but that would be too weird in front of Jenetta. “Thank you so much, Logan.”

  “You’re welcome, baby doll. Call me later.”

  “I will.”

  I hang up and look at Jenetta, who is watching me with the slyest grin. “What?”

  “Nothing,” she says, unsuccessfully trying to suppress her grin. “Let me just jot this down.” She retrieves a pad and pen from her desk and takes down Logan’s number. “Picture?” she says, as she finishes writing.

  “Picture?” I repeat dumbly.

  “For the file,” she says innocently.

  I shake my head at her, before I show her the picture I took of Logan over breakfast. I’ve already labelled it his “Greek God” picture. I caught him as he was reaching back to scratch his neck, so he’s got one arm stretched behind his head, his big biceps bunched. The morning light illuminates his tanned torso. He’s unshaven, heavy-eyed, shirtless and absolutely gorgeous—at least, to me—but I don’t know what he looks like to her. Maybe she’ll think he looks like a bum.

  She whistles. “Fine looking man.”

  “You’re shameless.”

  “I’ll just note that for the file. James Logan. What, thirty, thirty-five? Brown and, what, black or dark brown? Two hundred pounds? All hunka-hunka.”

  My cheeks have ignited. “That has to be a HIPAA violation.”

  She laughs. “Probably. Bane of my existence, HIPAA. Anyway, now I know why you’re rushing off to Mexico. Have a wonderful time, Emily. Don’t worry about a thing. Your mother will be fine and you know if you want an update or need to tell us anything, just pop me an email.”

  “I will. Thank you. Thank you for everything. I haven’t ever told you how grateful I am for you, for everything you do here.” I feel myself tearing up and blink back the prickle. “Being, um, with Logan, it’s made me realize that I take too much for granted. I don’t tell people often enough how grateful I am to them.”

  Jenetta tucks her chin back into her neck like a surprised turtle. Then she reaches out and takes my phone from me and inspects Logan’s picture again. “Well, he don’t look like the Second Coming, but he must be if he’s brought all that on.” She gives me her huge grin and I laugh helplessly. “You’re very welcome, Emily, and if you decide he’s not a keeper, you pass him right on to me. I definitely need a man who makes me feel grateful to the whole world.”

  I shake my head at her, still laughing. “I’ll let him know.”

  “Have a great trip.”

  When I rise, she hugs me, burying me in her ample bosom. It’s not quite my mother’s hugs. Nothing is. Not that she gave me many. Hugs were for Francis. But I miss them all the same.

  My neighbor Tammy is waiting for me in the atrium with its cracked floor tiles, cheery plants and bright sunshine. Her eyes are red. Her last few visits with her father have been rough, and although I know Jenetta has given her the same pep-talk about not taking it personally and holding on to the good memories, I also know how hard it is.

  Thinking about Logan, and about gratitude, I put my arm around Tammy as we walk to my car.

  “He told me I was old and ugly and he wanted a pretty girl to come visit him,” she says.

  I squeeze her shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Maybe I should dye my hair,” she says, fingering a grey lock.

  “Don’t you dare. Don’t you know grey is in? Besides, he doesn’t mean it. He won’t remember it next week, and you shouldn’t give it a moment’s thought.”

  She leans into me. “Thanks, Emily. You seem bright today. Good visit?”

  “Mmm.” I let her go as we reach my car and climb into our respective seats. “It wasn’t bad. Listen, though, I’m going to have to miss the next two weeks. I’m going to Mexico.”

  “Oh, have a great trip. Mexico in the summer?”

  I put the car in gear and pull out of the space in front of the home. Less than a dozen cars in the lot today. Not a lot of visitors. “I know. I’m taking the factor fifty. Will you be okay getting here?”

  “Of course I will. I got here for four years before you moved next door, didn’t I?”

  “You did. But, hey, if you have a bad visit and want to talk, call me, okay? You’ve got my number.”

  She’s silent for a moment and I risk taking my eyes off the empty road to glance at her. She’s staring at me. Have I said something wrong? “I, uh—”

  “Thank you, Emily. That means a lot,” she says.

  I smile at her and get my eyes back where they belong.

  Logan doesn’t answer when I call, so I leave a message, grab a hoodie because the day’s gone cool and drizzly—summer in upstate New York—and head out to the mall. I have sexy jammies to buy.

  He calls back while I’m taking a break between Macy’s and Victoria’s Secret. I’m leaning against one of the mall’s huge, potted, indoor trees, watching yummy mummies and hipsters stroll by, drinking their five thousand calorie soy mochachinos and munching Mrs. Field’s cookies, while I sip from a bottle of water. HIM silently wishes cellulite on all of them.

  “Hi, sir,” I answer. “You’ve made another conquest.”

  “A conquest?” He sounds amused. “Am I going to need a fresh blood test?”

  “She’d like that. My mother’s care home administrator thinks you’re a hunka-hunka.”

  He laughs, that deep, rich laugh that lights me up. “Is she kinky?”

  “I haven’t asked. I’ve texted you the home’s number. You can give her a call and find out.”

  “My slate’s full.” He pauses as a group of students go by, shouting to each other as though they’re at opposite ends of the mall instead of a foot away. “Where are you, baby doll? Sounds like a party.”

  “The mall. I needed more pajamas.
”

  “That’s not a party, that’s purgatory. Have you gotten them now?”

  “Yes, but I still want to look in Sola. They have cute stuff. And I know you said pink and white, but how do you feel about purple?”

  “For the nights you don’t sleep with me, purple’s acceptable,” he says.

  I pout even though I know he can’t see it. “No purple, then.”

  He chuckles. “Baby doll, I’ve got to go. I was on with the cruise people when you called and I’ve got another call coming up. They’re on West Coast time, so these calls could go late, but I want to hear your voice again and we definitely need another bedtime story tonight. How about I call you at eleven?”

  “I’d love that, sir.” I grin at a passing pair of women who are giving me very strange looks. “The straights are staring at me, sir.”

  “Flash them your tits.”

  “Sir!”

  “Do it. Right now.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut, then do as I’m told. Thank God I wore a sports bra today. Still, what I’m doing is bad enough. The women stare at me in open-mouthed shock before hurrying away.

  “What happened?” Logan asks.

  “They ran away. Probably to call mall security.”

  He chuckles. “That’s a good girl for doing what you’re told. Go finish your shopping, and if mall security stops you, call me. Daddy will take care of it.”

  “Yes, sir. You’re crazy, sir.”

  “All the best people are, baby doll.”

  I grin at the Alice in Wonderland reference before I say goodbye.

  Mall security doesn’t stop me, and I find three super-cute sleep sets, in pink and white, at Sola, to top the two I found at Victoria’s Secret and the fairy tale nightie from Macy’s. I plan to do laundry once on the cruise, so that’s enough for ten days. Clutching my packages, I skip back to the car.

  Logan calls a minute before eleven. I love how punctual he is. I’ll always be able to count on him being where he says he’s going to be, when he says he’ll be there. Nothing like Ash, or Matthew, who was a sweetheart, when he wasn’t beating me up, but chronically fifteen minutes late.