Convincing Leah by Becca Jameson

Chapter 11

Craig

Game on. I gently remove the cup of milk from her hands and turn back to the counter. After setting it down, I open a drawer and find the matching lid for that cup. I snap it on and turn back around to hand it to her. “Now you can’t spill it.”

She giggles as she takes it. “Damn. You’re serious.”

I narrow my gaze. “No bad words.”

Another giggle. “Got it.”

I so badly want to ask her to call me Daddy, but I won’t. It wouldn’t be authentic. I’d rather wait for a day when she does it on her own without me requesting it.

I kiss her forehead and turn around yet again to start the pancakes, praying I don’t burn them in my state of elation. I’m so distracted by this unexpected boon. I also need to remind myself every few minutes that she is only giving this a try. It’s not permanent. I can’t push her. Whatever she eventually decides, I have to accept her decision.

Plus, something deeply psychological is going on with her. There was a catalyst to this shift. Probably it was a combination of events that happened too close together for her to avoid facing her past. Something absolutely happened to her. At this point, I’m not sure she even knows it. Maybe it’s fucking buried, which would be challenging.

“How many littles have you had?” she asks me, yanking me out of my thoughts.

I glance at her. “Just my ex-wife. After her, I dabbled at clubs, but I’ve never had a little living with me or even spend the night.” Not until you.

“Oh. Why do you have stuff like sippy cups then?”

I lean a hip against the counter so I can face her while I stir the batter. “Mostly because I’ve filled my house with wishful thinking.”

She grins. “Is anything left over from your wife?”

I shake my head. “No. Part of the reason we got divorced was because after we spent a few years dabbling in age play, she realized she was more suited as a middle. She gravitates to an older age. Like twelve or thirteen.”

“Oh. What age do you enjoy?”

“In a perfect world, about five. I enjoy the nurturing aspects. I’d prefer a little who needs and wants to be taken care of. Fed. Bathed. Rocked.”

“Like Eve or Lucy or a lot of the other littles at the club.”

“Exactly.” It makes me nervous to share all of my preferences with her. I have to worry she might be turned off and run. That’s the last thing I want. But the truth is my best path. It always is.

I pour batter into the heated pan and then open the cabinet and pull out three plastic plates—hot pink, blue, and yellow. “Which color do you want?”

She scrunches up her nose. “Pink. Yellow is ugly.”

I chuckle as I put the other two away. “I thought yellow was sunny.”

“Bleh.” That silly noise coming from her lips makes my cock hard. I need to get a grip or I’m going to end up excusing myself to relieve the growing pressure in my jeans.

I sprinkle chocolate chips on the tops of the pancakes and then flip them before grabbing the syrup and butter. I point at the cup in her hands with my spatula. “Drink your milk, sweetheart. You need extra fluids today.”

She lifts it, tips it back, and sucks.

Watching this one small action melts me into a pile of goo. Is she faking like she suggested, just for the day? Or is this authentic? “Can I ask you questions too?”

“Sure.”

I lift her pancakes out of the pan and onto the pink plate before turning off the burner. While she watches, I add butter and syrup and cut them up into bite-sized pieces. After taking the plate to the table, I return to lift her off the counter with one hand under her bottom, easily carrying her across the room.

She squeals at the gesture, grabbing my neck. “You make me use two hands to drink milk, and now you’re using one hand to carry a human.”

I chuckle as I sit her on her chair and scoot her up to the table.

It’s her turn to laugh when I hand her a chubby toddler fork with a pink handle.

I slide into the seat next to her.

“You’re not going to eat?”

“Nope. I ate earlier.”

She takes a bite and moans as she chews. “These are so good. Thank you. I can’t remember when I’ve had pancakes. They always seem like a mess and too impractical to cook just for me.”

I tap her nose. “I just cooked them for you.”

“And I feel a little awkward letting you do stuff for me too.”

“It’s what I love, sweetheart. Nothing makes me happier than taking care of a little girl.”

“Sounds exhausting.”

“On the contrary, it’s fulfilling.” I hand her a napkin. “You need more to drink. You want more milk? Water? Juice?”

“Water is fine. Thank you.”

I get up and fix her a sippy cup of water, pink this time. “Is pink your favorite color?”

She shrugs. “Never thought about it.”

I frown. “Who doesn’t have a favorite color? When you were little, what color was your room?”

She stops moving, her fork midair, syrup dripping off the bite of pancake. She finally sets her fork down. “I was never little.”

My chest seizes again. She said something similar last night. I school my voice so that it’s soft and calm. “You told me last night that you were born an adult. What did you mean?”

She hesitates and then leans back and looks at me. “I’ve never talked about my childhood with anyone.”

Fuck. “How about you finish your breakfast first,” I suggest. I don’t want her to get all emotional and not finish eating.

She silently eats the last few bites, though I suspect she can’t taste anything. I take her plate and fork to the dishwasher and return with a wet washcloth.

She giggles again as I wipe her hands and then her face. “How are you single? You’ve been retired two years and you haven’t found a little who would take you up on the offer to be her Daddy? I’d think they’d be lined up. There are lots of littles without caregivers.”

I lift her out of the chair and hold her against my chest, pleased when she wraps her legs and arms around me to hold on. I’m not unaware of the fact that her pussy is naked and pressed against my shirt. I doubt she is either, judging by the shudder.

I head straight for the sectional and sit, maintaining this position so she ends up straddling my lap.

She leans in and whispers conspiratorially, “I’m not wearing panties.”

I whisper back, “I know.” I lift her bottom with one hand and tug the T-shirt fully under her with the other. “Better?”

“Maybe.”

I grip her hips to still her squirming. “Tell me about your childhood.”

She clears her throat. “My mother was diagnosed with Huntington’s Disease when I was five, so my childhood didn’t exist after that.”

“Oh, sweetheart, I’m so sorry. Do you have siblings?”

She shakes her head. “Just me and Mom. She kicked my dad out before I was born and never saw him again.” She fiddles with the hem on her shirt against my stomach.

“Did you have anyone helping you?” I know I’m not going to like the answer.

“No. My mom was very private and didn’t want anyone to know she was sick. She was only able to work for another year after her diagnosis, and then she went on long-term disability and I took care of her.”

“At six?” I can’t hold back the gasp.

She swallows hard. “Even at five. I took over nearly every household duty. That year she continued working she was so exhausted when she got home that she couldn’t even cook.”

I know my eyes are bugging out, and I’m trying not to squeeze her hips so hard that I’ll leave bruises. Holy shit. “Sweet girl…” I slide my hands to her back and pull her against me, hugging her to my chest.

After a few moments, she leans back again. “I didn’t really see it as a big deal. It was just the way my life was.”

“But what about friends and playdates and school and birthday parties?”

“I went to school, but that was it. I rushed home after school to take care of Mom.”

“You weren’t kidding. You really were an adult.”

A tear runs down her cheek and she swipes at it as she sucks in a breath and shakes away the sadness. I hate that for her.

“How long did your mother live?” I ask gently.

“Fifteen years. Luckily, I made it to eighteen before she was too far along for me to take care of her. She moved into an assisted living facility and lived two more years. I visited her every day. I had power of attorney, and I moved into a smaller apartment to save on rent.”

“Did you work too?”

She nods. “I started waitressing as soon as Mom moved into the home, but by then I had already published my first short stories.”

I smile. “That’s amazing. How did that happen?”

“One of my high school English teachers encouraged me to submit my work to a contest. I won. It gave me the courage to send my short stories to a few literary agents. I was lucky. People liked my work. I kept selling more stories.”

I give her a jiggle. “I’m sure it’s because you’re talented, Leah. Not lucky.”

She shrugs. “Both I guess.”

“So, you’ve been writing ever since?”

“Yep. I love writing. I started writing stories as soon as I could hold a pencil. I think it was my way of escaping. We didn’t have extra money for frivolous things like toys and games and electronics, but we could afford notebooks and pencils. I spent all of my free time either reading or writing my own stories.”

“That’s amazing.”

She draws in a deep breath. “So, that’s my life. I don’t use an agent anymore. I publish everything myself, but I make enough money to live, and I enjoy it, so that’s what I do.”

“I’m beyond impressed, but also sad for the little girl who didn’t have a childhood.”

“I survived.” She pastes on a brave smile. “Can we talk about something else?”

“Yes. When are you going to let me read one of your books?”

She tucks her head, dipping it to one side shyly. “You know my pen name now, don’t you?”

“Yep. Suzanne Richards. I like it. I can also easily google you and download any book I want. Or…” I reach out and tickle her side. “You can let me read off your laptop.”

She giggles, shoving at my finger. “You’re not going to take no for an answer, are you?”

“Nope. Especially not today. I’m the Daddy for the day, remember?” I tickle her again, loving the way she squirms in my arms. My shirt is loose on her tiny frame, but I can see the outline of her breasts, and her pert nipples graze the front of the shirt as she moves.

What I’d like to do is yank this shirt off her sweet body, toss her on the couch, and eat her pussy until she’s writhing and can’t remember her name. But that seems like more than she can handle today.

I lift my gaze when she stills. She looks serious again.

“Tell me what else you would do if you really were my Daddy.”

I clear my throat. “You really want to know or are you just changing the subject in the hopes I’ll forget I want to read one of your books?”

She shrugs. “Both. But I really want to know. Now’s your chance. Paint the picture for me. What would your life look like if you could have the perfect little?”

“Okay, for starters, I would fix that room up exactly how she would want it.”

“With what kinds of things?”

“I’d paint it pink since you…since nobody likes yellow. And then I’d buy furniture. Maybe white. Something fresh and bright. A twin bed. Dresser. Bookshelves. Toybox.”

She grins at me. “Would your little girl sleep in there?”

“Sometimes. Naptime for sure.”

She scrunches up her nose. “Naptime. That’s silly. I’d only be pretending to be little. I wouldn’t really need a nap.”

I slide my hands up and down her lower back as I talk, wondering if she’s noticed that she’s taken it from ‘your little girl’ to referring to herself. “Little girls need naps to keep them from getting cranky in the evenings.”

She rolls her eyes.

I squeeze her butt cheeks. “I’d spank your bottom every time you rolled your eyes at me like that too.”

She gasps, her eyes going wide. “You wouldn’t.”

I lift a brow. “Try me?”

She shakes her head. “No thank you.”

I chuckle. “But that’s half the fun. It’s part of the fetish. Not for every little, mind you. But you like getting spanked, so I’m certain you would find a way to ensure I spanked you most days.”

She squirms on my lap again. “I let myself get spanked two times a week at the club. Not every day.”

I open my mouth but then find I’m caught up on her word choice. “What do you mean you let yourself get spanked?”

She shrugs, her fingers coming to my chest and tracing random patterns on my pecs.

I grab her fingers in one hand and bring them to my lips, kissing them one at a time. “Answer me, sweetheart.”

Her voice is soft. “I just mean that’s how I get my release. Getting spanked.”

“What’s special about two nights a week?” I realize I’ve been spanking her two nights a week for a while. Wednesdays and either Friday or Saturday. We never go both weekend nights. I’ve always assumed going two nights in a row was more than she could handle, but now I’m wondering if there’s more to it.

She licks her lips. “It’s hard to explain.”

“My IQ is probably high enough,” I tease.

She shoots me a glare. “I so want to roll my eyes at you.”

“But you won’t because it’s a Thursday?”

She groans, her shoulders dropping as she slouches. “I think I’m kind of addicted to the release,” she mutters. “Or I could get addicted if I let myself.”

I’m trying to understand. “Addicted to the masochism? Is that what you mean?”

“Yes. I limit myself to twice a week to keep it in check.”

I don’t move a muscle. I’m trying to get in her head, but it’s hard. “Why do you need to keep it in check? If it feels good, no one is going to judge you for getting the release you enjoy more often. Certainly not me.”

She lifts one shoulder and lets it drop again, staring at my chest instead of my face. “Submitting is like crack. It feels so good. It’s like it absolves me of my transgressions or something, like going to confession, only at the club instead. I give you, or whoever, permission to dominate me and chase away my naughty side so that I feel better.”

Her words are changing in tone. Does she know she’s speaking to me like a little? I’m not going to point it out. This is important. There’s a lot to unpack here.

“Do you think you have a naughty side?” I ask cautiously. That word is what triggered her the other night.

“No, because I don’t let myself be bad. But I have naughty thoughts, or I don’t get my work done, or I don’t keep my room clean or stuff like that, and then when you spank me, I forgive myself.” She humphs. “It’s fucked-up. I know.”

“Hey…” I grip her chin. “Remember what I said about cussing?”

Her face reddens. She didn’t do it on purpose. She totally forgot my rule. Her lip trembles. “I’m sorry, Sir.”

Shit. Holy shit.

Her eyes are watery and she turns her face away to wipe them.

“Sweet girl…” Fuck. Me. She’s so very little and so many things are happening here. I can’t keep up. “There’s nothing wrong with being naughty sometimes. Everyone is naughty sometimes. No one is perfect.”

She lowers her face again, fiddling with her shirt. “I’m not supposed to be naughty.”

I swallow. “Why not?”

“Because… I’m just not.” She twists hard and scrambles off my lap.

It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but I let her go, watching her find her feet and run from the room. It would have been wrong for me to hold her against her will right now and force her to explain. She needed to break the intensity of the connection.

I stand, shuffling after her though. It’s okay that she needed to get away, but I won’t let her hide from herself or from me indefinitely. I catch up with her as she’s climbing onto my bed and then burrowing herself under the covers. All the way under.

She’s a tight ball in the middle of the bed. A ball of little girl who has kept so much bottled up inside that she’s about to burst. I imagine she’s had a high wall around herself for twenty-five years, and the horror of yesterday has broken something inside her, like she said. She already figured that out first thing when she woke up. Something snapped. She’s unraveling.

I believe when the dust settles, she will find her little underneath. I hope she lets me be the one to catch her and guide her, but I need help. I have a pretty solid grip on my Daddy side, but I might hurt her further if I don’t find someone far more knowledgeable than me to help her work through this pain.

I sit on the edge of the bed and rub her back. “Why don’t you take a nap, sweet girl?”

She nods under the covers. I’m not sure how she can even breathe.

“Would it be okay if I called Master Quinten to ask him a few questions? I think you have a lot to unpack. Maybe he can help.”

“Okay.” Her voice is so faint, I almost can’t hear it.

I lean over her and hug her briefly even though I can’t see an inch of her. “Rest, sweet girl.”

As I leave the room, I pull the door almost closed. I want to be able to hear her if she calls out to me or gets scared or confused or sad.

I head to my office next. I need to call Roman and see if he can put me in touch with Master Quinten.