Daddy’s Second Chance Little by Scott Wylder

CHAPTER SEVEN

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jocelyn

 

“Daddy! Daddy!”

I hear Michael thundering from the living room to the studio, and when he arrives, his muscles seem tense, ready. God, his body is incredible, and he looks like some kind of warrior god as he steps through the door. Watching his face, I realize that he has surveyed the room completely inside of second.

“What’s wrong Little Girl?”

“Nothing’s wrong, Daddy!” I say. I leap to my feet and jump onto him, kissing his face all over as I wrap my legs around his waist and rest my arms on his shoulders. His hands immediately come down to take hold of me to keep me up. I’m giggling and giddy and I kiss him all over, but he finally looks at me with a clear command. I giggle, of course.

“What’s this all about, Little Girl?” he asks.

“Daddy, all the ceramics sold out! They’ve only been up a week and they all sold out!”

“Little Girl!” he shouts and he twirls me around as I hold onto him, giggling, and keep trying to kiss his face all over.

It took such a long time to get organized and I have – I have to admit – finally had the guts to put them up on my site. If not for Michael, I would still be making excuses, but he’s resistant and unyielding about this. The thing that really shocks me is he doesn’t make any decisions. He just makes sure I follow through on the decisions that I make.

When he puts me down, I show him all the sales and then I strip so I can package everything up. I do that the way he likes it, with me working in front of him completely naked.

I like it. I like it probably even more than Michael does.

In the beginning, it was a fun, kinky kind of thing, to work naked in front of him. It was, I guess, all part of being his little girl, of him being in charge. I love the way it makes me submit to him. Now, however, I love it for much more. It instantly makes me feel vulnerable and exposed. When I do it, it makes me feel as if he not only sees my body but my mind, too.

It makes me feel unable to keep anything from my Daddy. So, my Daddy will know everything about how I feel and what I think, so he can take care of me.

Lena tells me none of the little girls she knows do it, but she loves the idea and might try it when she gets a Daddy again. She says the most important thing about a Daddy/little girl relationship is that it belongs to the Daddy and the little girl and not to anyone else. So, the way that he encourages me to work on my ceramics is ours to enjoy or negotiate.

As for me, I can’t believe how wonderful I feel.

He was right! All of the gift pieces I listed have sold!

When I finish, I can’t stop giggling and kissing his face and laughing and holding onto him. He twirls me around again, and then takes me to my desk, setting me on the chair and kneeling next to me. “Do we drop the packages off or do we have a carrier pick them up?”

“Pickup, Daddy,” I say. “They come every day for the other gifts.”

We get everything put in place, in the bin I keep by the door. There are more ceramic gifts than my usual shipments. I turn around and say, “Daddy, I didn’t believe you, but you were right.” I throw my arms around him and kiss him, feeling good about myself and great about my Daddy.

He lifts me up and carries me back to the studio. In about an hour, I have my plan in place for more of the gift-type figurines and other pottery. I can’t believe how great I feel, and that makes the next topic of conversation even harder to handle.

He says, “Okay, Little Girl. Now where are we with the art galleries?”

I have a list of them. I’ve gone that far. I haven’t contacted any. I’m afraid to. There’s a difference between customers buying an expensive figurine or vase for someone and an art professional judging my work. I swallow hard and lie through my teeth as I say, “I’ve been focused on the gift side. I set aside Tuesday to make art gallery calls, Daddy.”

I hate lying to him. I really hate it. I start crying.

Instantly, his arms are around me, holding me tightly. He lets me cry for a while and when I’m a little quieter he asks softly, “What’s wrong Little Girl?”

Instead of coming clean, I lie again. “I’m . . . are you disappointed that I didn’t call them, yet? I just wanted to do a good job on the commercial side.” I really don’t like how easy it is to lie to him, and I really don’t like how readily the lie comes to me. “I don’t want you to be disappointed in me.”

He pushes me back and kisses my forehead. “Little Girl, I’m not disappointed. You’ve done something really amazing, here. Tuesday is fine, as long as you didn’t delay it just because you were afraid of failing.”

“Oh, Daddy!” I say and throw my arms around him. I feel like a bitch as I say, “You’re wonderful!” Again, the lie comes far too easily. “I was just afraid I would get distracted on the other things and not do a good-enough job.”

“Tuesday it is, Princess,” he says as he kisses the top of my head. “I know a little girl who deserves to go out for ice cream.”

I hum against his chest happily, but I am far, far from happy. God! Michael is so damned perfect and here I am lying to him like a rotten person. I do a good job of hiding my feelings as we go out for ice cream, and the solution comes to me with a mouthful of whipped cream, hot fudge and vanilla. I can make it all right just by calling everyone on Tuesday. I feel better, a lot better. The rest of the evening is wonderful and, as always, the sex is breathtaking.

Tuesday comes and I don’t call the galleries.

Tuesday night comes and he asks how it went and I lie to him again.

On Wednesday I try to call the galleries, but can’t bring myself to dial any.

So, I lie to him on Wednesday night too.

It goes on for almost three weeks.

Then, one evening he says, “Are you okay?”

“Sure, Daddy,” I say. “Why?”

“I just want to make sure you don’t lose hope because the art galleries are taking some time.”

“Oh no, Daddy,” I say. “I just. . .” I can’t keep up the lie. I collapse on the couch and through horrible, heaving sobs, I come clean about everything. I cry like a baby and admit I was too afraid to call any of them. I can’t stop crying and Michael waits patiently for me to finish.

When I’m all cried out, he gently pushes me back, looks at me and says in a quiet voice a hell of a lot scarier than any of the times he’s used a stern voice with me.

“You’re in a lot of trouble, Little Girl,” he says. “A lot of trouble.”