Sunday, July 15, 2012

Who's your Daddy?

Uh, sorry, our credit runner's out of order. 
Damn it all to hell. I love my little, independent, locally-roasted coffee shop, but these are issues to be expected: constant technical disfunction and general inconsistency. I can relate on a personal level, but I don't carry any cash on me as a general rule because it winds up slipping away like sand between a drooling child's open fingers. And so, frustration.
I got this one, Babe.  
Igor to the rescue! I smile and twirl one of my pigtails -- he likes when I put on a show. I lean over and give him an exaggerated peck on the cheek, look up at him with baby-doll eyes and squeak in a "little" voice:
Thanks, Daddy...
His eyes roll and then land in a stare that clearly communicates that he's over the theatrics. He puts his wallet away and as he turns, he throws his next words over his left shoulder like spilt salt:
Don't call me "Daddy". 
Hurt and a little stunned, it takes me a moment before I realize that I'm standing at the counter alone. I absentmindedly pull the elastic out of one pigtail as I wander to the table where he's sitting in his usual Dominant stance. He's cooler than the iced coffee.
Why don't you call Bacon your "Daddy?" He's old enough to be. 
I hate to jump to conclusions, but it seems that someone's feeling a little insecure.
He's only 32. That would make him a very virile 7 year old. 
Whatever, Sweets. It's just not my bag.  
Fair enough, I guess. The other pigtail comes out.

I'm at the beginning of my cycle, and Fangs has been taking really sweet care of me. Belly rubs, back rubs, neck rubs, every kind of rub, basically. He took me to all my favorite places in the city and then he took me to dinner and a movie. He selflessly guided me to orgasm to relieve my cramps and he fed me chocolate. When I was moody, he held me and told me I was beautiful until I felt better.

As much as he treats me like a princess, Fangs really does look like a Nordic prince. His long, fine hair rests in soft curls on his broad, strong shoulders. He looks at me with his disarmingly golden eyes, smiles, and offers me a giant hand clad in every opportunity with silver metal to help me into the vehicle.
You take such good care of me... 
Well, you're my baby, you know that?
The following debate takes place in my head in following .5 seconds: I'm going to say it. I'm not going to say it. *Breathe* Don't say it -- Remember last time? Oh, for fuck's sake, just get over yourself and say it. If it doesn't go over well, just have a little grace and laugh it off...
Does that make you my Daddy? 
I'm afraid to make eye contact, but when I look up at him from the car, I see a wide grin and four fangs.
I guess it does...
He chuckles to himself as he goes around to the driver's side, and I bubble inside.

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