Total pages in book: 36
Estimated words: 34149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 171(@200wpm)___ 137(@250wpm)___ 114(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 34149 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 171(@200wpm)___ 137(@250wpm)___ 114(@300wpm)
I have social skills. Sort of. I have years of good counselling that have helped me say the right things in public. I can put my idiosyncrasies on the back burner most of the time and play with the other Littles.
Coloring is my favorite thing to do, especially at the club. I’m far less likely to get triggered by some stupid stimuli in the room if I’m focused on coloring.
Littles are mostly kind and accepting and fun. They don’t judge me. I feel safe here among them. That’s why I come every week. But I’m thinking I might have made a poor choice this week. It’s too crowded. Too loud. I don’t see anyone coloring.
More importantly, I hate this dress. It’s already itching me in about ten places. I should have tried it on at home and worn it around my apartment for a while before I arrived.
“Okay, I’m going to dance,” Zia informs me. “Come find me if you want to play together.”
I nod. She really is super kind. She’s genuine. As she bounces off, her blonde pigtails fly through the air.
I ease farther into the room, sticking to the wall where I’m less likely to run into anyone. Part of me already wants to go home.
Stay. Have fun. Loosen up.
Someone bumps into me. They don’t even know it. They keep moving forward. It wasn’t intentional. I know my social cues.
I realize the reason no one is coloring is because the tables are all pushed to the wall along one side tonight to make room for dancing and games. The punch and some cookies are being served from the tables. They have black plastic tablecloths, the kind that can be thrown away at the end of the night.
I step on something that crunches, and when I glance down to see what it is, I pick up my clear shoe to discover I’ve landed on a yellow lollipop. It’s broken now into lots of tiny fragments, and my shoe is all sticky.
I look around, wondering what to do. I shouldn’t just leave the lollipop on the floor. Someone else will step on it. But I don’t have the first idea about how to fix the problem. I’m certainly not going to bend down and pick up all the shards of candy off the floor.
“You okay, Little one?”
The deep male voice has me tipping my head back and back and back. It’s coming from Chase. He’s standing right in front of me. I’m only five feet tall. He’s at least six feet, so he towers over me, making me feel even Littler than usual.
Chase is the sexiest Daddy I’ve ever seen, and he’s talking to me. He’s a police officer. Sometimes I’ve seen him wearing his uniform before he’s had a chance to go change in the locker room. He’s not a policeman tonight though, he’s Prince Charming. A little shiver crawls up my spine as I let myself think of him being my prince.
He squats in front of me, which puts his face slightly lower than mine. I find it oddly calming. “Did you step on something?”
I nod.
“Let’s see what it is. Can I help, princess?”
My eyes widen when he calls me princess. “I think it’s a lollipop,” I murmur. “It’s broken now. I-I-I didn’t know what to do.”
“No worries. Daddies know how to clean up messes. How about if you lift up your foot for me? Let’s see if any of it is stuck to your shoe.” He pats his shoulders. “You can balance yourself on my shoulders.”
I swallow hard. Touch him? The alternative seems… I don’t even know what the alternative is at this point. He’s going to help me. I need to accept his help.
When I set my hands on his broad shoulders, I find myself relaxing. He didn’t touch me first. He let me make the decision. I’m much better when I touch people on my terms.
I lift my foot, surprised when Chase doesn’t touch my ankle or even my shoe. He carefully picks the slivers of candy off the bottom of my shoe and the floor, piling the sticky mess in his other hand.
“There,” he declares. “I think I got it all.”
When I set my foot down, I wince. He definitely didn’t get it all. I’m not sure it would all be cleaned up even if I put the shoe in the sink.
It’s just a little sticky. You’re fine. The soles were already sticky in the first place.
Yeah, but now they are unevenly sticky. The right shoe is tackier with every step. Not that I’ve gone anywhere. I’m still in the same spot, but I’m testing the shoes by lifting and lowering them several times.
“Still sticky, huh?” Chase asks.
“It’s okay.”
“You sure? I could get a wet paper towel if you’d like.”
I shake my head. Asking him to wash the bottom of my shoe is not what my counselor, Melissa, would consider regular social behavior. “It’s fine.”