Sadie's Little Christmas - Maren Smith Page 0,27
to stop at her first hint of distress, but there hadn’t been any. She’d liked being bound. She’d gotten so wet, and that wetness had positively flowed for the biting sting of the ginger plug as he’d fucked her bottom with it. Her pussy and clit had both swelled. Her nipples had never been anything but hard as diamonds. Unlike here at the dinner table, her reactions as he’d brought her to orgasm had been open, honest, and beautiful to watch.
“I’m too well-padded,” she said, squirming on her diapered bottom. “I bet I won’t even feel it.”
“Try me,” he countered, accepting her ill-thought-out challenge.
She glowered, her sulk that of any Little being forced to adopt a headspace that didn’t come naturally. Sadie wasn’t a toddler, and he knew that. From what he’d seen of her Little so far, he’d have pinned her ‘age’ somewhere around the four- to six-year-old range, with a healthy dose of naughty teen when it came to getting her bottom figged and her pussy fucked.
He was fine with both. Honestly, he didn’t care what age or ages she identified with, so long as she stopped castigating herself simply for having a Little side.
The server brought their meals. Sadie got her salad, and Derek, his sample platter with its heaping helping of everything most Littles liked the best—chicken nuggets, creamy mac and cheese, pizza crackers done up like monster faces. She stared at it, glints of Little envy lighting up her eyes. It wasn’t quite gone when she flicked her gaze back to his, but he knew what he’d seen. Deny it though she did, Sadie was a Little, and she was—for whatever reason—just stubborn enough to keep fighting it, no matter how miserable it made her.
“All right,” Derek said carefully. “Make me a deal.”
“What do you mean?” Her eyes narrowed. “What kind of deal?”
“Give me from this moment right now until bedtime on Christmas—that’s two days—to show you there’s nothing weird, abnormal, or scary about your Little. After that, I won’t ask you to be Little again for,”—he thought about it—“the rest of the month. I won’t do things that make you feel Little. I won’t even bring it up.”
Her chest heaved, her breathing quickening with concern.
“Does that mean no spankings?”
Tempted though he was, he didn’t so much as crack a smile at her distress.
“I promise if you are a naughty girl—or perhaps even a very good one—I will happily spank you, and I don’t care what age you are.”
She relaxed as she considered that.
“I don’t like the diaper.”
He resisted smiling at that, too.
“The diaper is a punishment for your earlier naughtiness. It stays on the rest of the night, however…” He held up a finger when her eyebrows came crashing down over petulant eyes. “If you are good the rest of the night, I’ll let you wear big girl panties to bed and for the rest of our deal. But that means you have to be open-minded and cooperative about the things I ask of you. I’m going to dress you as a Little, treat you like a Little, introduce you to Little things. You’ll spend all day tomorrow in the nursery with Nanny J and all my other caterpillars. You don’t have to pretend to be something you’re not. You just be you but be an open-minded you. Can you do that?”
She tapped her fingers on the edge of the table.
“C-can I have a monster pizza while I think about it?”
He lost himself to the adorableness of her request. Grinning, he pushed the platter into the middle of the table between them.
“Help yourself, darlin’.”
***
Sadie ate half of everything on Derek’s plate. She couldn’t help it, the food was fantastically good. She had no idea what made her order the stupid salad. She hated salads. Looking back, she’d just been so irrationally angry—with him, with herself, with everything—as if she was trying to punish herself with things designed only to make her madder.
She couldn’t believe her own announcement regarding Spankles. That stuffie had been hers since she was twelve and had to go into the hospital to get her tonsils out. Her foster father, at the time, had given her twenty dollars to buy herself a present while she recovered. No, she wasn’t twelve anymore, and yes, eighteen was a little old for Build-A-Bears, but Spankles was hers. She couldn’t even imagine trying to sleep without it tucked up under her arm. As aggravated as she’d been at the time, she was relieved he’d called