Page 47 of Bedtime Stories
I glance at the books in my arms. “I… I found something that makes me happy. And…” My cheeks heat. “…I wandered over to the romance section.”
There’s a pause, and I hear a tiny chuckle. “Oh? And?”
“It… isn’t nearly naughty enough.” I shrug, laughing nervously. “But I figured, hey, I’m here, so why not. The real stuff is online, anyway.”
“Good call.” He sounds amused and approving. “Maybe you can show me later?”
I bite my lip, heart thudding. “Yeah… Maybe I will.”
We chat a little longer, and I feel lighter than I have in days—as if I can expose my little private worlds, my stories, and my messy thoughts out loud to someone, and he won’t judge.
“Alright, kiddo,” Keane says, voice low and warm. “Time to get home. I’ll call at bedtime?”
“Please,” I whisper. “I’d like that.”
I wake in the dark,but the story hasn’t left me. It’s still alive behind my eyelids, coiling and warm. In my dream, the little hedgehog climbs onto Daddy’s lap—my lap, Keane’s lap, it all blurs together—and I feel the deep rumble of his voice as he reads, each word vibrating through me.
I squirm, imagining Daddy’s hands brushing my back, guiding me, steady and firm. Maybe I’m the hedgehog, hoarding his touch instead of snacks? My skin tingles at every word, my body responding before my brain catches up. The hedgehog wiggles closer, shy but desperate for touch. Daddy smiles, patient and indulgent, letting the boy find comfort—and a little thrill—in his lap.
The words, the rhythm, the imagined heat… it makes me ache. I can feel the wet heat soak my undies, my chest tight, toes curling. I try to slow my breathing, to let the story guide me, but my fingers reach for my notebook beside the bed. I have to write this down before I forget.
Even in the dream, I scribble, turning the fantasy into words, my pencil racing to catch every squirm, every whispered “Good boy,” every brush of imagined skin. By the time I wake for real, sticky and flushed, the first morning light peeks through the blinds. My notebook is full, a private testament to the story only I—and soon, maybe Keane—will ever know.
And as I stretch under the sheets, heart still thudding, I think: the next time he reads to me, I’ll be ready. My words, my fantasies, my little desires… all for him.
