Page 52 of Bear’s House

"No, not that one," I kept saying every time I didn't find the perfect one.

Then I came across a pumpkin so big it was wider than both my thighs together — and I wasn't even that short. JJ was shorter than me.

"This one, Daddy," I told him. He laughed and nodded.

It was quite a job carrying the pumpkins, since we hadn't grabbed a wheelbarrow, and Daddy had to carry the giant one and then go back for Sawyer's. I carried mine and JJ's — I thought I could have managed one more too, but Daddy shook his head and said:

"Leave it to me, sweetheart."

We grabbed the pumpkins and headed to the car. I was so happy, and I'd relaxed enough to finally let my little self come all the way out — my baby self.

Chapter 19. Mikey

We got back home and I was so grateful, and I wanted to show that to Daddy.

"Can I do something for you, Daddy?" I asked, once we were already inside.

"Like what, sweetheart?" he said.

"I want to serve you."

He gave me one of those wolf smiles. "Sounds good. Let's go to our room," he said.

The bedroom was exactly the way I liked it. Soft and warm. Daddy had pulled the curtains earlier that morning, and the afternoon light came in. I followed him inside and my whole body felt loose-limbed and bright-eyed. Adult Mikey had softened somewhere between the moth plushie and the giant pumpkin, and what was left at the front of my mind was baby — the version of myself that didn't have to pretend I was fine.

Daddy sat on the edge of the bed, his weight making the mattress dip under him. He was still in his jeans and the shirt he'd worn to the garden, rolled up at the sleeves. His arms were thick and solid and I wanted to crawl into his lap before he even invited me.

He didn't invite me right away, though. He looked at me, and his eyes were warm and exactly the kind of warm that made my stomach do that little flip it always did.

"So, sweetheart," he said. "Were you a good boy today?"

My face split into a giggle immediately. I couldn't help it.

"I was very good," I announced without a beat of hesitation. "I was so good, Daddy. I picked out all the pumpkins and I didn't even complain when you said no to the chrysalis and I held the moth really carefully the whole time and I..."

He held my gaze, the corner of his mouth twitching.

"Very sure of yourself, aren't you, baby?"

I giggled harder.

"I was good."

"You were," he agreed, and the warmth in his eyes sharpened into something that made me squirm. "A very good boy. Which means Daddy gets to decide what kind of reward such a good boy deserves."

Oh.

My cheeks went pink. I could feel the heat spreading across my face, and the giggle stayed right there with it because I knew exactly what kind of mood that look meant. This wasn't correction. I hadn't done anything wrong. Daddy was playing with me.

Daddy patted his thigh once.

I didn't need to be asked twice. I was still giggling, but there was a new squirm in my posture now, a wriggle that started in my shoulders and worked its way down to my toes. I draped myself over his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world, which it was. His thigh was solid under my stomach, the denim rough against my skin where my shirt had ridden up. I tucked my arms under my chest and let my weight settle against him, and the bed creaked a little under us, and Daddy's hand came to rest on the small of my back.

"Such a proud little thing," he said, and his voice had that fond edge to it, the one that meant he found me funny. "So certain you deserve a reward."

His hand moved from my back to the waistband of my jeans, and he tugged them down slowly, along with my underwear, until the cool air hit my bare skin and I shivered. At least I had been very good and was wearing my white briefs, the kind Daddy expected us to wear when we weren't in cartoon underwear or diapers.

The first smack landed and it was soft, just a warm press of his palm against my skin. The second one came a beat later, in the same rhythm, and then the third, and then he settled into it. His broad hand landed across my ass in a steady pattern, each stroke firm enough to leave a warm sting but never tipping over into real pain. This wasn't a punishment. This was Daddy's hand on my skin, and the rhythm of it, and the way each smack sent a little pulse of warmth through me that built and built until I was squirming against his thigh, not trying to get away but trying to get closer.