I set the phone down and lie back, trying to ignore the ache in my sternum. Perhaps I have a subluxated rib. This ache has been bugging me there for a while now.
I text back:“That was good. Know what’s better?”
“?”
“You, bent over the end of my bed.”
It takes her a moment.“Is everything sex with you?”
“You’ve had sex with you—can you blame me?”
“What do you mean? I’ve never had sex with myself.”
I blink a few times at her message.“You’re saying you don’t touch yourself?”
“Oh.”Blushing emoji.
“Yeah, you have, haven’t you? Naughty pet.”
She doesn’t respond.
So I add:“I want to see you touch yourself while my cock slides in and out of you.”
The text bubbles pop up. Disappear. Pop up again. Like she’s debating what to say next.
And then she sends:“While I wear nipple clamps.”
A pleasant surprise from my pet, upping the ante like that. She’s a gambler.
“Diamond clamps. To match the diamond gag that I’ll put in your mouth. Maybe a diamond-tipped butt plug. You should sparkle for me.”
“I will if you make me come.”
“You’ll beg me for it.”
“Yes.”
It’s thatyesof hers that does it for me. The other stuff, that’s dressing. Her yes is the meal. She likes saying it. Likes acquiescing to me.
My balls ache, but I ignore them. Too much to do for that.
I’ve restructured my schedule so that I’m at the penthouse when Opal gets home from school. I’ve framed this internally as health monitoring. The framing is thin, and I know it’s thin, and I maintain it anyway, because the alternative is admitting that I’ve rearranged my professional calendar around the arrival of a five-year-old who wants to tell me about whatever she learned that day and will, if I sit down at the kitchen table with her, climb into the chair next to me and draw while she talks.
The drawings are good. The talking is better.
She has opinions about everything. The justice system as it applies to fish, the correct number of sprinkles on a cupcake (many), and whether dinosaurs would have made good pets (yes, specifically the small ones). She delivers these opinions with the complete authority of someone who has thought very carefully about the subject and arrived at the correct answer.
The truth is, I like being there when she gets home. I like it more than I’ve liked most things in recent memory. Talking to a child is not unlike talking to my inner self. There’s no subterfuge, no sugar-coating, no politeness like adults try to fake. Opal is direct and honest, and talking to her is a strange relief, but I never know what she’s going to say next. Normally, I hate that kind of thing. Not with her, though.
Today, Marco texted before seven.Someone needs help.
I text Alanda before I’m out of bed to let her know, and she responds in thirty seconds:omw.
When I get to Marco’s office, he’s in a mood. “The message,” he says, setting down the paper he was not actually reading, “is the same as last time. Stay out of Esposito’s business.” He folds hishands. “Last time I was informing you of a policy, and this time I’m informing you of a consequence.”
I keep my face still and my posture easy. “I thought I had a patient.”
“You do. You have me first. Explain yourself.”
