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That’s what his tone of voice does to me.
But in the glow of the streetlight, I can see his confusion. I say, “Okay, Daddy,” and I walk toward him. He offers his arm and I take it but when he sees I have no shoes, he lifts me up and carries me like a baby in his arms.
I feel guilty as hell. “I should have let you tickle me, Daddy,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
“Why didn’t you, little girl?” he asks softly.
I swallow hard and try to come up with a lie but instead I say, “I… I really hate tickling.” Before I know it all of the reasons I hate it come streaming out and when I’m done, I feel simultaneously better for telling the truth and also much worse for admitting I can’t be the little girl he wants.
He doesn’t say anything right away but after a while, he asks, “Why didn’t you tell me this the first time I tickled you?”
“I don’t know,” I reply.
“Don’t lie to me, little girl,” he says sharply.
I gulp and say, “Because Daddies are supposed to tickle little girls. I need to be a good little girl for you.”
He doesn’t respond. By then we’re at the house. He opens the door, carries me across the threshold and sets me down. I turn to look at him and I can’t read his expression. “Go to the living room, little girl,” he says, “and we’ll discuss your punishment.”
Punishment.
I guess punishment for not wanting to be tickled is a hell of a lot better than losing the man I love. “Yes, Daddy,” I say. I turn and walk slowly to the living room, heart beating fast but the rest of my body abuzz with a combination of fear for what’s to come and lingering arousal from Daddy’s tone of voice.
