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BJ’s jaw drops. He clutches my shirt, gazing deep into my eyes. "You… really want to be my Daddy?"
Oh, my gods. This is exactly like the fantasy scenario I concocted.
BJ is holding my shirt like he’ll die if he lets go, like I’m the strong protector he’s always craved who he desires with all his heart.
I smile as I brush a strand of hair from his ear. "Oh yes, I do. You’re perfect, BJ. Sweet, petite, bite-sized, and as adorable as a pistachio doughnut designed in the shape of a googly-eyed grasshopper. I want to take a big bite of you and satisfy all my hungries. I wouldn’t need to eat for a long, long time."
BJ scrunches his face, then clenches his thighs. A soft, tremulous moan escapes his lips, and it’s so quiet that it’s barely audible.
He stares between his legs. "You’re making it so hard."
"What’s hard?"
BJ sucks in a breath. "My wee wee."
His what?
Sweet fucking gods. Never in my life have I heard… I know that Waxley and Calloway use that term, but…
I hug BJ tight. "I know you said red light earlier, sweet boy, so I won’t press you. One thing at a time. When you’re ready to tell me more about what you like, I’ll be ready. Believe me, I’m very accepting. You’re safe in my arms."
"Thank you, Daddy," BJ whispers, shaking in my grip. His nose presses against my lowest belly roll, burrowing like a tiny critter. "I appreciate you for respecting my boundaries."
It’s not long before BJ actually falls asleep this time. A real sleep, a deep sleep that doesn’t contain snoring, but gentle sighs.
There’s a hug bug in my arms.
A hug bug who wants to ride dump trucks and dig holes with his Daddy.
I’m so lucky.
FOUR
BJ
When I wake next, I’m not sure how much time has passed.
That’s the beauty of the cuddle room. Waxley and Calloway both prepared me for this, but I ignored them because I hadn’t experienced it.
Now, I know what they meant.
Time seems to both expand and contract here. How many hours have passed since Bryce and I entered, I couldn’t tell you. One bleeds into the next which seeps into infinity.
I really hate time. At my job, I prefer that the clock is covered, because when I stare at it, it makes the day ten times longer. I hate that I can’t keep it covered because my boss yells at me and says that keeping an eye on the clock is better for my productivity.
I’m actually more productive when I get into a task and ignore how long I’ve been doing it. When I check the time or even my progress, I lose momentum and get out of a nice flow state.
The cuddle room is such a flow state. But it’s a flow state of the universe, one that runs on galaxy time instead of human time. The universe doesn’t acknowledge the limitations of the human clock. Things endlessly repeat, expand, seem to vanish, only to come back again in a new form, like waves that are made of the same base elements but which never truly disappear because they’re always regenerating themselves, like reincarnated forms.
The way we experience time is different from the way that we measure it, and perhaps if we measured it the way we experienced it, I wouldn’t be so against clocks… Except how do you really measure something that’s inherently unquantifiable? Closing my eyes, I can traverse nineteen years of my life, with no single year sticking out as any concrete marker as to exactly how old I am. Things that happened when I was ten feel realer and fresher to me than things that happened last year, except when I think about them for too long, they almost seem as if they’ve happened to a different person altogether. This makes no sense to me but then again, I’m no scientist, even though I did well in Intro. to Physics freshman year.
A heavy, protective arm is looped around me. It pulls me into a fluffy, warm body, one that makes me feel safe and small.
"Daddy." I blush, then squeeze Bryce tight. Why, oh why, does he feel so good to hug?
And he said he wanted to be my Daddy. That’s something I didn’t see coming.
Bryce traces circles on the small of my back. "Wakey wakey, boy."
