Thank you, Daddy.

The king warned her if she kept watching the couple so intently she would be punished for it. One of the rules of such gatherings was “Don’t stare. We’re all freaks here.” But stare she did. The thirtysomething woman transformed herself into a little girl by simply making her face a mask of innocence, turning her lips into a pout, opening her eyes wide and clinging to her older lover with both hands. She found it fascinating that a woman would want to be treated like a child when she herself had fought so hard for so long to be treated like an adult.

“Is this a game you want to play?” the king whispered in her ear.

“No, of course not. It’s...”

“What? Too naughty even for you?”

That stung. Nothing was too naughty for her.

But...still...would she like this? Playing like a little girl? Calling your lover “Daddy”? Disturbing. Troubling.

And so very arousing...

No. Absolutely not. She refused to even entertain the idea of playing that game. It would be humiliating to pretend to be a little girl, to call Him Daddy, to act like a child when she was twenty-five years old.

It was too late, however. Her interest in the couple had been noted.

By Him.

Long ago, He’d warned her that He could become aroused in only one of two ways—by inflicting pain or inflicting humiliation. Some nights pain might not be enough for Him. Some nights He would humiliate her for His own pleasure. He then promised to refrain from that particular side of His sadism as much as possible. But now and again it appeared, unbidden. During a beating she’d realized she’d had a painfully full bladder and instead of excusing her to the bathroom He’d kicked a bucket into the center of the room and uttered the order, “Go.” When her period had started a few days early and she’d woken up to blood on His white sheets, He’d stood over her at the bathtub while she’d had to scrub the stains out, crying with mortification the entire time.

But after...oh...after... He’d bent her over the bathroom counter and fucked her from behind so hard that if she hadn’t been bleeding already, she would have started.

Those humiliations, however, paled in comparison to this new hell.

With trembling hands she dressed in the child’s nightgown that fit her so well she knew it had been made for her. The club had a quartermaster of sorts whose sole job it was to provide the high-level members with anything they needed. A child’s nightgown that would fit an adult woman likely numbered among the least strange of the requests she filled weekly.

There were ribbons, too. It took three tries for her to plait her untamable black hair into twin braids and to steady her fingers enough to tie the ribbons in little bows at the ends. She felt scared as a child, nervous as a child, excited as a child.

When she walked out of the bathroom, she wasn’t twenty-five anymore, but seven. Seven and scared and miserable. If it had been a game she would have played it with pleasure but this wasn’t a game to her, although it was to Him. She would never tell another soul of this night; it was far too private and personal and, of course, because that was the point...it was far too humiliating.

In His bedroom, the lights were all off but for the old brass lamp on His bedside table. He reclined on His side on the bed wearing jeans and a black long-sleeve T-shirt with the sleeves pushed up to reveal His sinewy forearms. His feet were naked, and His blond hair was slightly damp and slicked back as if He’d run His fingers through it a few times after coming in from the snow. Open on the bed in front of Him was a book, a book she hadn’t seen before. The bed was the same bed but the covers looked different. Usually He slept on white sheets covered by a simple white quilt. But He’d changed them tonight. Once she’d told Him that as a little girl she’d loved visiting her grandparents because she had her own bed there—a twin bed with a pastel-blue-and-white-striped quilt and the sheets were covered in laughing white moons and smiling yellow stars. The sheets and the quilt on His bed weren’t identical to the ones she remembered from her childhood days visiting her grandparents. But they were close enough to take her breath away.

He must have known she was standing there, but He didn’t look at her and He wouldn’t look at her until she spoke the word He wanted her to speak, the word that would begin the night’s humiliations. The last word she wanted to say to Him.

“Daddy?” Standing in the open doorway to His bedroom, she felt more exposed in that child’s nightgown than she would have been naked.

He looked up from the book in front of Him and smiled an indulgent fatherly smile at her.

“What’s wrong, Little One?” He asked, and the name He’d called her for years now took on a darker connotation. “You look upset.”

She nodded and held on to the bow of her nightgown with both hands, twisting the fabric nervously.

“Come here.” He waved her over to Him and on her bare feet she walked to Him, slowly...slowly, drawn to Him and repelled in equal measure.

He closed the book and set it on the bedside table. She stood between His knees. Reaching out He tugged lightly on the tip of her braid.

“Are you tired?”

She shook her head.

“Then what’s wrong?” His voice was so tender and fatherly she burst into tears. He pulled her into His arms and held her while she cried. Holding her on His lap, He gently rocked her and shushed her until her sobs subsided.

“I don’t want you to be mad at me.”

“I’m never mad at you.”

“Then why are you making me do this?” she asked.

“Because I love you.”

“You aren’t mad at me?” She was certain He was punishing her for something by making her play this horrible game. But was it a punishment? Was it a horrible game? Or was it something she had wanted, something she had dreamed of, something she had desired and never told Him because she couldn’t bring herself to tell Him?

“I could never be mad at you. Never ever.”

“Promise?” she asked.

“Look at me,” He said in such a tone she obeyed instantly. “You know that, don’t you? You know you could never disappoint me? Yes?”

She nodded. “Yes, Daddy.”

“Good girl.” He tugged her braid again, then tickled her nose with the tip of it.

She wrinkled her nose.

“That tickles,” she said. “Stop it.”

“Stop it? Stop what? This?” He tickled her neck now with the tip of her braid.

“Yes, that. Stop.” She tried to pull away from the tickling, but He grabbed her arms with both hands. Before she knew it, He had her flat on her back, His knees straddling her hips.

“You don’t like being tickled?” He slipped His hand under her nightgown to lightly caress her stomach. She squirmed under His touch. He was only thirty-nine, but He seemed older tonight. Or maybe He only seemed older than thirty-nine because she felt so little and young and scared.

“No, Daddy.” She tried to wriggle out from under Him but there was no escaping Him and His searching, finding fingers.

“Why not?”

She panted, breathless with laughter.

“Because...” She attempted to twist herself out of His grip and failed miserably.

“Because why?” He brushed His fingertips over her rib cage and the sensation was so acute it hurt.

“Because...it...tickles...” Finally she managed to slip out of the prison of His knees and tickling fingers. She made it to the other side of the bed before He caught her again and pulled her to Him.