I feel selfish. I had everything, and all I can think about lately is what I didn’t have.
Master Kellen looks me in the eye. He smiles and pays attention to what I have to say and how I feel. He’s not faking it, either. He genuinely cares about me, and I’ve only known him on a personal level for four days.
I wonder how long I can hold his attention before he grows bored with me. He’s only agreed to two weeks. Already I lament the day we’re done with this experiment. I don’t want to leave. Not in two weeks. It’s not long enough. I need more time.
I need someone to love me unconditionally forever.
Am I kidding myself? Master Kellen has made it clear that he’s only helping me short-term. Though he looked pleased with me this morning, maybe that’s because I was on my best behavior. He’s told me he won’t tolerate a brat. Am I a brat?
“Sabine…” he admonishes from across the room.
I jerk my gaze to him and find him frowning at me.
“Hold up your journal to today’s date.”
I reluctantly lift it so he can see the blank page.
“You’re daydreaming instead of doing your assignment. The journal is supposed to help you find yourself. It causes introspection. It’s also the reason you embarked on this journey. To learn more about what it’s like to live as a little.”
I swallow. Sometimes I forget we’re pretending. That I’m not really a little. Sometimes Master Kellen appears to be fully in the role, completely my Daddy figure. Sometimes, like now, he steps out to remind me this is purely an experiment. One I’m currently failing.
I lower my gaze at the same time I set the notebook back in front of me. I’ve had hundreds of thoughts in the last half an hour. I could have written them down, even if they were a hodgepodge of rambling words. That’s the point of the journal.
I can’t seem to help myself sometimes. I push Master Kellen’s buttons. I wonder each time if it will be the last straw and he’ll tell me this isn’t working out. Hell, maybe I’m not cut out for this lifestyle. I’m pulled in several directions. Wrestling with the possibilities.
I don’t want to fail at this. I want to learn everything there is to know even if I decide I hate it.
On the flip side, I’m worried I’m enjoying this arrangement more than I expected. It’s seeping into my skin or something. I’m beginning to understand the appeal. There are holes in my life, and being a little fills them.
There’s another issue, too. What if I do like being a little? Who would be my Daddy? Master Kellen has given me no indication he’s interested in something long-term between us. And yet, I can’t visualize submitting to another Master besides him.
I flinch, realizing my mind has wandered again, when Master Kellen stands and makes his way across the room. He scans the bookshelves and finally selects one. I’m nervous as he approaches and sets the book on my table. He picks up my journal, closes it, and sets it aside. “I want you to choose three main themes from this book and write a three-page paper about them.”
I gasp as I stare at the title. Wuthering Heights. Is he kidding? “How do you know I’ve read it?” I ask as if that’s the pressing question.
“You have a Masters in English. I’m taking an educated guess.”
I’ve read it of course. More than once. I took an entire class on Emily Brontë. I’m a little surprised it’s one of the many volumes on Master Kellen’s shelves. “Why?” I ask as I lift my gaze.
He reaches for my chin and holds it with two fingers. “First of all, I warned you I would give you other assignments if you didn’t do as you were told and write in your journal. Second of all, that’s twice in a row you’ve addressed me disrespectfully.” He lifts a brow.
I swallow. “Sorry, Sir. I’ll write in my journal. I promise. I’ll do it now.”
He continues to hold my chin, lowering his face. “When I tell you to do something, you do it without argument, little one. This isn’t a debate. My rules stand. Now, do you want to write your essay before or after I spank your bottom?”
Heat crawls up my face and I squirm in my seat, the movement making me more aware of my dress as it tickles my thighs and brushes against my nipples. My pink, cotton panties are suddenly damp. Why on earth do I consistently get aroused when I’m in trouble? It bothers me. It makes me nervous. It causes me to question my sanity.
“Sabine…” he warns again, reminding me he has asked me a question. He’s ingenious, too. Do I want to be punished now or later?
“Before, Sir,” I murmur.
He leans down and kisses my forehead. “Good. Get to work.” He releases me and saunters back across the room to lower himself once again into his desk chair.
He doesn’t give me another glance as I stare at him. I’m not interested in pondering Wuthering Heights today. Not even close. If I had been writing down my thoughts instead of simply sitting here thinking, I wouldn’t be in this predicament. It’s my own fault. Some part of my subconscious did this on purpose to test him. I’m introspective enough to realize it, but don’t seem to have the foresight to prevent it.
I slowly pull the notebook back toward me, rip out two pages from the back, and pick up my pencil. He wants an essay? Fine. I’ll give him an essay.
It takes me less than an hour to write about Brontë. I choose the themes of childhood, love, and feminism. The irony isn’t lost on me. A four-year-old sitting at a childish table writing about the complex topic of childhood from Wuthering Heights.
I’m proud
