Yes Daddy

She sets her purse down, and her keys clatter on the faded Formica counter next to it. “I’ve never had a man in my apartment before.” She grins, twisting her lips to the side. “And I…” she stalls, squinting an eye at me, then pushes her blonde hair back behind her ears again as her tongue touches her top lip.

“What?” I shove my hands down in my pockets, trying to control my hard-on. When she said no man has been here before, the embers that were already hot inside of me burst into a flame, and there’s someone else coming alive I’m not sure I can control.

She laughs, shaking her head. “I don’t even know your name. That doesn’t seem very wise, does it?”

“My name’s Vito. I’m not here to hurt you. If I wanted to hurt you, I’ve had plenty of opportunities already, yes?”

She nods, her cheeks turning bright pink as her hands drop to hug her waist with the amazing side effect of pushing her incredible tits higher, so they nearly spill out of the V neck of her dress.

“True.” She lifts one hand and rubs her eyes. “I’m sorry, I should offer you something…coffee…but I don’t have a coffee maker. Or coffee. I have milk, tea or water.” She licks her lips, and there’s discomfort in her eyes.

“I’m fine. You need to rest. I’ll sit right here on the couch.”

I already know I’m never going to want to leave, but telling her that right now wouldn’t serve to ease her discomfort. One way or another, though, this will not be the last time we are together.

“Okay, I’m sorry.” She pushes her hair behind her ears again. “I’m so tired.” Her eyelids flutter, and her hands come to rest at the base of her neck, and I wonder if her heart is beating as hard as mine.

“Go.” I nod toward the door I’m assuming is her bedroom. “But once you’re asleep, I’m going to come in and check on you, so don’t lock your door.”

Her eyes widen, looking like a doe unsure which way to turn.

“I won’t hurt you,” I repeat, and the truth of my words hits me down low.

Not only will I never hurt her, but I pity anyone that does. Because this thing she’s lit inside of me has me already half-crazed with a sense of protectiveness I’ve never experienced—not even with my own family.

Without another word, she turns on a heel and goes into the bedroom, shutting the door softly behind her, and I release the long sigh that’s filled my chest as I let my chin drop and wonder how I’m ever going to let her out of my sight again.

I decide to give her thirty minutes before I go in and check on her, and it feels like an eternity. I poke around in her kitchen and open the refrigerator to see half a loaf of wheat bread, a package of sliced cheese, a half-gallon of milk, a pitcher of what looks like iced tea and a few bottles of condiments and salad dressing.

From there, I open and shut every cupboard door. Most everything looks sad and tired, but inside one upper cabinet I see something that makes me smile.

There’s a large plastic container with “Top Secret Waffle Mix” written on the side in red marker. On the shelf below is what looks like an antique waffle maker, but its shape is unusual. I reach in and open the top to see the irons are heart-shaped, and I envision her dancing around in the kitchen making me waffles. To my shock, it makes my balls tighten, and I feel wet drops of cum seep out of my cock.

I’ve got a waffle fetish. Who knew?

I step out of the kitchen and check out the books on the little table and see they are beyond my level of schooling. I’m not stupid, but my education came mostly from my father and experience.

My mother wanted me to go to college. Instead, I followed in the footsteps of a few generations of the men in our family, leaving the academics to my sister, Maria, who fulfilled Mom’s dreams of having at least one of her children graduate from college.

I pick up each book and see one for calculus, one for English lit, and finally one for basic accounting.

After I find out as much as I can from looking around, I can’t stand it anymore and decide I’ve waited long enough to check in on her. I ease the door to her bedroom open and hold my breath as it squeaks, then I slip inside. This isn’t my first time walking into someone’s bedroom without waking them, but in the past it was under less pleasant circumstances.

Her room is sparsely decorated with a twin bed, a nightstand made from a couple of stacked milk crates and a desk held together with duct tape, although somehow she has made it look trendy and fun. Still, this is no way for her to live.