Page 31 of Their Little Helper

Was kissing supposed to look like fighting?

Daddy didn’t squirm much because he knew I didn’t want to spill my juice but he moaned and Papa growled and their mouths fought. Maybe Papa was right about being sweet and not being sweet? I couldn’t picture him or Daddy doing that to me.

I liked watching them do it, though.

It was almost as good as straw magic.

Up. Up. Up.

Kiss. Kiss. Kiss.

Down. Down. Down.

Wiggle. Wiggle. Wiggle.

Up. Up. Up.

Kiss. Kiss. Kiss.

Down. Down. Down.

Wiggle. Wiggle. Wiggle.

Shoot.

All gone.

I gave Papa my glass and he put it on the coffee table without stopping kissing because he was good at taking care of both of us. He even stroked my head as he grabbed Papa’s neck and mouth-fought more.

It was the grown-up version of the pat your head and rub your tummy game.

Daddy liked it too because he made happy sounds and moaned and started pulling on Papa’s shirt.

“Fuck it all. Get naked, damn it.”

Daddy didn’t use nice words when he was feeling naughty.

“Language.”

Papa was so cute.

“You’re probably going to fuck me on his lap.” Daddy pulled back and glared at Papa. “That means I can use the word fuck.”

Papa looked offended. “No, it doesn’t. They’re two different things.”

It was Daddy’s turn to look confused. “You’ve lost your ever-loving mind. Fuck it back into me. Then we’ll figure out the effing rules.”

Was he going to let Papa win?

Did Papa want to win?

Did I care who won?

Nope.

I cared about more juice, though.

And more lap wiggles.

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