Page 25 of Ted's Temerity
Dating Ted is like a revelation. We spend the first month settling into routines. We both work full time, and I still enjoy a bit of time to myself in my own personal space, so we talk during the week and spend Friday nights through to Monday mornings together.
When we’re apart, I don’t feel the need to be little, so our calls and texts are like any standard vanilla relationship I’ve had before, except with a little kink thrown in for flirting. But, in person, Ted makes sure we’ve got a set routine in place. He’s not big on surprises and likes control, which I can understand and even relate to, so it’s not a big deal to know that I can expect scheduled times for being little.
That said, Ted is a bit more fluid once I’ve sunk into little space, not minding if we go over the few hours an evening he allocates for it. I think he just likes me to know that he’s making it a priority for the both of us, considering it’s something we only explore together in person.
Tonight, though, things hit a snag.
It’s like a switch is flipped the second I attempt to bring his hand to my cock during bath time, with me in the tub and him on his knees beside it, bathing me while I remain little for longer than anticipated. It’s a Friday evening, and I’m gearing up for a weekend spent in bed if I can get my way.
Ted goes rigid, his face turning blank, and I don’t even get a chance to speak before he clearly says, “Red light.”
It’s been a long time since I’ve safe worded myself, and I’ve never had a Daddy safe word with me, so I freeze and come back to my adult self so suddenly that it almost feels like I’ve given my brain whiplash. He’s pulled his arm away from the tub, sitting back on his haunches, and I fight the sudden anxiety churning in my gut for having accidentally pushed a button.
I’ve called him ‘Daddy’ during sex before, but he’s been okay with that. It has to be that I’m little right now. I run back through our conversations and negotiations and realize with a sinking feeling that, somehow, the topic of sex in little space never even came up. That’s on both of us.
This is why safe words exist, I remind myself, willing my heart to calm as I try to find the words to fix the strained silence that has descended.
“Hey,” I reach for him, not caring about the water that drips from my bubble covered hand and onto the floor in front of his knees. “I’m sorry I…”
“No,” he gives himself a visible shake, his expression turning chagrined. “I’m sorry. I should have…” He trails off and scratches the back of his neck, exhaling heavily. “That’s a hard limit for me. One I should have raised earlier. It’s just…most men I’ve been with haven’t…”
“Wanted sex while little?” I prompt. It makes a little more sense now that he seems to easily ignore my arousal when he’s dressing me: it’s not on his radar. Little time is pure for him. I can respect that.
He nods.
“Want to talk about it?”
The vehement shake of his head in the negative begins before I can even finish asking the question. Something tells me this is a bigger deal than just disliking the concept. Ted’s usually big on talking things through, with communication and honesty being at the top of our rules and all, so this flat refusal absolutely floors me.
Still, I know better than anyone not to push on uncomfortable or painful subjects. I have to trust that whatever’s going on with him, Ted will talk to me when he’s ready.
“Okay,” I answer softly again, as though I’m trying to coax a skittish animal into trusting me. “That’s fine. There are things I don’t like talking about, either.”
My easy acceptance seems to help, even while my mind races. What could have inspired this sort of reaction in a man who I was starting to think is always stoic and strong? Past trauma, certainly. But with what? Or whom? Another little? Even though the Daddy/boy kink is pretty pure, it is still a facet of BDSM and people have all sorts of triggers. It’s possible something went terribly wrong somewhere along the lines.
I climb out of the tub and dry myself off, the mood between us awkward and strained. I don’t know how to make it better, and the last thing I want is for safe wording to feel…well, unsafe, for lack of a better word.
“Ice cream?” I suggest as brightly as I can as I pull my loose pajama pants up my legs. “And a movie?” I force a grin that I know doesn’t quite meet my eyes. “You can even pick the movie…but I’m vetoing anything with Kevin Costner on principal.”
Finally, I watch him relax. His eyes glint with humor. “What’s wrong with-”
“Dude can’t act, Ted. He just can’t. It’s painful to watch.”
“But-”
“I will give youRobin Hood: Prince of Thievesbut only because Alan Rickman carries that whole movie.”
He snorts. We’ve had some variation of this argument before, but I’ll happily rehash it if it means watching him smile and come back to himself after whatever the fuck just happened between us. “Next you’ll tell me that the firstDie Hardmovie is the best one for the same reason.”
“Well, duh,” I laugh at his scandalized expression. “Actually, that would probably be unfair to Jeremy Irons in the third one, but…what can I say? I’m a Rickmaniac.”
“A…what?” Ted stops in his tracks just as we’re about to descend the stairs. He looks bewildered – clearly amused and also mildly horrified. “Is that like a Cumberbitch?”
“Ooooh,” I tease him back, “Look who’s up with the lingo. And you try to pretend you’re middle-aged.” I pat his shoulder and he sets off down the stairs in front of me. “You’re secretly all over the celebrity gossip and stuff, aren’t you?”
“You’ve got me,” he deadpans, “I’m totally hip.”
“Hip replacement maybe.”
