Page 36

“Daddy’s going to start making us some lunch,” I tell him, and unlike his Big self, Little Justin doesn’t take the opportunity to remind me to make a proper meal for myself, too. He just beams at me and asks, “Dino nuggets?”

“And tater tots and carrot sticks,” I confirm. “Maybe some cucumber, too.”

He sits up straighter, the train forgotten for a moment. “Can I have a chocolate milk, too?” The far-too-innocent question is posed with widened eyes and batted lashes.

He’s so damn adorable.

“If you eat all your veggies.”

Heading into the kitchen, I throw the tots and nuggets into the trusty air fryer, chopping up some veggie sticks while the machine hums on the kitchen counter. I can hear Justin making train noises in the living room, intermittently talking to Kelvin, his co-conductor.

I sit with him while I wait for lunch to finish cooking, just enjoying seeing him regress so completely.

I love seeing Justin so comfortable with being Little. I love watching him so relaxed and free. It’s even more rewarding to hear the lightness in his voice now, after so many weeks of strain and worry.

We pack away the train set and blocks together just as the timer for the air fryer chimes.

I take Justin into the bathroom to wash his hands, and I note that he doesn’t even glance at the toilet.

I wonder how much of that is pure Little distraction, and how much is because he is completely confident with the experience we agreed to try.

My thoughts are interrupted by my Boy racing into the kitchen, telling me his tummy is growling, and I hurry after him with a laugh.

We talk about playing some card games after lunch, the promised chocolate milk little more than a memory and a faint moustache over his upper lip, and I’m not oblivious to him wiggling in his seat.

The not-so-subtle potty dance makes me smile.

Oblivious to my thoughts, though, Justin chatters about playing Go Fish. Moments later, his chair clatters to the ground as he stands up suddenly. “Uh oh!”

“What’s wrong?” I ask, though I think I can guess.

My guess, it turns out, is wrong.

“Kelvin!” he cries, running into the living room to retrieve the abandoned stuffie. The penguin is held out like baby Simba as he is heralded into the room. “Daddy, he didn’t get any lunch!”

“Oh no,” I play along, “he can get some of the fish when we play Go Fish.”

“There’s no fish in Go Fish!”

“Then why is it called Go Fish?”

“’Cause you’re fishing for the cards you need. Silly Daddy.”

I snort, finding him too cute for words.

“Maybe he can have a cookie?” Justin asks slyly.

“Oh, Kelvin wants a cookie for lunch? Does that sound like a healthy choice?”

He sits down and wiggles again. “I ate—uh, I mean, Kelvin ate lots of veggies. Um. For breakfast. ’Cause he missed-ed lunch. ”

“I guess Kelvin is getting a cookie, then. You wouldn’t also want a cookie, would you?”

His eyes widen at the prospect of two cookies, his hair flopping into his eyes as he nods quickly. “Please, Daddy?”

I am such a pushover for this Boy.

Once he’s got his cookies, we settle back into our card game.

I’m not paying a whole lot of attention to it, though, much more interested in the increased squirming happening in the seat across the table.

I don’t know if Justin is even aware of his movement, not with the way he is staring at the cards in his hand, the pink tip of his tongue once again poking out of the corner of his mouth.

“Do you have any fives?” he asks me, then splays his hand out wide to demonstrate the number.

I hand him a five of spades. “Card shark,” I accuse playfully.

He giggles and pairs his fives up. The game continues and we go back and forth a few more times, and I become so used to his unconscious potty dance that I forget all about it, sinking into my competitive mindset for the card game instead.

“Do you have—” I start, then stop as he gasps, his back going ramrod straight.

“ Uh oh. ” This time the words are a whimper, and Justin’s face is bright red. He looks down, his lower lip quivering. “Daddy…” He sounds so much Littler in that moment, his voice wobbly and uncertain.

“What’s wrong, baby?”

“I…I’m…I’m going potty,” his voice cracks, “ in my big boy pants. I can’t hold it.”

“Shh,” I round the table and reach his side, hearing the telltale hiss and patter of his accident as he makes a puddle on the chair and floor.

I crouch beside him, not caring about the mess on the vinyl, or the ammonia scent.

“It’s okay, baby. Accidents happen. Let yourself finish.

We got too caught up in playing, didn’t we? And you had a lot to drink today.”

He hangs his head. “I’m sowwy, Daddy.”

My heart clenches at the sniffles and quiet sobs that overtake him.

Neither of us anticipated his embarrassment to escalate to shame and sadness, but I probably should have.

With all the stress he’s been through lately, the deep regression and release —if you’ll pardon the pun— of something like this was likely to bring out an intense emotional reaction.

It gives him a trigger to really break down and cry and let go of everything he’s held on to for the past few months.

“Everybody has accidents sometimes,” I assure him, rubbing his back. “Are you all done?”

He nods, still crying, and I help him up carefully. I pull him in for a hug, heedless of the moisture clinging to his skin, or the wet fabric of his shorts pressing into my thigh. I’m not squeamish, and we’re going to get cleaned up anyway.

I hold him until his tears subside, then I help him out of his shorts and underwear right there in the dining area, because I’d rather not leave a trail of drips on our way to the bathroom. I leave his shorts in the puddle on the chair, deciding to clean that up later, once Justin is settled again.

“Let’s go have a nice warm bath,” I tell him. “We can play with the duckies and the boats.”

He’s subdued as I guide him into the bathroom, letting me strip off his shirt and run the water without any of his usual chatter.

I put in extra bubble liquid and make sure the temperature is just the way he likes it before helping him into the tub.

It’s a tight squeeze for us both, but with his unexpected emotions, I want to cuddle him in the warmth, so I take off my own clothes and slide in behind him.

With the washcloth I brought with me, I wash his back, then his chest. He practically melts into me at that point, which makes me smile. I wash his thighs and then his cock, which stirs to life at the touch.

“Feeling better, baby?” I ask lowly, my voice still sounding loud in the stillness of the little tiled room.

“Mmmhmm,” he rubs his cheek against my jaw. “Thank you, Daddy.”

“Do you want to play with your toys?”

“Hmm,” the sound is contemplative. “Not today.” He skims a hand over my thigh.

I chuckle, starting to understand. “Do you want grownup touches?”

I can feel the stretch of his cheek against my skin, and I hear the coy smile in his voice as he answers, “ Maybe .”

I turn my head towards him, and he meets my mouth with his eager lips, dragging me in for a sloppy, somewhat uncoordinated kiss.

He grabs for my hand, splashing water over the edge of the bath, but neither of us pays it any attention as he puts my hand directly over his cock.

His very hard cock, bobbing under the water.

I wrap my fingers around him, relishing in the way he moans and arches into the touch. His movement and the warm, firm weight of him in my hand has my dick hardening almost instantly, too, rubbing against the small of his back.

We resume our kissing, heedless of the awkward angle or of the waves we’re making as we undulate beneath the surface of the warm water. Justin whimpers and mewls into my mouth, panting “ Yes” and “More” and “Please, Daddy” every time he pulls out of the kiss for air.

“You’re such a good boy for me,” I tell him, fisting his cock, relishing in the feel of his flesh in my hand, the water not doing much for lubrication at all.

Not that he seems to care, not with the increased bucking of his hips or the way his body is strung tight with pleasure.

“You gonna come in my hand, sweetheart? Make another pretty mess for Daddy to clean up?”

“ Oh ,” he gasps, rocking almost violently as he chases his orgasm. My cock slides against his back, but it’s the sounds he’s making and the bliss on his face which are really revving me up. “Oh, Daddy, ohhhh .”

Bingo.

“You like that, don’t you baby? You like making messes with your perfect cock. You’re Daddy’s messy little boy, aren’t you?”

“ Nnngh, ” he whines, practically non-verbal.

He rests his sweat-dampened hair on my shoulder and writhes.

His cheeks are flushed, and his skin shines with sweat, most likely from the warmth of the water, while his dark lashes rest on the tops of his rounded cheeks.

With his pink, pouty lips parted in bliss, he is the picture of debauched perfection.

I squeeze as I drag my hand up his length, twisting at the top to stimulate the sensitive head. “Come for me, sweet boy. Be my good boy. Come for Daddy.”

It’s not long before he does. His entire body goes taut as he shoots rope after rope of creamy liquid into the water where they float, momentarily buoyant beneath the faded remains of our bubbles. Then they sink down to the bottom of the tub, out of view.

I kiss his damp forehead as he rides out the afterglow. Eventually, he cracks his eyes open and smiles lazily at me, before widening his gaze and pushing off my chest. Water sloshes onto the floor as he awkwardly turns around to face me in the narrow tub.

“Your turn,” he declares before I can ask what’s wrong, and he wraps his hand around my still achingly hard erection.

He leans in to kiss me while he strokes me, swallowing my moans as he brings me over the edge, sending my cum to mingle with his at the bottom of the tub.