Saturdays

The weekend was lovely. I enjoy it when Daddy is home with me during the days and we can focus on each other completely without being distracted by thoughts of work and intrusions outside our life together.

On Saturday afternoon, Daddy gave me a bath. I love it when he takes care of me that way. He runs the water warm and deep in the tub, undresses me gently and helps me in, holding my hand so I won't slip. He sits on the edge of the bath while I'm inside and he washes my hair for me. He's good at making sure I don't get soap in my eyes. He uses the bathbrush to scrub my back for me, that instrument of occasional torture used in such a loving way. I know he loves the fact that it conjures up those images even as he uses it so sweetly. He washes me with such close attention to all the slippery wet girl parts, gently nudging and caressing them with soap and gently insistent probing fingers. There is no being shy: I may not hide anything. Bath time is bubbly and blushy and warm and sweet.

After the bath, Daddy wraps me in a towel and dries me all over. He carries me to the bed and I lie on my back while he kisses me, tastes me, makes me shudder and wriggle and explode, heaving under his mouth and fingertips, gasping for breath.

Sometimes when we have nowhere to go and nothing to do, Daddy wants me to stay little all day. Like Saturday. Then he rubs me with the baby oil and puts me in a diaper under my pajamas so I can be his baby for the whole day and spend the day snuggling in his lap. I love the weekends.