2011

I do really like reading your story . I want more ......please

Book 2 – Chapter 13: A Holiday from Myself   The Lamborghini was still orange. Sally wiggled her toes in her thong sandals as she stood beside it, admiring the thin layer of road grime it had already collected from yesterday’s drive. The tires looked used now, their immaculate showroom shine dulled by actual pavement. There were faint traces of dust along the lower bodywork as well, but the car was still clean enough for Sally to admire the intricate weave of exposed carbon fiber and the glossy black wheels against the almost outrageous orange paint. She resisted the temptation to open it. Opening it would make her want to sit in it. Sitting in it would make her want to start it. Starting it would only lead to the enormous anticlimax of remembering that she couldn’t actually drive it anywhere by herself. Soon. Just not yet. November still stood between Sally and full driving privileges, and no amount of horsepower in the garage could change the date on her license. She wandered slowly around the Aventador and became conscious again of another problem. Space. The garage wasn’t small. Five cars fit inside if they were parked carefully enough, but fit was doing considerable work in that sentence. Her Fiesta had already been displaced outside, and eventually there would be another car to accommodate. Her 718 GTS was due in a few months. Sally frowned thoughtfully. They were going to need another solution. Something like the warehouse near Zurich made sense—a large, practical place where cars that weren’t being used regularly could be stored properly and brought out when needed. Not somewhere to hoard cars merely because they could. Sally didn’t want that. But there was little point owning something worth preserving and then leaving it exposed because there wasn’t enough room at the house. She filed the thought away for later. Then she looked up. Her studio. Sally had become so distracted by the orange Lamborghini that she had almost forgotten why she had come out here in the first place. She stepped from the garage and climbed the stairs. The art studio was almost exactly as she remembered it. Months had passed since she had properly used the space, but everything remained where it belonged. Only two paintings were conspicuously absent. One now hung in her father’s office; another belonged to her mother—the gray city scene punctuated by brightly colored shoes. Sally wandered around for a moment before choosing a blank canvas and placing it on the easel. Then she sat on the corner sofa and stared at it. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. She rested her chin against one hand. Maybe she should paint something for Oskar. Something bright. Colorful. Something a baby could look at now and perhaps, as he grew older, gradually understand that his sister had made specifically for him. She liked that idea. Unfortunately, liking an idea and knowing what to paint were two entirely different things. Sally continued staring at the empty canvas. Her thoughts wandered instead through the notebooks she had filled over the previous year. She realized how much of her creativity had come during difficult moments. Nightmares. Sleepless nights. Memories she needed somewhere to put. Sometimes the sketches had been attempts to escape into calmer places—good memories reconstructed carefully on paper because she needed them more than she needed whatever was inside her head at the time. She looked at the blank canvas again. She didn’t want art to belong only to that Sally. She wanted to create when she was happy too. Not because she needed somewhere to put fear or pain. Not because sleep wouldn’t come. Not because something inside her demanded release. Just because. Sally smiled faintly. Maybe that was something she could learn as well. She didn’t need inspiration to strike dramatically before she picked up a pencil. She could come up here with a blank sketchbook, sit in the quiet and doodle. Experiment. Make terrible drawings nobody would ever see. Let ideas develop because she had given them somewhere to develop. Create moments instead of waiting for difficult moments to create for her. Sally reached toward the sketchbook. A deep mechanical rumble rose from below. She stopped. That definitely wasn’t her father returning in electric mode. Sally stood and crossed to the small window overlooking the driveway. A McLaren 720S had just pulled in. She immediately smiled. Dr. Silvia Costa. Apparently her quiet morning had acquired a visitor. -- Sally’s phone vibrated as she stepped out of the studio and onto the stairs.   Mom: You’ve got a visitor. I love you.   Sally stopped halfway down. Her eyebrows rose. Apparently her mother was keeping a closer eye on her than Sally had realized. The question was whether Bridget was concerned about her health or simply wondering what was going on inside her daughter’s head after their conversation that morning. Then Sally looked toward the driveway. Dr. Silvia Costa lived only a few hundred meters away. The fact that she had bothered to drive over in her McLaren rather than walk made Sally suspect this wasn’t an emergency intervention. More of a discreet maternal thumbs-up. “Hi, Dr. Costa.” Sally unconsciously tucked a strand of hair behind her ear as she approached. “Nice ride.” “Hi, Sally!” Dr. Costa smiled as she climbed out. “Your mom told me you were in the neighborhood.” Sally’s suspicion was confirmed. She turned her attention to the car instead. Up close, the Belize Blue McLaren 720S was stunning. The color shifted subtly in the sunlight, and through the open door Sally could see rich brown leather inside. Beside it, her orange Aventador suddenly seemed almost adolescent—loud, angular and determined to make sure nobody within half a mile failed to notice it. Sally walked slowly around the front. “I’ve never seen this one up close. It looks impressive.” Dr. Costa chuckled. “I spotted a big orange truck delivering a big orange Lamborghini the other day. Very color coordinated.” Sally blinked. Then she laughed. “I never thought of that! I’ve seen those orange trucks before. It never dawned on me that one would actually be delivering the orange car.” Dr. Costa glanced toward the garage. “Is it here?” Sally nodded and slipped a hand into her pocket for the remote. The garage door began rising. The Aventador appeared gradually beneath it, impossibly orange even in the shadow of the garage. Dr. Costa stepped closer. “Wow.” Sally smiled. “It is impressive.” “It is.” “Even more to drive. Kinda tricky, but fun.” Dr. Costa studied it with the appreciation of somebody who clearly knew what she was looking at. “Naturally aspirated V12. That must be a lot of fun.” “I haven’t tracked it yet. Someday soon, I hope.” “Take your time.” Dr. Costa turned toward her. “Cars like these are never really mastered. You learn them. Curve by curve.” Sally pressed her lips together thoughtfully. “I’m almost terrified of it.” “Almost?” “Healthy terrified.” Sally smiled. “Yesterday helped a lot. I’m comfortable driving it on the road now. Not that it’s easy.” “No?” “You get a lot of rubberneckers.” Sally made a face. “People drive beside you with their phones out. Or rev their engines at you like you’ve challenged them to mortal combat just by existing.” Dr. Costa laughed softly. “That happens.” “You get that too?” Silvia glanced toward her McLaren. “What do you think?” Sally nodded solemnly. “Fair.” “You learn to deal with it. Don’t perform for them. Drive your car, let them drive theirs. Take it easy and be yourself.” They stood together for another moment admiring the Aventador before Sally’s attention inevitably wandered back toward the McLaren. There was something very different about it. The Lamborghini seemed designed around drama. The McLaren was still exotic, still unmistakably a supercar, but the blue paint and brown leather gave it a sophistication Sally found unexpectedly appealing. Dr. Costa noticed where she was looking. “Want to sit in it?” Sally’s face brightened. “Can I?” Silvia opened the driver’s door for her. Sally lowered herself carefully into the seat and immediately began looking around. Her hands settled on the steering wheel. “This is…” She searched for the description, looking from the instruments to the leather surrounding her. “Like sport and luxury got married.” Dr. Costa laughed. “Sweet,” Sally concluded. Silvia rested one hand against the raised door. “Want a ride?” Sally looked up immediately. “Where?” “Nowhere far. Just around a little. Let you get a feel for it.” Sally needed approximately half a second. “Sure.” -- They ended up at a Starbucks in Coconut Grove. The drive itself had been worth accepting the invitation for. Silvia had put the roof down, and the McLaren had revealed itself in little pieces rather than one dramatic demonstration—short bursts of acceleration when the road opened, a surprisingly sharp change of direction through a roundabout, a few corners taken with enough enthusiasm for Sally to understand that the 720S had an entirely different personality from her Aventador. It seemed lighter somehow, less theatrical in the way it moved. Still absurdly fast, obviously, but almost casual about it. By the time they settled at a free table, Sally was already reconsidering several opinions she had never realized she possessed about McLarens. She checked her phone while taking a long pull from her iced latte. “My father told me to go ahead and have lunch on my own. He’ll be back around three.” She glanced up. “He says—and I quote—‘You need special authorization to want a McLaren.’” Dr. Costa laughed. “He doesn’t like them?” “He’s hesitant to enjoy British cars. He allows the Range Rover because the only other option would be a Bentley, and even he admits Mercedes doesn’t do a good enough job when it comes to family SUVs.” “At least he’s honest.” Sally nodded gravely and took another drink. Dr. Costa sipped her cappuccino, then set it down. “So, Sally. Quick question. Your mom called.” Sally gave her a knowing look. There it was. “Dr. Huber gave you a clean bill of health.” “She did.” “I checked your exams and her reports. Everything makes sense.” “It does.” Silvia watched her for another second. “No, it doesn’t.” Sally’s gaze faltered. “Not to you.” Sally shrugged. She knew exactly what this was about. In a way, she had known from the moment her mother’s message appeared. “I mean, I get what’s happening. My body recovered, but it has its marks. I had a dry spell and suddenly…” She shrugged again. “Not.” “Is it happening every night?” The directness made the question easier rather than harder. Sally shook her head. “Not every night. I’ve had a dry night. Or nights when it’s only a little. But still…” “Anything different otherwise? Pain? Anything unusual? Anything that worries you?” Sally thought about it seriously before shaking her head. “No. It mostly just sucks.” She stirred the ice around her cup with the straw. “Especially because I thought it was definitely over.” Silvia waited. Sally knew there was more. “I guess that’s the part dragging on me. I did all that work before. Routine, charts, everything. Then it stopped and I thought—great. Done.” She looked down at her drink. “And now I almost feel like I’m getting comfortable with it again. Like maybe I’m too lazy to try that hard all over again.” “And that’s difficult to say out loud.” A small grin appeared. “It’s easier with an iced latte and a gorgeous McLaren parked out front.” Silvia smiled, but her expression soon became serious again. “Have you told your mom that?” “Not really. It all started again basically the day I left home.” “Then make sure she knows what’s going on in your head, not only what’s happening at night.” Sally looked up. “She’s worried about you.” “Mom?” Her eyes widened. “But she sounds so…” “Calm?” Sally blinked and nodded. Silvia leaned back slightly. “Your mother can sound calm while worrying herself sick. The two aren’t mutually exclusive.” That made Sally quiet. “She also knows you’re away from her, carrying on with your life, working at the foundation, learning the family businesses, driving ridiculous orange automobiles…” Sally chuckled. “You make my life sound dramatic.” Dr. Costa raised an eyebrow. “It is dramatic, Sally. Particularly from your mother’s perspective.” She let that settle before continuing. “And from mine, sometimes. I wonder at your ability to bounce back. You’re strong. Resilient. Stubborn—in a mostly useful way.” “Mostly?” “Mostly.” Silvia smiled. “But you have soft spots too. Sometimes they’re cute and cuddly. Sometimes they involve extra padding and a little emotional stress.” Sally covered her face briefly with one hand. “That was terrible.” “It was excellent.” “It was terrible.” Silvia took another sip of cappuccino, completely unrepentant. Sally eventually laughed and shook her head. “I know all this theoretically. I really do. It’s just…” She exhaled. “Like I said. It sucks.” “Then you’re allowed to say it sucks. You don’t have to turn everything into a success story.” That caught Sally’s attention. “Talk about it. With your mother. With Dr. Huber. With me. You’re not going to get disappointed looks from us because you’re frustrated. And nobody is going to treat you like a little girl who misbehaved because something your body does while you’re unconscious isn’t cooperating with your plans.” Sally nodded slowly. “Okay. I’ll talk about it more.” Then she made a face. “Back to star charts, huh?” “No.” Sally looked surprised. “No?” “No star charts. No campaigns. No turning your summer into a project.” Silvia rested her forearms on the table. “You’ve been medically evaluated. Nothing concerning has shown up. So for now, give yourself a break. Have your vacation. Swim. Run. Drive your ridiculous car. Spend time with your mother and your baby brother. Enjoy yourself.” Sally listened. “And at night, use the protection that lets you sleep without worrying about the bed. Keep yourself comfortable and secure. Don’t turn that into defeat, and don’t turn getting dry again into your summer assignment. When you’re home, settled and ready, then you, your mother and your doctors can decide whether you want to get systematic again.” Sally sat back. A slightly goofy smile began creeping across her face. “So basically… relax. A holiday from myself” “Basically.” “Wear my diaper and go on vacation.” Silvia smiled. “In somewhat more sophisticated medical terminology, yes.” “That’s doctor’s orders?” “It is.” Sally nodded thoughtfully, as though committing an important prescription to memory. “I can probably comply.” “I had confidence in you.” Silvia finished her cappuccino and glanced through the window toward the Belize Blue McLaren sitting outside. “Now. Feel like driving back?” Sally blinked. “Me?” “Yes.” “The McLaren?” Silvia shrugged. “Why not? You already drive an Aventador. The 720S should be a piece of cake.” Sally stared at her. Then slowly, inevitably, she grinned. -- She’d cooked something quick and practical for lunch and, with nothing demanding her attention afterward, allowed herself the luxury of a short nap. As a precaution—but mostly because Dr. Costa had very specifically encouraged her to stop making such things complicated—Sally had worn one of the pink NorthShores she had brought down from New York. She woke dry. That pleased her, although she deliberately refused to turn it into more than that. No mental gold star. No analysis of what she had drunk, when she had last used the bathroom, or whether this meant anything about tomorrow night. She stretched beneath the sheets, checked the time, and decided to leave the diaper on for now. Her father wouldn’t be home for another hour. Sally dragged her open suitcase onto the bedroom floor and sat beside it. They weren’t leaving until tomorrow evening, but she wanted to get most of the packing out of the way while she had nothing else to do. Flying commercial meant she couldn’t treat luggage quite as casually as she did aboard the G700, although Swiss First was hardly going to leave her suffering with a tiny carry-on and a strict weight allowance. She opened the drawer where she had accumulated her nighttime supplies and frowned. That wasn’t going to work. There were only a few diapers left, most of them the colorful LNGUs Katrina had sent her months ago. Sally picked one up and smiled despite herself. Katrina had thought they were hilarious. Sally had maintained at the time that they were ridiculous, which had been difficult to defend after admitting approximately five minutes later that they were also adorable. Still, a few weren’t going to carry her through the summer. There was a fresh package upstairs in the studio bathroom, but Sally wanted those to stay there. The pastel-colored diaper bag she normally used for travel was practically empty too. Zurich had plenty, technically, but those were the sensible ones: white, medical-looking, perfectly decent and thoroughly uninspiring. Sally made a face. Apparently she had developed opinions about diapers. Wonderful. For now, she took several of the plain NorthShores from their package and stacked them neatly along one side of the suitcase. They packed better individually anyway, filling awkward spaces rather than consuming half the case as one enormous plastic brick. As she worked, she became conscious of needing the bathroom. Sally stopped for a moment. Then smiled. Well. Dr. Costa had said to relax. She continued folding. That still felt faintly naughty, which made it considerably more amusing than it had any right to be. She tucked another shirt into the suitcase, rearranged the stack of diapers beside it and let herself go without interrupting what she was doing. The warmth registered, the NorthShore did precisely what it had been designed to do, and Sally simply carried on packing. Maybe Silvia had a point. She added several of her favorite shirts, two skirts, comfortable shorts and a couple of dresses. Most of her summer wardrobe was here rather than Zurich, and Croatia changed the equation considerably. She needed swimming things. A swimsuit. Sally paused. No. A bikini. She wasn’t going to spend the summer doing purposeful laps in somebody’s enclosed pool. They were heading to the Dalmatian coast. There would be boats, beaches, terraces, swimming off the yacht and presumably plenty of lounging around pretending that doing absolutely nothing was an important activity. That required appropriate clothing. She had bikinis, but suddenly Sally couldn’t remember liking any of them enough for Croatia. Coral Gables meant shopping. Maybe Miami. She sat back on her heels, already considering what she could find that afternoon, then caught sight of the open suitcase in front of her. Pink diaper on. Plain NorthShores neatly stacked along one side of the luggage. Cute LNGUs beside them. And Sally Weiss was seriously contemplating the fashion requirements of bikinis on a yacht in Croatia. She shook her head. There were moments when being herself made absolutely no sense. What would Katrina have to say about this? Sally immediately decided that Katrina was never, ever being given enough information to answer that question. -- Sally took off her wet diaper and had a quick shower to freshen up, wondering what she should wear. More importantly, she wondered how difficult it would be to convince her father to take her shopping. Today was really her only proper chance. Tomorrow would disappear between packing, whatever plans Adrian managed to invent, and getting themselves to the airport. She was still considering her approach when she heard an engine outside. A few minutes and one pair of raised paternal eyebrows later, Sally had achieved considerably more than expected. “I recommend Bal Harbour,” Adrian said. “I’ve heard of it,” Sally admitted. Apparently Katrina had researched Miami more thoroughly than Sally had. “Let’s go.” Sally brightened. “Thanks, Dad.” “Get something nice on. We’re going to dinner afterward.” Adrian started toward his office, then looked back. “And pull out the Aventador. I want to see you in it.” Sally’s eyes widened. “All the way to Miami Beach?” Adrian grinned. “Yes.” She blinked. That was considerably more Lamborghini than she had anticipated today. “Okay.” She headed back upstairs and went directly into her closet. Something nice, Adrian had said. That eliminated the cutoff jeans she had been wearing. A dress seemed obvious, but Sally remembered yesterday’s discovery concerning short skirts and Lamborghini sports seats and immediately reconsidered. Besides, she was going shopping. She didn’t want to spend the afternoon fighting complicated clothes every time she entered a fitting room. She settled on a pair of high-waisted white linen shorts, tailored enough to look polished but loose and comfortable through the legs. They were short without being particularly revealing and, most importantly, she could sit properly in the Aventador without spending every five minutes tugging at a hem. For the top, she chose a soft sleeveless navy blouse, lightweight and slightly fitted, with a simple button closure at the back of the neck. No complicated sleeves, no bodysuit, nothing that would make trying on clothes an engineering exercise. She tucked it loosely into the shorts and regarded herself in the mirror. Better. Young, definitely. Summery. But nice enough that she wouldn’t feel underdressed wherever her father intended to take her for dinner. She chose flat leather sandals at first, then stopped. Aventador. Pedals. “No.” The sandals went back. She pulled out a pair of clean white leather sneakers instead. She could always buy something more appropriate for dinner—which, Sally realized, was exactly the sort of thought that could become financially dangerous at Bal Harbour. Her H. Moser went around her wrist. The bright strap added just enough color to keep the navy and white from becoming too serious. Small gold hoops went into her ears, followed by nothing else. Her Freitag bag crossed her chest because she wasn’t surrendering every aspect of herself merely because her father had said something nice. Sally turned once in front of the mirror. She approved. Then she looked toward the small handbag section of her closet. Perhaps Katrina had a point about her needing something slightly more sophisticated occasionally. Not today. She grabbed her sunglasses instead. Downstairs, Adrian looked up when she appeared. He gave her a brief once-over and nodded. “That works.” “Your approval means everything.” “I can tell.” Sally smiled and headed toward the garage. Then she stopped and looked back at him. “You realize I’m going shopping dressed like this because you told me to take the Lamborghini.” “I’ll accept responsibility.” “And if I come home with another pair of shoes because I couldn’t wear sandals—” “I withdraw responsibility.” Sally laughed and continued toward the garage. A moment later, the quiet house was interrupted by the unmistakable bark of twelve cylinders coming to life. -- Sally drove a little stiffer than she did with Morgan. Not badly. Not nervously, exactly. She was comfortable enough through Coral Gables and onto the highway because she knew the roads and knew what to expect. But Morgan sat beside her as an instructor. Her father sat beside her as someone who had been driving cars like this since before Sally was born. That somehow made a difference. She pulled a paddle as traffic slowed, and the Aventador answered with a deep bark behind them, followed by a few subdued pops and burbles as the revs dropped. Sally glanced sideways, trying to gauge Adrian’s reaction. The sounds weren’t exaggerated, but they still made her feel vaguely as though a police officer should appear and hand her a citation for disturbing the peace. Adrian was grinning like a schoolboy. Sally relaxed slightly. “You get to drive it back.” Adrian raised an eyebrow. “It’ll be dark.” “The roads will be empty,” she countered with a chuckle. “We’ll see.” Traffic thickened as they pushed farther toward Miami. It never quite stopped, but speeds dropped enough that Sally found herself spending more time managing gaps and watching mirrors than enjoying the car. And people were watching. Some were obviously interested in the Lamborghini. Others were equally interested in who was driving it. Sally was suddenly thankful for her sunglasses. They didn’t exactly disguise the fact that a young woman was behind the wheel of an orange Aventador SVJ, but they made her feel fractionally less exposed. “Quite the spectacle,” Adrian murmured over the engine noise. Sally huffed. “I should get part of the toll proceeds for providing entertainment.” An old blue Mustang with an exhaust that appeared to have abandoned any concept of subtlety pulled alongside. Its driver looked over, revved enthusiastically, then edged forward as though issuing a formal challenge. Sally stared ahead. The Mustang revved again. “Oh, please.” She changed lanes. Adrian laughed. “What?” “Nothing.” “I’m not racing somebody’s Mustang through afternoon traffic.” “I didn’t say you should.” “You were enjoying it.” “Immensely.” Sally settled behind a line of trucks in the right lane, where traffic was moving at a surprisingly consistent pace. “Trucks slow down less,” she explained. “They try to keep rolling so they don’t have to keep stopping and starting. Morgan told me traffic is actually smoother—and faster—in the right lane than everybody fighting for the left.” “Clever.” “It goes against common knowledge.” “Common knowledge is frequently wrong.” They rolled steadily between two eighteen-wheelers while several lanes to their left compressed into another wave of brake lights. Sally smiled with quiet satisfaction. When traffic opened again, she moved back toward the center, brought the Aventador smoothly up to the speed limit and settled there. “Relax, Liebling.” Sally glanced at him. “Your shoulders are stiffer than a plow.” She hadn’t noticed. Sally deliberately let them drop, loosened her grip on the steering wheel and settled deeper into the seat. “Better?” “Much.” The longer they drove, the easier it became. Sally even developed a name for the cars that kept appearing around her. Satellites. They would materialize in the mirror, accelerate until they reached the Lamborghini, orbit for a while, then disappear. Some merely looked. Some passengers held phones toward her. Others hung beside the car long enough to become irritating. A few drivers apparently believed that owning something with a modified exhaust obligated them to challenge every Lamborghini they encountered. Sally ignored them all. By the time they left the highway, she was barely noticing anymore. Miami Beach presented a different challenge. The streets were less familiar, traffic was denser, pedestrians appeared from everywhere, and Sally had no intention of dividing her attention between the road and navigation. Adrian already had his phone out. “Just listen and drive. Better than staring at your screen.” “Deal.” “Stay left here.” Sally followed his instructions. “Next light, right.” “Got it.” He kept them simple, giving her enough warning that she never had to make a sudden move. Gradually the streets changed again, and they continued north until the entrance to Bal Harbour Shops came into view. Adrian pointed ahead. “Valet.” Sally followed the signs, slowing the Aventador to a dignified crawl. “Never park this car yourself in public,” Adrian said. Sally turned toward him, visibly offended. “What?” “It doesn’t look elegant.” Sally stared at him. “And it isn’t practical,” he added. “I can park.” “I know you can park.” “I can even parallel park.” “I’m tremendously proud.” “Dad.” Adrian was already reaching for his wallet. “There are cars you park yourself because nobody else is touching them. There are cars you hand to the valet because that’s what the valet is there for. This is the second kind.” He folded a hundred-dollar bill and slipped it neatly into the pocket of Sally’s white shorts. Her eyebrows shot upward. “A hundred dollars?” “Give it to the attendant.” “For parking?” “For making sure your million-dollar orange birthday present remains somewhere you can see it when you come back.” Sally looked ahead. A valet was already walking toward them. Another attendant had turned to look. And, farther along, two young men standing near the entrance had noticed the Aventador as well. Sally sighed. “The satellites have landed.” Adrian grinned. “Welcome to Bal Harbour.” -- The valet had taken the Aventador with far more composure than Sally had managed to surrender it. She had stood beneath the covered entrance at Bal Harbour Shops for perhaps three seconds longer than necessary, watching the orange Lamborghini disappear toward the premium parking area before finally turning away. Adrian had promised to meet her later. He had been deliberately vague about where he was going, which Sally understood perfectly well. He had no interest in following his sixteen-year-old daughter through swimwear boutiques while she tried on bikinis for Croatia, and Sally was equally grateful not to have him standing outside a fitting room asking whether she had found anything yet. So, for the moment, she was alone. Her Freitag bag hung comfortably across her chest, sunglasses rested on top of her head, and inside the bag was the black American Express Centurion card her father had handed her before disappearing. “Try not to destroy civilization,” he had said. Sally had given him a look. Now, walking beneath the tropical greenery and shaded walkways of Bal Harbour Shops, she wondered whether civilization was really the one in danger. Zimmermann caught her first. That had probably been inevitable. The displays seemed designed specifically to make a girl preparing for a week on the Dalmatian coast forget every sensible principle she had ever possessed. Lightweight dresses floated from hangers in pale yellows, Mediterranean blues and soft floral patterns. Swimwear occupied one wall in combinations Sally immediately imagined against turquoise water, white decks and the impossibly bright Croatian sun. She told herself she was only browsing. Ten minutes later she was carrying six pieces into a fitting room. The first bikini was easy. It had a bright Mediterranean floral pattern, turquoise and coral with little touches of yellow against white. Sally tied the top, adjusted the straps and looked at herself in the mirror. Croatia. That was the entire argument. She turned once, examining the fit from the side, then smiled. “Yes.” The second was considerably more dangerous. Ivory. Delicate edging. Simple enough that the details only became obvious when she looked closely. Sally loved it immediately, which was precisely why she checked the price before allowing herself to become attached. Her eyebrows rose. She stared at the tag. Then at herself. Then at the tag again. “This is practically underwear designed to get wet.” The fitting-room mirror offered no moral guidance. Sally took it off, placed it carefully in the maybe pile and tried the next one. The pale-yellow summer dress was worse. It fell easily around her without looking shapeless, ending above the knee and moving beautifully when she turned. It was the sort of dress that required almost nothing else: sandals, perhaps the little black bag her father wanted her to look at later, and the H. Moser already glowing cheerfully against her wrist. Sally lifted her arm and noticed the effect. The purple dial and bright yellow strap looked unexpectedly perfect against the dress. “Oh, come on.” The dress joined the yes pile. By the time she emerged, she had acquired the floral bikini, the yellow dress, a white cotton sundress she could throw over swimwear, and—after a final internal argument—the ridiculous ivory bikini. Sally handed over the Centurion card and tried not to look too closely at the total. The sales associate did not react. That almost made it worse. Outside again, Sally carried the bags for perhaps fifty feet before deciding she was absolutely not spending the afternoon hauling purchases around like a pack mule. A quick conversation solved that. The bags could be held and collected later, or delivered to the house. Luxury, Sally reflected, was often less about possessing things than about making inconvenient things disappear. Vilebrequin became the dangerous discovery. She had intended to look only at swimwear. Instead she found the shorts. At first Sally examined a pair of navy women’s swim shorts because they reminded her immediately of Erika. Tailored but loose enough to move in, drawstring waist, pockets, nothing delicate about them. Sally had seen photographs of Erika wearing similar trunks with a bikini top, hair tied messily back, looking as though she had wandered away from a sailboat and accidentally become fashionable. Sally held them against herself. She liked the idea. A sales associate brought her the right size, and Sally tried them over the floral bikini. That was it. She stood in front of the mirror with both hands tucked into the pockets and grinned. They felt almost mischievous. Not elegant. Not feminine in the way her dresses were. Just practical and cool. Something she could wear while paddleboarding, climbing in and out of a tender, sitting cross-legged on deck or jumping into the sea without worrying whether everything remained perfectly arranged. Then she spotted another pair. These were technically men’s. Brightly patterned with tiny sea creatures against blue. Sally picked them up. The associate hesitated only long enough to ask what size she wanted. “Smallest you’ve got.” The trunks sat lower on her hips and were slightly looser through the legs. Sally tightened the drawstring and looked at herself again. For several seconds she said nothing. Then she laughed. Erika had corrupted her. She bought both pairs. By the time Sally reached The Webster, she had developed momentum. That was dangerous. She wandered slowly rather than shopping with purpose, enjoying the strange mix of clothes and accessories that seemed selected specifically to prevent anyone from predicting what might appear around the next corner. She found sunglasses she liked but didn’t need, a cropped summer shirt she liked even more but still didn’t need, and a pair of sneakers that tempted her badly enough that she physically put them back on the shelf and walked away. “Discipline,” she murmured. Five minutes later she bought the shirt. Golden Goose was avoided entirely. That was discipline too. Sally checked her phone as she emerged back into the open-air walkway. A message from Adrian.   Dad: Still alive?   She smiled.   Sally: Barely. Fashion is expensive.   His reply appeared quickly.   Dad: A profound discovery.   Sally rolled her eyes and slipped the phone away. She still needed practical things. Saks handled those. Two more sets of underwear, sunscreen, a light cover-up, another pair of denim shorts and one surprisingly sensible navy one-piece swimsuit. Sally tried the swimsuit almost reluctantly, expecting to find it boring after everything else she had bought. Instead, she liked it. The cut was clean, athletic without looking like something she would use for lap swimming, with a low back and just enough structure that she could imagine wearing it around older adults without feeling as though she had dressed specifically for attention. She bought that too. Eventually Sally found herself sitting on a bench beneath the greenery, iced water in one hand and phone in the other, reviewing what she had purchased. Two bikinis. One one-piece. Two pairs of swim trunks. Two dresses. Denim shorts. A cover-up. A shirt. Underwear. Various small necessities that somehow added an alarming amount to the total. A little twinge of conscience finally arrived. It wasn’t that the money mattered in any practical sense. Sally knew perfectly well that nothing she had bought would register meaningfully against her family’s resources. That almost made the discomfort more important. She didn’t want to become someone who could spend thousands of dollars in an afternoon and feel absolutely nothing about it. She considered the ivory bikini again. Beautiful. Ridiculous. She smiled. And she would wear it. That mattered. Sally leaned back against the bench, looking around at the immaculate walkways, palms and fountains, the boutiques quietly inviting her to continue. “No.” She said it aloud this time. “We’re done.” Her phone buzzed.   Dad: Meet me at Bottega in fifteen.   Sally stared at the message. Then laughed. Apparently they were not done. She stood, adjusted the Freitag strap across her chest and began walking. Somewhere in the premium valet parking area, her orange Aventador was waiting. Somewhere ahead, her father was apparently preparing another assault on her financial conscience. And Sally suspected she was about to acquire a handbag. -- The black Bottega Veneta Baby contrasted beautifully with the H. Moser on Sally’s wrist. That sealed the deal for Adrian. Sally could hardly argue with him, considering that her considerably more substantial contribution to the afternoon was presently being carried toward the valet stand behind them. Bags from several stores followed in orderly procession, and Sally was beginning to wonder whether her enthusiasm for Croatia had exceeded the carrying capacity of an Aventador. At least the hundred-dollar tip had proved worthwhile. Her orange SVJ occupied a prominent position directly in front of the entrance, parked beside a stunning silver Bugatti that made even the Lamborghini seem almost restrained. They didn’t have to wait for either car or keys. The moment one of the attendants spotted Sally and Adrian approaching, he stepped toward the Aventador and reached inside to release the front luggage compartment. “Worth every cent,” Adrian murmured, winking at her. “I could get used to this,” Sally sighed. “You should. At least feel at ease with it,” Adrian said gently. “Nobody is stealing your Ford Fiesta. You’re still allowed at Walmart.” Sally grinned. “Good to know. I’ll have to make an appearance occasionally, so people still know I’m real.” She glanced toward a small group of teenagers lingering at a respectful distance, phones conspicuously raised in their direction. Adrian followed her gaze. “Just for appearances.” Sally laughed. “Of course.” To her surprise, the Lamborghini’s little front trunk swallowed the shopping rather efficiently. It was a terrible shape for serious luggage—her carry-on would probably consume most of it by itself—but soft shopping bags could be tucked into corners and stacked around one another. With some careful arranging, everything disappeared beneath the hood. Almost everything. Sally looked down at the black Bottega still hanging from her hand. That one wasn’t going in the trunk. She opened her Freitag bag and transferred the essentials: phone, wallet, lip balm, sunglasses case, a few miscellaneous things that seemed to accumulate inside any bag she carried. Her Centurion card disappeared into the Bottega, and she slipped the new bag onto her shoulder. Adrian watched the ceremony with amusement. “What?” “Nothing.” “You have that look.” “I was merely observing the transformation.” “There is no transformation.” Sally tucked her Freitag carefully into one of the shopping bags. “I still own the other one.” “I’m relieved.” The attendant raised Sally’s door for her. “Thank you.” She stepped over the broad sill and lowered herself into the bucket seat with considerably more grace than she had managed two days earlier. The Bottega settled beside her for the moment, its soft black leather looking almost suspiciously at home against the Lamborghini’s dark interior. The attendant lowered the door. Adrian climbed into the passenger seat and pulled his own down. Sally fastened her belt, pressed the brake and lifted the red cover. The V12 erupted. The sound bounced against the storefronts and covered entrance, turning heads instantly. Sally caught movement through the windshield as several phones rose higher. She shook her head. Sally waited for the engine to settle, selected first with the paddle and checked around her. “Dinner,” Adrian announced. “Where?” “South.” “That narrows Miami down considerably.” “All the way down Collins Avenue.” Sally turned toward him. “All?” “Just drive. When I say turn, turn.” The orange Aventador began rolling away from the valet stand, passing the silver Bugatti as Sally turned toward the exit. Beyond the windshield, she could see the teenagers following the car with their phones. One waved. Sally hesitated for half a second, then lifted two fingers from the steering wheel in acknowledgment. The reaction was immediate. She laughed. “Okay. That was kind of cute.” “Careful,” Adrian warned. “You might discover you like people.” “I like people. I just don’t necessarily like several hundred thousand of them knowing what I had for breakfast.” “Reasonable distinction.” The Lamborghini reached Collins Avenue. Sally checked traffic, waited for her opening and pulled smoothly into the stream, the V12 giving a restrained growl behind them as she shifted into second. Adrian settled comfortably into his seat. “Straight ahead.” Sally looked down the long avenue stretching south through Miami Beach. “How far?” “I’ll tell you when we get there.” She gave him a suspicious sideways glance. Then she smiled, pulled the next paddle, and headed south. -- Collins Avenue turned the drive into a parade. Late-July Miami Beach was packed. Convertibles crawled beneath the palms, pedestrians spilled toward crosswalks, restaurant terraces were full, and expensive cars seemed to have multiplied for the evening simply because there was an audience to appreciate them. Sally found herself behind a white Ferrari 296 and ahead of a black Rolls-Royce Cullinan. A lime-green Huracán appeared in the next lane, followed by a Mercedes G-Wagen with wheels Sally suspected cost more than her Fiesta. Farther ahead, a McLaren crept through traffic while a Bentley Continental rolled along with its windows conspicuously down. There were posers everywhere. People revved at lights. Cars accelerated twenty yards simply to brake again. Music escaped open windows. One Ferrari driver appeared determined to make sure every pedestrian in Miami knew precisely when his light turned green. Sally shook her head. “This is ridiculous.” “You’re driving an orange Aventador SVJ,” Adrian reminded her. “I’m observing the ridiculousness from within it.” The Lamborghini burbled as she downshifted. Several heads turned. Sally pressed her lips together. Okay. She was part of the problem. The Aventador was possibly the loudest thing in the procession—or at least the loudest thing still wearing a completely legal factory exhaust. Every downshift announced her. Every gap in traffic revealed that outrageous orange wedge. Phones followed her from sidewalks. A pair of boys pointed excitedly from the back of an SUV. Sally sank fractionally lower behind her sunglasses. “I feel like I’m in a showcase.” “You are.” Traffic began moving again. She eased forward amid Ferraris, Bentleys, Lamborghinis and Mercedes, somehow feeling less like she was driving to dinner than participating in a very slow, extremely expensive procession. And she couldn’t deny it. She was having fun. Adrian eventually began directing her away from Collins. “Right ahead.” Sally followed him toward Washington Avenue. “Slow down. It’s here.” “Where?” “Five-fifty.” Sally looked ahead—and then saw it. Queen. Her eyebrows climbed behind her sunglasses. “Dad.” Adrian was already smiling. The former Paris Theater rose ahead of them in extravagant illuminated glory, theatrical and unapologetic, looking less like somewhere one casually ate than somewhere one arrived. Sally looked at the building. Then at her clothes. Then at the black Bottega beside her. Then back at Adrian. “You planned this.” “Obviously.” A valet stepped forward as the orange Aventador rolled toward the entrance, its V12 making sure subtle arrival was no longer an available option. People turned. Phones rose. Sally stared through the windshield for one stunned second. Then a slow smile spread across her face. “Oh, wow.” Adrian chuckled. “Now you understand the handbag.” -- The valet was already approaching before Sally had fully stopped. She selected neutral, applied the parking brake and killed the engine. The sudden silence seemed almost conspicuous after the V12 had announced them to half the block. “Keys, miss?” Sally handed them over, then remembered her father’s lesson at Bal Harbour. She slipped another folded hundred-dollar bill into the attendant’s hand. “Somewhere close?” The man glanced at the orange SVJ, then at the bill. “I think we can manage that.” Adrian waited until they were several steps away. “You learn quickly.” “I had an excellent teacher.” Behind them, the Aventador started again with a bark. Sally instinctively turned. Rather than disappearing into some hidden garage, it was maneuvered carefully into a space directly along the front of the restaurant, parallel to the curb. She smiled. “Okay. That is pretty cool.” “Worth it?” “Ask me after I see whether the wheels are still black.” Adrian laughed. For the moment, they were anonymous. Not invisible—that was impossible. The Aventador had already guaranteed attention, and Sally and Adrian made an interesting enough pair without anyone knowing who they were. A distinguished man approaching sixty, casually immaculate, accompanied by a teenage girl carrying a new black Bottega, wearing an H. Moser on her wrist, and apparently having just surrendered the keys to an orange Lamborghini she had been driving. People looked. Sally noticed a woman near the entrance glance from her to Adrian, then toward the Lamborghini, evidently trying to work out the relationship. Father and daughter was probably the obvious conclusion. Or perhaps not. Sally decided she didn’t particularly care. One young man watched them pass and immediately looked back toward the SVJ. Sally leaned fractionally toward Adrian. “The car gets more attention than I do.” “As it should.” She looked offended. “Thank you.” “It cost more.” Sally nearly laughed as they reached the entrance. Inside, the transition was startling. The noise and brightness of Washington Avenue fell away into theatrical darkness and gold. Sally slowed almost unconsciously, looking upward. Queen did not feel like a restaurant somebody had decorated extravagantly. It felt like an old theater that had decided dining was merely the evening’s current performance. “Whoa.” Adrian smiled. A hostess greeted them immediately. “Mr. Weiss. Miss Weiss. Welcome to Queen.” So much for anonymity. Sally gave her father a sideways look. “You made a reservation under your name.” “I generally find that useful.” They were led through the room, and Sally became conscious of another wave of attention. Not everybody stared. Most people merely looked—and in a place like this, people were accustomed to looking at whoever had just arrived. Their table explained why Adrian had been so mysterious. It was prominent without being exposed, positioned where they could enjoy the architecture and energy of the room without sitting in the middle of the spectacle. Quiet enough to talk. Privileged enough that Sally immediately understood somebody had chosen it deliberately. She slid into her chair and placed the Bottega beside her. From where she sat, she could see part of the entrance. And, through it, flashes of orange outside. Her Aventador remained parked exactly where the attendant had promised, practically part of Queen’s façade now. Sally shook her head slowly. “Dad, this entire evening is ridiculous.” Adrian opened his menu. “You say that as though you aren’t smiling.” Sally realized she was. She picked up her own menu. “I didn’t say I objected.” -- The first dishes arrived quickly enough that Sally had barely finished inspecting the room. Edamame with sea salt and citrus came first, followed by yellowtail sashimi dressed with jalapeño and ponzu and a neat arrangement of crispy rice topped with spicy tuna. Everything was technically meant to be shared. Technically. Adrian reached for a second piece of crispy rice and discovered Sally’s chopsticks already descending upon it. He stopped. Sally stopped. Their chopsticks hovered over the same piece. “You’ve had three.” “You’ve been counting?” “I have investment interests to protect.” Sally narrowed her eyes and took it. “You were too slow.” Adrian looked toward the approaching server. “Could we perhaps order another one of these before my daughter destroys our relationship?” Sally nearly choked laughing. “I can’t believe you!” “I raised you better than this.” “You didn’t raise me with spicy tuna!” “Clearly an oversight.” The second order of crispy rice was placed without further discussion. It set the tone for dinner. Whatever impression their entrance had created—the orange Aventador outside, the privileged table, Adrian’s quiet air of somebody accustomed to being accommodated—the reality at the table was considerably less imposing. They talked constantly. Sally laughed frequently and, on two occasions, loudly enough to turn heads. Her mocktail contributed nicely to the occasion: something elaborate involving yuzu, passion fruit, ginger and an unnecessary amount of presentation. Adrian regarded it suspiciously over his sparkling water. “That looks radioactive.” Sally took a sip. “It’s fantastic.” “Does it glow in the dark?” “I’ll tell you tonight.” “Excellent. Very practical. If there’s a power outage, we can put you in the hallway.” Sally lowered the glass. “Dad.” “What?” “You’re not funny.” “I know.” “That was funny.” “Thank you.” “I hate that.” The chef’s sushi selection arrived next: bluefin tuna, salmon and hamachi, followed by wagyu nigiri. Sally had also selected an elaborate house roll largely because its description had sounded absurd enough to require investigation. Adrian examined it. “What exactly did you order?” “I don’t remember.” “You ordered it three minutes ago.” “There were too many ingredients.” “So your selection criterion was ignorance.” “Adventure.” “That’s what people call ignorance when they’re sixteen.” Sally burst out laughing again. There were glances now, but not unpleasant ones. If anyone had been wondering about the relationship between the elegant older man and the teenage girl who had arrived driving the Lamborghini, the question had answered itself. Sally leaned across the table to steal from Adrian’s plate, Adrian pushed the remaining tuna toward her because he knew she wanted it, and neither seemed capable of maintaining a dignified silence for more than thirty seconds. By the time the mains were discussed, they reached their first serious disagreement. “Black cod,” Adrian said. “Wagyu.” “Cod.” “Dad, they have Japanese A5 wagyu.” “I can read.” “Then why are you saying cod?” “Because I want the cod.” Sally stared at him as though he had confessed to some profound character defect. “I want the steak.” Adrian considered the dilemma for approximately two seconds. “We’ll have both.” Sally sat back. “That was surprisingly easy.” “Weiss conflict resolution.” “Spend more money?” “No. Find a solution in which everybody wins.” “That costs more money.” Adrian frowned thoughtfully. “Frequently.” The wagyu arrived sliced for sharing, accompanied by the miso-glazed black cod Adrian had defended so vigorously. Truffle rice and charred broccolini completed the table. Sally immediately pointed toward the vegetables. “Broccolini.” “Yes.” “Our official contribution toward nutritional responsibility.” “Excellent. We’ll tell your mother.” Sally served herself a small portion. “There. Health.” “I’m proud of you.” “Thank you.” She reached for the wagyu. “That cancels it.” “I don’t think that’s how vegetables work.” “I’m almost sixty. I’ve had time to study these things.” Sally’s eyes narrowed. “Almost sixty?” Adrian realized his mistake. “Yes.” “Perhaps you should have the cod. Easier to chew.” He stared at her. Sally managed to remain serious for perhaps two seconds. Then she lost it. Adrian shook his head. “Sixteen years old and already abusing the elderly.” “You told me to respect my elders.” “I did.” “I will when I meet some.” That earned her a piece of broccolini deposited deliberately onto her plate. “Eat your vegetables.” Sally laughed so hard she had to put down her chopsticks. -- Dessert should probably have been unnecessary. That had no bearing whatsoever on whether they ordered it. Their server recommended a dramatic chocolate-and-matcha creation that arrived looking more like an architectural installation than food. Adrian and Sally stared at it. “One?” Sally asked. “One.” “Two spoons?” “Obviously.” Mochi ice cream appeared alongside it anyway. Sally leaned back. “We have made poor decisions.” “Speak for yourself.” “You ordered the cod and steak.” “You demanded the steak.” “You enabled me.” “I’ve been doing that for sixteen years.” Sally attacked the chocolate. Dinner slowed after that. Not because conversation ran out, but because neither was in a hurry. They talked about Croatia and Oskar, about Sally’s presentation, about cars, about the ridiculous bathing trunks she’d bought because Erika had made them look cool in photographs. Adrian teased her about the amount of shopping presently stuffed into the Lamborghini. Sally reminded him that the Bottega had been his fault. Around them, Queen continued being Queen: beautiful people arriving, conversations flowing, plates appearing beneath carefully controlled light. Outside, the orange Aventador remained on display beneath the Miami night, occasionally attracting another cluster of phones. But the more striking scene was inside. A father and his daughter sharing one dessert with two spoons. No strained attempt to connect. No adolescent eye-rolling at everything her father said. No father distracted by his phone while his daughter stared into hers. Adrian’s phone had barely appeared all evening. Sally’s remained inside her new bag. She scraped some chocolate from the edge of the dessert. Adrian pointed his spoon. “I was saving that.” “You were too slow.” He stared at her. Sally grinned. “Investment interests.” Adrian laughed. -- When they finally stepped outside, the Aventador was still sitting prominently at the curb, now brilliant orange beneath the lights. The valet recognized them immediately. Sally reached for the keys, accepted them— —and held them out to Adrian. He looked at her hand. “Really?” “You’ve behaved yourself.” “That sounds dangerously like permission.” Sally smiled. “I drove here. You drive home.” Adrian took the keys. She pointed a warning finger at him. “But remember what you told me. The street is where you parade it. You don’t show its bite.” Adrian looked solemn. “Of course.” Sally stared at him. His expression remained perfectly innocent. “Oh, Lord,” she murmured. Adrian grinned. And Sally started laughing all over again.  

Those stories are not exactly my favourites, but I do read one every now and then: Sarah's Serendipity (foofybabykitten) Gentle Comforts (reartykeuniverse) Good stories (and maybe my favorites? These are some not all): Sally's Growth (FlyingFox) [Original] | Sally's Growth (FlyingFox) [New version and Book 2] Me and Mum (LesLea) The Girl who Wanted To Wear Diapers (AB_DeLane) And, of course, my sto— other stories I've forgot that are here and on AO3.

It varies

111. What You Want “Spike!” Tess found herself grinning as soon as he came into sight. She had been so anxious waiting for him, but once she saw him she was just glad he was here. Ffrances had vanished a few minutes before, after reassuring her that there was no way Gabby would be able to spy on their activities today. This was a special day for Tess and Spike; daddy and little girl. So they could find out if they were both comfortable doing the age regression thing together. There would be no distractions. “Tess!” he called back, turning sharply. He’d been walking towards the front door, maybe to knock, but changed to heading for Tess once he saw her at the side of the house. “We playing in the garden today? I thought you’d be inside.” “I just…” she stammered. “It’s a bit warmer now, spring’s starting. I kind of… figured that knocking might be a nerve-wracking thing after the way Gabby’s treated you before, and it might be more comfortable and natural if I wait for you out here.” That train of thought had sounded so smart and rational when it came to mind, but now it just felt a little weird. She hoped that he wasn’t going to laugh. “Smart. Oh, I didn’t notice you had a bench out here. That’s not new, is it? No… I bet it was covered by fallen leaves, and then by snow, when I’ve been here in the past. I bet it could feel like you’re in the middle of nature, right? Like the other houses will be behind that hedge, and the only wall you can see has climbing plants up it. Like a little piece of bottled wilderness.” “Yeah, something like that,” Tess agreed, and then blushed. She wanted to impress him, but there was no way she would ever be able to wrap up simple sentiments like that and make them sound like poetry. “I was just clearing it off. The hedge kind of grew over it, the first shoots of spring growth are trying to climb on it. So I thought I could do something useful while I wait for you.” “Helping with the chores is always admirable,” he said, and she found herself feeling so proud. “Even if you’re a sweet little girl, you want to do your bit. Or perhaps you want to impress everyone and get a reward?” “I… uhh… ahh!” Tess blushed crimson, and couldn’t find a single word to say. He was treating her like a little kid already, reminding her what she had agreed to for the day, and it made her feel so warm inside. Loved and cared for, protected. Spike’s most important little treasure, and someone who would always look up to him. He was being everything a real Daddy should be. And her desire to make him happy easily overcame any anxiety she would normally have felt about depending on someone else. It would be so easy right now to just do everything he asked; she wouldn’t have any inhibitions at all. If he was the monster of Gabby’s nightmares who wanted to hurt her, she was defenceless. But she knew that he only wanted what was best for her, and that was what made her feel so comfortable trusting him this far. “You’re really okay with this?” he said, coming over and sitting beside her on the bench. That eased her awkwardness a little, meaning that she didn’t need to think about whether she should stand up, stay there, or which door she should take him to. It seemed like every little detail was an important choice now, because she didn’t know what kind of messages she might be sending beyond the obvious ones. “I think so,” Tess answered. “As long as you’re happy, that’s really important. I want you to enjoy it. I don’t even know what I’m doing… I mean, I don’t have a clear picture in my mind of how I’d act if I were a child. And I don’t know what parts of that behaviour would be appropriate.” “Well how about we talk a little first, then? See if we can work out some things we could do. See what you want me to do for you, and what you don’t. But you said you don’t really know, didn’t you? I think you said that you’ve done some of this regression stuff with your cousin before. So, what did you do then? Did you enjoy it?” “That was all about what she wanted,” Tess said carefully. “Definitely not an age I would have chosen if I’m doing it for myself. But I’d rather… rather focus on what you want this time, not just what you think you should do. It doesn’t matter if it’s like I’m a child again. If it’s realistic or not. The… it’s hard to explain.” She took a deep breath, and Spike just sat there with his arm around her. Comforting. A couple more breaths, and she thought she could summon the courage to say it: “Ffrances hypnotised me. To make it feel more real. And it’s amazing how much that can change my perceptions. That’s what interests me more than the actual regression thing, I guess. I guess it’s like… if you booked one of those experience days they’re always advertising in magazines, a hot  air balloon flight or something, you wouldn’t think about where it’s flying to. You want the journey, and the destination doesn’t matter so much. So long as you’re the one making me feel different things, or do different things, it’s less important what those things actually are.” “The loss of control is a big thing for you? Do you think it would be less enjoyable without that?” Tess thought about that for a long time. She tried to imagine just pretending to be a little kid, and she wasn’t sure that she could do it. Not that she didn’t want to; she would have tried anything if it made Spike happier. But she didn’t know if she would actually be able to imagine how a child would feel or act without those magic words floating around in her mind, blurring the line between imagination and reality. “I guess it’s possible?” she said, nervously. “But I don’t know if I could. If that makes sense. Like it would feel like I was just pretending, and that might be a bit of a chore. I’ll try it if you want to, but I don’t think it would feel real to me. And I think my inhibitions might make it harder to act in the right way.” “That’s okay,” he said. “I have to admit, I was a little uncomfortable when I first heard about that side of it. But when I think about it in terms of making the whole experience more real, I think I can understand it. And if it matters to you, then it’s important. So… this hypnosis thing. How much do I need to know?” “It’s really flexible,” Tess started, and she found that all her nervousness vanished. She was so amazed by the hypnosis, and what it could make her feel, that she couldn’t wait to tell someone else. She hoped that Spike would find it as exciting as she did once he got over his nerves; and maybe even try it for things other than age regression someday. She didn’t go into too many details about the things that she’d done with Gabby before; she didn’t want him to know that she’d gone all the way to being a baby. If she said that being seven was her lower limit, or whatever age she finally decided on, then he might feel betrayed if he found that she’d been willing to go beyond that with someone else. So as an example she described some of the things that Gabby had said to make her extra excited about opening her Christmas presents. “Basically, I start by saying that I’m getting younger, and what my age is. Then I start to feel it. But if you tell me how a kid behaves at that age, describing some specific behaviour, and then tell me that I am that young, it will be automatic. Something I can’t help going along with. And that’s what makes the whole thing feel like… really real.” “That you are that young?” “Exactly. I can say ‘I am that young’, those words, to make myself feel something you described. But there’s some extra words I can say at the start to let you make that decision for me. So you say ‘you are that young’, and whatever you described happens.” “Would you rather make the decision the first time?” “I trust you. I know it’s a big thing to burden you with, but I know you want what’s best for me, that’s why I would trust you to be my daddy. And whatever that role means, I’ll do whatever you ask me to.” “Thank you,” he said, and hugged her close, almost like he was trying to shield her from all the negative influences of the rest of the world. “I’m not sure what age is most fun,” Tess continued, now she had the courage to explain. “But we could start low and work up. Stop wherever it’s comfortable for you, okay? I can change my age during a session, and you can give me any kind of posthypnotic commands related to the age I currently am. If you don’t know what to do for some age, we can take the next step up. It’s one of the methods Ffrances suggested – she’s in the house in case you need any pointers on how it works, by the way – and I think that counting up will be easier, because if I start close to my real age, it’ll be harder to notice the changes. So, we can go up. Is there anywhere you’d rather start, or…” Tess was still a little cautious when it came to this part. All the times they’d talked about regression, Spike had only said “a little”, or “ a little girl”. He’d never mentioned a specific age, so she didn’t know if he’d want her to be a baby like Gabby did; if what he was hoping for was outside the range she could give him. “I don’t really know,” he said. “I’ve not done this before either, only read about it. So how do we decide…” “Let’s start at the youngest age I’m comfortable with right now?” Tess said, with more confidence than she felt. “If that’s too old for you, we can try going further next time. But this is the limit I’m comfortable going to now. So if it’s too young for you, you should be happy letting me know you’d like to step forward a year, or half a year. Okay? This is the youngest in the range I’d consider for our first try, so there’s no obligation to stay at that end of the scale if it’s too much for you.” “I’ll look in your eyes,” he said. “I think all the time we’ve known each other, I’ll be able to see if you’re comfortable. Even if you’re hypnotised and not actually sure yourself. And if you’re nervous about me thinking you’re a freak or whatever… maybe a good icebreaker would be to be just a little silly with it. Step a little outside what you’d normally do, but make it a joke. So you’re not telling me outright what age you want to be, and there’s no chance of me getting the wrong idea because I already know it’s a joke. So that when we get to discussing it later, you can decide in hindsight which parts were a joke and which parts you really wanted. Right?” “Y… yeah,” Tess giggled. Maybe she would go a year or two further, then. Judge Spike’s reaction before deciding if she was willing to go there later when it was for real. “Let’s do that. So we can talk about the actual range of ages later.” “Wherever you start, joking or serious, I will do everything I can to protect and entertain my little girl,” Spike said, and the seriousness in his voice took Tess’s breath away. “Then let’s do this. I’ll say the trigger phrase, and then we can go inside if you want. Ffrances has offered to make dinner, or order something, or you can teach me to cook or something… all the plans are up to you.” Tess realised that she was babbling, putting off the wonderful moment that Spike would be her Daddy, as if she could savour the anticipation forever. “And that’s not important, we can talk about that after I regress. You ready? Good. I’m getting younger. And I’ll be as young as Spike says I am.” Tess found herself blushing so intensely she couldn’t say the rest of the words. She just needed to say the age now; to tell him that she was six now. Or maybe five, just to be a little silly and take it to illogical extremes before they dived into intense experiences. But it was hard to get the words out, as she realised just how close he was. It took her breath away. “Thank you,” Spike whispered, seeming like a good daddy in every possible way as he leaned closer to give her a gentle kiss on the forehead. And then any plans Tess might have had evaporated in a single moment of too-intense emotion.