Caring for Little Ollie Read online

  Contents

  CARING FOR LITTLE OLLIE

  SYNOPSIS

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  End Notes

  Sneak Peak

  About the Author

  CARING FOR LITTLE OLLIE

  A DIFFERENT HEARTS NOVEL

  AN MM AGE PLAY ROMANCE

  BY IZAIA WINTER

  SYNOPSIS

  Ollie never expected to meet his Daddy while shopping in the baby aisle.

  All Oliver wanted was some more paint, a new box of crayons, and a maybe some delicious candy. Scared of putting himself and his needs out there for fear of rejection, Oliver never expected to meet eyes with the Daddy of his dreams. He definitely didn’t expect the man to hunt him down in the store and ask him out while standing in the baby aisle holding a basket with a bottle of his favorite strawberry bubble bath, a new yellow sippy cup, and an awesome dinosaur coloring book. He might as well have the word ‘little’ stamped permanently across his forehead.

  Marshall never expected to be anyone’s Daddy let alone Ollie's.

  While enjoying his coffee and reading a book, Marshall never expected to feel someone watching him and he definitely didn’t expect to meet the eyes of a beautiful man that pushed every one of his buttons but in a second he was gone. Unwilling to let him slip out of his grasp, Marshall searches everywhere and when he finds him in the baby aisle perusing the pacifiers, he boldly approaches. Once he realizes Oliver is a little in every sense of the word and is in need of a Daddy to love and care for him, Marshall finally succumbs to the desires he’s suppressed for so long.

  Follow Oliver and Marshall on their journey of discovery and acceptance as they both reach for the connection they never thought they would find.

  WARNING: This book is Intended for Adult (18+) readers. While not all books in this series will feature Age Play, Daddy Kink, or Adult Baby/Diaper Lover elements, this book does. I understand this kind of content is not for everyone and if this is not your cup of tea, feel free to skip this book. I try to write all books so that they can be read and understood as stand alone stories although reading them all together will create a more complete and rich experience.

  ~60k words

  Story Contains: MM Sexual Content, Daddy Kink, BDSM Elements, Power Exchange Relationships, Age Play, Mild AB/DL, Brief References to Past Child Abuse, Fast Feelings, Sweetness Overload, Happily Ever Afters, and No Angst

  Copyright © 2019 Izaia Winter

  All Rights Reserved.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  This book is dedicated to all the people who have ever felt a little bit different.

  Chapter One

  Oliver

  I sat in the front seat of my car, my hands practically strangling the steering wheel as I stared at the front of the supercenter. Okay, I more like glared. I glared at the front of the supercenter.

  It wasn’t the store fault. No, it was all the happy, carefree people going about their shopping in relative peace while I was on the verge of another panic attack. I sucked on my bottom lip and hesitantly reached for the door handle. Noticing the obvious tremble in my hand, I groaned in frustration and placed it back on the wheel.

  Why was this so damned hard?

  It wasn’t fair.

  I closed my eyes and took a deep, calming breath when I realized I was about to fall into a full-blown toddler pout. The urge to stomp my foot was strong but I reigned it in. Most people didn’t want to see a child throw a tantrum in the grocery store parking lot let alone see a grown-ass man throwing a tantrum.

  Daddy would, the sly voice in my head whispered to me. He would give you a stern talking-to and march you straight into the store. He might even punish you later if you behaved badly enough. If you were lucky, he’d spank your naughty bottom then send you to stand in the corner to think about what you did.

  I groaned and thumped my head down onto the steering wheel. The blush burning my cheeks had nothing on the tightness of my jeans at the thought of Daddy’s punishment. I squirmed in my seat as I imagined Daddy pulling down my pants, settling me over his lap, and holding me in place as he tanned my backside. No matter how I begged and cried, he didn’t stop until he was satisfied I had learned my lesson.

  “If I had a Daddy, I wouldn’t be having a tantrum in the first place,” I argued with myself because that wasn’t weird at all. “He would cuddle me and reassure me and protect me and hold my hand in the store.”

  If anything, my dick got harder.

  I looked down and frowned at my erection. “You’re not helping the situation at all. No more Daddy talk for you until you learn how to behave in public.”

  I’d stumbled upon age play purely by accident a few years ago and had felt everything inside of me reach out in need, not unlike when I had first discovered I was gay.

  I smiled thinking back to Shane Allan’s 7th grade pool party. All the boys had whispered around the snack table about the girls in their little swimsuits but I’d only had eyes for Diego Montoya with his golden brown skin, unruly black hair, and navy blue swim trunks that were sinful even for twelve-year-old me.

  I’d played it off knowing my parents would never accept a gay son. It was hard enough listening to my father’s disgusting comments when any of that quote-unquote fag shit came on the television or seeing my mom’s sympathetic agreement but hearing it directed at me was something I knew I couldn’t handle.

  It took a while but eventually I even got to the point where I didn’t flinch when my father started on his tirades. It was just a part of my life, something I had to tolerate because in the end it didn’t matter. Correction, I couldn’t let it matter. I’d had a plan.

  Step one: keep my mouth shut until I turned eighteen. Step two: once in college, find my real family, the family that accepted me not in spite of who I was but because they loved me unconditionally. Step three: once financially secure, I would decide whether to tell my parents about my sexuality or not.

  I’d nurtured the slightest sliver of hope that at that point in the future my parents would’ve mellowed out with age or at the very least swallowed their words to keep their only child in their lives. Instead, everything had come crashing down over the course of one otherwise unremarkable day.

  Tired of hiding and the little lies I had to tell to make it through the day, I’d sat nervously across the lunch table from my best friend and whispered my truth to him over my measly breakfast. I can still picture it, the rubbery pancakes with the little sachets of syrup and butter sitting on the tray next to my carton of 2% milk and the almost overripe banana with its little brown spots. To this day, I couldn’t stomach the thought of pancakes. I’d always preferred waffles anyway.

  I’d sat in my first period calculus class feeling light and heady at having finally shared my secret with someone, ignorant to the ways my world was changing. People were talking. The word was spreading. I
pictured my classmates leaning over their desks, whispering in ears. Oliver likes boys. I pictured them on their phones, fingers rapidly typing back and forth. Oliver is gay. Oliver sucks dick.

  As the day progressed, I’d noticed I was getting more and more side looks and pointed stares but thought nothing of it. My best friend wouldn’t tell. I was so confident I ignored all the signs around me and the little ball in my stomach that kept getting bigger and bigger. I ignored the giggles and the lingering stares on the bus ride home and sprinted down the street toward my house and safety.

  It wasn’t until I was standing at my front door that I realized something was very wrong.

  My dad’s truck was parked in the driveway.

  He usually got off work at five and wasn’t home until six. I’d just known that someone in the family had died.

  Naive, I know but it was the only rational explanation I had at the time or the only explanation I would let myself acknowledge.

  I whipped open the door in a blind panic, my head frantically looking for my parents. My father was standing in the hallway in front of the stairs. His arms were crossed and his face was red with anger and revulsion.

  He knows.

  My heart sank to my stomach and my vision filled with black spots as fear and adrenaline spiked through my body.

  He knows. He knows. He knows.

  It was the only thought my brain was able to process.

  I looked to his right and stared at the family photos nailed to the staircase wall. I stared at all the happy memories of my childhood as he opened his mouth and my world came crashing down. I don’t remember much of what he said and frankly, I never want to. Sometimes it’s best to keep some things buried and a father’s hateful words to his son are one of them. What I can recall vividly is my father pointing at the door and yelling at me to leave and never come back as my mother cried in the other room with her back to me.

  So, I did. I lifted my chin, turned, and left the only home I had even known with my backpack and the clothes I had been wearing. I walked numbly down the street back to my bus stop and parked my butt on the bench. I watched cars pass by me with their smiling faces and happy families and wondered what I had done to deserve mine.

  I don’t remember making the decision but before I knew it I had my phone in my hand and called the one person I knew who would come for me—my Aunt Millie.

  I didn’t see her much. My parents never invited her over but somehow I just knew she would make everything better. My mother’s older sister, Aunt Millie was everything that my parents weren’t: sunny, caring, and endlessly optimistic with a warm heart that never quit. She would help me. She had to. I had no one else.

  The second I heard her cheery voice, I lost it. She calmed me down enough to get an explanation out of me. She cursed my father and her sister, told me to get to a safe location where I could wait for her, and had dropped everything to come for me.

  A few hours later, I was sitting in the front seat of her car gazing blankly out the window as she chattered on about turning her spare craft room into my bedroom, getting me registered at a new school for the remainder of my senior year, and what we were going to have for dinner.

  I remember looking over at her and thinking she was acting more like a parent to me than my own mother and father ever had. Over the course of a single day, I had a new home and a new family. It was now me, Aunt Millie, Aunt Holly, and Blue—their cat—against the rest of the world.

  That was something else I’d discovered on arriving at my new home. Aunt Millie’s roommate was in fact Aunt Millie's wife, my Aunt Holly. I probably should have guessed a little sooner since my mother had always made a point of stressing the roommate aspect of their relationship and my father had always curled his lip in disgust when her name came up in conversation.

  Aunt Holly took one look at me, tsked, wrapped her arms around me, and pulled me into the tightest hug imaginable. She’d told me she was so happy to meet me after hearing so much from Aunt Millie. Hearing that, I felt my resentment toward my parents grow just that much bigger once I realized they had deprived me of their loving presence simply because of their relationship.

  I finished high school a year later and Aunt Holly offered me a position at her used bookstore before I left for college. It was there I had discovered age play.

  I was home for the summer and working once again at Holly’s Book-o-Rama. Business was slow so I decided to shelve some of the new books we’d recently received.

  I knew Aunt Holly got a kick out of watching me shelve the sex-help books as she called them because she loved how I blushed. I decided to do that section early to save myself the embarrassment.

  How to Satisfy Your Man in Fifty Easy Steps.

  I quickly leafed through it but didn’t find anything more interesting than what my boyfriend my freshman year had taught me.

  Sex: The Ultimate Guide to Positions.

  All of the positions were clearly designed for heterosexual couples so I made a mental note of the few that looked promising, shelved it, and moved on.

  I frowned at the next book. Aunt Holly had obviously placed it in the wrong pile. It was white with cute pictures of toys and baby bottles, paintbrushes and pacifiers. I didn’t bother reading the title before placing it back down on the cart and reaching for the next book. It sat there looking unassuming as I continued shelving books until it was the only one left.

  Picking it up, I walked over to the child development section and opened it to a random page in order to gauge where on the shelf it belonged. My eyes instantly widened and that infernal blush returned to stain my cheeks as I read the section heading.

  Can it be Sexual?

  I skimmed the text and several acronyms I didn’t know jumped out at me. ABDL. CGL. BDSM. Breathing fast, I slammed the book closed and glanced around to ensure no one was watching me. I might not have known what the other acronyms where but I sure as hell knew what BDSM was.

  My blushed deepened and my eyes dropped to the floor thinking back to the one time I’d asked my ex-boyfriend to hold me down in the middle of sex. He’d gotten this confused, helpless look on his face before lightly gripping my wrists. It hadn’t lasted much longer after that since I’d discovered I was the one who wanted to feel small and helpless.

  Looking once more at the cute pictures on the glossy white cover, I finally read the title.

  Learning to be Little: A Complete Guide to Age Play for Littles and Their Partners.

  I don’t know why but as I turned to go back and shelve the book where it clearly belonged, I found myself in the back office shoving it into my bag instead. I spent the rest of the day pretending nothing had changed while the book burned a hole in my mind.

  I raced through the rest of my day in a haze. The second I got home, I calmly made my way upstairs and barricaded myself in my room. Needing additional layers of protection between myself and my aunts, I grabbed a few pillows and a blanket off my bed, locked myself in my attached bathroom, and made a little nest in the empty bathtub.

  Reaching for my bag, I pulled out the book and held it in my hands. For some reason, I was scared. I lifted my hand and laughed when I noticed it quivering. I was being silly. It wasn’t going to bite me. It was just a book. Shaking my head, I opened the book and started reading.

  I spent the next few hours curled up in my bathtub reading the entire book cover to cover. By the end, all those acronyms had seared themselves into my brain. I could finally label all the things I’d always felt inside. Submissive. Little. On top of that, I could finally say what I wanted. Dominance. Discipline. Care. A Daddy.

  I yawned and rolled over in my nest, snuggling my book to my chest. My eyes closed and I imagined myself sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table watching cartoons with my coloring book open, a crayon in my hand, and a teddy bear in my lap. I could feel the stress and worry disappear as I pictured the scene. Then I imagined Daddy in the kitchen making us dinner. I shivered and reached down to rub my sudde
nly aching cock.

  Maybe if I was a good boy and ate all my vegetables, Daddy would give me a reward.

  I rolled my head on the steering wheel and groaned just thinking about it. All of that brought me to my current dilemma. My crayons were on their last leg in little pieces in their box and I was out of yellow paint. Yellow was my favorite color so of course it was always the first to go. I usually tried to buy all my stuff online but I was awful at keeping track of all my toys and what needed replacing until I wanted to use it. That was a Daddy’s job, not mine. I was just supposed to sit there and look cute and color and play.

  The sound of my phone ringing pulled me out of my thoughts. Seeing Serena’s name—my bestestes friend in the whole wide world—made me feel only slightly better. I answered with a cheery hello.

  “You’re still sitting in the car, aren’t you?”

  I looked down and played with the change in my cup holders. “No.”

  Well, that wasn’t very convincing.

  She sighed. “Oliver, I don’t understand you sometimes. How can you still be so insecure about going into the store by yourself when I’ve seen you practically skip down the aisles and hugging all the stuffed animals in the toy section because they didn’t have a home yet?”

  “I don’t know,” I whined as I dropped my head on the wheel once again. “It’s different. When I’m in it, I’m in it and I don’t think about other people. It’s this weird in-between that makes me nervous.”

  “Do you need me to come in with you? I need to pick up some milk and can be there in like…twenty minutes.”