~FAILING IN REVERSE~ (spanking story)

Chapter 12: Recovery Part 1

You sulk at the last sentence but nod your understanding. You can't say you blame him for that. Joe did literally give you an ass tattoo. And influenced you to drink and smoke. He's not necessarily cousin of the year. Ben probably thinks the dude would pull a bank heist with you too.

Benjamin smiles at you reassuringly before helping you dry off, as if he has helped many an eighteen-year-old with basic hygiene.

You want to whine about this, but in all fairness, you did just fall. And for some reason, you're still sort of dizzy. Probably due to a combination of things. "Did you do this for all your kids?" You question, slightly embarrassed.

Ben nods. "Basically. I mean, every kid has needed something a little different but the heart and the effort are the same. Each of you have needed varying amounts of TLC, but naturally kids with extra baggage just require more, and we've never been afraid to give it." You can hear the joy and pride in his voice. Another new thing for Ben. You're more used to his disappointment and frustration. It's appreciated, but to not embarrass yourself by smiling, you play it off like it's weird.

You give him an incredulous look, and he replies with a snort, "I know. You think we smother you. Get used to it."

The man kisses the top of your head again after having finished drying your hair and assists you to the bed so you can at least dry what you can by yourself. You sit unmoving until he gets the hint to turn around. He does as requested with a warning that, "You don't have to be embarrassed if you're needing more help sometimes. I hope you know that it's what we're here for, as your substitute parents."

You don't answer that. You just dry yourself off the rest of the way while he finds clothes comfy enough for you to live in as a person with a fresh wound on your backside. You're entirely unsure how tonight's gonna go when you can barely sit comfortably on a soft bed, let alone a hard bench or stool that they have littered throughout the rest of the house, apart from the couch, although the couch ain't that great either. And you are tempted to ask, so you broach it carefully. "Uh, what's tonight gonna look like?"

Ben hands you a button up flannel and sweatpants and sits a couple feet away from you, still ensuring you won't fall or something—which would be quite a feat to fall from the great height of the bed. You swallow an annoying ball of leftover guilt lodged in your throat as he answers. "Well, looks like we're having the kids over. We try to have them once a week, usually Saturdays but sometimes Sundays. Or Fridays. Whatever works for everyone. Figured we'd do tonight so we can all rest fully tomorrow before the work week." He chuckles when you get stuck in the flannel. "You know you could've just unbuttoned it, right?"

You want to slap him, and you would if you had the hands. Regressing you further, he pulls the shirt down, and when your head pops out, you give him a scowl. You think he secretly enjoys babying you as a way to torture you.

Just to poke the bear, he taps your nose with his finger. He's enjoying this. Definitely. "You're welcome. Now, do you want my help with your pants—oh—" He wanders toward your dresser to pull out fresh underwear. "You probably need your underoos," he crows, stuffing your head into them as if he didn't know underwear went on the other end, just to be a fucking jerk.

"What the hell?" This is the last straw. Not baby talk. No stupid cutesy nicknames. And then he did—that. "Get. Out. Get out!" You holler, yelling the last bit of fight you had in you for the day. You're not sure why Ben is being so—Ben—today. But it's annoying as fuck.

The man actually takes the hint for once and skedaddles, leaving you to get dressed. And to think.

And think, you do, after you pull the underwear off your head.