An interlude from Victor Saltanov’s Point of View
I paced the floor angrily, walking back and forth as I watched the front door. I was waiting for it to open. Waiting to do what had to be done. Soon my partner, Andi would be home and we were going to have a very serious discussion and probably a punishment. In fact, though I had not done so since we had left The Institute, my palm itched to spank her lush little bottom.
But why should I punish my partner, you ask? What right do I have to do such a thing?
If I am being honest, I have to tell you that Andi is much more than my partner. We have been together for four years but for three and a half of those years, we were just good coworkers and friends. Then everything changed.
I am Viktor Saltanov and Andi’s last name is Sugarbaker—Salt and Sugar we are sometimes called which is a fairly accurate representation of our personalities, although I am the only one Andi ever shows her sweet side to. But physically, it is true—I am 6’6 with a weightlifter’s build and Andi is barely 5’1 and very petite. People say we look mismatched, but I do not mind this—to be honest, I rather like it.
As we are both Detectives First Class and partners at the Tampa police department, the difference in our sizes is very noticeable—in fact, it is one of the things that changed the nature of our relationship from a good working friendship…to something more.
About three months ago our Captain called us into his office and gave us a new assignment—one he said we were perfect for specifically because I am so big and Andi is so little. We were to infiltrate a place called simply “The Institute.” It is an Age Play resort—a phrase which meant nothing to either Andi or me until the Captain called an expert in to explain.
Age Play is a form of BDSM and is much like the Master/slave relationship. But in Age Play, one of the participants acts older and the other takes on the role of a younger person—a teenager or sometimes even a child. At the Institute, those playing these roles were called the “Daddy” and the “Babygirl.”
Please do not misunderstand me—this ‘kink’ as Andi calls it, has nothing to do with the abuse of children—which I find abhorrent and wrong. Rather, it is an opportunity for the “Babygirl” to go back to a time in her life when she felt protected and safe and unconditionally loved. For the “Daddy,” it is a chance to feel protective and loving—to hold and cuddle and teach his “Babygirl” new and exciting things. He may also be called upon to discipline her at times when she is naughty but that, too, is part of their dynamic. It is a unique relationship and one I never would have dreamed of playing out with my partner before our time at the Institute.
Not that I didn’t wish to cuddle and protect my partner—it was all I ever wanted almost from the moment that I first saw her. But I didn’t think she would ever allow it. Andi calls herself a feminist but that is just another word for what I call “prickly.” Despite her petite frame, her long brown hair and big brown eyes, she refuses to “take shit” as she says, from anyone. I think being so small has made her extra tough—she has had to prove herself in ways men do not and as a result, she has grown a sharp outer shell that will cut anyone who comes too close.
As my partner and friend, she let me into her life…but only so far. There was always a doorway I could not pass through—a barrier I could not break, though I desperately wanted to. I didn’t understand why she was mistrustful of me—of all men—until we went to the Institute. There I learned that Andi’s father, whom she had loved dearly and who she thought loved her, had abandoned her at an early age. He left her with no warning in the care of her alcoholic mother who was neglectful and uncaring and never returned. This made Andi feel that anyone who loved her would eventually leave—and so she protected herself by never letting anyone into her heart.
But though she had grown into a strong, self-sufficient woman, inside she was still the little girl who had been hurt all those years ago—something which never would have come to light if we had not been playing the roles of “Daddy” or “Papa” as Andi prefers to call me, and “Babygirl” or mishka, as I had decided to call her.
It was only when she was being mishka, that my tough, stoic partner was able to admit her feelings of pain and despair and finally let me past that final barrier that had always stood between us. And it was only as her Papa that I was able to hold her and heal her, to give her the love that had been growing inside me for so long. Only as Papa to her mishka could I show her that I would never hurt her as her biological father had done.
By this I mean I could show her I would never desert her as he had. But as for hurting her physically, I was unfortunately forced to do that at The Institute. After being given an overdose of the drug, Please, Andi went into a sexual frenzy. The only way to keep her nervous system from overloading was to either fuck her or whip her. Because I knew we were being filmed for what our suspect claimed would become a viral video, I could not take the easy way out and fuck my partner—no matter how much she begged and pleaded with me. Instead, I had to whip her with my belt—I had no other choice for nothing else could save her from the effects of the overdose.
Striking Andi, who was more dear to me than my own flesh, in such a fashion nearly broke something inside me. My own father had often beaten me ruthlessly in this same way when I was younger and I had sworn never to do it to another—especially not someone I loved. The marks I left on her were a harsh reminder that I was not as different from that drunken bastard as I would like to think.
I guess you could say Andi is not the only one in our relationship with “Daddy Issues.”
Anyway, in the aftermath of our cast at the Institute and the whipping I gave her there, I tried to push Andi away and very nearly succeeded. If she hadn’t been able to make me see that she still wanted me as her Papa—and still needed to be my little mishka—I might have let the woman I loved to distraction pass out of my life forever. Thankfully, the misunderstanding was cleared up and we had been together now for three and a half months as Papa and mishka. In fact, I had even asked her to marry me and she had accepted—much to my joy and relief.
But I had not spanked my little mishka again since the Institute—although sometimes I think she wanted me to or wondered why I did not when she was feeling “sassy” or “bratty” as it was called during our time there.
If you are wondering, mishka is Russian for “little mouse”, an affectionate nickname that came to mean much to both of us during our time undercover. Andi is still my little mishka when we “play.” When I call her by that name, she knows that we are about to begin, that I am treating her not as a partner but as my Babygirl. At that time she belongs to me completely—to pet or punish as I see fit—though as I said, I had not punished her again.
Playing Papa and mishka is a pleasurable and satisfying relationship for both of us—though many would consider it unconventional or even deviant. But it was likely to be a painful one for Andi tonight. I was at last going to break my passive streak and punish her again. That was because of what she had done that day at work.
We had been pursuing a criminal we suspected of homicide through the twisted streets of Ybor City, Tampa’s historic district. This was not something that usually happened but in this case, we were interviewing the suspect and he fled. Andi and I, of course, pursued. Though my legs are much longer, my partner can move quickly when she wants to. We were rushing down an alley, guns drawn, but somehow she got ahead of me. At the end of the alley was a chain link fence with a small hole in it. The suspect was a male in his thirties but he was very short—only a little taller than Andi. He squeezed through the hole in the fence and was gone.
I, of course, knew I would have to climb over. It was going to take precious time but there was no way I could fit through the tiny hole in the chain link. Andi, on the other hand, was already scrambling through.
“Wait!” I put a hand on her shoulder, trying to hold her back. “He could be armed.”
“He could also get away.” She shook off my hand and continued to worm her way through.
“Andi, wait,” I insisted. “This is not safe—we need to go together.”
“I’ll be fine—just catch up when you can.” And with that, she wiggled away like a little fish from my seeking hand and continued the pursuit on her own.
I got over the fence as quickly as I could but my partner and the suspect were nowhere to be seen. I rushed on, my gun drawn, peering into the darkness of the alley. Where was Andi? Was she all right? Would she—
I came to a corner, turned, and saw something that nearly stopped my heart.
My partner was standing there, her gun out and aiming at our suspect. But he also had a gun which was pointed directly at her face.
“You fucking bitch,” he spat, cocking the hammer with a loud click that made me clench my jaw. “I warned you to leave me alone—now you’re gonna pay.”
“Put it down, Bateman,” Andi said levelly. She is always cool under pressure—at least in this kind of situation. But though she apparently had no fear, I could see the danger she was in. She had a gun in her face and the suspect was desperate—he would shoot her. In fact, I could see his finger tightening on the trigger as they spoke. He would do it—he would kill her right in front of me and I would never hold her again.
I could not bear the thought.
“Bateman!” I shouted, drawing his attention—and the gun he was holding—towards myself. His arm jerked up and his finger continued to tighten. Suddenly, I heard the deafening bang of his pistol as he shot at me.
The bullet came close—close enough to graze my cheek—and buried itself in the brick wall of the alley behind me. My own gun coughed flatly as I returned fire but I did not miss.
The suspect fell dead at Andi’s feet and she looked up at me with wide eyes.
“Salt?” she whispered, which is what she calls me when we are at work.
I knew then and there that there would have to be some retribution for this act—that Andi would have to pay for her recklessness. But at the time, I was just glad we were still alive and together.
“Andi,” I said and went to her. There was no one to see us in the alley as I hugged her. We took a moment to collect ourselves and then phoned the incident in.
The rest of the day was spent in paperwork and reviews which are necessary whenever one uses deadly force. In fact, I had another review scheduled for the following day, as well as a psychological evaluation. I was not looking forward to it, but I knew I would get through it. I had twice before. This was not my first killing but it had shaken me more than any other time I had fired my weapon in the line of duty. That was because I had nearly lost Andi—just the thought of that almost more than I could bear.
I finished as early as I could and came home—to my house—to wait. I knew that Andi would come to me as soon as she was done with her own paperwork and this was why I was pacing and waiting for her, waiting to talk about what she had done and why it had been so very, very wrong.