“But I really needed you to help me today. Just because I have a broken arm doesn’t mean I’m a, uh, Little.”
“No. It doesn’t. What makes you Little is that you thrive under my care. You enjoy it.” I bring one hand to her stomach and tap her belly button. “Butterflies dance inside you when I Daddy you.”
“Wait, so now Daddy is a verb?”
“Yep.” I chuckle.
She leans back, thinking hard, brows furrowed. I suspect she’s running through the events of the day.
She crosses her good arm over her injured one and rubs her bicep, closing herself off.
I squeeze her legs gently, letting her process.
Her lips part, and then she closes them. Finally she licks them and whispers, “So what does this mean?”
“It means I recognize you have a Little inside you, and I’m hoping you’ll take a chance and let me bring her out to play. Let me Daddy her. Let me show you what it’s like to be taken care of in every way.”
“Which you’ve already done,” she points out.
“Exactly. And did you hate it?”
She shivers before whispering, “It was nice. It doesn’t seem sustainable, though.” She lowers her arm and leans forward. “I said this before: You can’t dote on me every day. You’d get burned out, and how would you get any work done?”
I smile. “Honey, trust me. I know a lot of Daddies who manage just fine. No, I wouldn’t be able to Daddy you every hour of every day for the rest of our lives—though there are some Daddies who do. We’ll come up with a balance that works for us. For now, you need me, so I’ll take the time to help you. When you’re more independent, we’ll reevaluate and figure out what we each want from our relationship. Negotiate.”
She taps her knee with her fingers. “It’s like a parallel universe I wasn’t aware of.”
“Yes. I’ll hook you up with some websites to read about the lifestyle. I can also have some women who live in the lifestyle come over and talk to you. A few of my guys have Little girls. I’m sure they’d be happy to come chat with you about their lives. They’re always willing to help educate others.”
She cocks her head to one side.
I lift her fingers to my lips and kiss the tips. “For now, nothing changes. I’ve been Daddying you all day. I’m going to keep doing so. But now, you’ll see it through a new lens.”
“Sippy cups…”
I grin. “Yeah. I’ll get you some more things. Bath toys. Maybe you’d like a new stuffie—a friend for Tedbear. Hair bows. Cute dresses.”
“Dresses…” she mutters.
“I didn’t see any in your apartment.”
“I haven’t owned a dress in a long time. I used to wear them before I met Pete, but then I hated wearing them when he moved me out of town. I didn’t like him to have such easy access to my…”
I cringe. “He was an ass. Maybe you’d like me to have easy access to your…” I leave that last word hanging like she did, teasing her.
“Panties?” she proposes, giggling.
“Or lack thereof.” I wiggle my brows.
“That’s why you like my ugly cotton panties. It’s a Daddy thing.”
“Indeed. It’s called age play. Sometimes people call their partner Daddy and don’t incorporate age play, but other couples like to live in a lifestyle where one partner enjoys being doted on as if they were younger. Not to be mistaken with actual age. I’m clear you’re an adult. It’s a nurturing thing. My Dominant side wants to take care of you in every way. I itch to give you rules, and when you break them, discipline you.”
She gasps. “Rules?”
“Yep. Basic rules that fit the age range you fall under when we figure that out. For example, if you find that you like to play at, say, about four, you’d have rules that fit that chronological age.”
“Running with scissors,” she says.
