Who’s her Daddy? : The Mystique of the Daddy/babygirl Dynamic

Copyright © 2014 Corey Harper
Corey Harper Books

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“Please Sir may I cum! Please Sir may I cum!”

“No.”

She smiled at his response, her eyes still closed, and her finger moved to the switch of the Hitachi wand, preparing to flick it to “high” and press it down on her clit. He liked denying her orgasms to her, even knowing that, when she begged, she was only moments from cumming uncontrollably. They’d made it as long as a twenty-second delay in the past before she soaked his sheets with her shuddering climax.

She held on as long as she could, relishing the anticipation of that brain-churning moment when she switched the Hitachi to its highest setting and her orgasm exploded from her. Even more mind-blowing was that he was sitting in a chair three feet away, watching. She was exposed to him, her legs bent, soles of her feet together, knees thrown wide. Pussy swollen and slick with her nectar. On view for his gaze.

She begged again, “Please Sir may I cum! Please Sir may I cum!” She was starting to thrash on his big soft Cal King bed as her orgasm built to flood stage.

“I said no,” he said.

Something in his voice made her finger pause on the wand’s power switch. And when she heard him stir, and the wand was pulled from her fingers, her eyes flew open. She almost said something, but the look on his face froze the words on her lips. Her orgasm fled like dandelion fluff in a cyclone.

He held the Hitachi in his right hand, his index finger flicking the switch to off. The humming sound silenced, and along with it, her ardor. The way he was looking at her… She began to feel afraid.

He just stared at her for several long seconds, his hunter green eyes unreadable. She felt exposed, and raised her knees till they touched, but realized he could still see the lips of her pussy between her thighs.

Seeming to become aware of the effect he was having on her, he let out a heavy breath, reached forward, and lifted the corner of the bed’s comforter over her legs. She shivered when the back of his calloused knuckles brushed the top of her left knee. But not the way she usually shivered at his touch.

Something was wrong.

He released another breath, this one even longer that the last. He moved, and she thought for a moment that he was going to sit back in the chair, but after a pause, he slid onto the bed alongside her, sitting rigidly upright.

Something was really wrong. He hesitated to sit next to her?

“Sir?” she said, her voice coming out a lot more quivery than she expected. She reached down and tried to draw the comforter further up her body, but she couldn’t do it without moving away from him, and he was already freaking her out the way he was acting. She didn’t want to give him any more reason to frighten her than he already was doing.

A third breath. He took a third breath. Was he angry at her? He wasn’t even looking at her; his empty stare was across his Spartan bedroom. And she realized he was looking at anything but her.

His silence was beginning to unnerve her. He was normally a very happy guy, always joking, laughing easily at her “pestiness”, as he called it. She liked to dance up to him while he was busy with something mundane, like doing the dinner dishes, and tug at his trousers while he was trying to finish so he could come fuck her properly. She never failed to elicit a deep growl from him when she did this, but eventually he would turn, that look in his eye, and she would start running. He would always catch her before she’d gone three steps, but it was the thought that counted. And he’d always thought she was wonderful.

Until now.

She kept her eyes down, tracing the green and red silkscreeny looking pattern on the comforter. She wanted to look up at him, where he was sitting motionless next to her, but couldn’t. His body, even clothed, put off enormous quantities of heat; it was like cozying up to a hairy space heater. Since she was almost always cold, it worked out well for her, though occasionally he gently peeled her off him in bed during the night, telling her he was about to combust. But always with a kiss to her forehead or lips, a gentle tweak of her nipple, and a caress of her ass.

Now he didn’t even reach for her. His hands were clasped atop his right knee, which was in turn crossed over his left leg. She wasn’t as good at reading his body language as he was at appraising hers, but even she knew that did not bode well.

She was usually the one who closed down to him, not the other way around. He had been more open to her, in the five months they had been dating, than any three other men she’d known in her life combined. Somehow, he managed to be assertive and confident—“Domly”, she teased him—while always remaining sensitive to her needs. He could—and did—perform the most sadistic, kinky acts upon her person, and then afterwards would hold her, cuddle her, and maybe get her a treat like ice cream. A couple times, after particularly vigorous sessions involving a lot of hair pulling and throat fucking, he’d even given her a warm bath and washed her hair. She remembered sighing a lot during those times, and holding onto whatever part of him she could reach. Preferably his incredibly hard and strong forearms.

Now those forearms corded and tensed as she braved looking at him from the corner of her eye. It was like he was trying to pull away from her. Oh no! It was like he was pulling away.

“I like you,” he said, his voice soft. And his eyes still focused across the room; not on her.

Her heart scraped to a halt. She stopped breathing, dreading his next words.

“But this isn’t working for me,” he said.

Now he did look at her, and she wished he hadn’t. His green eyes were both empty, and at the same time filled to the brim with pain. But the pain was not fresh, she saw; it had been there a long while. Almost five months, she realized in that moment. Their five months.

She felt as thin and brittle as a dropped bud vase. And the urge to run from him was overpowering. Her calves twitched as she tried to get hold of herself, and her heart went from silent to hammering overdrive, almost drowning out his next words.

“We’ve talked about this,” he said. “Who I am. What I am.”

And her heart stopped again. She hated disappointing him. For the most part, she believed him when he said he was never disappointed in her, but now, even though he wasn’t saying it, his disappointment bellowed at her. She shrank in on herself, feeling tiny and cold. Inadequate.

“It’s my fault,” he said, now reaching out for her hand where it lay atop her thigh. Her little fingers felt insignificant inside his big, hot palm. “Not yours. Mine.”

She tried to say something, anything, but no words came. He didn’t seem to notice as he went on.

“I tried to get you to do something you are not ready to do,” he murmured. “I wasn’t sensitive enough to your process, how you need to work things through. And I’ve realized I’ve simply been pushing you along too quickly.”

Something in his tone allowed her to turn her head and look at him. She saw his eyes were glistening. Moist. Oh. Her fingers tightened in his, and she dropped her gaze again. Maybe she could still save this—

“I have to release you,” he said. “I have to let you go.”

Her entire body went slack. It was as if all her muscles and tendons and bones simply went away, leaving her a sack of cold flesh.

“You’re…” was all that came out of her in a gasp.

He breathed hard through his nose as he cupped her cheek with his other hand. His hand felt ablaze on her senseless skin.

“I have to,” he said. “I can’t keep shoving you forward just because it’s the direction I think you should go.” Now his voice dropped to a whisper. “I can’t keep hurting you.”

“No!” she cried, jerking up onto her elbows, coming up so fast she clunked her forehead against the hard edge of his hand. He drew it back, and she clutched at him. “No!”

“I don’t have a choice, babyg—” He compressed his lips as he cut himself off from what he’d been about to call her. The name he’d been trying to get her to accept the past three months. “I don’t have any choice.”

She looked to that part of herself, buried deep inside, the part he assured her was there. It seemed so far removed from how she viewed herself.

“I don’t want to go,” she said, the tears beginning. She raised her face to him, eyes swimmy cloudy. “Don’t make me go, please, Sir.”

He sighed, and his grip on her hand loosened. “That is why we cannot be.”

“Because I call you Sir?”

“Because of what you are unable to call me.”

She shook her head, her auburn curls swaying limply around her face. “I want to,” she whispered.

“If you felt it, it would be natural to say,” he said. “If you felt it, it would be impossible not to say.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because of what I am. Because of what you are.”

She pondered that. It wasn’t the first time he’d said it, but usually her brain was melting from sex they’d either just had, or were about to have. That seemed to be their only two speeds. Not that she ever felt like complaining about it—he made her feel alive in a way she’d never experienced. Like breathless alive. Swelling in the chest alive. Can’t stop thinking about him alive. The times she returned to her apartment from his just felt like waiting, like blah, like why was she back there. She’d fallen for him so hard, so fast, and nothing in their dynamic ever deterred her from how she felt.

Except that one Thing.

She kept trying, mainly because he insisted it was who she really was, but partly…

Partly, she felt he might be onto something.

Oh, at first she’d barely listened when he tried to tell her what his instincts were picking up from her. She just figured it was a case of, when all you have is a hammer, everything looks like a nail. She’d said as much at one point, phrasing it respectfully as a question, and to her surprise he had just laughed and told her he could see her point. But then he assured her he wasn’t just saying it because he wanted it to be true.

Then he proceeded to tell her about his four previous submissives, and how he had never gotten even a remotely similar vibe from them as he had from her. They were companions, nothing more, he told her. Because he was looking for only one thing. One type of girl.

And he’d assured her she was that type. That girl.

At the time, she’d gotten caught up in jealousy upon hearing about the four freaking submissives. Now, she reran the conversation in her head, and realized she’d missed something.

She’d missed her own reaction to his words.

Oh, she’d noted it afterwards, and chalked it up to just his masculine hotness and Dom vibe. But he was always hot and Domesque. So now, remembering, she grasped how it had been different. The moment he’d told her she was a “little”, a “babygirl”, two simultaneous things occurred: her pussy had flooded, and she’d wanted to crawl into his lap.

The memory bitch-slapped her in her brain, like it had been trying to get her attention for years.

“And because of what I am, what you are,” he was saying, as if he had no idea a war had begun inside her head, “I can’t be with you anymore.” He looked down at her, and the expression on his face started the flood from her eyes again. “I wish it could be different. But it’s unfair for me to do to you what I’ve been doing. You aren’t ready. Not for me, anyway. Perhaps, in a few years, for someone else.” He squeezed her hand, and her heart broke. “But not for me.”

“But…” she started, struggling to sit up without breaking free of his tenuous grip on her hand. “But if you’re so sure, why can’t we just keep going like we have until—”

“Because it’s become too difficult,” he said, releasing her hand and making her whimper. He returned his hand to his lap, joining it with the other one. Leaving her out of the equation. His knuckles cracked, muscles bunching, as he tightened his fingers together.

“For me?” she said. “Because I want to keep trying for you—”

“For me,” he said. He glanced at her. “I know that sounds selfish.”

It did, a little. But then she thought about all the ways he had given of himself to her. And then she become conscious that he had done nothing but give to her. He doted on her. Sure, he was a sadistic bastard, but she was an enthusiastic masochist, so it was a twistedly symbiotic dynamic. But every time they finished with whatever demonic scenario he’d cooked up, he cared for her afterwards like she was the most precious thing in the world to him.

Which, she was understanding now, was exactly the way he felt about her. Now she was the one feeling selfish.

“I want to find my little,” he said. “I need to find my little.”

The more he separated from her with words like that, the sharper became the pain she was feeling. It was as if him slipping away from her was taking everything that she had ever wanted along with it.

She panicked, dragging up an old fear. “So you just want someone closer to your own age, is that it?” Please, let that be it.

He looked at her again, and shook his head as if he was growing even more sad and disappointed with her. “Our age difference is irrelevant,” he said, his words soft, but with a sharp edge beneath his gentleness. “You are an adult woman, almost thirty years old. We are always able to carry on intelligent conversations, even about things other than sex.” For a moment, she thought he was trying to joke, but the somber look on his face told her she was wrong. He went on, “It has everything to do with acknowledging those parts of ourselves that speak to each other’s core beings.” He took in a slow breath, as if he was trying to calm himself.

“And you think my core is a—”

“It’s not even a question,” he said. “My instincts are good. I’ve never been wrong about this.” The head shake again. “But try as I might, I can’t get past the walls you surround your true nature with.” Realizing how his words had just cut her, he took her hand again, in both of his this time, and turned a bit towards her. “And that’s my fault, not yours. I simply haven’t found the way in. And that means I am not the right D—”

“No!” she said, pulling on his hands as if she was trying to tug him back to her. “You are! You are!” Dammit! Why wouldn’t he get all the way on the bed with her? If there was ever a time she wanted to be in his lap, it was now!

“I thought so once.”

“Tell me about it again!” she said, scooting herself closer to him. She thought about pulling the comforter off so she could be naked against his coarse black denims and navy broadcloth shirt, but decided that might make him retreat further from her. “Please, S— Please.”

“We’ve talked about it a lot. Or at least, I have,” he said, then paused. His eyes lost some of their sadness, but it frightened her to see that it was replaced by annoyance. “You weren’t listening.”

“I was so,” she said, and as soon as the words left her mouth, she realized it was a lie.

His jaw muscles worked, and the sight of him fighting for control of himself both frightened her and sent a shiver down her spine to her pussy. He was usually so in charge of himself, so self-possessed. Even when he had her strapped down over the leather horse in his fun room, he never for a moment lost himself. Even when he was inside her, filling her, cumming in her, he may have grunted or even moaned, but she always felt it was a conscious choice on his part to make a sound.

“No,” he said. “You are not telling me the truth.” The muscle clenched and stood straight out from his rugged jawline. His fingers tightened around her small hands.

“Am so,” she said. What the fuck was she doing, arguing with him? She’d already lost him, and now she was going to piss him off in the bargain? But an annoying little voice inside her, usually quiet, was getting louder and louder in her ears.

“I don’t like being lied to,” he said. A deep growl came up from his chest.

Her pussy flooded. “Not lying,” she said. “You’re being mean.”

Seriously? What the hell was wrong with her? She was always so respectful to her Doms, especially to this one, because she thought she might actually love him. She always said “Yes, Sir” and “No, Sir” and “Anything you like, Sir”. When she had frequented the scene clubs in her early twenties, she quickly became known as an especially compliant sub, willing to do whatever was asked of her. She’d never really thought why, until this moment. Now she realized it was because those minutes she was tied, or strapped, or denied orgasm, or impaled in some horribly delicious way, were the only minutes in her life she had been able to actually breathe.

That same feeling was starting to bubble up in her now, in this moment, with him. And he was barely touching her.

“I’m being—” He stopped, swallowed, and she saw his vaunted control begin to slip back over him like a mask. Like a suit of armor that he wore to keep himself in check.

No! She yanked on his hands with all her small strength, feeling his six-two frame barely move. But she got him to drill her with that stare, the one that said he wasn’t entirely in control of himself.

“Mean,” she said. “Being mean. Mean man. Mean mean mean man.”

That growl again, and the bed beneath pussy her got damp. “Mean?” he said, the words a rasp. “You are a brat.”

“Nuh-uh,” she said, shaking her head so her curls flew. “You’re just mean. Meany.” That little quiet voice inside her head was shouting now. She started to tremble. She felt hot. Her scalp prickled.

“I’m—”

“Mean!”

With a roar, he snatched her up off the bed, tossed her over his knee, and flung the dragged-along comforter off her. Her bare ass thrust up into the air. His jeans were rough against the soft skin of her thighs.

“You want mean?” he growled. “I’ll show you mean.”

The instant he brought his big wide palm down on her naked ass cheek, she came. And kept cumming as he spanked her again and again, first one cheek, then the other, then the first. Her butt heated, then burned, then sizzled. He’d never spanked her this long or this hard before. She could not stop cumming. This had never happened to her before, either. Her entire body clenched into what felt like a pretzel, and all her toes cracked as she curled them. She flailed, but not to push away his hands; she just could not keep still. Another first for a usually-compliant sub.

Just when she thought he would never stop spanking her, he did. She started to raise up, but suddenly she was in the air, in freefall! He’d picked her up and tossed her through the air and onto his bed. He’d never done that before. Even at his most sadistic, he always gave her the impression he had every move planned down to the inch. Like he was working from a script.

Now it felt like he’d gone so far off-book, that there hadn’t even been a book in the first place.

She started to feel afraid of him, because he was so big, and she was so little. But along with the fear was a thrill that coursed through her like white water in spring floods. It picked up that part of her that was shouting on tiptoes now and carried it along in a current that grew more raging and out of control by the moment.

And in that instant, she understood that was because he was going out of control, too.

The more he lost it, the more she found herself. The wider he opened himself to her, the less she needed to hide. The deeper she saw into him, the higher grew her trust. But now, she saw, he was wavering. The armor he maintained was trying to wrap itself around him again and return his control. He needed her help.

“Meany,” she whispered.

That was it. He bellowed something wordless and guttural, and tore off his clothes. His erection sprang from his snug boxer-briefs, purple and angry and huge. And leaking. The sight of it made her gasp, but she had no time to regard it as he fell on her like a wolf upon his prey.

None of his usual studied finesse. He plunged into her with no warning, no buildup, no attention to her readiness. She was lucky she was as wet as she had ever been. More. He slammed into her, balls-deep, her slickness accepting him, her folds parting, her walls clutching at his steel shaft. His girth stretched her to her limits and beyond, his length bumping her cervix. But she didn’t care.

She understood now.

His strong arms were crossed behind her back and wrapped around her so tightly she could scarcely breathe. His palms gripped her shoulder blades. The coarse hair on his chest chafed against her soft full breasts, causing her nipples to harden and pucker and deliciously hurt. She wriggled against his big body, trying to get closer to him as he pounded in and out of her without mercy.

Her pussy and his cock together made loud wet sounds, and she could feel her nectar splashing from her on each of his brutal downstrokes, soaking them both. His head was pressed into the mattress next to her head, the groans coming from him all the more animal as his control slipped further and further away from him.

He surrounded her, enveloped her, covered her. As vicious as his current attack was, she felt safe in his arms. Secure. Like she had never ever felt in her entire life. He could impale her with his huge long cock whenever he wanted, as hard as he wanted, and she would take it. But not because she was a compliant sub. But because he was her—

“Daddy,” she whispered in his ear. “You are my Daddy.”

He raised up, his green eyes wide, searching hers. With a roar, his face tightened as he lost himself in her smiling gaze, his orgasm filling her more than he ever had. The ropes he pumped into her were merely the physical manifestation of the connection that now bound them. The trust it took for her to open herself to him, and to say the words she now realized she had wanted to say to him since they’d met, was absolute. He was her Daddy, and she was his—

“Babygirl,” he growled, as his orgasm reached its crescendo.

The pulses from his cum subsided, his pounding heartbeat slowed, and his eyes focused on her. For just a moment, she thought he was about to ask her a question. But she saw the shift slip across his eyes, that same one she knew had slid across her own just minutes before. Understanding. Realization at the obstacles he had put in his own path. A small amount of annoyance that he hadn’t known sooner. And finally, acceptance that it had happened.

He looked at her. She looked at him back. It was like two puzzle pieces had just clicked together. No more turning and turning and turning to get them to fit. They just were. Now and always.

He rolled them over and took his weight off her, then sat upright and pulled her into his lap. She drew her legs in and snuggled against him, making herself as small as she could next to his big body. Resting her cheek on his shoulder, she let out a sigh.

It felt like she’d just released all the sighs she had ever had inside her. All gone now, every last one of them.

She looked up at him, admiring that square jaw and little bit of stubble that scratched her when he nuzzled her. Nuzzled his babygirl. Her Daddy. She put her arms around him. They had so much to say, it made her chest swell. And yet, they need say nothing at all. They both understood everything, the moment their puzzle pieces had clicked.

He kissed the top of her head, her forehead, her nose. Tightened his arms around her. Let one hand fall between her legs and stroked the still-damp lips of her pussy.

“So, babygirl,” he rumbled. “Tell me about your day.”

——————————-

I’ve read many wonderful articles on the Daddy/babygirl dynamic, but haven’t to date come across one that talks about the struggle some littles have in acknowledging their nature. The acknowledgement can happen in many ways; this was just one of them.

I’ll get some definitions out of the way up front: the “little” can also be referred to as “lil”, “babygirl”, “littlegirl”, or whatever variation a Daddy and his bg (for short) enjoy using. And Daddy is always “Daddy”. Not “Dad”, “Pops”, “Father”, or any other variation. Because, ick.

Yes, some of you unfamiliar with the Daddy/bg dynamic are squicked right now, so let me make this very clear:

The Daddy/bg dynamic is NOT about incest.

Oh, don’t look at me like that; I know you were thinking it.

The participants are adults, all of legal age, not related by blood, not idiots or otherwise impaired, and a few of them probably live in your neighborhood. They have jobs, take their kids to school, go to church, and are otherwise as normal as anyone else. And probably happier.

Obviously I’m biased. But from my perspective, the level of internal trust it takes for a bg to give herself to a Daddy is massive. Again, in my opinion (and many in the BDSM/kink community may disagree), this is the most open, the most connected, of all the variants of relationship types in our community.

That’s because that trust level I just mentioned—not dependent on how good he is with ropes, or the flogger, or any of the other fun toys—comes straight from her emotions to his. (I say “her” for bg and “him” for Daddy, but a male can be a bg, and a female can be a Daddy, though what they call each other is up to them. Since I am heteroflexible, I will use the paradigms that are most familiar to me in this article, and stick with the male Daddy/female bg combination.)

I’ve known subs that keep their emotions tight to their hearts, and instead give themselves over to be used like our compliant sub in the vignette. I’ve known others that act out in various ways, either as brats, or even a little blustery, because they weren’t ready to bring out their littles.

Even the girls who know they are littles can struggle. They carry massive amounts of emotions around with them. Strong emotions. Like whirlwinds in tutus. It’s not at all surprising they would clamp down on those emotions, or act out, because how else are they supposed to deal with them?

Think about it: if she has these cyclones of overwhelming feelings lashing around inside her, what does she do with them? How does she cope?

For someone who is not a little, just saying “suck it up” to one who is, is not a tenable solution. Yes, some littles do suck it up, but rarely successfully. Oh, don’t get me wrong; they manage, coping with their lives and challenges, but actual happiness eludes them. (The same for Daddies, but it works a bit differently for them. More on that in a moment.)

For a little, emotional highs are higher, lows are very low. Euphoria (very common) is stronger, and upsets cut far more deeply (also very common).

An example, pulled from my Tumblr feed, of what a little texted to her Daddy:

tumblr_n1d6grF15Y1t7u33jo1_500

Funny? Of course. Silly? Every little I’ve ever met has been devastatingly intelligent, so I’ve no doubt that—objectively—she was aware of the silliness of her statement. I’m also relatively certain that, in that moment, she truly did feel her life was over. (And in the moment after that, she probably found a crayon she liked better and forgot about the broken one. Or Daddy bought her an entire new box.)

Think of a bucket filled to overflowing, then think of more liquid going into that bucket. She doesn’t have another bucket; she can’t keep up with the overflowing. And the more she tries to keep up, the sadder and more frenzied she feels.

That’s an iceberg’s tip of her flood of emotions. And these emotions don’t stop. She can’t fight them. She can barely deal with them some days. Like I said, some littles repress and compartmentalize, while others have strong emotional episodes. I.e., explosions. These are stopgaps at best.

So what’s the solution?

A Daddy.

Sound familiar? Dom needs sub; sub needs Dom. And if you think that one has a powerful pull, you ain’t seen nothing till you’ve run across a little in a spin who needs her Daddy.

Once she acknowledges who and what she is, those needs get stronger. (Remember my article on the awakening of a submissive? This is like that, except rather like comparing a Cessna to a Gulfstream.) And similar to with a “regular” submissive, it is the Dom who takes on the care of her emotions. But for a little, the emotional responsibility is considerably greater, because for the little to feel completely free in her skin, she has to let it all out. To him.

And it’s massive.

A Daddy has to be ready for any emotion, at any level, at any time. No compromises, no “I’m too tired tonight, babygirl”. This is the power exchange in the Daddy/bg dynamic, and it must be absolute, or it doesn’t work. If he’s taking her on as his little, he gets it all. Every crumb of news in her life, every bit of excited blather, every morsel of sadness, joy, anger, happiness. Sometimes all at the same time.

A girl with an emerging little can become overwhelmed. Think about it: it’s almost like a birth. Except instead of the blissful unconsciousness of actual infancy, she has just become aware of her true nature. She emerges, blinking, into her brave new world, bright lights and loud noises startling her. Anything that upsets this process of nascent awareness can cause her to recoil, hide, run. The fault will be her Daddy’s, of course. And in this case, the best thing he can do is to back off, give her a “breather”, let her “skin” toughen a bit to her new environment. If she continues to become overwhelmed, scheduling regular breather periods can help her to adjust and balance more easily as her little grows more confident in their bond.

Littles can be complicated. They are also a blast. They fulfill the same thing in a Daddy as he fulfills in them. Same coin, opposite sides. A Daddy without a little gets grumpy, growly, and feels incomplete. A Daddy with a little is the happiest place on Earth, way happier than Disneyland. Which she may want to go to.

Which brings me to the next thing you are thinking: that all littles act… well, little. As in, young. Immature. Babies.

Certainly age play can be a part of the Daddy/bg dynamic, but it isn’t a requirement. It does tend to be common, but there are plenty of littles that don’t do age regression play at all. I tend to see being a little, and any age play included, as two separate things. Many in the community would disagree, because the littles who engage in some level of age play are far more common than those who don’t, and it is a very integrated part of their little natures.

What am I talking about here? It varies, and is entirely dependent on the little. It ranges from those who don’t do it at all—needing only for Daddy’s nurturing lap to be there when they want it—to littles who, when they are very upset, regress to needing blankets, stuffed animals, binkies, even baby bottles. And everything in between.

The girl in my last article on “sub drop” was a realized little, and I touched on her self-comforting behavior a little (heh heh). But that little had a Daddy; many do not. It’s very difficult for them, and they get sad about it often. Hence the various methods I mentioned to self-comfort.

Some of you who are unfamiliar with this dynamic might be thinking, “Eww! What a baby. A bottle?” First, let me remind you of my philosophy—I am a zero-tolerance anti-YKINOK (Your Kink Is Not Okay) pervert. What that means is, you’re a perverted fuck, too (or you wouldn’t be reading this), so don’t go judging anyone else. If everyone knew the shit you got up to behind closed doors, thou wouldst also be judged. Don’t perpetuate the hate.

Now that I got that little rant out of the way:

The thing is, littles have an extremely tender core, as tender as the friable flesh of a newborn infant. So a Daddy is a different kind of Dom, wired to deal with their sometimes hair-trigger emotions. They can go off the rails in a variety of ways: inconsolable sobbing, acting out, brattiness (our little in the vignette did that to a mild degree), and at the other end of the spectrum, completely shutting down and running away.

Though the outward manifestation appears different, inside they are in similar turmoil. Something is amiss in the Daddy/bg dynamic. She needs… something. Many times she will not be able to use her words to tell him what that is. He has to figure it out for her, and bring the both of them back into balance.

Does this make it sound like littles are high-maintenance? Well, they kinda are. But that’s like saying the effort a five-star chef puts in to creating a special meal is high-maintenance. It’s what a Daddy is wired to deal with. And it is a pleasure for him.

A Daddy lives to care for his little. His world revolves around her, because she is at his center. Nothing is more important than her. And since she is at his center, he surrounds her, metaphorically speaking, with his protection and love. She becomes free to be who she truly is, at her core self. The being she was meant to express. The littlegirl that can sometimes become trapped by layers of baggage, the judgments of others, and her own fears, can finally breathe free. No half-measures. No compromises. No compartmentalizing. Her world rights itself every day when he comes through the door and she hears those two words:

Daddy’s home.

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Corey Harper Books