When I first began exploring BDSM, it took me awhile to figure out that there were different ways to “do” dominance. There were Daddy Doms, Doms, Tops, Service Tops, Dommes, Mistresses and Masters, and there were hundreds of styles of dominance. As a newbie slave, there was one thing I was certain of. I didn’t want a caretaker. I wanted someone to worship and serve and fuck. I wanted my boundaries pushed, and I wanted pain to feed my masochism. Daddy Doms were slightly mystifying to me. I understood that being nurtured and cared for were wonderful facets of a relationship, but the loving Daddy dynamic held little appeal for me. Frankly, I didn’t get the attraction even though I respected the kink.
Once I entered the local kinky community, my eyes were opened to new worlds of power exchange. I learned that many of my friends were adult babies, littles or middles or were the mommies and daddies of littles and middles and adult babies. I found age play fascinating, and I loved hearing about the players’ experiences and how play was incorporated into their lives. But it still held little appeal to me. Like the role of the caring Daddy Dom, I could appreciate it, but I didn’t particularly want it as part of my own D/s.
Age play came front and center after I read a book by a friend of mine, Mako Allen. He wrote Auntie Eva’s Boarder, a fascinating look at age play and how one man became an adult baby. I expected to be entertained, because I thought Mako was a talented and creative writer. What I hadn’t expected was to find parallels between the age players and my own Master/slave relationship. And I really hadn’t expected to get turned on. As I read passages aloud to sir, I could see the wheels turning in his head.
Our first foray into age play wasn’t successful, and it involved hypnosis. I didn’t like the feeling of being a little girl. I felt powerless, and the “little” feeling blurred the lines of sex from consensual into non-consent territory. Not because of anything my master did but because of my own perceptions of feeling little. I was certain that being a mother to a young child also complicated the situation for me. Typically when I thought about children, I experienced the protective ferocity of a mother wolf. Add to that the fact that I was self-reliant to the extreme, often to my own detriment, being a little girl and dependent on another person felt more uncomfortable and conflicting than pleasurable. We didn’t manage to make it work for both of us, so I stopped thinking about age play and Daddy Doms and everything else. I stopped thinking about it, because life got interesting in unsettling ways.
Sir had been interviewing for a new job since last September. Because of my custody agreement, and my choice to be a present and loving mother, I chose to stay in this area until my child went to college to share custody with my ex. I knew that sir would be leaving his current position since last spring, but for much of that time, I figured that he would take another job in our locality. My assumptions, though, were firmly in place because I didn’t want to think about the alternative. I didn’t want to think about what life would be like without him. We had spent a year forging our dynamic and creating a life where I woke up to his body beside me and his cock in my mouth, and every night I burrowed into his arms after a thorough fucking. But it was the day-to-day rituals and interactions that I looked forward to so much: cooking his meals, ironing his clothes, bringing him coffee in the morning, and showering together… The list of mundane togetherness went on and on, and I cherished each connection, no matter how slight it seemed. My life now revolved around him in significant ways, and his absence would mean… even now I lacked the words to describe that devastation. But I forced myself to take a good, long look at reality after sir had a second interview for a position overseas. Everything sank home at once. There was the very real possibility that sir would spend most of the next two years halfway around the world.
This realization wasn’t graceful, and it was barely coherent. I spent most of one weekend in constant tears, lashing out at anything and everything. We debated. We cried. I felt overwhelmed by anger and hopelessness. Nothing had been decided, but I hated that many things that I loved in my life were now in jeopardy. I had done long-distance D/s before, and I knew logically that I could do it again. Really my anger was a product of my fear; that I was losing him somehow. I couldn’t stand the thought of being left behind, a slave without an owner. Our life together was something I had dreamed about for years. But if he left, our lives would be irrevocably altered, and the fear in my head whispered that we would never have this again. I was a mess, but I didn’t know any other way to process the cold hard facts of a possible separation.
To sir’s credit he braved my emotional tempest with calm and equilibrium. He pulled me into his arms as I fell apart, soothing me the best he could. I felt like the walking wounded, like my pain and fear were this open wound I carried where my heart would be. He stroked my hair and called me his BabyGirl, and promised that he would take care of me. I’m your Daddy, he told me, and it was his responsibility and his pleasure to provide for me. He said he would never let me go, and that no matter where he went I would always be his BabyGirl. Somehow those assurances didn’t strike me as uncomfortable. He was a nurturing Daddy, and I needed him. I was in such a state of raw vulnerability that all I wanted was to be his BabyGirl and crawl into his lap to let him deal with everything. I needed his nurturing spirit and kind words. I needed his care.
Since then the words Daddy and BabyGirl have crept into our daily vocabulary. I don’t think it’s age play exactly, although there are elements of that sometimes, but more like a caring Daddy Dom. Every day sir holds me, snuggling me close and reassuring me that he’s going to take care of me. And I soak in his words, basking in his strength and assurances. I’m learning to be comfortable in my vulnerability and open to his help. I’m his BabyGirl, and I’m starting to feel grateful for that.
Liberation!
Lola – that’s one word for it.
(((HUGS)))
As a babygirl who never thought I would be “little,” I completely understand. D/s or M/s evolves all the time based on what we need. And yeah, it sounds like right now you need a Daddy. So says the masochistic babygirl who’s sometimes a pet with a sadistic Daddy who’s sometimes a beast. Basically what I’m saying is fuck labels.
Kayla – I heart you SO HARD. Yes, it’s what I need so fuck those labels. You’re making me grin and cry.
No tears! But grinning and laughing like a loon are a-ok. I heart you too, darling!
Love being called baby girl …. Can’t call him daddy. This was a delight to read .
[…] optimistic person, but this trifecta of challenges (my mama’s cancer, my child’s operation, and my sir’s imminent departure) have knocked me low. Like that stranded fish, I feel like I’m flopping every which way to try […]