I have discussed elsewhere that I am a Daddy Dom.
Actually, a very wise young woman pointed out that in reality, my natural level is Master, but that my...eh... "lowest setting" is Daddy. And, looking back across my checkered past, I am forced to agree that she had a point. While I don't actively press for full TPE, I do have a tendency to... mmm... lean just a little further that direction than the agreed upon dynamic. Not press, really. But, go right to the edge of her submission and test the fence, if you will.
But, this isn't about my Master tendencies, but about my inner Daddy.
And about one specific aspect in particular.
I love to read aloud to children. Always have.
Many, many blue moons ago, Love worked for a relatively well-known bookseller in their children's section. And she came up with an idea that I'm still not quite certain if it was genius or purely intended to pay me back for something.
The idea was that children would be invited to a "Bedtime Story." Despite the fact that it would be in the afternoon rather than the evening, they would put on their pajamas and bring their "Big People" to the store to have someone (and it doesn't take any particular astuteness to figure out just who she had in mind with this particular brainstorm), also dressed in pajamas, read one of the books from the shelves to them.
As I say, it may very well have been genius. Whichever storybook that I read did actually sell several copies that day.
However, Love had a sense of humor that was every bit as wicked and vile as mine (albeit much funnier). And I am all but certain that her main rationale was to pay me back for something I had done somewhere.
First of all, I do not wear pajamas. Never could stand the damn things. I can't even abide underwear when I'm trying to sleep. Au Naturale. Commando. Nekkid. Nude. That is all. Oh, I might try to wear something when we had company. But, invariably, whatever I started off wearing was going to be removed (in my sleep, mind you) and end up swinging from the ceiling fan before morning. (Which led to no little embarrassment and much hilarity when we did have company as I'm also Hell on the covers.)
So, the first step was to find me something to wear up there since my version of pajamas would get the cops called. And rightfully so.
I did not see the first damn thing wrong with my suggestion of the Union Jack thermal underwear suit. It fits the modicum of decency required, even if it is technically underwear. But, I was (unfairly, I thought) shouted down.
Instead, she went shopping.
And I learned a very valuable lesson. If she's shopping for herself, fine. She can go alone. If she's shopping for the house or something, fine. She can go alone. If she's shopping for me, and she has a sense of humor that matches (and overmatches) mine, oh, fuck no! I want to see this shit before it gets purchased and brought home.
(I would insert a "grumpy face" picture here if I could figure out how to do it.)
And, to make matters even worse, when I showed up looking like an absolute fruit, the bitch had called the news station and they were there with a fucking camera crew!
I looked over at my delicate blushing flower and I was worried for a moment that she was going to give herself an aneurysm trying to contain her laughter.
And, yes. She did pay when I got her home. For hours. And enjoyed every moment. That's the problem with a slave/little/submissive/bottom with S.A.M. (smart-ass masochist) tendencies. Sometimes the only way to actually punish them is to withhold the punishment. But, what fun would that be for me?
But, I digress.
I did that once per week for... mmm... three months? The kids dug it. By probably the third week, we had to calm their asses down as the jockeying to see who got to sit next to me with a couple trying to sit in my lap would threaten to break out into violence.
And despite being sure that she was fucking with me, I did enjoy it too. (Except for those stupid pajamas she would buy a new set of each week that were progressively more and more outrageous.)
The bookstore loved it because their sales of the particular books I would read soared.
Love absolutely loved it. Not least because the moment we would hit the door at the house and close it behind us, I would rip those stupid damn pajamas off, tear hers from her body, and proceed to punish her in all the best ways.
But, even the best things must eventually end. I was working full time as a detention "Control Officer" and also working on my M.Ed. I had to miss one reading and then another. And another. And the people filling in for me... Well, they just didn't have it. Sales died. The children stopped coming.
I did get some very nice Christmas cards from a few of the kids that Christmas. I'm not sure just what else might have been in those cards, but I suspect it was from their mothers as Love never gave me a single one still in the envelope.
But!
But, where Love actually got the idea was that often at night, when she was having trouble getting to sleep, I would either make up a story on the fly or read something aloud to her as she lay with her hand and head on my chest, her fingers threading through my fur and her thumb teasing her lips, but not quite sucking it. As she phrased it, "her happy place."
Ok. I will go ahead and just reiterate my admission here that I can be more than a bit thick. Despite this, and several other earmarks, it never dawned on me that I might have been Daddy to Love's little. (Despite, you may or may not recall from a previous post, her actually calling me "Daddy.")
But, the reason it never dawned on me was that it never occurred to me to ask the question! I was who and what I was. She was who and what she was. We did what worked for us and didn't worry about labeling jackshit.
It wasn't until four months after her death, almost five, during a discussion with the woman I came to call Little One for a while, that I even recall hearing the term DD/lg. And proceeded to look into it. Primarily to disprove her laughing assertion that I am a Daddy Dom to the core.
And made her laugh even harder when I came back with a checklist that could have been written from observing my personality and argued, "Well, shit! Seventy-five percent of this is just being a decent, caring person and a good friend!"
Yes. I already admitted I can be a bit dense. It took her the better part of a week to explain to me that most people just don't see the world the same way I do, and wouldn't act in these ways for anyone they weren't seriously entangled with. And even then, it's a rare thing for them to be quite so... so... prototypical about it.
Sex was an easy one. If I engage in a sexual relationship of some type with a little, then I am definitely treading into Daddy territory. That just made fucking sense.
However, I stand by my assertion that checking up on someone, harassing someone about their self-care, particularly when they are going through a rough patch, is just being a decent, caring human being!
"Did you eat? No. REAL food?"
"Are you drinking some water?"
"Have you done your exercise today?"
"Have you taken your medicine?"
"Do you need/want to talk about it?"
None of that says Daddy to me, even when done to a little. Even if doing these things do pile drive her into little space when she is sick or hurting, it is not me taking her there, but herself and her situation. I'm just being me, trying to be a compassionate human being, and caring friend.
Then, there is a grey, murky middle in between those two points. And I have had to understand, and own, that I can be easily manipulated into treading into Daddy territory when a little reaches out to me and their need resonates with my subconscious Daddy tendencies. And it has gotten me in trouble more than a few times over the years. Both in real life (ask me no questions about the beauty pageant winner that stayed with us for three days unless you really, really want to know) and over these here infernal-nets.
Most of them, I thought I had gotten a pretty good handle on at this point. If nothing else, "I am not your Daddy" cuts out all the confusion with clear and concise communication. Or should. I certainly thought it would. But, I recognize that actions speak louder than words. And I own that I have to tread carefully because even though my words say "Not Daddy" my actions may be singing a siren song to her little ears.
But, the major stumbling block, and one that caused some serious issues a couple... or, I guess, three months ago, was me reading aloud to people. And the thing is, I was seriously not trying to play in someone else's sandbox. I was not trying to be Daddy. Arguably, I was just being an attention whore. Maybe... just maybe... a Sitter. (Is that a thing? That should be a thing.)
But, I bought myself a little recorder for Christmas. Or, looked at another way, I bought the littles I WAS involved with a recorder since the purpose was to record myself reading and send them the recordings.
Only, I branched out and wandered a little far afield without meaning to give offense. See, I had friends who were also littles. But, they were not MY little. They had Daddies.
Any road, starting seven days before Christmas, I would find a Christmassy story and record myself reading it. A few per day. Each of MY girls that were littles would get one that was just for them. Then, there would be one that everyone, all four of the littles I was involved with AND all of my friends who happened to also be littles would get. Whether they happened to have a Daddy or not.
They were nothing dirty! Not even for my precious flowers I was involved with on some level. They were children's stories. Hell, I even sent my sister a couple of them.
(Don't... just do NOT... go there.)
And everything seemed fine. Very gracious thanks. More than a little giggling and kicking the bed in glee, which is better than any applause to my ears!
And then, about a week or two after the last one was sent, I start hearing that I was not only in someone else's sandbox, but using their pail and shovel.
Uh. Wha-...?
But, that was just the beginning. Then, I started hearing that I had somehow given my littles' favorite dolly to someone else to play with.
Ok. I admit I might have handled the one better than "So, should I use a handwritten note to get my smokes at the smoke shop so the gal behind the counter doesn't get to hear my voice either?!" But, I really didn't care for just how the tone of that particular conversation was heading. Not least because that particular individual was adamant that she would not tell me her name, nor show me a picture that revealed her face. (Everything else, mind you. But, not the face.) Not to mention she knew damn well that she wasn't the only one, and that I was friends with all the others.
I don't know. As I say, my intent was certainly not to cause anyone any issue or piss on anyone's fencepost. It was... I don't know. Less a Christmas Gift and more a Christmas Card? And, Love hadn't minded sharing my voice with others. For example, the children (and their mothers) at the bookstore.
It more than perplexed me. It baffled me. I could have seen the issue if there had been anything sexual, but "'Twas the Night Before Christmas" and (the abso-fucking-lutely hilarious) "'Twas the Night After Christmas?" (Those were, of course, sent Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.)
Hell, man! One person I sent them to was a dude and fellow Daddy Dom! And I don't swing southpaw and neither did he!
Still don't know what the lesson might have been there, but I consider it learned. I don't do recordings of me reading anymore except for one person. And, I honestly couldn't say just why I'm still doing them for her. Water under the bridge, hell. That bridge got washed away.
But, for whatever reason, once per day, she gets a recording of me reading a chapter from whatever book I'm on. And that may be all the communication from either of us that day.
As for the rest of the littles... claimed or unclaimed. Well, when I hear them talking about wanting a bedtime story, I keep my mouth shut now.
Unless what passes for my sense of humor escapes me. And then, I send them this.
But, no more bedtime stories for me. Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope.
Say goodnight, Gracie!
"Goodnight, Gracie!"
