"They're kind of obsessive," I added, quieter. "Holidays, or cartoons, or even just a favorite mug. You hold on to it for dear life." He nodded, like he understood. Maybe he did.
"And sometimes," I went on, voice barely there, "they don't sleep well unless they know someone's right there. Or they can't eat if they think they're in trouble. Or they just…don't know how to ask for help, even if it's something stupid, like remembering to take medicine. They're not stupid. They're just stuck, sometimes."
Felix didn't say anything for a long time. His hand didn't leave my hair. He just sat, like he had all the time in the world for me to finish.
"And?" he finally asked, soft as you please. "What else?"
My stomach was in knots. "They like being told they're good," I whispered. "Or that they did something right. But they never believe it, not really."
He hummed, low and approving. It did something to me, hearing it. "You're describing yourself, baby," Felix said, not mocking, just gentle. "You know that, right?”
I shook my head. “I’m not Little. I don’t play with toys. I don’t wear a diaper.”
He was quiet for a moment. “How long have you been involved in the scene?”
I thought about that. “Fifteen, twenty years on and off.”
He rubbed my back gently, then huffed, and in a quick move I was on his lap. So shocked, I couldn’t even speak. “You were too far away,” he said in a mild voice. “Fifteen years,” he said approvingly, “then you’ve seen a lot of submissives.” I nodded. “Then the same question. Describe a submissive to me if I didn’t know what one was.”
"Well, a submissive wants to please their Dominant, mostly," I said, but even as I spoke, I could hear how flat it sounded. "They, uh, like rules. Or maybe just the feeling that the Dom is in charge. They want to feel safe, maybe? Not have to make the big decisions because there's someone else who does it for them." And for most people, that would be enough, but I didn't even believe myself, not really.
I tried again. "They…follow orders, that's the main thing. Obey. Or, at least, that's what you're supposed to do. Some like punishment, but a lot don't. It's more about the praise. Like, if you do a good job, you get told. Or maybe you get a reward."
Felix hummed, encouraging. His hand cupped my knee, thumb drawing little half-circles right through the fabric. It rooted me in place, made my thoughts slow down a little.
"But that's not all. Because I know some subs who…they're bratty, you know? They want a fight. They want to be punished. Or there's the ones who are shy, and get overwhelmed, and just need to be left alone to settle, and there's others who want to talk the whole time, or be a service sub and do stuff around the house, or even just be quiet and float for hours." My cheeks went red, because I wasn't making any sense. "You get a lot of types. There isn't one way to be a sub, sir. Sometimes it's about not having to pretend to be better than you are. Just being enough is…enough."
I chewed on that. It felt like if I kept talking, eventually I could get to something true. Felix let the silence hang. He was letting me work it out for myself.
"And some subs like pain, and some don't. Some like to be tied up, or spanked, or on their knees, but plenty don't. Some need to feel useful. Or needed, or like they belong. I think that's what most of them want, really. Not just the sex stuff, but…belonging. Like if they're good, someone will keep them." My voice trailed off, thin with embarrassment. "Some people just want to be useful. Or to make someone proud. Or just…to be needed."
I didn't look up. I could feel Felix watching me, but I didn't feel judged. If anything, I felt…understood. The hand on my knee was warm, steady.
“So would you agree with me when I say that there are many different sorts of subs?”
“Yes,” I latched on to that gratefully because I knew I was probably spouting a load of nonsense.
He brushed a kiss on my lips but then leaned back. “And I would guess there’s as many different types of dominants?”
“Definitely,” I agreed with some feeling. He was silent for a beat, and I focused on him.
“Then why would you think there’s only one type of Little?” I stared at him, my mind a complete blank.
He waited. I felt the weight of it, hot and heavy on my chest.
“Baby, there are Littles who like plushies and cartoons and sippy cups, and there are Littles who just want rules, or naps, or to know someone’s proud of them. Some like bedtime stories. Some don’t. There’s no one way to do it. Just the way that feels good for you.”
I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.
He reached over and cupped the back of my head, gentle but so sure of it, and I melted instantly. “You don’t have to be what anyone else is, or match someone’s idea of a label. If you want care, that’s enough. If you want routine, or food, or just…someone to tell you you’re good? That’s enough.”
I sucked in a breath, air shuddering through me. I’d wanted this my whole life. But—
“What if I get it wrong?”
He smiled at me, soft. Patient. “You can’t. If you try and it doesn’t fit, we’ll try something else. I’m not here to grade you. I just want you to feel safe. You want to try calling me Daddy, you can. Or not. I’m here either way.”
My face went hot. “I…don’t know if it fits.” But I was lying, I wanted that desperately, which made my face even hotter.
