I busied myself with the electric kettle, grateful for the mundane task. It had been weeks since I'd made tea for anyone. Gran had loved her evening cup, insisting on loose leaf even when her hands shook too badly to strain it properly.
"So," I said, keeping my back to Charlotte as I selected a tea bag from the assortment in the cabinet. "What made you interested in the Daddy-Little dynamic?"
I heard the soft rustling of fabric as she shifted on the couch, and her silence made me turn around. She was shy and I didn’t blame her. She didn’t know me, and we hadn’t built any trust to make sharing easy. "I don’t know,” she mumbled and twisted her fingers together.
I finished preparing the tea, giving her time to gather her thoughts. The silence stretched between us, but it wasn'tuncomfortable—more like the quiet that came when someone was wrestling with how much to reveal. I'd seen it countless times in interrogation rooms, in therapy sessions with fellow soldiers, in the long nights when Gran tried to explain why she'd never agreed to let me get her away from Grandad before, even for her own safety.
"That's okay," I said, setting the steaming mug on the coffee table in front of her. "Sometimes we know what we need before we understand why we need it." I smiled. "I'm Walker Madigan, one of the managers." I didn't sayone of the owners, as it wasn't necessary.
She looked up at me then, those blue eyes searching my face like she was trying to determine if I was safe enough to trust. I settled into the chair across from her, deliberately choosing distance over proximity. The last thing I wanted was for her to feel cornered or pressured.
"Do you have a friend you could come back with? Family?"
But she shook her head. "I grew up with my uncle," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. "He was very strict and didn’t really know what to do with a five-year-old girl."
The admission hit me like a punch to the gut, but I’d been a lot older when I’d gone to live with Gran and Grandad. My hands tightened involuntarily before I forced them to relax.
"I'm sorry," I said, meaning it. "That must have been a nightmare at that age."
She wrapped both hands around the mug, using it like an anchor. "He wasn’t mean exactly, but…” I could imagine.
“Do you still live there?”
She shook her head. “I’m lucky. There was enough insurance money for a deposit on an apartment. I got a job, but then I had to give up school because—” She stopped suddenly and shook herself. “Sorry. You don’t need my life story.”
Yes, I do.
For a heartbeat I thought I’d said the words out loud, and I shook myself mentally. Lottie was innocent. A baby swimming in a fucked-up pond, and I was one of the biggest sharks. Yes, I’d watched as Gideon, Max, and Dion all got their Little girls, but that wasn’t for me. I wouldn’t know how to be nurturing if it slapped me in the face. Give me a disciplined sub any day. I could even work with a brat, but Lottie was way too sunny for all my dark corners.
"Maybe something was missing from your life that you hope to find here," I finished gently.
"Yeah." The word came out on a shaky breath. "I kept having these dreams about having someone who would take care of me. Not in a creepy way," she added quickly, color flooding her cheeks. "Just...someone who would notice if I forgot to eat, or make sure I was warm enough, or read me stories when I couldn't sleep."
Christ. My chest tightened as I watched her struggle with the admission. She was describing the most basic forms of care, the kind of attention every child should receive without question. The fact that she'd grown up without it, that she was now seeking it as an adult, made something fierce and protective rise in my throat.
"Those aren't unusual needs, Lottie," I said carefully. "Especially given your background."
"I found some websites," she continued, gaining confidence from my response. "About age regression and Daddy Doms. I liked reading about people who had someone to take care of them, and vice versa. But then I started thinking maybe it could work for me."
I nodded, keeping my expression neutral even as my mind catalogued all the ways this could go wrong for her. Predators loved vulnerable women with histories like hers. They could spotthe desperate need for care from across a room and exploit it without conscience.
"What kind of research did you do?" I asked.
"Forums, mostly. Mrs. Morales lets me use her laptop when I watch the kids for her if she’s working."
“Is that what you do? For a job, I mean?” I could see Lottie taking care of kids, but she shook her head and smiled.
“No, I work at Sunny’s Mart on the corner of Annie and Nebraska.” I stilled. I had no idea where Annie was, but Nebraska was infamous, and not in a good way. This wouldn’t do. It wouldn’t do at all. “Mrs. Morales works evenings after Carl gets home, but sometimes he has to stay late at the repair shop.” I itched to check the member records and find out exactly where Lottie was living. She suddenly brightened. “I’m not working Thursday evening. I can come back,” but then her face fell. “Does tonight count as one of my two free passes?”
All vetted prospective members got the chance to attend an introductory session, then two free play visits. Their joining fees were greatly reduced afterwards for the first three months, but I imagined that working where she did, membership fees might be a luxury.
“No,” I said. “Only on Little nights, which we run Thursday through Saturday. The club is closed Mondays.” She nodded eagerly.
“I work most Friday and Saturday nights, so Thursday is better.”
She worked most Friday and Saturdays?Nights?This was just getting better and better. I exhaled my frustration before she noticed, but she took it as a cue to leave and stood, yanking at the pink dress. I almost groaned at the sudden image of taking it off her and imagined her standing there in tiny pink panties and a matching lacy bra. For some reason which made no sense in my head, she’d still be clutching that teddy bear.
“Let me arrange you a ride.” There was no way she was going to Nebraska on her own.
