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Chapter 1
So, this is what it felt like to be Little. This is what it felt like to be seen.
Derek Hawkins was kind and paternal in a way that didn’t feel artificial or condescending and when he called her “little girl,” he smiled and looked right at Dora, which felt strange for someone who’d spent her life feeling invisible. She’d often wondered how someone her size could go unnoticed by everyone around her. At home her parents had only had eyes for her sister. At school, amiable groups of students had walked around her like she wasn’t there. Even on the last day of work when she told her supervisor she was leaving, the division manager had asked her to remind him which department she’d worked in.
“I’m sorry for getting here so late,” she said. “I wasn’t expecting snow.”
Derek chuckled. His voice was deep, and he reminded Dora of a movie cowboy with his plaid shirt, bolo tie, and cowboy boots. “None of us were,” he said, “especially this late in spring but the weather has been crazy.”
“It was nice of you to send someone to pick me up. You didn’t have to do that.”
He’d leaned forward and folded his large hands on the desktop. “Now, don’t you mention it. The moment we find out a Little is coming to Rawhide Ranch, we consider their wellbeing our responsibility. That means getting you here safe and tucked in, even if we have to send somebody to the airport in a four-wheel drive.”
Dora felt tears of gratitude sting her eyes. “Thank you. I’ll make it up to you. I don’t have much money, but I can work. I can…”
He’d held up his hands. “If you want to work, you might want to check into our Service Submissive Program, but it’s optional.” He paused then. “I know you learned about this place through Dr. Weston. Did he by any chance tell you how we’re able to make this place work?”
Dora nodded. “He said something about a mine of some kind?”
“That’s right, young lady. Our property contains one of the largest sapphire deposits in the continental U.S. Rawhide Ranch doesn’t make money off our residents because we don’t have to. Everything you’ll see here is a labor of love and the way I look at it, the fact that we can do all this means it was meant to be. Did you know that sapphires symbolize faith and purity? I’ve always felt like Rawhide Ranch was meant to be here, and anyone who shows up? Well, let’s just say there are no accidents. You’re meant to be here, too, and you don’t need to be worrying about paying anybody back for anything, you hear me? Nobody’s saying you can’t work; some submissives who come here want to have a job of some kind and you can, too, just so long as you remember that your primary job is discovering your needs and having them met. Who knows. You might even find a partner. A lot of Littles do.”
Dora was about to tell him she wasn’t interested in a partner, only in feeling safe and accepted, but before she could speak, the door opened and a brunette woman entered with a tray holding three steaming cups of cocoa.
“Knock, knock,” she said cheerily before putting the tray on the edge of the desk. “I thought a night this cold called for a warm drink.”
“Thanks, babygirl,” Derek said before turning his attention to Dora. “This is my wife, Sadie. Sadie, this is Dora. She just got in.”
“Welcome to Rawhide Ranch.” Sadie smiled sweetly. “You’re friends with Dr. Weston, right?”
“I was… well… we weren’t friends. He was my therapist until he moved up here. He’d been helping me with my… issues. Anyway, before he left, he suggested I come here but I wasn’t ready. He called me last month and… let’s just say I wasn’t in the best place and this time when he suggested I come, I…” Dora stopped, swallowing the lump forming in her throat.
“You know what?” Sadie took a cup of cocoa and walked over to press it into Dora’s hands. “We have all the time in the world to get to know each other. Right now, I think the best thing is for you to get a good night’s sleep. The chef makes a special cocoa mix with a touch of melatonin powder. By the time you get up to your dorm, you’ll drift off in no time.”
Dora drank the cocoa gratefully. She always had a hard time sleeping in a strange place, and even though she was glad to be at the Ranch, she could already feel the old anxieties and doubts seeping in.
When the cocoa was finished, Sadie led her through the quiet lobby of the main lodge to an elevator which they took to the third floor.
“These are the Littles dorms,” Sadie said as they passed doors lining the long hallway.
“They all live here?”
“Most but not all. Some Littles who identify older live in the college dorms. Some of us live with our caregivers in other Ranch housing.” She stopped in front of a door. “Ah, here we are.” Sadie pressed her thumb against a pad on the door, explaining as it clicked open that tomorrow Dora would be able to have her thumbprint scanned when she got a tour of the Ranch.
There were two four-poster beds in the room along with two dressers and an alcove with a window seat. Dora learned that—for now at least—she wouldn’t have a roommate. She chose the bed closest to the window. Her luggage was already against a wall leading to a large bathroom with a clawfoot bathtub, walk-in-shower, and double-sink.
“This is amazing,” Dora said, and meant it; the dorm was as large as her apartment back home.
“I’m glad you like it.” Sadie yawned. “Goodness. That cocoa is already kicking in for me. See you tomorrow?”
“Yes. And thanks for everything.”
Once Sadie was out of the room, Dora was struck by how quiet it was. Through the windowpanes, she could see the fat flakes of snow drifting down in the moonlight. The lamp on the dresser filled the room with a golden, cozy glow. Dora yawned; the cocoa was starting to make her sleepy, too, but she wanted to get unpacked before going to bed. She put both suitcases on the bed and opened them. In the first, a manilla folder lay on top of the clothes. She picked it up and ran her thumb across the front. Inside were the drawings she’d done; creations she’d never shown anyone. Finally, she was in a place where she didn’t have to be ashamed. She opened the folder and pulled out the artwork done in the childish style of the Little girl she’d been forced to suppress. The pictures represented the life she wanted to have. There was one of three Little girls playing hopscotch. She’d drawn herself larger and rounder than the others, but in the picture they didn’t mind. They were all wearing big crayon smiles, and the pink bow flew up as she hopped on one of the squares.
All of the drawings showed her heart’s desire—the friendship of those who knew who she really was and truly understood. There was a corkboard above the dresser with some pushpins sticking out. Dora began putting up her pictures and felt her heart lift that she no longer had to hide the ones of her playing hopscotch and ring-around-the-rosy or giggling in a cabin fort.
She’d met Dr. Weston two years ago for outpatient treatment following a stay in the hospital for self-harm. She could still remember sitting in his office, her head foggy from the medication they’d given her. He was a behavioral specialist and had his office in his house, and while she was there, she’d caught a glimpse of his daughter. Only later after Dr. Weston had gently and carefully pulled back the layers of Dora’s pain to discover her deeply submissive nature did he tell her she wasn’t alone. There were others like her—many others. He’d helped her; really helped her, and on their last appointment he told her something about himself: it wasn’t his daughter Dora had caught sight of, but his Little, Bobbi, whose diminutive stature and manner of dress often had people thinking she was younger. He told her there was a place where Littles and those who wanted to be Daddies and Mommies could go to stay and learn and even live, and that he and Bobbi were leaving because he’d been offered a job there. Rawhide Ranch. She remembered softly repeating the words to herself, but thinking it sounded too good to be true, especially when he told her if she wanted to go, she wouldn’t have to pay. Her heart yearned to be in the picture his words painted, but the doubts and insecurities she’d not yet shed were like hands that gripped and held her to the life she felt she had no right to leave.
Her new therapist, an older man who spent most of the appointment looking at his watch while asking her to repeat herself, reversed the progress she’d made with Dr. Weston. The afternoon she came home from her data entry job to find her mother had given her room an “adult” makeover by throwing out all her stuffies and Disney posters, Dora had sobbed and begged to know what had been done with her things.
