Page 16 of Seth’s Doll

Things I’m sure if one has never felt cuteness aggression before would make them call CPS if they heard the creative things that have come out of our mouths.

“So, now that you’ve used mind-fuckery on your own offspring, what’s the plan for the rest of the evening?” Brian asks with a smirk, and I very maturely stick my tongue out at him.

Twyla laughs softly. “I keep telling him he’s going to have to be stern with her at some point and that she’ll get over it, but he just tells me ‘that point is not today.’ So, until that day comes, I must wear the hat of the bad guy who has the audacity to flat-out tell her no.”

She says it with a doting smile on her face as she looks at me, but something about the statement she made doesn’t sit well with me. I never looked at it that way, even though I do recall her mentioning how we play good-cop/bad-cop when it comes to our daughter.

It makes me ask myself… have I ever taken the time to consider how my too-gentle parenting affects Twyla and her relationship with our daughter? If I were firmer with Luna, would Twyla feel less like she must always be the disciplinarian?

As my friends carry on the conversation, I wonder…

I wonder if forcing her into that position has been even more stressful for her than it is for other women, since that is in no way her personality. While she’s an incredible mother who has adapted easily—or at least what I thought was easily until this revelation—being forceful and in charge doesn’t come naturally to my tender and quiet-natured wife. So, having to make herself be the “bad cop” toward her own little girl has to… suck. Like, a lot.

Fuck, why am I just now…?

Back in the day—and in what’s now considered a twenty-four seven dynamic within the BDSM community known as a ’50s household—the wife stayed home with the children, and when they misbehaved to a certain point, all she’d have to say is “just wait until your father gets home.” And that was it. She didn’t have to be the bad guy. She didn’t have to be the disciplinarian. She got to be the nurturer, because she’d just tell Daddy what the kids were doing while he was at work or whatever, that they weren’t listening to her, and it was his job to straighten their asses out.

I just realized… I’m the fucking housewife of our family.

Only, I’m not doing all the other things that were expected of a stay-at-home mom. I’m not the one who keeps the house clean, does all the laundry and shopping, and has a meal ready for my partner to come home to every day. So not only does Twyla do all those things—happily, since she truly revels in her role as a service sub—but she also manages a shop that still to this day makes her uncomfortable. Which she does only because I told her I’d like her to—secretly because I thought it would be good for her to get out of the house, when she seemed like she was slightly losing it being cooped up at home with the baby all the time. Plus, she has to be the “mean parent,” which goes against… every fiber of my sweet, innocent, and loving wife’s being.

I feel like I’ve been sucker-punched in the balls.

I don’t hear anything that’s being said in the conversation around me. I’m too ashamed of myself and of the fact that it took me this long to see all this. To see all the stress I’ve piled onto Twyla’s shoulders and hadn’t noticed. All the recent anxiety issues she’s been having that I figured was normal for any mother of a four-year-old. And her tanking self-esteem.

It’s because I’ve made her be someone she isn’t.

I might’ve changed after meeting and falling in love with Twyla—my past trauma that made me into the sadist I once was so wholly healed that those desires are damn near nonexistent—and be a hundred percent happy about that growth and change. But I recognize I’m still me. I’m the same person I’ve always been, my personality and values and morals still intact.

But that’s not the case for Twyla. I’ve forced her to change at her core level.

And when someone is forced to act against their very nature, of course they’re going to feel shitty about themselves, because they’re doing tasks and jobs that don’t come easily to them. It’s hard for them to thrive. It’s like taking a cactus, sticking it in a pond, and expecting it to do anything other than what a cactus is going to do—fucking melt. It’s just not gonna happen, because it’s not built to handle all that water.

And that’s what I’ve done to my precious wife.

This epiphany, in addition to the conversation I overheard between her and Clarice, are making me question just how good of a Dom I truly am. Our friend was absolutely right when she told Twyla it’s my duty to assess what’s going on when a scene has to be stopped. I should have done it each and every time she froze, had a discussion with her right then and there about what she was feeling, figured out what I specifically said or did that set off her fear instinct, so I could either avoid it in the future or help her overcome it. That’s what a good Dom would do. Instead, I allowed my emotions attached to my wife to get in the way of properly caring for my sub.

Again, I can’t fucking stand to see either of my girls upset.

And when my doll freezes, she doesn’t just turn into a cute little statue. There is a look of absolute fear that fills those beautiful eyes of hers. And for that look to be aimed at me?

Intolerable.

Nope. Can’t do it.

So, I bundle her up like a baby, and I cuddle and rock her, and I coo sweet nothings and praise into her hair until she’s relaxed and blissfully floating off to little space.

While that’s great and all for that moment in time, it doesn’t solve anything. I’m still a Dom whose sub is experiencing something that should be addressed directly, because it’s my responsibility. It is my literal job, my duty, the true obligation of a Dominant who’s been given the gift of a submissive of their own, to not only take care of her physically and mentally, but also to never stop guiding her to improve and grow. Not for me but for herself. When I can be successful in that most important duty, then my reward will come—because when a service submissive understands their value and believes in themselves and their skills, their confidence will naturally lead them to want to please their Dom even more.

My old, selfish self would find that last part the sole reason to try to “fix” my sub, if I’d owned one back then. Now though, it’s an afterthought. My doll, my wife, and her being genuinely happy and thriving in her roles in our shared world is the only thing that truly matters to me.

And that means I need to fix the things I realize now that I fucked up. No excuses. It was all me. I’m the Dominant. She’s the sub who did her job of following my lead, like the good girl she is. I led her astray, and now, I’m gonna fucking bring her back to where she should’ve been all this time. Under the care of a Dom who is fucking worthy of her.

Side note, I should really warn Twyla that phone calls through the car’s speakers can be heard loud and clear from outside the vehicle. The cuteness aggression I felt toward my adorable wife when she held up her hand to let me know she was on the phone inside the car a few days ago rivaled all the times I’ve gotten it around Luna. The only thing that saved her from me going over there, pulling her out of the car, and squeezing her until she squealed was our daughter nailing me in the balls a few minutes later.

And—fuck my life—it occurs to me now, I could’ve easily used that as the perfect opportunity to teach Luna she shouldn’t hit boys there just for fun. But instead, I was more worried about making her feel bad that she hurt Daddy, so I played it off entirely, as if my soul hadn’t just yeeted itself from my body and left me seeing Tweety Bird for a while after. So convincing, in fact, that even Twyla didn’t sense the pain I was in—an exponential amount that caused me to miss the plan Clarice and she devised—and that woman is more in tune with me than a damn mind-reader.

Karma, I guess.

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