Page 15 of Seth’s Doll

Maybe it’s the years I’ve now spent as a soft Dom, toeing the line of being a Daddy Dom for my submissive wife. My doll ranks very low on the masochism scale and needs the love, reassurance, and praise that comes with a DD/lg—Daddy Dom/little girl—relationship, but without any of the age regression on her part. And seven years ago, you couldn’t have paid me to believe I’d like anything about the DD role, especially if you told me you were taking away ninety-two percent of any type of sadism I could at least enjoy as a consolation prize.

Too much responsibility.

Too much pleasure lost by giving up my sadistic tendencies.

Too much touching, and kissing, and cuddling, and… ugh.

I was way too selfish for that shit.

But then came Twyla.

The twenty-four-year-old woman who’d never even been properly kissed.

And just knowing I was her first everything made me want to be the very best at each physical pleasure and show of affection to be had. I wanted her to experience it all, to never look back after choosing me and ask herself if she made the wrong decision, if she missed out on touches and kisses and cuddles by picking someone who never bestowed those things on anyone he played with in the past.

And seeing and hearing and feeling how much pleasure she got from those touches, kisses, and cuddles, so responsive in a way I’d never experienced before, her reactions became an addiction for me. I began to crave her body’s natural response to my every little caress and stroke and gentle squeeze. Became ravenous for her sweet gasps and pretty moans more than the squeals of shock and the screams of begged-for pain I desired from everyone before her.

So much more that I don’t miss or even think about my former Sadist identity.

That’s not who I am anymore. I now identify as a soft Dom, and there are no regrets.

So, since that’s who I am, it would make sense that it carries over into my parenting style. I spend every moment making sure that my wife/sub feels loved, safe, and wanted above all others. Why would I not treat our child the same way? In a totally different way, of course, but with the same result—her feeling cherished like the gift she is and knowing her father will always do everything he possibly can to not let anything bad happen to her.

Or…

Maybe I’m just wrapped around her little finger and spoil her rotten because it physically hurts me when she’s sad.

Whatever the reason, my brain knows I probably shouldn’t worry so much about her feelings getting a little hurt, and it knows it’s a teaching moment I should jump on to make her understand adults just need time away from their kids, and it doesn’t mean we love them any less and has nothing to do with them. But my heart can’t take it when her sweet baby face expresses disappointment or any other negative emotion.

She looks too much like her mother, I swear. If she looked more like me, maybe I’d be totally different.

But probably not.

I look into her pretty eyes framed by the miniature version of her mom’s black plastic glasses and resort to manipulation. “For Daddy’s birthday, I want you to hang out on Uncle Neil and Auntie Astrid’s couch and cuddle up to Scout-boy, because he looks super lonely over there, keeping your spot saved all by himself. And I really, really want you to enjoy a movie with the kids. Can you give me this birthday present? It makes me sad when Scout looks all lonesome. Look at those poor little puppy-dog eyes.”

We both glance over at the Australian Shepherd, and since he heard his name, just like I knew he would be, he’s looking over at us expectantly.

“See? He’s waiting on you to come keep him company. He wants his favorite wittle human,” I pile it on.

Finally, she sighs, looks back up at me, then shakes her head while looking skyward, and says, “If that’s really what you want for your birthday, Daddy, I guess I’ll go over there. You promise you’ll be okay without me?”

My heart seizes in my chest while my jaw and fists clench. Luckily, I had let go of her and my hands are just resting on the table. I say through gritted teeth but my voice still steady, “I’ll be fine for one movie. But not a moment longer. I’ll need my Luna girl by my side after that.” I only tell her this because I know she’s going to be out like a light for the rest of the night within the first thirty minutes of the show. It happens every time she snuggles Scout.

“Okay, Daddy. Happy birthday,” she tells me, before going up on her tiptoes to kiss my cheek and then skipping over to the couch, climbing up to bury herself in Scout’s fur.

Teeth still clenched, eyes going wild, nostrils flared, I turn to my wife, who’s holding back laughter, and we whisper-yell in unison, “Cuteness aggressiooon!”

After I let out a strangled growl while shaking my fists in the air, I say to the table, “I swear sometimes I just want to squeeze her until she pops or just… I don’t know… bite her. So fucking cute I can’t stand it.”

They all laugh, since they were with me the first time I tried to voice what I was feeling when this emotion came over me, before I knew it had a name, and Doc explained it’s a pretty common thing. This feeling of contained violence when one sees like… cute puppy videos or adorable babies that just makes them want to shake them. According to him, it’s just an “involuntary response to being overwhelmed with positive emotions.”

Twyla and I have had fun the past four years coming up with different scenarios.

“I just want to punt her like a football.”

“I’m gonna squeeze her until her head uncorks like a bottle of champagne.”

“I wanna take a chunk out of her fat little baby cheeks.”

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