Page 7 of Tame Me Daddy

The space was small but not cramped—maybe twelve by fourteen feet. A single bed with a metal frame occupied one corner, covered in a plain navy blue blanket. A wooden dresser stood opposite, its surface bare except for a small lamp with a beige shade. A desk and chair sat beneath the room's sole window, which looked out toward a stand of scrubby trees. A closet with a sliding door completed the furnishings.

The walls were painted off-white, showing scuffs and patches from previous occupants. The floor was hardwood, worn smooth by years of use but clean. Someone had left a small braided rug beside the bed—the room's only decorative touch.

"Bathroom's at the end of the hall," Maya said, setting my suitcase near the dresser. "Just us two using the women's for now. There's a shower stall and tub. Water pressure's decent but hot water runs out if you take too long."

I nodded, taking inventory of my new living quarters. The simplicity appealed to me—no distractions, nothing unnecessary. And most importantly: private. A door that locked. A space that was mine alone.

"It's perfect," I said quietly.

Maya looked surprised. "Well, it's basic, but yeah—clean and functional. Most folks hang some pictures, add a few personal touches." She gestured at the bare walls. "Make it your own, you know?"

I tried to imagine what "my own" even meant anymore. The posters and photos I'd left behind at my parents' house? The little decorations I'd accumulated over years? All abandoned. Anyway, it didn’t seem right to put a load of Little stuff up on the walls in a place like this.

"The schedule's pretty straightforward," Maya continued, leaning against the doorframe. "Breakfast at five, work assignments at five-thirty. Lunch break from noon to one. Workday ends at six most days, dinner at seven. Sundays are half-days—just essential chores like feeding. Saturday nights, some folks go into town, but you need your own transportation or to catch a ride."

I sat on the edge of the bed, testing its firmness. Not too soft, not too hard. Practical, like everything else here.

"The mess hall food's pretty good," Maya added. "Mrs. Hernandez has been cooking for the ranch for twenty years.Don't skip meals—you'll need the energy, especially at first. Everyone's expected to bus their own dishes."

She continued with practical advice—where to put dirty laundry (basket in bathroom), when the hot water was most reliable (early morning or late evening), which ranch hands were helpful versus which might try to pawn off their work on the new girl. I tried to absorb it all, but exhaustion made concentration difficult.

"I'll let you get settled," Maya finally said. "Dinner's in an hour. I can come by and we can walk over together if you want."

"That would be great. Thanks." The words felt inadequate for the kindness she'd shown me.

"No problem. Welcome to Warwick." She pushed off from the doorframe. "Oh, and lock your door when you leave. Not because anyone would steal anything, but privacy's hard to come by around here. Gotta protect what little you get."

After she left, I sat motionless on the bed for several moments, listening to the unfamiliar sounds—distant voices, machinery, the creak of the building settling. When I was certain I was alone, I allowed myself one deep, shuddering breath. Then another.

With trembling hands, I began to unpack. I arranged my limited wardrobe in the dresser—jeans, t-shirts, underwear, socks. Practical clothes for ranch work. My toiletry bag went on top of the dresser. I placed my laptop on the desk along with a notebook and pens.

Then I opened the inner pocket of my suitcase, where I'd hidden the few "little" items I couldn't bear to leave behind.

First, my small plush bunny. Not my favorite—that one had been too bulky to bring—but one I'd had since childhood. Its fur was worn thin in places, one ear slightly crooked from years of being clutched during difficult moments. I gently placed it at the bottom of the lowest dresser drawer, beneath my folded shirts.

Next, the adult-sized pacifier in its protective case. Not something I used often, but a comfort on my worst days. I tucked it into a sock and buried it deep in the dresser.

The collapsible silicone sippy cup went into another sock. My small coloring book and pack of crayons slid beneath the dresser itself—hidden but accessible.

Last was the baby blanket I'd had since infancy—now reduced to a six-inch square that I'd cut from the original. The fabric was faded and soft, the pattern barely visible after countless washings. This, I tucked into my pillowcase where I could touch it at night without anyone knowing.

These objects represented the part of myself I'd been told to be ashamed of. The part my parents couldn't accept. The "little" side that emerged when adult stresses became too much, allowing me moments of peace and security that I found nowhere else.

DDLG—Daddy Dom/Little Girl—wasn't something I could explain easily to others. It wasn't primarily sexual, though it could have that component. It was about comfort, regression, finding safety in childlike simplicity. Being cared for when the world demanded too much. Having clear boundaries and expectations instead of adult ambiguity.

I'd tried to explain this to my parents. They'd heard only perversion.

Once everything was unpacked and arranged, I sat at the desk and looked out the window. The view wasn't spectacular—just the trees and a slice of field beyond—but it was mine. My window. My view. The simplicity of that ownership felt profound after days of displacement.

A knock at the door startled me. I quickly shut the dresser drawer and crossed to answer it.

Maya stood there, now changed into clean jeans and a fresh t-shirt. "Thought you might want to wash up before dinner. Ibrought you some towels." She held out a stack of mismatched but clean bath linens.

The simple kindness hit me like a physical blow. For days I'd been running on adrenaline and fear, holding myself together through sheer will. Now, faced with this small, normal generosity, I felt my control slipping.

"Thank you," I managed, taking the towels. My voice sounded strange, constricted. I felt my face crumpling despite my best efforts.

Maya noticed—of course she did. Her expression softened with understanding. "Hey, first days are rough. I cried for an hour my first night here."

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