Page 40 of Thor

"I know, sweetheart." The endearment slipped out naturally, feeling right in that moment.

She nestled closer, sighing. "This feels nice. Safe. Thank you, Daddy—"

She froze instantly, her entire body going rigid in my arms. I felt the exact moment her brain caught up with what her mouth had said, horror radiating through her like an electric shock.

Mandy pulled back sharply, her face flushing crimson from neck to hairline. Her eyes were wide with mortification, hands coming up as if to physically push the word back into her mouth.

"I—I didn't mean—" she stammered, scrambling to put distance between us on the couch. "That wasn't—I don't know why I—"

Her breathing accelerated, edging toward panic as she pressed herself against the opposite arm of the couch. Her green eyes couldn't meet mine, darting around the room like she was searching for an escape route.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry," she continued, words tumbling out in a desperate rush. "That was completely inappropriate. I don't know what's wrong with me. Just forget I said that. Please. I should go—"

She started to rise, but I gently caught her wrist before she could flee. Not restraining, just connecting. She could break away if she wanted to.

"Mandy." I kept my voice deliberately calm, free of shock or judgment. "It's okay."

"It's not okay," she whispered, still not looking at me. "It's weird and inappropriate and—"

"I understand." I paused, choosing my next words with extreme care. "More than you might think."

That stopped her. She finally looked at me, confusion mingling with hope and fear in equal measure. "You . . . know about . . . ?"

I nodded slowly. "DDLG? Yes."

Her lips parted in surprise, color still high in her cheeks but panic receding slightly. The term hung in the air between us—Daddy Dom/Little Girl—no longer an unspoken secret.

"But you’re a biker. How . . . ?" she began, then seemed unable to form the rest of the question.

"I've had experience with age regression dynamics before," I said simply. "It's nothing to be ashamed of, Mandy. Everyone needs safe ways to process stress, to feel protected."

She swallowed hard, her throat working with the effort. "Most people think it's . . ." She trailed off, unable to say the words.

"Most people don't understand it," I countered. "They think it's just a sexual kink, or something twisted. They don't get that it's about feeling safe enough to be vulnerable. About having someone you trust take away the pressure of constant decision-making and responsibility."

Her eyes widened slightly, recognition flashing across her face at hearing her own unexpressed feelings articulated so clearly.

"Sometimes," I continued softly, "letting yourself be small for a while makes it easier to be strong when you need to be."

Mandy's shoulders gradually lost their defensive hunch as she processed my words. She looked down at where my hand still lightly circled her wrist, her pulse fluttering beneath my fingers like a trapped bird.

"I've never told anyone except my sister," she admitted quietly. "Not even my therapist. I found out about it accidentally, through an online forum when I was researching stress management techniques. It just . . . resonated. Deeply." She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, worrying it slightly. "But I never thought I could actually share that side of myself with someone. It seemed too risky."

"It is risky," I acknowledged. "Trust always is."

She studied my face, searching for any hint of mockery or disgust and finding none. "I still don't understand how you knew. About me, I mean."

I smiled slightly. "I notice things. The unicorn keychain you were so worried about losing after our motorcycle lesson. How you respond to certain words—like when I accidentally called you 'princess' last week and you blushed to your ears. The way you organize your colored pens in rainbow order, always exactly the same pattern."

Her eyes widened. "You noticed all that?"

"I’m a noticer,” I chuckled.

“That Keychain . . .iIt was the first thing I bought for my Little space," she said softly. "I was so scared someone would see it in my purse and ask questions. But I wanted to keep it with me."

"Your Little space?" I prompted gently.

A small smile touched her lips. "I have a room in my apartment. Behind a locked door. It has stuffed animals, and coloring books, and . . ." She trailed off, color rising in her cheeks again. "It sounds silly when I say it out loud."

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