Page 27 of Daddy's Muse
Tonight, I wanted to see more.
I opened his browser.
The history was… illuminating, to say the least.
At first, it was harmless. Google results for resources related to his courses and Quizlet links. Also, what appeared to be a YouTube rabbit hole on raccoons: baby raccoons, a raccoon mom dropping off her kids for daycare on a woman’s balcony, an old man feeding raccoons hot dogs and grapes, raccoons being rescued, a compilation of raccoons using their hands…
And then, a treasure trove. Just what I needed.
“cgl, ddlb clothes”
“adult pacifiers”
“how to find a daddy dom”
“being little without a caregiver”
Some of the pages were from blogs. Personal ones that looked to have been written by boys and girls, just like Colby. There were a lot of gentle, bubbly fonts and pastel colors, cute pictures, and soft, friendly words.
One post was titled:“What I wish my Daddy understood about being little.”
I clicked it open, my heart thumping nervously beneath my ribcage.
The paragraphs blurred together at first, but the more I read, the more I began to understand. There was talk of rules and routines and bubble baths and lullabies. It explained the different types of age play and the different types of caregivers. I found myself clicking on page after page.
It was… overwhelming. Strange.Delicate.
I didn’t know what to make of it.
Some words seemed to always have capital letters, like Dom—Dominant—Daddy, Mommy, Daddy Dom, Master, Sir. And then it seemed like their counterparts were usually written in lowercase: little, boy, girl, brat, pet, slave, prey.
There was a difference between a boy and a little boy. And some littles liked something called ABDL. Some of them were little all the time, some were little just when they had free time, or sometimes it was purely a sex thing. Then, on the other hand, some littles strictly didn’t want anything sexual to happen when they were inlittlespace.
I felt like I was learning a third language. There were so many intricacies.
But if Colby needed this, needed someone to take care of him, comfort him, protect him, play with him, then it needed to beme.
Even if I didn’t understand it fully yet, I couldlearn.I’d already learned everything else about him—his schedule, his habits, his fears. I knew which socks he wore on test days. I knew how he liked his tea. I knew the exact way he breathed when he was dreaming.
This was just one more part of him. One more puzzle piece I would slide into place.
So, I kept scrolling, kept going through his history.
“Why do people move from Norway to America?”
“Norway facts”
I sat back in the chair, stunned for a moment, the phone warming in my palm.
He was curious about me.
I looked at him again—peaceful, asleep with his knees tucked in like a child, and the gentle, rhythmic sucking of his pacifier.
He was mine.
Not in some cheap, possessive way. Not in a way that made him a conquest.
He was mine in the way the moon belonged to the night sky.
