Page 2 of Discovering Little Dora

She could still hear her mother’s angry words. “I’m not fucking telling you! This is my house, Dora, and I’ll decorate the rooms the way I want, even yours! It’s time for you to grow up! If you don’t like it, get out!”

Dora had run three red lights on the way to the Goodwill where her mother usually took things, and while the manager had been sympathetic, she had no record of a donation under the name of Marjorie Allard. In the parking lot, Dora had let the Little girl inside her sob over the loss of her little stuffed friends. It wasn’t that her mother didn’t know how much what she’d done had hurt, but that she’d known and not cared. How could she walk back into that house, into that room? Rain had started to fall, and she rolled up her sleeve. Through the blur of her tears, she looked at the scars she’d sliced into her skin. She’d run a finger over the blue veins on her wrist. Slice deeper than usual and she could just fade completely away from this life, from this hurt, from this lonely existence that craved comfort and care and whimsy but only gave her disregard and darkness. She’d reached into her purse to fish for the pocketknife when the phone buzzed against the back of her fingers. She picked it up by habit and there on the screen was a familiar name.

Dr. Weston. She’d looked at the knife then back at the phone. She chose the phone, and it saved her life. She’d poured out all that had happened in a tearful rush and hearing the pain in her voice, this time Dr. Weston had insisted she consider his offer to come to the Ranch. He was going to use his computer to buy her a plane ticket, he said. He wanted to do this. Would she please let him do this? It would mean a lot….

And here she was. Dora ran her fingertips over the pictures of the happy little girl she’d never been but craved to be. She put her clothes in the drawer before changing into a flannel nightgown and brushing the thick chestnut hair that fell halfway down her back.

When she turned, she noticed a present sitting in the chair with a tag that had her name on it. She opened it and inside was a note. “Dear Dora. Welcome to Rawhide Ranch. Bobbi and I are so happy you are here. Bobbi went shopping today and picked this out for you. This week maybe we can get him some friends. I know it won’t replace the ones you lost, but hopefully it will help you heal.”

Tears of gratitude filled Dora’s eyes as she lifted the stuffed white rabbit from the box. Its ears were soft and floppy and lined with pink calico that matched its dress. Dora hugged it to her.

The sheets of the bed were butter soft, the quilt thick and warm and comforting. The lamp had a dimmer switch and because she was afraid of the dark, she put it on the lowest setting. Dora slid into bed, pulling the little rabbit into the circle of her arms. She closed her eyes, listening to the whisper of snowflakes against the windowpane as she drifted into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.

Chapter 2

“Maribel was bad, too. Why isn’t she in detention writing lines?” The raven-haired Little fixed her pretty pout at Alastair Robinson who didn’t look up at his papers as he answered.

“This is my classroom, Elizabeth. Should you grow up and become a teacher—which is unlikely given your inability to even do a simple worksheet without drama—you can make the decisions. Now, do your lines unless you’d rather get six licks of the cane across your bottom.”

“Fine,” Elizabeth said petulantly. “But you didn’t answer my question about Maribel. The reason she’s bad is because she wants your attention. She has a huge crush on you. Everybody knows it.”

Alastair moved the paper aside. He could feel Elizabeth’s eyes on him, but did not look up, would not look up, not merely because he didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of a reaction, but because he did not want her to see the slight flush that had come to his face. She spoke the truth. Maribel had a crush on him, half the class did.

You’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen,was the hand-written message on a note cut into the shape of a heart. He’d found it tucked under the teacup he kept on his desk, and it hadn’t taken much deduction to know it was Maribel’s handwriting. This was exactly why he did not punish her. For a Little to be spanked by an authority figure at Rawhide Ranch was always carried out with consideration for the emotional ramifications, so while Alastair was known for his strictness, the Littles he used as examples were always those in relationships that put them personally off-limits. He knew enough about the needs that drew people to Rawhide, both Bigs and Littles alike, to know the risks weren’t a one-way street. To spank a particularly attractive young woman harboring a crush was a potential minefield of its own, ethically speaking.

Maribel Cutler had adopted the persona of a precocious Lolita with a fondness for short school skirts, bobby socks, saddle Oxford shoes, and t-shirts two sizes too small. Her flirtations were overt; and Alastair, who deeply wanted to be a Daddy to a Little, may have been interested if he hadn’t been absolutely certain that pursuing her in any way would not end in disaster. One of the curious advantages of being a teacher was that sometimes the Littles seemed to forget he was there, and when he heard Maribel describing the attributes she wanted in a Daddy, he’d known right away that he could not consider himself a candidate for the position.

It was obvious, however, that Maribel wasn’t the type to be ignored and had decided if she couldn’t have him as a Daddy the least she could do would be to get into the Cane Club which was the not-so-secret name of Littles who had the distinction of being bent over Alastair Robinson’s desk for a searing punishment.

“Can I please leave?” Elizabeth whined, rubbing her wrist. “Please? I’ve written thirty-five lines.”

“You can absolutely leave,” he said, finally glancing up. “As soon as you do the final fifteen.”

With a groan she turned back to the board. Twenty minutes later, her Daddy, a forty-year-old perpetually tanned dentist named Kent, entered the room.

“Libby,” he said. “What on earth did you do? Wait, wait. Don’t tell me.” Kent’s eyes scanned the board as he read out loud, “I will complete my assignments on time and with a proper attitude as befits a good student.” He put his hands on his hips. “Again? You know what this means, don’t you, young lady? A spanking and no Build-A-Bear this weekend.”

“No Build-A-Bear?” Elizabeth burst into dramatic tears that subsided to quiet sobs as her Daddy shot her a stern look.

He turned to Alastair. “I’m sorry.”

“No need to apologize,” he said. “But Elizabeth has been warned that one more infraction will warrant a caning.”

“Well, that should be enough of a deterrent. Or at least I hope it will be. But who knows. These Littles seem to live to get in trouble.” Kent paused. “You just wait. Stick around here long enough and you’ll have one of your own to deal with and then you’ll be the one apologizing to the teacher.”

“We shall see,” Alastair said noncommittally, but as he watched Kent lead a fretting Elizabeth from the classroom, his mind wandered as it frequently did to a most pleasant fantasy of ending his day with a trip to another classroom to retrieve his own Little. He did not have in his mind what she would look like, but he knew what she was like. Sweet. Submissive. A Little open to correction but not one who behaved like a brat to get it. It wasn’t that he didn’t like brats; Alastair knew some charming ones, but sometimes the bratting seemed performative and his strain of dominance was most satisfied when he delivered correction to one who wanted it but didn’t deliberately provoke it. He wanted a woman who was comfortable identifying as a Little, but also one who was comfortable with a partner who’d faced his own struggles.

He wanted a partner he could be open with. But how could he start to look without being open with the people who’d hired him to teach at Rawhide Ranch.

“Congratulations, Alastair,” Derek had said on the last day of school before winter break over a year ago. “We’d love to have you as a permanent member of the staff if you’re still interested.”

It had been like receiving an early Christmas present for a teacher who’d felt like the Ranch was just the type of setting that would accept people for who they were. And he’d intended to tell Derek his secret; he really had. But some of the Daddies whose Littles he taught were so hypermasculine and he began to have doubts.

Little things would send Alastair into a panic, like when he had his class write a paper about what they thought their Daddies and Mommies were like as kids and during the presentation, one of the students asked Alastair what he was like and they all started to beg for pictures, or when Sadie had been in his office and picked up one of his college yearbooks off the shelf and wondered aloud how much he’d changed. It had been all he could do not to take it from her hands, but he hadn’t had to because her cell phone had rung at that moment, and she’d been called to the front desk. Afterward, he snatched up all his yearbooks, chiding himself for his carelessness as he stuffed them into his satchel to take home.

Since that time, Master Derek and Sadie had become dear friends. He’d been to their house for dinner and Derek often joked if he took a shot every time Sadie told Alastair how much she loved his posh British accent, he’d be drunk under the table before dessert. He’d told them about his childhood, his private education, the incredible privilege of his upbringing but he’d cherry-picked half-truths, leaving out how the tradition his hosts romanticized had led to his ultimate decision to break all contact with his parents. He did not tell them how his excelling at prep school and then university was his way of acquiring knowledge—the one thing he knew he could trade on, the one thing he could count on, the one thing that was timeless and unshakeable. He did not describe breakdowns in therapy, or double shifts he worked waiting tables those last two years of college when his father cut off funds—then he had scholarships at least—all that he went without to save and save and save toward his goal. He did not mention the psychological scrutiny that led to his diagnosis of gender dysphoria. He did not mention how isolated he’d become before he was Alastair.

He didn’t talk about the time before when he was Alice.

---