Page 8

I woke to the soft hum of the city outside, light filtering through the tall windows of Demian's bedroom. My bedroom now too. The sheets rustled as I stretched, my hand reaching for the familiar softness of Captain Frosty. I pulled the stuffed bear close, his fuzzy fur tickling my cheek. This had become my morning ritual, a comforting start to days that were anything but ordinary.

Demian's side of the bed was empty, the sheets cold. He was an early riser, always up before the sun to train or handle business. I listened for him, hearing the faint clink of silverware against porcelain from the kitchen. My stomach fluttered, a smile tugging at my lips. This was home now, a place filled with warmth and routine and . . . discipline.

I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, the cool wood floor grounding me. I knew I was cutting it close on time. On weekdays, Demian expected me to be at the breakfast table by seven sharp. He liked us to spend a full hour together as Daddy and Little before I went to work. Helped me to de-stress.

I glanced at the clock: six fifty-five. Five minutes to brush my teeth, splash water on my face, and pull on some clothes. I could make it if I hurried. But I didn't hurry. Instead, I found myself tracing patterns on the floor with my toes, a secret smile playing on my lips.

Demian's voice echoed down the hall, firm and steady. "Tilly, it's seven."

"Coming," I called back, my voice light, breezy. I knew I was playing with fire. He hated tardiness, saw it as a sign of disrespect. But I also knew the thrill that followed his stern looks, the firm grip of his hands. I craved it, the push and pull, the dance of power.

I strolled into the kitchen, the clock ticking loudly behind me. Demian sat at the table, his gray eyes steady, watching me. His jaw was set, a sure sign of his mood. He'd already eaten, his plate pushed aside, a glass of water sitting in front of him. My plate was still full—scrambled eggs, toast, fruit. My stomach growled, but I knew better than to reach for the food just yet.

"You're late," he said, his voice low, controlled. “And you’re not even dressed yet.”

I shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "Just a few minutes, Daddy."

His eyebrow twitched, a tiny movement that sent a shiver down my spine. "A few minutes is still late, baby girl."

I bit my lip, looking down at the floor. My heart pounded in my chest, a mix of anticipation and nervousness. This was the dance, the give and take. I craved his discipline, the firmness of his rules. It made me feel seen, cared for. Grounded.

Demian pushed his chair back, the legs scraping against the floor. He patted his lap, his eyes never leaving mine. "You know what to do."

I did. I walked over, my steps slow, deliberate. I lowered myself over his knees, my breath hitching as his hand rested on the small of my back. He lifted my nightshirt, exposing my bare bottom. His hand was warm, calloused from years of hockey. It felt rough against my soft skin.

The first spank was sharp, a sting that radiated through me. I gasped, my body tensing. He rubbed the spot gently, soothing the sting before delivering another smack. Each strike sent a jolt through me, a mix of pain and pleasure that left me craving more.

"Why are you being punished, Tilly?" he asked, his voice steady.

"Because I was late," I breathed, the words coming out in a rush.

He hummed, his hand rubbing circles on my heated flesh. "And why were you late?"

I hesitated, the answer catching in my throat. Because I wanted this. Because I needed to feel his hands on me, guiding me, correcting me. Because in these moments, I felt more grounded than ever.

He spanked me again, the strike sharper. "Answer me, baby girl."

"Because I wanted your attention," I admitted, my voice soft.

His hand stilled, his touch gentle now. He helped me up, turning me so I straddled his lap. His eyes were softer, the gray warmer. He cupped my cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear I hadn't realized had fallen.

"You have my attention, Tilly," he said, his voice low. "Always."

I leaned into his touch, my heart swelling. This was what I needed, what I craved. The discipline, the guidance, the love. It was a delicate balance, a dance of power and tenderness.

"I love you, Demian," I said, the words flowing from me naturally, easily.

A slow smile spread across his face, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "I love you too, Tilly," he said, his voice filled with a tenderness that made my heart ache.

He leaned down, his lips capturing mine in a soft, gentle kiss. I melted into him, my body pressing against his. His hand tangled in my hair, holding me close as the kiss deepened. I moaned softly, my body aching for more.

He pulled back, his breath ragged. "Not yet, baby girl," he said, his voice husky. "First, you eat your breakfast."

I pouted, my body throbbing with need. But I knew better than to argue. Instead, I nodded, a small smile playing on my lips. "Yes, Daddy," I said, my voice soft and submissive.

His eyes flashed with desire, his hand tightening in my hair. "Good girl," he growled, his voice filled with promise.

I admit, I rushed my breakfast after that. Who wouldn’t? The quicker I ate, the more time I got to spend with Demian before work. One more hour of bliss before I had to head to the office . . .

T he fluorescent lights of the newspaper office buzzed overhead like a swarm of lazy bees. I walked in, my shoulders relaxed, none of the usual tension knotting my muscles. The clatter of keyboards and the hum of distant conversations didn't grate on me like they used to. Instead, I felt a calm, a sense of purpose that was new, different.

"Tilly, in my office," barked Matt, my editor, from his doorway. His tie was askew, his shirt rumpled. The vein in his forehead throbbed—a sure sign he was pissed.

I walked in, unhurried, and took a seat across from him. His desk was a mess of papers and old coffee cups. He glared at me, holding up a printout of my article on Demian. "What the hell is this?"

I didn't flinch, didn't feel the usual urge to shrink back. In my time with Demian, I’d grown as a person. Learned to see the strenght in submission. Discovered how resilient I could be. And of course, spending an extra hour in bed with Demien this morning had kinda relaxed me . . . "It's the piece you asked for," I said, my voice steady.

"It's bland, Tilly. Where's the scandal? Where's the dirt?" He slammed the printout onto his desk.

I shrugged. "There was no dirt to find, Matt. Demian Pierce is a good guy."

He scoffed, running a hand through his thinning hair. "Good guys don't sell papers, Tilly."

I stood up, looking him straight in the eye. "Maybe not. But I did the right thing. And that's worth more than a few extra sales."

His mouth dropped open, but I turned and walked out before he could say another word. The old Tilly would have fought, argued. But not anymore. I had more important things to focus on.

L ater that evening, I sat on the couch in Demian's penthouse, my laptop perched on my knees. The city lights sparkled through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a warm glow over the room. I took a deep breath, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. I was nervous, exhilarated, like I was standing on the edge of a cliff, ready to jump.

"You sure about this, baby girl?" Demian asked, sitting beside me. His hand rested on my thigh, strong and reassuring.

I nodded. "I need to do this. For me. For others like us."

He smiled, his eyes warm. "Then go for it, Tilly."

I started creating my very own blog, the words pouring out of me. I wrote about the dance of power and tenderness, about the strength found in vulnerability. I wrote about the nurturing dynamic, the give and take, the profound intimacy. I left out names, specifics, but I infused it with genuine warmth, with my heart.

Demian rubbed my back, his touch gentle, encouraging. I glanced at him, his eyes filled with pride. It spurred me on, gave me the courage to hit 'Publish'. My heart thudded in my chest as the post went live. I did it. I actually did it.

I set the laptop aside, my body buzzing with excitement. Demian pulled me into his arms, his lips capturing mine in a fierce kiss. I moaned, my body melting against his. His hand tangled in my hair, holding me close as the kiss deepened.

He pulled back, his breath ragged. "I'm proud of you, Tilly," he said, his voice husky.

I smiled, my heart swelling. "Thank you, Daddy," I whispered.

His eyes flashed with desire, his hand tightening in my hair. "Now," he growled, "let's get you fed." He led me to the kitchen.

I slid onto a stool at the kitchen island, watching as he moved around the kitchen. He filled a pot with water, set it to boil, then turned to me. "So, how does it feel?"

I tilted my head, a soft smile playing on my lips. "How does what feel?"

"Being true to yourself," he said, leaning against the counter. His eyes were intense, seeing right through me.

I took a deep breath, letting the question sink in. "It feels . . . right," I said finally. "Like I've been wearing someone else's clothes my whole life, and I finally found my own. They fit perfectly."

He smiled, a slow, sexy curve of his lips that made my heart flutter. "I'm proud of you, Tilly."

I ducked my head, a blush heating my cheeks. "Thank you, Daddy," I whispered.

He turned back to the stove, dropping pasta into the boiling water. I watched him, my heart swelling with emotion. This man, this strong, caring, incredible man, was mine. And I was his.

We ate dinner, our knees touching under the table, his hand resting on my thigh. Each touch was a promise, each glance a secret whisper of what was to come. The food was simple, just pasta with butter and garlic, but it tasted like the best meal I'd ever had.

Demian raised his glass of sparkling water, his eyes meeting mine. "To you, baby girl," he said, his voice low. "To your courage, your honesty, your heart."

I clinked my glass against his, my eyes filling with tears. I took a sip, the bubbles dancing on my tongue. I set the glass down, my heart pounding. I needed him, needed his touch, his strength, his love.

I stood, moving to him. He pushed his chair back, his eyes darkening as I straddled him. His hands gripped my hips, his fingers digging into my flesh. I could feel his hardness pressing against me, sending a wave of heat through my body.

"Demian," I whispered, my voice hoarse with need.

"What do you need, baby girl?" he murmured, his lips brushing my ear.

"You," I gasped. "I need you."

His lips captured mine, his kiss fierce, possessive. I moaned, my body melting against his. This was my celebration. This was my reward. This was my love.

T he laptop screen flickered, reflecting in my wide eyes as I stared at the notification count. Comments were pouring in like a sudden rainstorm, each one a tiny thrill zinging through me. I clicked refresh again, watching the numbers climb. Fifty, sixty, seventy . . . My heart pounded in my chest, a rhythm of exhilaration and disbelief.

This is real, I thought. People are reading. They're understanding.

I scrolled through the comments, my fingers trembling slightly on the trackpad.

Anonymous345: Thank you for this. I always thought I was alone.

LittleLostOne: Your words are like a warm hug. I needed this today.

CuriousKitty: I'm new to this. Where do I start?

Each message was a tiny window into another person's soul, a whisper of connection. I could feel their relief, their curiosity, their longing. It was intoxicating.

"Baby girl, you're smiling like you just won the lottery," Demian said, leaning over the back of the couch. His voice was a low rumble, sending a shiver down my spine.

I tilted my head back to look at him, grinning like an idiot. "It's just . . . people are reading, Demian. They're getting it."

He brushed a thumb over my cheek, his eyes soft. "Of course they are. You've got a way with words, Tilly."

I turned back to the screen, eager to respond. My fingers hovered over the keyboard as I thought about my reply. I wanted to be informative, gentle, encouraging.

I wrote out replies full of empathy and understanding, talking about communication and trust. And the importance of finding the right partner.

I hit send, my heart fluttering. Demian's hands squeezed my shoulders, his touch firm and grounding. I leaned into it, letting his strength fuel my confidence.

More comments popped up, questions about dynamics, about safety, about love. I answered each one, my thoughts flowing like a river, steady and sure. This was what I was meant to do. This was my purpose.

Hours passed like minutes. The sun dipped below the skyline, casting the room in a warm golden glow. Demian's penthouse was quiet, the only sound the soft tapping of my keys and the distant hum of the city below.

Demian's hand wrapped around mine, pulling me from my trance. "Time for a break, baby girl," he murmured. "You've been at it for hours."

I blinked, looking up at him. His eyes were tender, proud. I nodded, saving my work and closing the laptop.

"You know," I said, as Demian led me into the bedroom, "I used to think that keeping everything separate was the key to staying strong. Never let them see you sweat, right?"

Demian's lips curved into a small smile. "And now?"

I paused, considering. "Now, I think strength is being able to sweat in front of everyone and still keep going."

He nodded, his eyes soft. "You're doing more than just keeping going, baby girl. You're thriving."

I felt a warmth spread through me at his words. He was right. I was thriving. And it was all because I'd embraced my vulnerability, allowed it to become a bridge connecting me to others—to my readers, to Demian.

I took a deep breath. "I think I'm ready," I said, the words tumbling out before I could catch them.

"Ready for what?" Demian asked, setting his book aside.

I took a deep breath, my heart pounding. "To let go of the newspaper. To fully embrace this. To be . . . me. No more reporting on other people’s secrets. I only want to talk about my own. Anonymously, of course, but still . . . authentically."

Demian's expression shifted, pride and love gleaming in his eyes. "You're sure?"

I nodded, a sense of resolve washing over me. "I've never been more sure of anything."

T he next morning, I walked into the bustling newsroom, the noise and chatter a familiar symphony. I clutched the envelope in my hand, my resignation letter tucked safely inside. My editor looked up as I approached, his eyebrows raising as I placed the envelope on his desk.

"Jameson," he barked, leaning back in his chair. "What's this?"

I straightened, my voice steady. "My resignation, sir."

His face reddened, a predictable rant bubbling up. "You're making a mistake, Jameson. You have a bright future here—"

But his words faded into the background, a dull hum against the pounding of my heart. I felt a profound sense of relief, a weight lifting from my shoulders. I was no longer bound by the constraints of traditional journalism, no longer hiding behind a professional persona.

I turned, walking out of the office with my head held high. The city sprawled out before me, the possibilities endless. I couldn't wait to share this news with Demian, to celebrate this leap of faith together.

As I stepped onto the crowded sidewalk, the sun warmed my face, a gentle breeze ruffling my hair. I felt alive, exhilarated. This was my strength. This was my vulnerability. This was my love. And I was ready to embrace it all.

T he cold nipped at my nose as Demian led me, blindfolded, through the crisp night air. The crunch of gravel beneath our feet echoed in the quiet, the scent of pine and winter crispness filling my lungs. His hand, warm and firm, gripped mine, guiding me with a confidence that made my heart flutter. I trusted him implicitly, but the not knowing sent a thrill of anticipation and nervousness zipping up my spine.

"Demian, where are we going?" I asked, my breath misting in the chill.

"Patience, baby girl," he replied, his voice a low rumble. "We're almost there."

We came to a halt, and I heard the creak of a door opening. A warm gust of air brushed against my skin as Demian led me inside. The sound of blades cutting through ice and soft laughter echoed around us.

Demian removed the blindfold, and I blinked, adjusting to the light. We were standing in the age play rink, the ice glistening under the soft glow of twinkling lights strung up around the rink. We hadn’t been here since our first date.

Demian smiled, those gray eyes sparkling. "Today is a special day, Tilly. You took a huge step, and I want to celebrate that bravery with you."

“Thank you, Daddy,” I whispered.

As we stepped onto the ice, I wobbled, my ankles threatening to give way. Demian's strong arm wrapped around my waist, steadying me.

"I've got you, baby girl," he murmured, his breath warm against my ear. "Let's try something new today."

I nodded, my nerves melting away under his reassuring touch. He guided me forward, his voice low and soothing as he instructed me on a new move. I listened, my body relaxing into his as we glided across the ice.

Halfway around the rink, Demian paused, turning to face me. He pressed his forehead gently to mine, his eyes locked onto mine.

"I am so proud of you, Tilly," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "Your bravery, your strength . . . Every single day, it astounds me."

Tears welled up in my eyes, his words wrapping around my heart. I laughed, blinking away the tears. "Demian, I—"

"Shh," he whispered, pressing a gloved finger to my lips. "Just feel, baby girl. Feel my love. Feel your strength."

I nodded, my vision blurring as tears spilled over. He was right. I could feel it all—his love, my strength, our bond.

As the night wore on, we found our rhythm, our laughter echoing through the rink. Demian's touches grew more playful, his hands lingering on my curves, his whispers hot against my neck. Each graze of his fingers, each heated look, sent a jolt of desire coursing through me. By the time we stepped off the ice, my body was humming with need.

“Let’s go home, Daddy,” I said. “I need to be with you.”

Demian pressed a kiss to the top of my head, his arms tightening around me. "I need to be with you too, darling. Forever.”

I never imagined my life could change so completely in such a short time, yet here I was—living in a penthouse that felt more like home than anywhere I’d ever been, sharing my mornings with a man whose discipline and devotion made me feel safe enough to grow. My old world of hard-hitting headlines had given way to an existence where I could finally write the truth about myself, even if it was under an anonymous byline. The strength in vulnerability, the freedom in trust—these were lessons I’d only dreamed of learning.

In the hush of late evenings, I wrote my age-play column at the kitchen island while Demian practiced his stickhandling drills on the balcony, the two of us separated only by glass and a deep, mutual love for what we did. Sometimes I would pause and watch him, a perfect blend of power and grace. At times, he’d come inside, tapping his stick on the tile floor just to remind me of the authority I both craved and respected. And yes, there were still moments when I deliberately broke a small rule just to feel that firm, guiding presence. But now I understood: it was less about rebellion and more about reaffirming the intimacy that had changed my life.

Friends and colleagues sometimes questioned my choice to step away from traditional journalism, to guard my identity behind a pseudonym. Yet every response I offered to a struggling Little, every heartfelt comment from a reader who felt “seen” for the first time, confirmed that I was exactly where I needed to be. I was helping people, but I was also helping myself—untangling old fears, shedding old skins, finding strength I never knew I had.

And Demian was there through it all, the unwavering constant in my new world. With each day that passed, we only grew more certain of how deeply our lives were entwined. He’d knead my shoulders when I was hunched over the laptop too long, make me giggle by tickling my sides if I slipped into stubbornness, and remind me with a single stern look when it was time to put my things away and listen to him. The dance of power and affection never felt forced or contrived; it felt natural, grounding us both.

We weren’t perfect, but perfection had never been our goal. We wanted only to be honest: with ourselves, with each other, and with the small corner of the world following my words from behind a screen. And so we pressed forward—loving, learning, laughing. Every day, we discovered fresh ways to show our devotion, whether on the rink at dawn, in playful spankings at breakfast, or in the hushed late-night conversations that lulled me to sleep in his arms.

If life was a story, this was far from the end—more like the start of a new volume. There would be new challenges to face, fresh boundaries to push, and more secrets I might choose to share online. And Demian would be there, strong and kind, ready to guide me and let me guide him when he needed it most. I looked at Captain Frosty perched on the shelf, and at the confident man I called Daddy, and realized, with both a little thrill and a calm certainty, that this—this nurturing, liberating, beautifully unorthodox life—was exactly where I belonged.

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING!