What It Feels Like to Need a Daddy
I feel most like my little self when I crawl into bed or settle into a Daddy’s lap. That’s when the pressure lifts—when I stop trying to hold everything together. I don’t have to perform. I don’t have to be in charge. I can just be small. Still. Safe.
Sometimes I just need someone to stroke me like I’m theirs. Not in a hurried way, not as a warm-up to something else, but like I’m their pet. Like touching me is its own kind of care. Its own kind of claim.
It’s hard to ask for that kind of attention, though. It feels risky. Shame creeps in the moment I speak the need out loud—because if they say no, I don’t just feel rejected. I feel stupid for wanting it in the first place.
But when I’m told I’m a good girl, something shifts. I get warm. I get eager. I feel this soft, desperate pride in being good—good enough to please him, to serve him, to be kept. It makes me want to offer more. To behave. To be cherished and useful and easy to guide.
That part of me doesn’t want control or chaos. She just wants to be looked after. To be seen when she’s quiet. Touched when she starts to fade. She doesn’t want to be tolerated—she wants to be kept.
