Daddy of the Mountain

Chapter 5

" A lright," he said, voice rough. "Guess we need to talk."

"Yeah," I replied quietly. My fingers gripped the edge of the blanket, twisting it just enough to keep my hands busy. I didn’t trust them not to fidget otherwise. “We do.”

The air between us felt heavier than before, charged with something I couldn’t quite name. Maybe it was the way he didn’t look at me right away, or how his jaw tightened every few seconds, like the words were fighting him. I waited, giving him space, though my pulse thudded faster with each passing moment. Whatever he was about to say, I knew it would matter.

He cleared his throat once, then again. His gaze finally lifted to meet mine, and something raw glinted there—sharp, unpolished, and strangely vulnerable. “So, this Daddy Dom thing, it’s about roles, alright? Dynamics.”

"Roles?" I echoed, tilting my head.

"Yeah." He let the word hang for a second, then barreled forward. “One person—me, in this case—takes on a role that’s sorta . . . guiding. Protective. Like a caregiver. That’s where the ‘Daddy’ part comes in. But it ain’t literal. I’m nobody’s father. It’s just . . . a state of mind.”

I blinked, trying to process.

“The other side,” he continued, his tone deliberate now, “is someone who takes on a more carefree role. They lean into trust, vulnerability—lettin’ go of responsibilities for a bit. We call that ‘being little.’ Sometimes people shorten it to DDlg. Stands for Daddy Dom Little Girl. Although everyone involved is an adult, of course.”

My eyebrows knit together. “So . . . like pretending to be a kid?”

"Not exactly." His voice firmed, the words coming quicker now, like he wanted to make sure I understood. “It’s not about playin’ house or actin’ like a child. It’s about feelin’ safe enough to let go. To lean on someone. Doesn’t mean you’re weak or anything—it’s just . . . different.”

He paused, letting that sink in. I thought about it, fingers still twisting the fabric of the blanket. The idea felt strange. Foreign, yet oddly . . . familiar? I wasn’t sure. All I knew was that his explanation hadn’t scared me off—not yet, anyway.

“Some people do tap into a child-like feeling. An innocence. Letting go of the adult world. Being free to be themselves.”

It sounded nice. Stress-free.

I shifted on the bed, pulling the blanket tighter around my lap. The lamplight flickered over Silas’s face, catching on the sharp angles of his jaw and the crease between his brows.

“And is it like . . . a sexual thing?” I asked softly, breaking the heavy quiet that hung between us.

“Not always. Sometimes, yeah. But not all the time.” He leaned back slightly, his fingers rubbing at the calloused skin of his palm. “It’s more about connection—emotional intimacy. Comfort. Trust. A physical relationship can grow out of that.”

I nodded slowly, letting his words sink in. They didn’t scare me, not exactly. They felt . . . different. Unfamiliar, but not unwelcome.

"So . . ." I hesitated, chewing on my bottom lip. "How does it work? What do people . . . do? To get into the child-like headspace?"

His lips twitched, almost forming a smile, but it faded before it fully appeared. “Littlespace, we call it. And it depends on the people,” he said simply. Then, after a pause: “For some, it’s routines. Coloring or playin’ with toys. Things that make ‘em feel safe, let their guard down. For others, it’s just havin’ someone to lean on, someone to guide ‘em. Structure, affection. That kinda thing.”

"Guidance," I murmured, testing the word on my tongue like I wasn’t sure how it fit. “And you like to provide that?”

"Yeah." His voice softened. “That’s the idea.”

“What do you get out of it?”

He nodded, thoughtfully. “I find it charming. And it gives me pleasure to be in control, to help someone find their way.”

“It’s easier to help someone else than it is to help yourself?”

He met my gaze.

“Helping someone else is how I help myself.”

I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry. “But . . . it’s not just helping? There’s discipline too, right? You mentioned that earlier.”

"Only if it’s wanted, and agreed upon," he said quickly, his tone firm but gentle. Like he was trying to reassure me without making it seem like he was pushing anything. “And never outta cruelty. It’s about care. Always care.”

I glanced down at my hands, twisting the edge of the blanket again. The ache in my ankle seemed far away now, drowned out by the weight of everything he was saying. It sounded strange—everything about this dynamic he was describing—but also . . . appealing. The thought of letting go, of handing over control to someone who cared enough to hold it for me, made something deep inside me stir.

"And you’ve done this before?" I asked quietly, lifting my gaze to meet his.

Sias’s shoulders tensed. For a long moment, he didn’t answer. Just sat there, staring at the worn planks beneath his boots.

"Yes," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

"With someone else?" I pressed gently.

"Yeah. Not the sort of thing you do alone." He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his dark hair, leaving it messier than before. “A long time ago.”

The quiet stretched between us, thick and heavy like the air before a storm. I shifted on the bed, my ankle sending out a dull throb as I adjusted the pillow under it.

"Silas," I said softly, and his eyes jerked back to mine. "Can I ask you something?"

"’Course," he replied, voice low, guarded.

"How does…" I fumbled for the words, licking my lips. "How does this DDlg thing fit into BDSM? I mean, I know what BDSM is—" My cheeks flamed, but I pushed through. "I’ve read about it. A little."

"Well," he started, his voice slower now, thoughtful. "It’s part of it, yeah. DDlg is about power exchange, like most of BDSM. But it ain’t what most folks think when they hear those letters. It’s not all whips and chains or . . . whatever else people picture." He glanced at me, watching my reaction carefully.

"Okay," I said, nodding, encouraging him to keep going.

"DDlg’s more about emotional safety than all that flashy stuff," he continued. "Structure. Trust. Littles lean into feelin’ vulnerable, carefree. Bigs—Daddies or Mommies—we hold space for them. Protect 'em. Guide 'em."

"That sounds… different," I admitted finally. "In a good way. Maybe even a great way."

He didn’t say anything, just waited, letting the silence settle again. I appreciated that about him—how he gave space without pushing. Still, the weight of his attention made my skin prickle, like he could see straight through me.

"If I’m being honest, I’ve thought about BDSM before," I blurted, surprising both of us. I felt my face heat up, but I kept talking before I lost my nerve. "Not the hardcore stuff, just . . . fantasies, I guess? Being tied up, maybe. Or someone taking control. Nothing serious. It’s never gone anywhere." I shrugged, forcing a laugh. "Guess I didn’t know what I wanted."

He was so easy to talk to. Not even a hint of judgement or cruelty.

"Maybe you do now," he said quietly.

I swallowed hard, his words hitting deeper than I expected. Did I? My mind raced, trying to make sense of the knot tightening in my chest.

"Maybe," I whispered, almost to myself. I chewed on my bottom lip, staring at the firelight flickering on the cabin walls. "Honestly, though, I’m tired, Silas. Tired of being the one who has to hold everything together all the time. Work deadlines, bills, expectations... it’s like—" I broke off, shaking my head. "It’s like there’s no room left for me, y'know? No space to breathe."

"Yeah," he murmured. His voice was low, steady, grounding. "I get that."

"Do you?" I asked, glancing up at him sharply.

"More than you know," he said, his gaze unwavering.

Something in the way he said it made my chest ache again, but I didn’t press. Instead, I took a deep breath, letting it out slow. My fingers tightened around the edge of the blanket draped over my lap.

"Even though I’ve been keen to get back to my vacation, it’s been strangely nice having you look after me. It made me feel safe." My voice cracked slightly on the last word, and I hated how exposed it made me feel. “Do you think . . . do you think this ‘little’ headspace thing could help?" I asked hesitantly. "Letting go of all the stress, the pressure. Just . . . being taken care of for once.

Silas leaned back in his chair, his broad shoulders relaxing just a fraction. He studied me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded, once, firm and sure.

"Yeah," he said. "I think it could."

“I think I want to try it.”

Silas’s eyes snapped to mine, sharp and assessing. His jaw tightened, the muscle there flexing beneath his beard. “Alana,” he said, low and steady, like he was picking each word carefully from a pile of broken glass. “I need you to be honest with me. Are you just saying all this because you feel bad for me? Or because it sounds . . . nice in theory?”

The weight of his stare pinned me where I sat. My fingers curled around the edge of the blanket again, gripping tight. “What?” My voice came out softer than I intended, barely more than a whisper. “No. No, Silas, that’s not—" I stopped, shaking my head hard enough to make a few fiery strands fall across my face. “That’s not it.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. It was like he was waiting for me to prove it.

“I wouldn’t lie about something like this. I’m not humoring you. I wouldn’t do that. I can’t fake interest in something so personal.”

His brow furrowed as he studied me, his silence stretching long enough to make my chest tighten. Finally, after what felt like forever, he let out a slow breath through his nose. The stiffness in his shoulders eased, just a little.

“Alright,” he said at last, nodding once. “Alright. But understand this, Alana.” His voice softened, but the edge of caution remained. “This only works if it’s real. If you’re truly drawn to it. Not just trying to please me. That’s not how this goes.”

“I know,” I said quickly, maybe too quickly. My hand pressed harder against my chest, like I could somehow anchor myself there. “I know that. It’s not just curiosity—I mean, I am curious, but it’s more than that. I want this, Silas. I want to try. To see where it leads. If . . .” I hesitated, biting my lip. “If it can give us both something we’ve been missing.”

The room fell quiet again, save for the faint crackle of the fire in the hearth. Silas leaned back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face before dragging it down to rest against his thigh. He looked tired, but not in the same way as before. This wasn’t weariness—it was deliberation.

“Okay,” he said finally, his tone lighter now, less weighted. “We’ll take it one step at a time. Set boundaries. Make sure we’re on the same page before anything else.”

I nodded, relief flooding through me. “Yeah, that makes sense. Boundaries are good.”

“Everything we try is optional,” he continued, leaning forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees. His gaze locked onto mine again, steady and grounding. “You can stop at any point. No questions, no guilt. Same goes for me. This only works if we both feel good about it.”

“Agreed,” I said, my voice firm despite the flutter of nerves in my stomach.

“We’ll use safewords,” he added. “Simple ones. ‘Red’ means stop everything, no exceptions. You say it, we’re done. Got it?”

“Got it,” I echoed, my throat tightening slightly at the gravity behind his words. There was no mistaking how seriously he took this. It wasn’t just a game to him—it was trust, laid bare.

He nodded again, satisfied with my answer. “Alright. Let’s talk about what feels okay to start with. Cuddles?” His lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smile breaking through his usual gruffness. “Gentle care? Maybe a bedtime story, if you’re up for it?”

I couldn’t help the soft laugh that escaped me, though it sounded shaky even to my own ears. “A bedtime story? What are you, some kind of mountain-man nanny?”

His smirk deepened, just a fraction. “Something like that. Daddy of the mountain, maybe?”

“Should I call you Daddy?”

“Only if you want to.”

“I think that might be nice, Daddy.”

There was a flush of something in his face. Something like pride?

“That feels nice, you know. It’s been a long time since someone called me that.”

I shifted slightly, adjusting the blanket over my lap as I considered his question. “So, cuddles sound... nice. So does gentle care. Bedtime stories are a maybe. Depends on how ridiculous they are.”

“No promises there,” he said dryly, but there was warmth beneath the humor, a softness I hadn’t expected.

“And discipline?” I asked cautiously, testing the word on my tongue. It felt strange, foreign, but not entirely unwelcome.

Silas’s expression sobered, though not unkindly. “Soft, if it happens at all. Never forced. Always with your consent. Discipline in this context isn’t about punishment—it’s about guidance. Structure. It’s meant to help, not hurt.”

I nodded slowly, letting his words settle over me. “Okay. That . . . makes sense.”

“You good with that?” he asked, his tone gentler now but still laced with that ever-present undercurrent of authority.

“Yeah,” I said quietly. “I think I am.”

Without a word, he reached out, cupping my cheek in his calloused palm.

My breath caught at the touch, the gesture both tender and grounding, anchoring me in the moment. Silas's thumb brushed gently over my cheekbone, his touch firm yet gentle. I leaned into his hand, a silent plea for comfort she hadn't realized she needed.

"Let me take care of you, Ally," Silas murmured softly, his voice a deep, resonant rumble. It was both a question and a promise, an offer of solace in a world that had felt chaotic and overwhelming.

He hugged me, taking me close. I smelled him. Felt him. Was engulfed in him. I came to rest against his big chest, and felt his heartbeat, so close to mine.

"So. Littlespace," he began, his voice low and deliberate. "It's . . . a mindset. A place you go when you need to let all the adult crap fade out for a while. It's about feeling safe enough to let go. To be vulnerable."

"Like a mental escape?"

"Sort of," he said "It's simpler than that, though. It's more about letting yourself relax into things that feel comforting. Littles might do stuff like color, play with toys, or listen to stories. Things that make 'em feel carefree. Cherished." He paused and I luxuriated in the warmth of him. "It’s not about pretending to be a kid. It’s about finding peace."

That word—"peace"—hung heavy in the air. I swallowed hard, my chest tightening and loosening all at once. "Peace sounds nice. Honestly, sometimes I just . . . I want to stop being responsible for everything. To stop thinking so much. Is that what it's like? Someone else holding the reins?"

"Yeah," he said simply. His voice softened, losing some of its usual grit. "That's part of it. You let someone guide you. Take care of you. Hold the weight for a while."

"Here," he said after a moment, moving gently away from me. “Have a look at this.” He pulled a small wooden box from behind a stack of tools. He blew off a thin layer of dust, flipping the lid open. Inside, nestled against a folded scrap of fabric, was a carved figure. He hesitated, glancing over his shoulder at me before reaching in and lifting it carefully with his calloused fingers.

When he turned, I saw it clearly—a tiny creature, smooth and polished, shaped like something halfway between a bear and a mouse. Its rounded ears and friendly face made me smile without meaning to. Silas stepped closer, holding it out to me as if it were something precious.

"Don’t have any soft toys here," he said gruffly, almost apologetic. "But this is all I’ve got. Made it years ago. Thought maybe . . . " His shoulders lifted in a faint shrug. "Thought you might like it."

I took it from him, my fingertips brushing his palm briefly. The wood was warm and smooth, worn from time and touch. I traced the delicate lines of its shape, the curve of its tiny ears, the gentle slope of its body.

"It's beautiful," I said honestly, looking up at him. There was a flicker of something in his expression—pride, maybe—but it was fleeting.

With the doll resting in my lap, I closed my eyes. The carved wood was smooth under my fingertips, grounding me. My chest rose and fell a little too fast, anticipation curling low in my stomach. I tried to imagine it—letting go, letting everything just… drift. No deadlines, no emails, nothing clawing at the edges of my mind.

"Take your time," Silas said, his voice low, steady. It came from somewhere close, but not too close. He didn’t crowd me, didn’t push. "You don’t have to force it. Just try."

I nodded, swallowing hard. My pulse thudded in my ears. "Okay," I whispered.

"Would you like a story?" he asked after a beat. His voice dipped lower, quieter, like he was afraid to break whatever fragile spell had settled between us.

A story.

The idea hit me harder than it should’ve. My hands tightened around the little wooden figure. My chest felt lighter, somehow. I blinked up at him, surprised by how much I wanted it. "Yeah," I said quickly, then cleared my throat. "I mean, yes. Please."

That earned me another small smile. He shifted, leaning slightly toward the shelf across the room, then stopped, looking back at me like he was checking if I was still okay. Still here. Something about that made my shoulders loosen, the tight knot of tension in my spine easing without me realizing it.

I curled my knees up, pulling the blanket tighter around myself. The doll pressed against my palm, its smooth edges soothing. The fire crackled softly, filling the space between us, and I found my gaze drawn to it—the light, the warmth. The way everything outside this moment seemed to fade into the background.

"Go on," I murmured, barely recognizing my own voice. Softer now. Calmer. A little less me, and yet, maybe more me than I’d been in years.

He lowered himself onto the edge of the bed, far enough that I didn’t feel crowded, close enough that the warmth from him reached me. A book rested in his lap, its cover cracked and discolored, the title worn to near illegibility. My eyes snagged on the faint outline of a rabbit, mid-hop, etched in faded gold. Something about it tugged at me—a memory I couldn’t quite place.

"Used to read this when I was young," Silas said, flipping it open carefully. The pages were yellowed, edges frayed, but the illustrations inside were surprisingly vivid. "Simple story. Nothing fancy."

"That’s okay," I said quickly. My voice sounded different—smaller. I shifted under the blanket, adjusting my ankle and tucking the doll closer, its smooth curves grounding me. "I… I like simple."

His mouth twitched, a flicker of a smile, and then he started reading.

"Once there was a little rabbit," he began, voice quieter now, steady. Each word wrapped around the room like the soft glow of the firelight. "She lived in a big forest, full of places to hide and play."

I stared at the page, the illustration of the rabbit surrounded by towering trees. The lines were bold but soft, childlike in their simplicity. As he read, his tone shifted slightly, dipping into something warmer, gentler. Like he wasn’t just telling the story—he was pulling me into it.

"She got lost one day," he continued, turning the page slowly. "The forest was dark, and she couldn’t find her way home."

"Did she get scared?" I asked before I could stop myself. My voice sounded strange in my own ears, lighter, curious. I felt my cheeks heat, but Silas didn’t so much as glance up at me.

"Maybe a little," he said calmly, pausing to show me the next illustration—a small rabbit with wide eyes standing among shadowy trees. "But she kept going. She knew someone would help her."

"Someone?"

"Mm-hm." He turned the page again, his movements unhurried. "A fox found her. Not a mean one. A good one. At first, the rabbit was scared. But soon she knew the fox was friendly."

I leaned forward without thinking, drawn to the sketch of a fox with kind eyes guiding the rabbit along a winding path. The fire crackled softly behind me, and the doll felt warm in my hands, like it had absorbed the heat of my body.

"Why’d he help her?" I asked. My voice had softened even more, the question airy, almost dreamy.

"Because she needed him to," Silas replied simply. He glanced at me then, quick but steady, checking in like he always did. "Sometimes folks just need someone else to show ’em the way."

He turned another page, his deep voice weaving through the air, steady and sure. The rabbit followed the fox through the forest, step by step, until—

"Look," he said, tilting the book toward me. His finger tapped the corner of the page, where a tiny cabin sat nestled among the trees. Smoke curled from its chimney, and the rabbit stood just outside, staring up at it. "Home."

My chest tightened, but not in a bad way. I smiled faintly, leaning closer without meaning to. "She made it."

"She did," Silas said, his voice softer now. He paused, letting the moment settle, and I realized how quiet everything had become—the world outside reduced to nothing but the hum of his words and the crackle of the fire.

"Was she happy?" I asked, barely above a whisper.

"Yeah," he said after a beat. "She was safe. That’s what mattered."

Safe. The word echoed in my mind, heavy and light all at once. I hugged the doll tighter, resting my chin on my knees. Safe. That sounded . . . nice.

I felt light, but heavy, too. Like I was drifting into a dream.