Chapter 8
I was there on the dot. Eight o’clock. My heart felt like it might hammer straight out of my chest as I walked up Brett’s driveway. The house was glowing, the soft amber light spilling through the windows onto the stone path leading to the door. Candlelight flickered inside, dancing across the walls.
Brett had told me to dress up for tonight.
“Dress up?” I’d asked. “Is it a date?”
“It’s so much more than that, baby girl.”
I smoothed down my dress—a sleek black number that hugged me in all the right places that I hadn’t won since my graduation party—and checked my lipstick in my phone screen.
"Alright," I breathed out, trying to steady myself. "You’ve got this."
My heels clicked against the pavement with every step toward the front door. Each sound felt louder than the last, almost like they were betraying how nervous I was. This wasn’t just a date. It was something . . . bigger. Something heavier. Something I’d never done before. I didn’t want to mess this up.
I rang the doorbell and swallowed, the chime echoing faintly from inside. Almost immediately, the door swung open.
There he was—Brett.
He wore a tailored dinner jacket like he was born to own the look. His silver hair was brushed back neatly, but not so much that it lost its touch of ruggedness. He looked at me with those deep hazel eyes, warm but serious, like there were a thousand things he wanted to say but wouldn’t—not yet. The faint scent of incense drifted out past him, mixing with the quiet hum of jazz playing from somewhere deeper in the house.
“You’re right on time, baby girl.” His voice was low, calm, but it carried weight. Like he wasn’t just noting the time; he was acknowledging something more. He was proud.
"Didn’t want to be late." It came out breathier than I’d intended. My cheeks heated under his gaze, and I hoped he didn’t notice.
"You look beautiful.”
“Y-you too.” Smooth. Real smooth. “I mean. Handsome. Not beautiful.”
He smiled. “Come in." Brett stepped aside, holding the door open.
The warmth of the house wrapped around me as I walked in, my eyes taking in the polished wood floors gleaming under the golden light. Everything smelled clean, inviting, but grounded—not overly fancy, just thoughtful. His kind of elegance. My pulse quickened when I caught sight of the candles lining the mantle, their wicks flickering gently.
Brett led me down the hallway, his hand resting lightly on the small of my back. That touch—it wasn’t pushy, but it sure as hell guided me where he wanted me to go.
He was in control.
My heels clicked against the hardwood floor, their rhythm matching the uneven beat of my heart. The faint scent of incense lingered in the air, mixing with something deeper and more masculine—the clean, woodsy smell of him.
"Here we are," he said, his voice low and steady as we stepped into the dining room.
The table was small, intimate—just enough space for two plates, two glasses, and a single flickering candle in the center. The champagne flutes caught the light, tiny bubbles rising like they were racing each other to the top. I barely noticed the chair he pulled out until his hand brushed mine, motioning for me to sit.
"Thank you," I murmured, sliding into the seat. My dress smoothed under me, but my nerves didn’t follow suit.
"Anything for you." His tone had a way of grounding me while still making my stomach flip. He moved around the table, his tailored jacket stretching just enough across his shoulders to make me swallow hard. When he sat down, those hazel eyes locked onto mine, warm but sharp, like he saw too much of what I was feeling.
"Champagne?" he asked, lifting his glass.
"Sure." I reached for mine, careful not to knock anything over. My fingers felt clumsy, but I managed.
"To tonight," he said simply, tipping his glass toward mine. “And living our truth.”
"To tonight and the truth," I echoed, the words sticking a little in my throat. The soft chime of crystal meeting crystal rang out before I took a sip. The bubbles fizzed against my tongue, crisp and cool. It should’ve eased me, but instead, every nerve in my body seemed to hum louder.
"Maisy," he said after a moment, his voice softer now. "I wanted tonight to feel special for you. For us. We're about to talk about something important, and I believe romance and respect should walk hand in hand."
"It feels special so far," I said, trying to sound casual, but my voice wavered just enough to give me away. His lips curved into the smallest smile, but he didn’t call me on it. Instead, he leaned back slightly, his posture still all confidence and control.
"Good," he said, taking another sip of champagne, his gaze never leaving mine.
We exchanged a few pleasantries after that—how beautiful Small Falls looked at night, how nice the weather had been lately—but none of it really stuck. I was too aware of him watching me, the candlelight throwing shadows across his face. And underneath all the polite conversation, there was this tension, thick and unspoken, hanging between us like the pause before a storm.
Then he shifted, leaning forward just enough to draw my attention. His hand moved to the leather folder sitting on the edge of the table, and my breath hitched before I could stop it.
"This," he began, flipping it open with deliberate care, "is something I created for us today."
For us. Those two little words hit me harder than I expected.
I stared at the document inside, the bold title staring right back at me: DDLG Relationship Agreement . My throat went dry, and I set my glass down before I dropped it. The delicate clink of glass on wood sounded way too loud against the quiet jazz in the background.
"Go ahead," Brett said, his voice calm but firm. "Take a look."
I forced myself to breathe as he slid the folder closer to me. My hands hovered over it for a second, hesitant, before I finally flipped through the first page. Each word blurred slightly before coming into focus, like my brain needed an extra second to catch up.
"It’s just a draft," he continued, his tone steady, almost clinical, but there was warmth beneath it, too. "Anything you want to change, we can change. It covers the roles we’ll take on, our responsibilities, our boundaries. I want us to ensure what we’re doing is safe, sane, and totally consensual."
"Totally consensual," I repeated softly, nodding as I tried to process it all. Safe. Sane. Consensual. It sounded so . . . official. So real.
"I’ve never done anything like this," I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. I glanced up at him, searching his face for a reaction. "But I . . . really like it."
The corners of his mouth lifted, just slightly. Approval. But also relief. Like maybe he’d been holding his breath, too.
Brett leaned forward, resting his thick forearms on the edge of the table. The flickering candlelight caught the silver in his hair, making him look softer somehow, even as his expression stayed steady, focused.
"Here’s how I see it working," he said, voice low but clear. He tapped a line on the paper in front of me with one blunt fingertip. His hands were strong, calloused from years of firefighting, yet tonight they moved carefully, every motion deliberate. "I’ll take on the role of Daddy Dom. That means offering guidance and structure—keeping you focused when life gets overwhelming—but never forgetting my job is to care for you above all else."
The words hit me like a slow build of warmth spreading through my chest. I swallowed hard, nodding as I tried to keep my face neutral. Inside? A mess. Lurching heart, tight throat, stomach doing flips. But good flips. The kind you'd get right before stepping onto a stage, knowing something big was about to happen.
"And me?" I asked, barely recognizing my own voice—soft, small. Like it wasn’t sure it belonged here yet.
"Your role," Brett continued, "would be embracing your Little side. Letting yourself feel vulnerable when you need to, tapping into that curiosity and wonder I know is there. All the stuff we spoke about earlier." His eyes flicked up to mine, holding them just long enough that my pulse skipped. "But only when you want to. When it feels right."
I nodded again, maybe too quickly this time. My fingers twisted together in my lap, nervous energy leaking out however it could. "And what does that . . . mean? Exactly?"
"Exactly?" His lips curved, just the faintest hint of a smile breaking his otherwise serious demeanor. "It means we define it together. For us. I might set bedtime routines or give you tasks if things feel scattered. Maybe some gentle discipline if it's needed. But at the end of the day"—his voice softened, steadied—"we’re both adults, Maisy. You’ll always have your autonomy. This isn’t about control. It’s about respect."
Respect. That word hit me harder than I thought it would. I didn’t realize I’d been holding my breath until I let it out in a shaky exhale. "I . . . I do need structure. I think it could help with my work, and finding time to paint," I admitted, the confession tumbling out before I could overthink it. My gaze dropped to the paper. "But I don’t want to lose who I am either. I can’t . . . I won’t just give everything up."
"Of course not," Brett said, his tone firm, leaving no room for doubt. His hand stretched across the table, palm up, waiting—not demanding. An invitation. "I’d never want to take that away from you."
My fingers hesitated, hovering just above his, before I let them settle into his grasp. His hand wrapped around mine, warm and grounding, a tether I didn’t know I needed until it was there.
We sat like that for a moment, the quiet hum of jazz filling the space between us. Then he shifted slightly, pulling his hand back to turn the page in the folder. My eyes followed the movement, drawn to the bold heading: Rights & Responsibilities .
"Let’s go through this part together," he said, his voice steady again. "It’s important."
"Okay," I murmured, leaning closer as he slid the document into view. The paper smelled faintly of leather and ink, crisp and official, like it carried weight even beyond the words printed on it.
"First," he began, pointing to a bullet point, "we each have the right to pause or renegotiate the dynamic at any time. No questions asked. If something doesn’t feel right—for either of us—we stop and talk about it."
"That’s good," I said, my shoulders easing down a notch. The tension I’d been carrying all day started to melt away, slowly but surely. "It feels safe."
"That’s the goal," Brett replied simply. He tapped another line. "We also have the responsibility to communicate openly. No bottling things up, no guessing games. If something’s wrong, we say it. Even if it’s hard."
"Communication," I echoed, a wry smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. "Not exactly my strong suit."
"Then we’ll work on it," he said, calm and unwavering.
“Right,” I nodded.
"One more thing," Brett added, his finger tracing the last few lines of the section. "Our promise to uphold each other’s emotional well-being. This isn’t just about play or roles. It’s about trust. About having each other’s backs. We’re going to be team mates."
"Team mates," I said softly, the phrase wrapping around me like a blanket. I glanced up at him, catching the way his hazel eyes held mine, steady and sure. "I like that."
"Good," he said, leaning back just slightly, but his presence didn’t retreat. If anything, it felt even stronger, filling the space between us. "Because that’s the most important part."
I smiled then, small but real, as I let the words sink in. "I’m glad you wrote all this down," I admitted, my voice quieter now, almost thoughtful. "Communication is something I’ve neglected in the past.” Understatement of the year. In the past, impulse and feeling ruled my life. “Maybe having it spelled out will help."
"Right," Brett said, his own smile softening the edges of his otherwise sharp features.
I shifted in my seat, the faint hum of jazz filling the quiet between us. The flicker of candlelight danced across Brett’s face as he leaned forward, his hand resting on the edge of the contract.
"Let’s talk limits," he said, voice steady, calm. Like he was asking about the weather, not laying down the foundation for what could either be incredible or a complete disaster.
My stomach clenched, my fingers curling tighter around the stem of my champagne flute. "Okay," I murmured, hoping my voice didn’t betray the pounding of my heart.
"Hard and soft," he clarified, flipping to the next section of the document. His pen hovered over the page as his gaze found mine again. "We’ll start with hard. Non-negotiables. Things that are completely off the table for you."
"Um." My throat dried up faster than I thought possible. I took a sip of champagne, the bubbles fizzing on my tongue before I set it down with a soft clink. "Well, uh, no extreme humiliation, for sure."
"Got it," he said immediately, jotting down a quick note. "To be clear—things like name-calling, degrading language?"
"Yeah, that stuff," I said quickly, heat creeping into my cheeks. I stirred the glass absentmindedly, watching the light catch on the tiny bubbles. "Mild teasing is fine, but nothing that makes me feel small. In a bad way."
"Understood." He glanced at me again, his tone firm but reassuring. "I’d never push something like that on you, Maisy, even if it wasn’t a limit. It’s important you feel respected every step of the way."
"Thanks," I said softly, trying to ignore the way my pulse thumped in my ears. His words calmed me, but this wasn’t exactly an easy conversation to have.
"How about pain levels?" he asked next, his pen poised again. There was no judgment in his tone, just curiosity. Calm, professional curiosity. Like this was another day at the fire station and not this. "Light? Moderate? None at all?"
"Moderate," I managed, feeling my blush deepen. "I don’t mind a little, but nothing extreme. But maybe we can look at this again? I don’t know my limits."
"We don’t we agree to Light? Then if it’s not enough, we can slowly increase?"
“That sounds good.” I smiled.
He jotted that down, then met my eyes again. There was a softness there, a flicker of relief maybe. "Thank you for being honest. This isn’t an easy thing to talk about."
"Tell me about it," I muttered, managing a nervous laugh. "I’ve never had to spell this kind of thing out before."
"Well, you’re doing great," he said, leaning back slightly but still radiating that same steady presence. "And remember, none of this is set in stone. We can revisit any of it whenever you need to."
"Okay," I said, nodding. The tension in my shoulders eased—just a little.
"Now, your safeword," he continued, flipping to yet another section. His voice softened, dropping an octave like he knew this part might hit differently. "This is non-negotiable, Maisy. It’s your lifeline if things ever get overwhelming."
"Right," I said, my hands fidgeting in my lap now. I forced them still, clasping them together tightly instead.
"Red means stop everything immediately," he explained. "No questions, no hesitation. You say red, and we’re done. Yellow’s more of a caution—slow down, check in, whatever you need in that moment."
"That makes sense," I said, nodding again. Something in my chest loosened as he spoke, like I could finally breathe again. "I like that."
"Good," he said firmly, his eyes locking onto mine again. "Because it’s meant to. Especially if you’re in Little headspace. That’s when I need you to trust me most, but also when I need you to speak up if something doesn’t feel right."
"Okay," I whispered.
"Maisy," he said, and something about the way he said my name made me look up. Brett leaned forward then, resting his forearms on the table. The candlelight caught on his silver hair, lending him an almost otherworldly glow. "This only works if you know you’re always in control. No matter what happens, you have the final say. Always."
"Always," I repeated, the word settling over me like a warm blanket. My chest tightened, but it wasn’t fear this time. It was that strange, hopeful ache again. Like maybe, just maybe, I could let myself trust someone this much.
"Good girl," he said softly, and the way the words rolled off his tongue sent a shiver down my spine. Not from fear, not from discomfort—but from something else entirely. Something I wasn’t quite ready to name yet.
"Thanks," I whispered again, glancing down at my lap as my lips curved into a small, involuntary smile.
Brett leaned back in his chair, tapping the pen lightly against the edge of the contract. The rhythmic click of metal on wood filled the quiet space between us. His gaze caught mine, steady but expectant, and my stomach twisted into a knot.
"So," he said, his voice low, like a challenge wrapped in velvet. "Now that we’ve done all that, why don’t we have a bit of fun? Tell me what’s been swirling around in that pretty little head of yours. What do you want out of this?"
My throat went dry. I hadn’t expected him to ask outright.
"Maisy," Brett prompted gently, dragging my name out like honey over warm toast. He wasn’t pushing, not really, but there was no mistaking the undercurrent of command beneath it all.
I swallowed hard, staring at the bubbles fizzing in my glass. "It’s hard to say."
"There’s no wrong answers," he said simply, leaning forward now, elbows braced on the table. "Whatever it is, I’m listening."
I bit my lip, hesitating before forcing myself to meet his gaze. My cheeks burned, heat crawling up my neck and settling just under my skin. "I’ve always liked . . ." I trailed off, looking away again.
"Go on," he urged, his tone patient.
"Being naughty," I blurted, the words tumbling out in a rush. My face felt like it was on fire now, and I dropped my hands to my lap, twisting them together. "Like . . . breaking little rules. On purpose. Just to see what happens."
"Breaking rules," he repeated, his lips twitching into something dangerously close to a smirk.
"Yeah," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "Things like sneaking sweets when I’m not supposed to. Or staying up past bedtime." I risked a glance at him, regretting it instantly when I saw the way his expression softened—amusement mixing with something far more serious. "I don’t know. It sounds stupid when I say it out loud."
"Not at all," Brett said, shaking his head. "You like testing boundaries."
"Maybe."
"Testing me ."
That hit deeper than I wanted it to. I blinked rapidly, my heart thudding wildly in my chest. "I guess so."
"Mm," he murmured, tipping his head slightly as though considering something. Then came the half-smile, slow and deliberate, like he’d just uncovered a secret I didn’t even know I’d been keeping. "Sounds like something I’d be more than willing to handle."
The promise in his words made my breath catch. My pulse seemed to echo in my ears, drowning out the faint hum of jazz in the background.
"Yeah?" I asked, my voice shaking despite my best efforts to sound casual.
"Absolutely." His eyes darkened, and for a moment, I forgot how to breathe altogether.
I needed to shift the focus. Quickly. Before I melted completely under his gaze. "What about you?" I asked, forcing steadiness into my tone. "What’s your thing?"
His brows lifted, surprised but not displeased. He leaned back again, one hand resting on the table, the other idly brushing over the edge of the contract. "Fair’s fair," he conceded. "You told me yours. Guess I owe you mine."
"Guess you do," I said, trying to sound braver than I felt.
"Spanking," he said without hesitation.
I blinked, caught off-guard by how easily he admitted it. No blush, no stammering. Just Brett, calm and solid as ever.
"Don’t all Daddy Doms like spanking?" I asked, my voice thinner than I meant it to be.
"Maybe," he began, sitting up straighter, "but I really like it. Like, it does something to me I can’t really explain. It’s not just about discipline. It’s about trust. Vulnerability. You letting go enough for me to take care of you." He paused, watching me carefully. "There’s something about that balance—it lights me up in a way I can’t fully explain. Plus," he said, with a wicked look, “I’m kind of a butt guy.”
I shivered, his words striking a chord deep inside me. My fingers curled against my lap, and I nodded slowly, unsure what to say but feeling every word settle somewhere low and undeniable.
“A butt guy, huh?”
"Does that scare you?" he asked.
"No," I said quickly, surprising even myself. "Not even a little. You . . . like my butt?”
There was that wicked look again.
“I love your butt. I can’t even tell you what you do to me, baby girl.” A small smile teasing the corners of his mouth again. But his eyes—they stayed locked on mine, unwavering.
“Have you ever,” I said, my voice catching in my throat, “done anal?”
He shook his head. “But I definitely would.”
I bit my lip, my pussy suddenly hot and wet, my heart pounding.
“I’ll bear that in mind,” I breathed.
The thought of it was so exciting that I felt as though I might pass out. I’d let him be my first. Let him push deep into my ass if he wanted do. In that moment, I felt like I’d let him do anything he wanted.
The room felt smaller. Warmer. Like every breath I took pulled in more than just oxygen—pulled in him, the weight of his words, his steady presence across the table.
"Is this crazy?" The question slipped out before I could stop it, soft and shaky, barely louder than the hum of the jazz curling through the air. My legs crossed under the table, the brush of fabric against my skin grounding me for a split second. “You? Me? This contract?”
Brett tilted his head, eyes catching mine like they were made to hold them. He leaned forward just enough, elbows resting on the table, candlelight painting sharp shadows along his jaw. "Probably a little," he said, his voice low, calm, certain. "But it’s our crazy. And it feels right. I’m done pretending otherwise."
The way he said our caught me right in the chest. My pulse kicked up, loud in my ears. I nodded once, slow, unsure if my voice could handle whatever was happening here. Between us.
He didn’t rush me. Just reached for the pen sitting on the edge of the contract, twirling it between his fingers like it weighed nothing while the silence stretched. Then he set it down, deliberate and steady, right next to the blank line waiting for my name.
"Your call, baby," he said. His voice carried no push, no demand. Just promise. Like he already knew what I’d choose, but he wanted me to be sure first.
My hand moved before my brain caught up, fingertips grazing the sleek leather folder. No backing out now. Not that I wanted to. I picked up the pen, its weight heavier than I expected, or maybe that was just me. My breath stuttered as I pressed it to the paper, my name taking shape in neat, careful strokes under Little .
I couldn’t look at him yet. Not until I set the pen down and exhaled, the tension easing just enough to let me glance up. Brett’s gaze was locked on me, quiet and unreadable, though something flickered there—pride? Relief? Whatever it was, it hit me deep, warming parts of me I hadn’t even realized were cold.
"Your turn," I said, voice small but steady. I slid the folder toward him.
He didn’t hesitate. The pen felt light in his hands, like this wasn’t a leap for him the way it was for me. Like he’d already decided long before tonight. The scratch of ink against paper seemed impossibly loud, and then it was done—"Brett Wilkins" sprawled bold and confident next to Daddy Dom .
Something shifted. The air, the room, us. It buzzed, electric and alive, crackling between the spaces where we didn’t touch. He laid his hand flat over the signed page, fingers splayed like he was sealing it, making it real.
"We do this all the way," he said, voice firm but soft, meant just for me. "No half-measures, no back doors."
I swallowed hard, the lump in my throat stubborn and thick. "I trust you," I whispered.
His lips quirked into the smallest smile, warm and steady as he sat back, watching me like I was the most important thing in the world.
The candlelight flickered over his face, catching on the hard line of his jaw and the softness in his eyes.
"From now on," he said, his voice low and steady, "I’m your Daddy and your protector. Whatever happens, we face it head-on."
My breath hitched, caught somewhere between his words and the way his gaze searched mine. He touched my hand, my skin buzzing where his fingers rested, heat pooling low in my belly. I tilted my face up, searching him, lips parting on instinct.
“I know,” I whispered, my voice barely more than a rasp. “Thank you, Daddy.”
For a heartbeat—or maybe an eternity—we hovered there, suspended in the thick, charged space between what was and what could be. His breath ghosted over my cheek, close enough that I could almost taste him. Almost. But then his hand shifted, thumb brushing across my cheek with a tenderness that left me aching. He didn’t kiss me. Not yet.
He stepped back just enough for the tension to snap a little, leaving me unsteady. His eyes drifted to the table, to the contract we’d both signed, and a slow grin tugged at his mouth, playful but edged with something darker. Something commanding.
“I have an idea,” he said, his voice dropping into that deep, gravelly tone that made my stomach flip.
My heart stuttered. “I’m up for anything, Daddy.” The words came out without hesitation, but my pulse hammered like I was standing on the edge of something I couldn’t quite see.
His brow lifted, amusement and authority mixing in the curve of his smile. “Good girl.” Two simple words, and I felt them settle in my chest, heavy and warm. He reached for my hand, threading his fingers through mine. His grip was sure, guiding, and I followed without question.
He led me away from the table, past the flickering candles and the soft hum of music still spinning through the room. My heels clicked on the hardwood, sharp against the quiet, until we stopped in the doorway to the living room. His hand tightened ever so slightly around mine, holding me there.
“We’ve talked a lot about discipline,” he said, his tone teasing but laced with intent. “Perhaps tonight is the perfect time to see how well my little girl follows her bedtime rules.”
Heat flared in my cheeks, racing down my neck. I swallowed hard, the words catching in my throat before I managed to nod. “Yes, Daddy.” My voice was smaller this time, softer, but no less certain.
His grin widened, and the flicker of approval in his eyes sent a rush of warmth straight through me. He stepped forward, leading me deeper into the dim light of the house, the doorways stretching like shadows as we moved further from the table, from the world outside.
This was our place.