Tame Me Daddy

Chapter 6 #2

We drove about fifteen minutes beyond the restaurant, the truck's headlights cutting through increasing darkness as we left the small town behind. The houses grew farther apart until we turned onto a road marked only by a discreet sign reading "Private Property." My hands fidgeted in my lap, curiosity gnawing at me. Grant drove with the same steady confidence he showed on the ranch, but I noticed a subtle anticipation in the set of his shoulders.

The gravel road curved through a stand of oak trees before opening onto a clearing. A large farmhouse stood before us, its structure clearly historical but renovated with care. Warm light spilled from windows framed by tasteful landscaping—flowering bushes and well-maintained garden beds that softened the building's edges. A simple wooden sign hung above the entrance, illuminated by subtle spotlights: "The Sanctuary."

The parking lot held about a dozen vehicles ranging from practical sedans to high-end luxury cars. Enough activity to suggest a gathering, but not crowded enough to feel overwhelming. Grant pulled into an empty space and cut the engine.

"What is this place?" I asked as he came around to help me from the truck.

"A private club," he explained, his voice calm but with an undercurrent of something I couldn't quite name. Anticipation, perhaps. Or concern for my reaction. "Membership only. It's a safe space for people with... specific interests."

My mind worked through his careful phrasing, connecting dots until understanding dawned. "You mean kink? DDlg?"

Grant nodded, his eyes never leaving my face as if gauging my response. "And other dynamics. A place where people can be themselves without judgment."

The realization should have frightened me—this concrete evidence that what we'd been exploring in private was something real enough to have its own club. Instead, I felt a strange relief. We weren't alone. There were others who understood these desires, who had built a community around them.

"Too much?" Grant asked softly, his hand resting lightly on my lower back.

"No," I said, surprising myself with the steadiness in my voice. "I'm curious."

Grant's smile was subtle but genuine. "We don't have to stay long. And nothing happens here without explicit consent. This is just . . . a place to be comfortable with these parts of ourselves."

We approached the entrance together, my heart hammering against my ribs but my steps sure. The double doors were solid wood with iron fittings that gave them an old-world feel despite their modern security features.

Inside, a small reception area greeted us with warm lighting and tasteful décor that could have belonged in any upscale establishment. A woman in her forties sat behind a desk, dressed in ordinary slacks and a blouse—not the fetish wear I'd half-expected. She looked up and smiled with genuine warmth when she saw Grant.

"Mr. Warwick, good evening," she greeted him, then turned her welcoming smile to me. "And a new guest?"

"Yes," Grant replied. "This is Cherry. Her first time here."

The woman—whose nametag read "Elaine"—stood and extended her hand to me. Her handshake was firm and professional. "Welcome to The Sanctuary, Cherry. I'll need to go over a few basics with you before you enter, if you don't mind."

I nodded, and she proceeded to explain the club's fundamental rules with practiced efficiency. Privacy was paramount—no photography, no sharing identifying information about other members outside the club. Consent was inviolable—all interactions required explicit agreement from all parties. Respect was non-negotiable—any form of harassment or pressure would result in immediate removal and membership revocation.

"We're not a sex club," Elaine clarified, her tone matter-of-fact. "While some of our private rooms are available for intimate activities between consenting adults, our main spaces are for social interaction, education, and community building."

She had me sign a confidentiality agreement and a code of conduct, then passed me a temporary membership card. "This gives you access to the main floor and most theme rooms. Some areas require specific membership levels or permissions."

"Thank you," I said, surprised by the professionalism of it all. This was a far cry from the seedy, dangerous image I'd subconsciously associated with kink spaces.

Grant signed us in, then guided me through a second set of doors into the main space of the club. The large room that greeted us resembled an upscale lounge more than anything else. Comfortable seating arrangements created conversation areas throughout the space. Subtle lighting cast a warm glow over everything, neither too bright to be jarring nor too dim to feel secretive.

A well-stocked non-alcoholic bar occupied one wall, while a small stage area suggested the space could be used for presentations or performances. Soft music played at a volume that allowed for conversation without straining to hear.

What struck me most, however, were the people. I observed couples and small groups chatting, laughing, completely at ease. Some wore casual everyday clothes like Grant and me, while others embraced more obvious kink attire—leather, corsets, or specific accessories that I assumed indicated their roles or preferences. Ages ranged from twenties to sixties, with a diversity that surprised me.

No one leered. No one stared. The atmosphere carried none of the predatory edge I'd feared, just a palpable sense of people being their authentic selves in a protected environment.

"What do you think?" Grant asked quietly, his hand finding the small of my back again.

"It's not what I expected," I admitted. "It's so . . . normal."

He chuckled, the sound warm and reassuring. "That's what most people say their first time. We're just people, Cherry. People with specific desires and needs, but still just people."

"Grant!" A man's voice called from nearby. A couple in their forties approached, the man with salt-and-pepper hair and the woman with a sleek bob and bright eyes. They both wore ordinary business casual attire that wouldn't have raised eyebrows in any restaurant.

"David, Melissa. Good to see you," Grant replied, shaking the man's hand and accepting a quick hug from the woman. "This is Cherry. Her first visit."

"Welcome," Melissa said warmly. "First time at any club or just this one?"

"Any club," I admitted, feeling heat rise to my cheeks. "I'm new to . . . all of this."

David smiled kindly. "We all had a first time. Melissa and I have been coming here for, what, seven years now?"

"Eight," his wife corrected with a fond smile. "Best decision we ever made for our marriage."

As Grant got drawn into a brief discussion with David about some club business matter, Melissa moved closer to me. "It can be overwhelming at first," she said quietly. "But this is a good place. Safe. Most people here lead completely ordinary lives outside these walls."

"Really?" I asked, genuinely curious.

She laughed. "Oh yes. I'm an elementary school principal. David's an accountant. Most people just think we're boring suburbanites." Her eyes twinkled with humor. "And we are—except for this part of ourselves."

Her openness put me at ease in a way nothing else could have. These weren't social outcasts or deviants; they were ordinary people who had simply found a place where they could express parts of themselves that didn't fit into everyday society.

I wondered what my parents would say if they could see this place.

Probably nothing good, I thought with a sigh. Some people just would never understand.

When Grant returned to my side, I felt more relaxed, more curious than nervous now. He offered to show me around, and I agreed eagerly.

As we toured the facility, Grant pointed out various themed rooms available for members. Some focused on traditional BDSM equipment—crosses, benches, and implements displayed with the same care a gym might show its equipment. Others were designed for specific roleplay scenarios, ranging from medical themes to classroom settings.

What impressed me most was the cleanliness and attention to safety evident everywhere. Each room had clear guidelines posted, emergency call buttons, and first aid supplies. Nothing felt dangerous or dirty—just carefully designed spaces for consensual adult activities.

"People can reserve these rooms?" I asked as we passed a particularly elaborate setup.

"Yes. Members with the appropriate level of training and experience can book them for private use." Grant's hand remained at the small of my back, a reassuring presence without being possessive. "Everything here is about informed consent and safety."

Throughout our tour, we encountered other members who greeted Grant with obvious respect and welcomed me with genuine friendliness. No one pried about our dynamic or my newness; they simply accepted my presence as if I'd always belonged.

As we completed our circuit of the main floor, Grant gestured toward a staircase at the far end of the lounge. "There's something specific I wanted to show you," he said, his voice dropping slightly. "Only if you're comfortable."

I studied his face, noting the rare vulnerability there. Whatever waited upstairs clearly mattered to him—something he wanted to share with me that went beyond a simple tour of the facilities.

"I am," I nodded, trusting him completely. "I am."

*

The upstairs hallway was quieter than the main floor, with thick carpet that muffled our footsteps. Various doors lined the corridor, each marked with a small sign indicating its purpose. Some had red lights above them—occupied, I assumed. Grant led me past several rooms labeled for different interests until we stopped before a door decorated with pastel colors and whimsical designs. Unlike the more austere signage elsewhere, this door featured hand-painted flowers and playful swirls surrounding a sign that read "Little Space - Respect and Kindness Required." My heart stuttered in my chest as I realized what this room must be for.

"This is what I wanted you to see," Grant said softly, his voice barely above a whisper in the quiet hallway. His eyes held mine, serious and searching. "A place where you could safely explore that side of yourself, if you wanted to."

My throat tightened. That side of myself. The part I'd spent years burying under layers of adulthood and responsibility. The part that had made my family look at me with disgust when they'd discovered the stuffed animals hidden under my bed at twenty-three, the coloring books tucked beneath my mattress. The childish things that adults—real, normal adults—weren't supposed to want or need.

"You’ve been so good at stopping this part from taking over when you’re scared, I figure you could do with some time celebrating it. Would you like to look inside?" Grant asked, giving me an out if I needed it. "We don't have to go in."

I nodded, not trusting my voice. Grant pushed the door open gently, revealing a space that made my breath catch.

The room was larger than I'd expected, designed with obvious care and thought. One side featured an adult-sized crib with pastel bedding and a mobile hanging above it. Beside it stood a wooden rocking chair large enough to comfortably hold an adult body, draped with a soft-looking blanket. Shelves lined the walls, filled with stuffed animals of all sizes—bears, rabbits, unicorns, and other creatures with soft fur and gentle eyes.

The other side of the room contained a craft table surrounded by adult-height chairs, its surface covered with coloring books, crayons, markers, and modeling clay. More shelves displayed jars of buttons, sparkly stickers, and craft supplies. A bookcase held children's books with colorful spines alongside what looked like journals and sketchbooks.

Everything in the room was scaled for adults yet evoked the comforting security of childhood—the safe, nurturing parts that some people never got to experience the first time around. Nothing about the space felt sexual or perverse. Instead, it radiated safety, comfort, and permission to be vulnerable.

I stood frozen in the doorway, overwhelmed by conflicting emotions—shame battling with longing, fear wrestling with a profound sense of recognition. This room represented everything I'd hidden, everything I'd been told was wrong with me. Yet seeing it laid out so lovingly, so thoughtfully, made those desires seem less like a sickness and more like simply another way of being.

"No one here will judge you," Grant whispered, his hand warm and steady on my lower back. His touch anchored me as the room seemed to swim before my eyes. "I know people have made you feel bad in the past. That’s not going to happen again. Everyone in this club has some aspect of themselves that society doesn't understand. That's why this place exists."

I took a tentative step into the room, drawn by a small collection of wooden toys on a low shelf—blocks and puzzles and a carved train set that reminded me of the horse figure Grant had given me. My fingers itched to touch them, to feel their smooth surfaces and fitting pieces together.

"The people who use this room are professionals, homeowners, business leaders in their outside lives," Grant continued, staying close but not rushing me. "They come here because this is a part of who they are—not all of who they are, but an important part nonetheless."

My eyes burned with unshed tears. How long had I convinced myself I was broken, perverted, wrong for wanting this kind of comfort? How many nights had I lain awake hating myself for desires I couldn't seem to shake?

At that moment, a door I hadn't noticed opened at the far end of the room. A woman stepped through, stopping short when she saw us standing there. She appeared to be in her late twenties or early thirties, with a round face and chestnut hair pulled back in a simple ponytail. She wore pastel pink overalls over a t-shirt decorated with cartoon characters—clearly embracing her little side in a way that looked comfortable and unforced.

"Oh! Sorry," she said, her voice carrying a slight but noticeable childlike quality. "I didn't know anyone else was coming in."

"That's alright," Grant replied with gentle authority. "We're just looking around. This is Cherry's first time here."

The woman's expression softened with immediate understanding. "Are you new?" she asked me directly, her voice shifting slightly toward a more adult tone while maintaining its friendly warmth.

I nodded, still struggling to find my voice.

"It was scary for me too, the first time," she confided, moving further into the room but keeping a respectful distance. She played with the strap of her overalls in a nervous gesture that I recognized in myself. "But everyone's super nice. I'm Lily. Or, well, that's my Little name."

"I'm Cherry," I managed, then immediately felt silly—she already knew that from Grant's introduction.

If Lily noticed my awkwardness, she didn't show it. "I come here about twice a month," she continued conversationally. "It helps with my stress. I'm an accountant, so, you know . . ." She rolled her eyes dramatically. "Numbers all day."

Her casual explanation of how this fit into her otherwise normal life helped ease the tension gripping my chest. She pointed toward a shelf displaying various art projects—clearly made by adults but with the uninhibited joy of childlike creation. "I did the rainbow one. You can make something too if you want. The clay is super squishy—it's my favorite."

Grant's hand found my shoulder, squeezing gently. "You don't have to do anything you're not ready for," he murmured close to my ear. "We can just observe, or leave entirely. Your choice."

I looked around the room again, seeing it with slightly less terror now. The soft colors, the comfortable furniture, the toys and crafts—all of it called to a part of me I'd kept locked away for so long it had almost withered from neglect. In this safe, controlled environment—with Grant's reassuring presence by my side—the idea of letting my little side emerge felt less frightening than it ever had before.

"Do you have a Daddy who comes with you?" I asked Lily, the question slipping out before I could censor it.

She nodded, smiling. "Matthew. He's downstairs getting us drinks. He's the best." Her expression grew more serious. "Having someone who understands, who doesn't make you feel weird about it—that makes all the difference."

I glanced at Grant, finding his eyes already on me. Patient. Waiting. Not pushing.

"How did you . . . start?" I asked Lily, swallowing around the lump in my throat. "The first time you came here?"

"Oh, I just watched at first," she said with a shrug. "Sat in the corner and colored while everyone else did their thing. Daddy sat with me. No pressure." She smiled at the memory. "Then the next time, I felt brave enough to try the clay. Then the stuffies." She pointed to a well-loved teddy bear sitting in the rocking chair. "That's Mr. Buttons. He's mine, but I share him sometimes."

The matter-of-fact way she discussed it—as if it were the most natural thing in the world—helped something loosen in my chest. Her acceptance of this part of herself made my own desires seem less shameful, more like simply another facet of being human.

"Would it bother you if we stayed for a bit?" I asked her, surprised by my own question.

"Not at all!" She brightened visibly. "I was just going to color until Matthew comes back. You can color too if you want. Or just sit. Whatever feels okay."

Taking a steadying breath, I looked back at Grant. His expression held no expectation, no demand—just the same steady support he'd shown since bringing me here.

"I think . . ." I said slowly, testing each word as it came, "I'd like to stay. For a little while."

Grant's smile brimmed with warmth and understanding. "Whatever you want, Baby Girl. I'm right here."

The familiar endearment, spoken in this context, sent a shiver down my spine—not of fear this time, but of recognition. Here, in this carefully crafted space with clear boundaries and consent at the forefront, I could truly explore without shame. Here, I could integrate the fragments of myself that had been at war for so long.

I took another step into the room, drawn toward the craft table where Lily was already settling herself, pulling a coloring book from a nearby stack. The simple act felt monumental, like crossing a threshold I'd been afraid to approach for years.

Grant followed, his presence solid and reassuring behind me. Not rushing, not directing—just being there, creating a safe container for whatever might unfold.

"Is this okay?" I asked softly, gesturing at the empty chair beside Lily.

"Of course," she replied, pushing a container of markers toward me. "The sparkly ones are the best."

I sat down slowly, feeling strangely weightless, as if years of shame were beginning to lift from my shoulders. My hand reached for a marker—green with glitter suspended in the ink—and I felt the corner of my mouth lift in a small, genuine smile.

A simple outline of a flower waited to be filled with color. My hand trembled slightly, hesitating at this threshold between resistance and surrender. Grant stood behind me, a silent guardian, his presence somehow both unobtrusive and all-encompassing. I pressed the marker to the paper and watched as color bloomed from its tip, filling the empty spaces like water finding its level.

"Stay inside the lines," I murmured to myself, a habit from childhood when coloring had been one of my few reliable comforts.

"Or don't," Lily suggested with a light shrug. "Sometimes it's fun to color outside the lines. No rules here."

No rules. The concept hung in the air, tantalizing and slightly terrifying. I'd spent so long constraining myself, forcing jagged edges into acceptable shapes. The idea of simply existing without rigid boundaries felt foreign, dangerous even. Yet in this safe space, with Grant's steady presence behind me, I allowed my marker to drift slightly beyond the printed outline. A small rebellion, but it sent a thrill through me.

Gradually, under Lily's gentle, undemanding chatter about favorite colors and animals, I felt the tight coil of anxiety in my chest begin to unwind. My movements became less calculated, more natural. I reached for a purple marker without overthinking the choice, then a red one, then a sparkly pink that left a trail of glitter across the page.

"That's pretty," Lily commented, her own page a riot of mismatched colors that somehow worked together perfectly. "You're good at this."

Such a simple compliment, yet it warmed me from the inside. I felt Grant move, pulling out a chair beside me rather than hovering behind. His large frame looked almost comical at the craft table, but he settled in with the easy confidence he brought to everything.

"Mind if I join?" he asked, his deep voice pitched soft and low.

I shook my head, oddly pleased at the idea of him participating rather than just observing. Lily pushed a superhero coloring book toward him with a conspiratorial smile.

"The Batman one is the best," she stage-whispered. "Matthew always picks Superman, but Batman has cooler stuff to color."

Grant selected the Batman page with exaggerated seriousness that made something light and bubbly rise in my chest. When he reached for a black marker, I found myself shaking my head.

"No, that's boring," I said, surprising myself with the boldness of the statement. "Try this one." I handed him a metallic blue that gleamed under the lights.

"The maestro has spoken," Grant replied with that rare, warm smile that transformed his usually stern features. He accepted the marker, his fingers brushing mine in the exchange. The brief contact sent a familiar spark through me—that same electricity I'd felt the first time he'd touched me, but tempered now with a growing comfort.

As we colored side by side, I found myself slipping more naturally into the mindset I'd fought against for so long. The constant vigilance that had become second nature—the monitoring of my speech, my posture, my desires—began to recede. In its place came something lighter, freer. I giggled at Lily's joke about purple bat wings. I hummed softly while filling in a particularly satisfying section of petals. Small expressions of joy that had been tightly controlled for years.

All the while, I noticed Grant watching me with quiet satisfaction. Occasionally he would comment on my color choices or offer gentle praise that made me glow with happiness. "Beautiful blending there, Baby Girl." "I like how you did that part." Simple affirmations that landed deep in places starved for approval.

When Lily finished her picture, she bounced up from her chair and went to one of the shelves. "I need a second opinion," she announced, returning with an armful of stuffed animals. "Which one should sit with me for the next picture? They all want a turn."

She laid them out on the table—a teddy bear with a bowtie, a floppy-eared dog, a unicorn with rainbow mane, and a soft gray rabbit with long ears and a pink nose.

The rabbit caught my eye immediately, reminding me of the small plush bunny I kept hidden in my drawer back at the ranch—a secret comfort I'd managed to save from my old life, smuggled in my backpack when I fled. I'd never shown it to anyone at Warwick, not even Maya.

Lily noticed my gaze. "Do you want to hold Flopsy?" she asked, pushing the rabbit toward me. "She's super soft."

I hesitated, glancing at Grant whose expression remained open and encouraging. Slowly, I reached for the stuffed animal, my fingers sinking into its plush fur. Holding it close to my chest felt like returning home to a place I'd been exiled from for years—a comfort so basic, so primal that tears stung my eyes.

"I have one like this," I confessed, the words slipping out before I could stop them. "Back at the ranch. I keep her hidden."

"You don't have to hide her," Lily said simply. "Not with people who understand."

Grant's hand found my shoulder, squeezing gently. He didn't speak, but I felt his approval, his acceptance radiating from the simple touch.

With the rabbit clutched to my chest and colors sprawled before me, I continued working on my picture. The act of creation without judgment, without purpose beyond the simple joy of making something, loosened something rigid inside me. When Grant made a deliberate mess of Batman's cape with a streak of neon green, I giggled—the sound light and genuine, reminiscent of a much younger me who hadn't yet learned to police her joy.

"Having fun?" he asked softly, his eyes creased at the corners in a way that transformed his usually stern face.

I nodded, realizing with pleasant surprise that I truly was. It felt like a piece clicking into place, completing a picture that had been fragmented for too long.

"Thank you for bringing me here," I whispered, leaning slightly against his solid frame.

"Thank you for trusting me enough to come," he responded, his voice rumbling through his chest and into mine where our shoulders touched.

I felt something like peace, something like happiness, something like love.