Page 27 of Hero Daddy

"Good morning," he said, his voice that same steady rumble that had grounded me on the phone. He didn't move to kissme or even touch me, maintaining a respectful distance that somehow made the air between us feel even more charged.

"Hi," I replied, stepping back to let him in. "Come in. I made coffee," I said, gesturing toward the kitchen. "Fresh pot."

"Thank you," Chad said, following me. "That would be perfect."

In my small kitchen, he seemed even larger, more substantial. He set his notebook on the table and pulled out a chair, but didn't sit until I'd taken my own seat.

I poured us each a mug of coffee, hyperaware of his eyes on me, tracking my movements with that same focused attention he brought to everything. When I set his mug before him, his fingers brushed mine briefly, sending a jolt of electricity up my arm.

"Thank you, Daliah," he said, his voice dropping slightly on my name in a way that made my stomach flip.

I nodded, not trusting my voice, and took a sip from my own mug – cream and sugar, almost too sweet, but I needed the comfort of it. The diner mug in Chad's hands looked absurdly small, like a child's toy cup in a man's grasp. His fingers, I noticed, bore small scars and calluses – working hands, fighter's hands, yet they'd been so gentle on my face last night.

He took a sip, then set the mug down with deliberate care. The leather notebook sat between us, closed but somehow radiating importance. He placed his palm on it, drawing my attention.

"Before we begin," he said, his tone serious but warm, "I want to thank you for your honesty last night. For your courage in acknowledging what you found in yourself."

Heat crept up my neck at his praise. "It wasn't easy," I admitted.

"The most valuable things rarely are." He tapped the notebook once, then opened it, revealing pages of neat, precise handwriting. "Which brings us to why I'm here today."

I leaned forward slightly, curious despite my nervousness. The pages were organized with headings and subheadings, bullet points and underlined sections. It looked almost like a legal document, but written in Chad's angular script.

"What we discussed last night—the dynamic between us, the roles we might explore together—requires structure and clarity to thrive," he explained, his voice taking on a slightly more formal tone. "For our relationship to be healthy, consensual, and sustainable, we need to establish explicit parameters."

He rotated the notebook so I could see it better. The heading at the top of the first page read "Agreement Between Chad Wakes and Daliah Miles."

"This is what's commonly called a DDLG contract," Chad continued. "Though I prefer to think of it as our shared understanding—the architecture of trust between us. It defines our expectations, our limits, and our commitments to each other."

My heart beat faster as the reality of what we were doing sank in. This wasn't casual exploration or vague intentions—this was formal, deliberate relationship-building with clear intentions and boundaries.

"A contract?" I echoed, the word feeling weighty on my tongue.

Chad nodded. "I was yup late last night fixing it up. It’s not legally binding, of course, but mentally and emotionally significant. It's a tool to ensure we're aligned in our understanding and expectations." His eyes held mine, unwavering. "Think of it as a map for the territory we're preparing to explore together—one we draw collaboratively, with both our needs in mind."

Put that way, it made perfect sense. I'd read about contracts in my research, but seeing one in person, about to be tailored specifically to us, made it suddenly very real.

"The contract covers several key areas," Chad said, turning the page to reveal more detailed sections. "Your needs and desires as they relate to your Little side. My responsibilities as your Daddy Dom. Our hard and soft limits. Safewords. How we'll integrate this dynamic with your training at the academy." He glanced up. "And of course, how we'll navigate our relationship outside of these specific roles."

The methodical approach was so characteristic of him—the same careful precision he brought to his martial arts instruction, now applied to building this intimate framework between us.

"Let's start with your needs," he suggested, turning to a fresh page where "Daliah's Little Needs & Desires" was written at the top. "Based on your research and our conversations, what aspects of this dynamic resonate most with you? What would nurture your Little side?"

I took a deep breath, gathering courage. "I've been thinking about this since last night," I began, my voice small at first but growing steadier. "I don't think I want the full age regression that some people practice – not the diapers or baby talk or pacifiers."

Chad nodded, no judgment in his expression. "Those elements aren't necessary or even common for many in DDLG relationships. What does appeal to you?"

The question was direct but gentle, creating a space for honesty that felt strangely safe.

"Praise," I said, the word coming easily. "Not just generic compliments, but specific recognition when I've tried hard at something or done well." I traced the rim of my coffee mug, gathering my thoughts. "I respond strongly to that. It makes me feel valued."

Chad made a note, his pen moving in quick, efficient strokes. "What else?"

"Structure," I continued, finding it easier to articulate now that I'd started. "Clear expectations and routines for certain things. Not controlling every aspect of my life, but guidance for areas where I struggle. Like regular meal times when I'm stressed and forget to eat. Or a bedtime routine when my anxiety makes it hard to sleep."

As I spoke, Chad continued writing, occasionally nodding his encouragement.

"And I'm curious about certain activities," I admitted, heat rising in my cheeks. "Having bedtime stories read to me. Maybe coloring or simple crafts when I need to quiet my mind." I paused, then added in a small voice, "And having a special blanket or stuffed animal that's just for when I'm feeling littler. Something soft that's mine."

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