Page 4 of Matteo's Mettle
I turn, grinning at the sight of Kate in her costume for the evening. And that’s what it is: an actual Disney costume. She’s gone full princess, wearing a big, poofy yellow ballgown and has her dark brown hair piled atop her head with loose tendrils framing her rounded face.
Seeing as she’s already in little mode, I’m down to play along.
“Excuse me, Belle, but I’m actually looking for my little niece, Katie. Have you seen her?”
Her giggles warm me from the inside and I share a fond look with Cherie, whose eyes glisten with telling tears. She really needs to leave that job.
“Uncle London, itisme,” Kate insists in that exaggerated ‘you’re an idiot’ tone that most three-year-olds have down pat. She spins around, the sweeping skirts of her dress fanning out with the movement. “Mommy had this made ‘specially for me so I can be Belle.”
When they first started exploring their kink, Cherie confessed that Kate was particularly self-conscious about being a plus-sized little. Finding little clothes was, in and of itself, a fairly niche market. Finding little clothes for plus-sized women -especially girls like Kate who loved all things Disney and princessy- was even more difficult. I’ve told Cherie on more than one occasion that she and I should go into business together to fill the hole in the market.
Shooting Cherie a quick glance that once again conveys this idea, I look back at Kate and smile indulgently. “It’s perfect. You lookjustlike Belle. But,” I gasp dramatically, putting my hand on my chest, “if you’re Beauty, does that make me theBeast?”
This earns me the desired reaction of loud peals of laughter, clapped hands and enthusiastic agreement. She throws her arms around me and stares up at me with her big, brown eyes. “Please, Uncle London? Can we be Beauty and the Beast? Even if you do look more like Gaston.”
I’m never able to deny her. “I’ll be your Beast, little one. But only because I love you.” Then I cock my head to the side, as if I’m only just registering her last words, then I waggle my index finger at her. “But if you liken me to Gaston again, I don’t know how long that love will last.”
More giggles erupt from my little friend.
Cherie’s expression is convoluted – a mixture of fond adoration and blatant guilt. Unwilling to make this harder on her, I gesture for Kate to head towards the door. “Alright, Mommy, I have a princess to take to the ball, and I don’t want our carriage to turn into a pumpkin.”
Kate snorts and tells me that’s the wrong movie, but it gets us moving out into the hallway. I wave off Cherie’s effusive thanks and tell her I’ll have her girl back home in a few hours. Then Kate grabs my hand and drags me to my car, chattering about how much fun we’re going to have for the entire drive to the club.
When we get to The Grove, Kate gets impatient at the reception desk. She’s already a member, but I am not. As it is Littles’ Night, I don’t have to be, but I do have to sign the requisite non-disclosure agreements, listen to the club’s rules, acknowledge the house safe word (‘turmeric’) and sign a temporary membership and indemnity form. I’m impressed by all of this, knowing how exclusive this club is, and it makes me glad that they take the safety of their members so seriously.
“Katie.” My tone is firmer than I’ve ever had to use it when my best friend’s wife tries pulling me away from the desk.
The woman at the reception desk has just finished explaining the ‘flagging’ system and is trying to wrap my chosen wristbands around my wrist. Kate put hers on when she signed in. I’m flagging as a Daddy, seeing as I’m Katie’s caregiver for the evening, ‘taken’/not interested in open play, and interested in men. It’s a bit strange to literally wear it all on my sleeve like this, but I can understand the reasoning for the practice. No misunderstandings. Everyone stays comfortable and safe. It works.
When I turn back to face Kate, she’s staring at me in awe.
“What?” I ask her.
“That was the best Daddy voiceever,” she declares.
I shrug her observation off. “I learned it from your Mommy, I guess.”
She shoots me a speculative look, but doesn’t say anything more on the topic, distracted by the concierge telling us we’re good to go through to the club.
It’s an entire massive warehouse building on the edge of the city, right on the cusp of the industrial area. As soon as the large, metal door inside the reception space is opened, a wave of bass and music assaults us. Stepping through those doors, there’s a central club space with a dance floor, dimly lit booths lining the walls, and a large stage at the end of the room. But, branching off to our left and right are two matching corridors which Kate says house the change rooms, lockers and bathrooms, and these wrap around the main club space to meet at the back of the building where we find a large staircase and two elevators to take us to the second floor.
We head up in one of the elevators and are greeted by a space that feels more reminiscent of a fancy hotel, with two parallel hallways directly in front of us. The rooms along here, Kate tells me as she tugs me along, are the playrooms. All themed and available for private play. At the end of the hallway, she pushes open a door and we step through into the littles’ playroom.
My jaw drops. This space has to take up at least a quarter of the entire second floor of the warehouse, running the entire width of the building. At the far end from the door we’ve just entered through, there’s an honest-to-God bouncy castle which fills up the space from floor to ceiling. It’s clearly sturdy enough to hold at least three adults, if the people currently bouncing on it are any indication.
The rest of the room is brightly lit by warm yellow lighting suspended high above our heads. The walls are painted bright colors, there are toys and activity stations all over the space, and there’s a line of couches down the left side of the room where caregivers are lounging and chatting, elevated from the expansive playroom floor, giving them a good view of their littles.
Tonight, Disney songs are playing through speakers mounted on the walls, but not so loud that the ‘kids’ (for lack of a better word) can’t chatter and play together comfortably. And, because it’s a themed littles’ night, there are specific activities being manned by club staff, like the ‘Princess Makeup’ group Kate drags me into. She plops down on her presumably padded backside (I can’t tell if she’s wearing a diaper under the voluminous mass of her ballgown, but she usually does when she’s little) next to a little dressed like Elsa, complete with wig. They appear masculine, but I’m not going to interrupt in order to clarify.
“Katie!” they squeal and hug her. “You’re Belle!”
“Uh huh,” she replies, beaming and smoothing her hands down the mass of tulle and satin, “Mommy got it ‘specially for me.”
“Your Mommy’s the best,” they sigh dreamily. They’re probably about my age. Blonde bangs poke out from under the white wig, accompanied by bright green eyes, a cute button nose, and a five o’clock shadow across a soft, oval jawline. “My Daddy bought me the hair, but I made my dress myself.”
“Benny, you need to start selling them,” Kate insists, and it sounds like this is something she’s told them before.
The woman running the makeup station (tall, reed thin, wearing kitten ears, a skin-tight black pleather leotard and a tail instead of a Disney costume) interrupts to give Kate a smock and a makeup palette. Seeing as she’s settling in without any drama, I tell her I’m going to go sit with some of the other caregivers, and she waves me away without a backwards glance.
