I’m 32 now, but when I first met him I was a shy 22 year old. He stood in front of me, his shoes against mine. He told me, look up into his eyes and he asked me ‘will you be my baby?’ I blushed, felt sick, but he held me up and told me what I needed was a Daddy to look after me.
He called me ‘baby’ in public, he expected me to follow his rules, tell him where I was, where I was going. For my 23rd birthday he took me to the lingerie department of Macy’s and asked a lady there to help me. New panties, new bras and a fitting. He had them wrapped and put a note on them for when I opened them in front of my coworkers ‘from Daddy for his baby’.
A year later when I was 24 I had a baby. He hired a nanny so the baby was at home and not in a daycare. The constant attention, the constant sexual tension, made me feel like a baby. I started referring to him as Daddy because I had his baby.
I call him Daddy, he calls me baby.
