Sometimes I’m smol. By that I mean: extremely cute, keen and agreeable. Or at least I like to think so! Feeling smol is both incredibly complex for me and also incredibly simple.
To me, smol is not the same as little, it’s somehow less narrowly defined and less aesthetically driven. I don’t have a ‘smol age’ and I don’t categorize it as age play. Smol is not about age or knowledge, it’s a mood where I feel extra soft and subby, eager to please and impressionable.
Smol me is cheeky and sweet and wide-eyed, more buoyant and silly than usual. When I feel smol it’s like I’m an adorable cartoon version of myself. It’s a way of playing with innocence without completely revisiting it and that smol-space grants me a certain emotional and sensual freedom to do so. I can suspend a lot of the noise in my head and explore submission more purely in smol-space, without polluting it with doubt and worry.
When I’m feeling smol I couldn’t possibly be the leader, but I’m a dogged follower. I’m pliant and highly suggestible, I’m willing and able to be more daring, more brave and expressive. Sometimes I feel smol from the inside out and it’s a need that I express and Daddy responds. Other times, it’s a state of mind and being that he ignites in me, with just a word or a look. When that button gets pushed my insides feel carbonated and I want to both shrink to invisibility and also simultaneously explode in a hail of glitter. It’s exciting and light, and also warm and comforting. I get a bit smol when I’m tired or sad, when I just need him to take the wheel.
Being smol is an indulgence and one that he is very generous with. He seems to enjoy the silliness and the sass, and the way he can say or do so little and have my captive attention, immediately, my mind softening in his hands. It’s a strange and fascinating fantasy world where everything is easier.
Sometimes I’m smol and it’s really quite lovely.