Soft Little Girl - 1

I’ve always been good at hiding things.

In boardrooms, on presentations, in cold hotel lobbies waiting for clients—I could wear the corporate mask well. 35, single, working in a stable job, traveling often for work. People saw discipline, a quiet confidence. What they never saw was the child within, the longing that never left me.

It had always been there, since I was a boy: this deep, unexplainable yearning to feel small in the arms of a taller, bigger woman. To be picked up, held against a soft, strong chest… cradled like I was precious. Safe.

It wasn’t something I talked about. Who could I tell? It sounded absurd to most. And honestly, even I wasn’t sure why it was so powerful. I had tried to rationalize it—maybe it came from watching my mother carry me so effortlessly even when I was older than most boys being carried. Maybe it was the sense of safety I lost too soon.

All I knew was… I kept dreaming of it.

And then, one rainy evening in Dharamshala, I met her.

I had just reached the guesthouse—an old colonial building tucked into the hillside. My work trip had been extended and all the main hotels were full. This one was run by an elderly woman named Mrs. Nandini Malhotra. I had imagined a frail, quiet lady. I could not have been more wrong.

She was tall. Towering over me even in her slippers—5’10” at least. Her hair was dyed but thick, tied in a low bun. Her frame was large and maternal. She looked like someone who had once been a school principal, or maybe a police officer, and still had that air of command.

“Mr. Ayush Sharma?” she said, her voice deep and rich like warm cocoa. “Come in, come in! You must be frozen.”

She took my bag before I could protest. My small travel trolley disappeared in her large, capable hands as if it weighed nothing. I noticed the strength in her arms, the confidence in her stride as she led me in.

That was the moment I felt it—that strange flutter in my chest.

The same old longing.

That evening, over dinner, we spoke at length. She wasn’t just strong, she was intelligent, warm, and surprisingly humorous. She had retired early from teaching and had converted the family home into a cozy guesthouse.

I don’t know how or why, but slowly… steadily… I began to open up to her. Maybe it was the safety of knowing I’d leave in a few days. Maybe it was the way she looked at me—not as a grown man, but as someone who could use a little care.

I had been there for three days then. My work was going to take some more time. Somehow, despite our difference in age, an odd friendship was developing with her.

The café was quiet except for the occasional rustle of leaves outside and the hum of an old ceiling fan. She sat across from me, legs crossed, eyes calm but deeply curious—like she had all the time in the world to hear whatever I wanted to say.

I fidgeted with the edge of the table napkin, my throat suddenly dry despite the warmth of the tea. But her presence was oddly comforting… like I was being gently pulled into a safe cocoon.

“You’re not from here, are you?” she asked softly.

“No, I’m basically from the East.… posted in Chandigarh for a while. I work as a corporate manager. Marketing.” I paused, then added with a small smile, “It’s less glamorous than it sounds.”

She chuckled, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I figured. You carry that ‘strict deadline’ aura, but with very tired eyes.”

That made me laugh under my breath. “You’re very observant.”

She tilted her head, studying me. “Can I ask you something a little personal?”

I nodded, unsure of what was coming.

“How old are you?”

“Thirty five,” I said quietly.

“And your height? If you don’t mind.” She held her hand up gently. “I’m just… curious.”

I hesitated for a second, then answered, “Five foot three. And… sixty-four kilos.”

She smiled, almost as if she’d expected it. “Hmm,” she said, tapping her fingers thoughtfully. “You’re actually very proportionate. Compact. Kind of like those small travel suitcases—light, portable, reliable.”

I stared at her, stunned by how easily she made that sound like a compliment.

“And you?” I asked back, emboldened.

“Fifty,” she said, matter-of-factly. “Five foot ten. And… ninety-two kilos, last I checked.”

I blinked. She said it with no shame, no coyness. Just sheer confidence.

“Wow…” I whispered before I could stop myself. “You’re… very tall.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That surprises you?”

I shook my head, then gave a soft, helpless smile. “No, it… confirms something.”

Her eyes narrowed gently. “What kind of something?”

And that was the moment I don’t know what took over me. Maybe it was the soft lighting. Or her steady gaze. Or just the feeling that I could finally breathe after years of hiding.

I swallowed hard.

“I’ve always had this… affinity,” I began slowly, “toward tall women. Big, strong women. Ever since I was a teenager. It’s not about dominance or anything, it’s… it’s like this deep, comforting instinct I’ve never been able to explain.”

She didn’t interrupt.

“I feel small—always have. In size, maybe in presence too. And whenever I see a big, tall woman… I just imagine what it would feel like to be…to be…to be held. Lifted. Taken care of. Like a baby sometimes. I know it sounds strange..”

Still no laughter from her. No raised brows. Just stillness.

“So,” I went on nervously, “in my fantasies… the woman lifts me. Cradles me. Carries me. Not to humiliate me, but to protect me. And I guess… I associate it with how my Nanny used to hold me when I was little. She was very tall too. I think it all… began there.”

The silence lingered for a moment, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.

And then—softly—she reached out across the table, placed her large, warm hand over mine.

“So that’s your truth,” she said gently. “And I think… it’s a very tender, human thing.”

I looked up, and there was no mockery in her face.

Just warmth.

“You’ve kept this to yourself for a long time, haven’t you?” she added.

I nodded, my eyes stinging unexpectedly. “Always.”

“Then maybe,” she said with a small, knowing smile, “it’s time someone understood it. Held it with you.”

She looked at me with such calm strength, I felt a strange flutter in my chest—something between gratitude and surrender.

Then her voice dropped just a little—lower, intimate.

“You know,” she said playfully, “you wouldn’t be hard for me to lift. Come, let's go inside. We need some privacy.”

My breath caught.

I still can’t believe I told her everything. About my fantasy. About my strange longing since adolescence—to be small, to be held, to feel safe in the arms of a woman bigger than me. I even told her how it might have originated from my mother’s protective strength in childhood. I don’t know why, but with her, it all poured out.

And she didn’t judge. Not even a flicker of doubt in her eyes. She simply smiled—no, not smiled—beamed… as if I had handed her something precious.

We were sitting in her spacious, sunlit living room. I was on her broad lap, my head resting against her bosom, wrapped loosely in the soft cotton end of her dupatta. Her big arms cradled me as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"You really thought you'd keep all that locked inside forever, sweetheart?" she said softly, running her fingers through my hair. "And tell me, how tall did you say you were exactly?"

I hesitated for a second, then murmured, "I’m 5 foot 3… and 64 kilos."

She chuckled—a warm, full laugh. "So tiny… You know, I’m 5 foot 10 and 92 kilos. That's almost one and a half of you, darling."

She rocked me gently, and her words were playful, yet affectionate. "No wonder you fit so well here," she teased, pressing me closer against her chest.

I tried to laugh it off, but a blush crept up my cheeks. "I… I know I look ridiculous."

"Shhh," she placed a finger on my lips. "You look adorable. And you're mine to lift, pamper, and protect. That's all that matters."

She shifted slightly and slid her strong arms beneath me again—one under my knees, the other behind my back.

"Let’s take you to the verandah. It’s breezy out there, and you’ll love the view."

Before I could protest, she stood up smoothly, holding me as if I weighed nothing more than a big cushion. My arms instinctively went around her neck. I could feel her biceps flex against my side. My cheeks flushed again.

"You… don’t even feel tired?"

She looked down at me, amused. "You’re barely a load, baby. My wrists are as thick as your ankles," she added with a grin.

I looked down at where her wrist circled under my thigh. She wasn’t wrong.

She carried me like a mother carrying her drowsy child, swaying slightly as she walked toward the verandah. There, she sat on the big swing seat, still keeping me in her lap, and gently rocked us both. My legs were curled on her lap, her arm around my shoulders, her other hand stroking mine.

"You always wanted to be looked after like this, didn’t you?"

I nodded silently.

"Then don’t fight it now," she said, adjusting me so I was chest to chest, her chin resting lightly on top of my head. "I’ve got you."

I don’t know how long we stayed like that—minutes, maybe hours. The world melted away. I was in her arms, my thoughts soothed, my body warm, my secret shared and accepted.

And then she whispered in my ear, “Tomorrow I’ll carry you to the garden. There’s a big patch of grass where I want to lie down with you in my arms. Would you like that?”

I could only nod, my face buried in her neck, feeling smaller than I had ever felt, but more complete than ever before.


The soft creaking of the swing had lulled me to sleep last evening—still nestled in her lap, held like a baby against her warm chest. I don’t remember when she carried me back inside, but I woke up this morning still in her arms, lying atop her wide, soft bed, wrapped in the scent of sandalwood and her cotton saree.

Her arm was around me, protective and strong. I was still half-draped over her chest, like I’d melted into her during the night.

She smiled when I opened my eyes. “Good morning, baby,” she whispered, brushing the hair from my forehead.

I blinked, then nodded shyly, suddenly aware of our closeness.

She chuckled, reading my thoughts. “Still shy, even after sleeping on top of me all night?”

“I… it just feels unreal,” I murmured.

“Then let’s make it more real,” she said warmly, slowly sitting up—with me still lying on her body. “Come on. Time for your first ride to the garden.”

Before I could shift away or gather myself, she had already slid her strong arms beneath me again. She gathered me smoothly—like scooping up a cushion—and stood up with a low hum.

“Ahh, just right,” she said as she looked down at me.

My arms went around her neck again. She cradled me against her chest as she walked barefoot toward the backdoor. I could hear the gentle creak of the wooden floorboards beneath her confident steps.

“I love the way you wrap around me,” she murmured. “Your whole body just tucks into my arms… my chest… even my shoulder’s wider than your whole back.”

I blushed deeply but said nothing. My cheek was against her collarbone, feeling the rhythm of her breathing. The door creaked open, and I felt the crisp, golden morning air kiss my skin.

We stepped into the garden.

It was even more beautiful than I remembered—wide patches of trimmed grass, blooming jasmine bushes, and a big old mango tree standing proud in one corner. Birds chirped in the soft sunlight.

“There,” she said, pointing with her chin to a low woven charpai beneath the tree. “But we’ll get there slowly… no rush. I like holding you like this.”

She carried me leisurely across the grass, arms firm and cradling, my legs hanging over one of her arms, my upper body resting completely against hers.

I murmured, “Aren’t your arms getting tired?”

She smirked. “Do you get tired carrying a kitten? That’s how you feel in my arms, love.”

She looked down and added teasingly, “You know, your waist is barely the size of one of my thighs. You really were meant for this.”

I squirmed in her arms, blushing harder. She hugged me tighter, giggling softly. “See? You’re cute when embarrassed.”

Once we reached the charpai, instead of putting me down, she sat on it with me still in her lap—legs spread, cradling me fully like a baby again. She adjusted her saree over both of us, creating a little cozy nest of fabric.

“There,” she whispered. “Now I’ll just hold you while the wind plays with your hair.”

I rested my head on her chest again. The birds kept chirping, the wind rustled the leaves, and the sun warmed her shoulder against my cheek.

She rocked us gently side to side and began humming an old Punjabi lullaby.

Time melted. I wasn’t a man. I wasn’t 35. I was her little baby for the morning. And I never wanted it to end.

The garden was so quiet now. The faint rustling of leaves and distant chirping of birds were the only sounds, apart from her soft hums and my own heartbeat, embarrassingly loud in my ears.

I was sitting sideways in her lap, like a child. No—like a little girl, the way she kept calling me.

She brushed my hair gently away from my forehead. “You know, sweetheart,” she murmured, her deep, velvety voice close to my ear, “you remind me so much of my niece… She’s only thirteen, but she’s taller than you. Heavier too.”

I swallowed. “Th–thirteen?”

She giggled, her large arms tightening slightly around me. “Yes, beta. Her wrist is bigger than yours. Want to see?” She raised my hand and pressed it against her own wrist first, then took out her phone and showed me a photo of her niece. “Even she picks up her little brother sometimes. He’s bigger than you too.”

I buried my face in her shoulder. She rocked me slowly, almost mother-like, her thick cotton saree rustling with each sway.

“You’re such a sweet little girl, aren’t you?” she teased, tapping my nose gently. “Look at you, all safe in my lap like my baby doll.”

My face flushed hot, but I didn’t move. Something about the way she held me—firm but warm—made all my worries melt away. I didn’t want to be anywhere else.

“You know,” she continued, tracing slow circles on my back with her strong fingers, “when I first saw you, I thought—this little thing needs someone big to carry him through life. And here you are, sitting in my lap just like that.”

She lifted me gently, effortlessly, cradling me again, chest to chest, as she rose to her full height. My legs dangled, and I instinctively clung to her broad shoulders. She walked slowly around the garden with me in her arms, my head resting on her chest.

I whispered, “You’re so strong…”

She smiled. “I’m your strong woman, na? You’re my soft little girl.”
I looked up, blinking. “Don’t say that.”

“But you love when I say that,” she chuckled, holding me tighter. “You love being my little girl. You love being smaller, lighter, weaker… so I can hold you like this forever.”

I had no reply. My throat was tight. I just nodded against her.

And she kissed my forehead gently. “Shhh… Just stay here. I’m not putting down my chhoti si gudiya.”

Still in her strong arms, I was rocked gently like a little girl. The garden was glowing in golden light, the sun beginning to dip behind the trees.


( To be continued…)

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