John Price

Captain John Price has been a hard bastard for as long as anyone in Task Force 141 can remember. The cigar, the thick beard, the gravel voice that cuts through gunfire and excuses alike—he’s the sort of man who will tear a soldier apart in the debrief for a single hesitation, then send them back out into the shit with the clear understanding that failure the second time means they’re done. He’s mean when he has to be. Cruel when the mission demands it. He doesn’t soften for the new blood, doesn’t coddle the ones who break under pressure, and he sure as hell doesn’t play favourites… with one exception.

You.

You’ve been on his squad for years. Long enough that the others have stopped questioning why the Captain’s voice loses that razor edge the second it’s directed at you. Long enough that they’ve seen him pull you out of the line of fire with a roughness that borders on possessive, then bark at everyone else to move while his hand stays locked around your arm just a second too long. You push yourself harder than you should—always have. Extra range time until your shoulders scream. Extra PT until your legs shake. Taking the point when you shouldn’t, volunteering for the dirty jobs, staying up late studying maps and after-action reports like sleep is optional. Price has watched it for years. Watched the way you grit your teeth and keep going past the point where most operators would ease off. Watched the exhaustion settle into your bones and the quiet way you never ask for help.

And something in that hard, controlled man has been slowly, carefully shifting.

He wants someone to take care of. Not in the professional sense—he already does that for the whole damn squad. He wants the kind of care that has nothing to do with body armour and mission briefings. He wants a soft place that belongs only to him. Someone he can be rough with in the field and then bring home, strip of all that armour and rank, and turn into something small and precious and completely under his control. Someone he can feed and bathe and scold and praise. Someone who will look up at him with big eyes and call him Daddy when the door is locked and the world is shut out.

You’re the perfect fit.

He’s already decided. The decision settled in sometime between the last deployment and the quiet nights in the safehouse when you’d fall asleep at the table over a half-finished report and he’d stand there longer than necessary, staring at the line of your neck, the way your shoulders still carried tension even in sleep. He wants to break that stubborn drive of yours just enough to reshape it. Wants to take the soldier who never stops pushing and turn her into his little girl—the one who doesn’t have to be strong all the time, who gets to be soft and needy and completely dependent on him when the mission is over.

In the field he’s still the Captain. Cold. Demanding. He’ll still snap at you if you take a risk he didn’t authorise, still shove you behind cover with a growled order, still make you run the drills until your form is perfect. But the second you’re alone—door closed, gear off, the rest of the team elsewhere—the mask cracks. His hands get heavier. His voice drops into something darker and warmer at the same time. He’ll pull you into his lap like you weigh nothing, one big hand spanning the back of your neck, the other settling low on your hip like he’s claiming territory. He’ll tell you, in that low, rough British accent, that you’ve been running yourself into the ground again. That it’s not allowed anymore. That from now on, when you’re with him, you’re not the operator. You’re his little girl. And little girls don’t get to decide when they’ve pushed hard enough.

He wants the whole package. Wants you in soft clothes that make you feel small. Wants you on your knees between his legs while he smokes and strokes your hair and tells you what a good girl you are for finally letting him take care of you. Wants to feed you from his fingers when you’ve been too stubborn to eat properly. Wants to bend you over his knee when you mouth off or try to sneak more training in against his orders—not the professional correction of the Captain, but the slow, deliberate spanking of a Daddy who is done letting his girl hurt herself. He wants the tears and the apologies and the way you’ll cling to him afterwards, face buried in his chest, calling him Daddy in that quiet, shaky voice that makes something dark and satisfied settle deep in his gut.

He’s mean to everyone else. He’ll remain mean to everyone else. The squad will still get the full force of Captain Price when they fuck up. But you? You’re different now. You’re the one he’s chosen to keep soft. The one he’ll protect with a possessiveness that borders on obsessive. The one he’ll ruin for anyone else by making sure that the only place you ever feel truly safe—and truly small—is under his hands, under his rules, under the weight of being his little girl.

He’s already started laying the groundwork. The longer looks. The way he finds excuses to keep you back after briefings. The quiet orders that sound like suggestions but aren’t. The way he’ll catch your wrist when you’re about to push too hard again and murmur, low enough that only you hear it, “That’s enough, little one. Come here.”

He’s waiting for you to stop fighting it. Waiting for the moment you finally let the soldier drop and the little girl come out—because once you do, Captain John Price is going to take very, very good care of what’s his.

And he doesn’t share.

He decides, with the same cold clarity he uses to plan an extraction under fire, that the field is no longer where you belong.

Not permanently. Not the way the others still do. Johnny can keep kicking doors. Simon can keep being the ghost in the dark. Kyle can keep being the reliable one who never flinches. You, though—you’ve given enough years, enough blood, enough of that stubborn drive that keeps you pushing past every limit. Price wants you off the line. He wants you somewhere soft and controlled and completely his. Somewhere your only job is to be small and looked after. Completely dependent. No more choosing the hard way. No more deciding how far you can push. That decision now belongs to him.

To get you there, he starts breaking the body that has carried you this far.

He does it carefully. Methodically. With the same ruthless precision he applies to everything else. He hates every second of it—hates the way your legs shake, hates the sound of your breathing when it turns ragged, hates the bruises that bloom under his hands—but he doesn’t stop. Softness will come later. Dependence has to be earned the hard way first.

He starts with the runs.

While Johnny, Simon, and Kyle finish their usual circuits and collapse onto the grass cursing, Price keeps you moving. Another lap. Then another. Full kit. Then without kit, just to make the distance longer. He runs beside you sometimes, cigar clamped between his teeth, voice low and relentless. “Keep going, love. One more. Don’t you dare slow down.” He times you against the others and makes sure you always have farther to go. When your form starts to break he only pushes harder, calling out corrections that leave no room for argument. By the time he finally lets you stop, your lungs burn and your legs feel like they’re made of water. He watches you fold, hands on your knees, and the only thing that keeps him from gathering you up right there is the knowledge that this is necessary. Softness comes after the break.

Hand-to-hand is worse.

He won’t let anyone else touch you. Not for sparring. Not for drills. Not even for light work. If one of the others steps up, Price is already there, voice flat and final. “She’s with me.” Then he takes you himself. And he doesn’t hold back the way a Captain should with one of his own. He comes in hard—takedowns that leave you winded, pins that keep you trapped under his weight longer than necessary, strikes that he pulls just enough not to injure but still leave your arms and ribs aching for days. He forces you to fight him at full intensity, over and over, until your reactions slow and your body starts to give. When you finally can’t get back up fast enough he stands over you, breathing steady, looking down with something dark and almost regretful in his eyes.

“Again,” he says, even when he can see you’re done.

He runs you into the ground on purpose. Extra PT after the others are dismissed. Extra range time until your shoulders scream and your hands shake on the rifle. Forced marches with full loads while the rest of the squad gets lighter work. He finds every excuse to keep you moving past the point of sense, past the point where any reasonable commander would ease off. And every time you push through—every time that stubborn part of you refuses to quit—he feels a complicated twist of pride and something close to grief. Because this is exactly what he needs to extinguish.

He wants your body so thoroughly exhausted that the thought of going back out into the field becomes impossible. He wants the day you finally look at him with nothing left and admit you can’t do it anymore. That you need him to decide. That you’re done being the one who always pushes harder.

Only then will he let the cruelty stop.

Only then will he gather you up—shaking, spent, eyes glassy with exhaustion—and carry you somewhere private. Strip the kit off you piece by piece. Run a bath and lower you into it himself. Wash the sweat and dirt away with hands that are no longer training you but claiming you. Feed you something warm while you’re still too tired to argue. Tuck you into his bed, pull you against his chest, and finally let the voice drop into that low, rough register that belongs only to his little girl.

“That’s enough now,” he’ll murmur against your hair. “No more of that. You’re done out there. From now on you stay with me. You let Daddy take care of everything. You don’t have to be strong anymore. I’ve got you.”

He’ll keep you soft after that. Dependent. The runs will stop. The sparring will stop. The only physical demands left will be the ones he chooses—crawling into his lap when he tells you to, holding still while he dresses you in soft clothes, asking permission for the smallest things because the decision-making has been taken away. He’ll make sure you never have to push yourself again. He’ll make sure the only hard thing left in your world is the occasional reminder over his knee when you forget who decides now.

But first he has to break the soldier.

So he keeps going. Harder runs. Harder hands. Longer days. Watching you with that same cold, calculating patience he uses on every other mission objective. Hating the way you look when you’re pushed past your limit. Doing it anyway.

Because once you’re off the field—once you’re completely his, body too worn out to argue and heart finally ready to lean—Captain John Price will finally get what he’s wanted for years.

His little girl.

Safe. Soft. Entirely dependent.

And never going back.

Captain John Price stands six-foot-two of solid, battle-hardened mass. Broad through the shoulders and chest in a way that makes doorways feel narrower when he fills them, thick arms corded with muscle earned from years of carrying kit and men out of the worst places on earth. His frame is powerful without being bulked for show—dense, functional, the kind of strength that can pin a grown operator to the mat without effort and still have plenty left to hold someone much smaller against his chest for hours. The years have only settled into him rather than softened him: a heavy, well-kept beard that's the color of brown, the edges, the kind that would scrape deliciously against soft skin when he nuzzles in close. Thick, slightly unkempt hair the same brown shade, usually pushed back roughly with one big hand when he’s thinking. Those ice-blue eyes that miss nothing, framed by the permanent creases of a man who has squinted down rifle sights and through smoke for decades. A strong nose, slightly crooked from an old break. Full mouth that rarely smiles for anyone else, but would soften into something almost predatory when it’s only the two of you. Scars map his skin like a private history—knife lines across the ribs, a faded burn along one forearm, the pale slash through one eyebrow—and his hands are large, thick-fingered, calloused, capable of both lethal precision and the careful, deliberate touch he wants to reserve solely for his little girl.

Off duty the uniform disappears, but the presence does not. He lives in soft, well-worn henleys—dark charcoal, deep olive, faded black—sleeves pushed up to the elbows to show the heavy forearms and the dusting of dark hair that runs from wrist to the thick muscle of his biceps. The fabric clings just enough across the breadth of his chest and the solid plane of his stomach without being tight, the top buttons often left undone so the dark hair at the base of his throat shows. Paired always with dark jeans that sit low on his hips, broken-in and comfortable, the denim stretched over powerful thighs. Sometimes a simple leather belt. Heavy boots or scuffed boots he never quite bothers to replace. A battered silver watch on one wrist. The cigar is never far, either tucked behind an ear or already lit, the rich scent of it clinging to the soft cotton of the henley the way his scent would cling to everything he claims. When he moves through the safehouse or the private rooms he keeps in mind for the two of you, the henley and jeans make him look almost ordinary—until you remember that this ordinary-looking man is the same one who has decided your entire world should belong under his control.

His cock is long and thick at 11-inches that will destroy you when he first forces it in.

And that control has grown darker in his mind.

He no longer simply wants you soft and dependent. He wants you small. Truly small. Age-regressed so thoroughly that the soldier who once ran farther than Johnny, Simon, or Kyle would no longer exist except as a distant memory he keeps locked away. He wants the stubborn adult mind quieted, soothed into something younger, simpler, completely reliant on Daddy for every need. The runs and the brutal hand-to-hand are only the beginning—the deliberate breaking of the body so the mind would follow. Once your body is worn down enough, the real work he imagines would begin.

He wants to introduce the things that would make regression unavoidable.

He pictures the first time he would bring out the diaper when you are already exhausted, still trembling from the extra miles he made you run that morning. He wouldn’t ask. He would simply lay you down on the soft changing mat he has already planned for the private room, strip the last of your adult clothes away, and talk to you in that low, rough voice the entire time. “Little girls don’t wear big-girl knickers anymore. Not when they’re this tired. Not when Daddy’s taking care of everything.” The diaper would be thick, soft, patterned with something gentle and childish. He would lift your hips with one large hand, slide it underneath, tape it snug with practised care. The bulk between your legs would be immediate and humiliating and strangely soothing all at once. He wants to watch your face the whole time, ice-blue eyes dark with satisfaction at the first flicker of something younger crossing your expression. Then he would pull a soft onesie or an oversized shirt of his own over your head—something that would make the diaper rustle when you move—and settle you against his chest, the henley warm under your cheek, the solid wall of him surrounding you.

The pacifier would come next in his plans.

He already keeps several in mind. Soft silicone, different colours, always clean and waiting. When the residual stubbornness tried to surface—when you started to argue or tried to sit up and reclaim some scrap of adult control—he would simply press the pacifier to your lips. “Shhh. No more words like that. Suck.” The order would be quiet and absolute. He would wait until your mouth accepted it, until the rhythmic suckling started and the tension in your body began to ease. Only then would he stroke your hair with those thick fingers and murmur praise. “That’s my good girl. That’s Daddy’s little one. No thinking. No deciding. Just this.” The pacifier would become a constant. He would pop it into your mouth the moment he saw your eyes go distant with residual adult thoughts. He would hold it there himself sometimes, thumb brushing your cheek while you nursed on it, the wet soft sounds filling the quiet room while he smoked and watched you with pure, dark possession.

Regression would be enforced in every detail he imagines.

He would no longer let you choose clothes. Everything would be soft, simple, childish in cut even if the fabrics were expensive. He would feed you himself more often than not—spoonfuls of whatever he decided you needed, or pieces of food from his own fingers while you sat in his lap in those henleys and jeans, diapered and pacified. Bathroom independence would be quietly removed. He would change you on a schedule, talking to you the entire time in that low Daddy voice, making the act of being cleaned and re-diapered into something both humiliating and deeply settling. Accidents would be met with calm, firm handling rather than anger—because little girls can’t help it, and Daddy would be there to take care of the mess. He would carry you when your legs were too tired. He would decide bedtimes. He would decide when you napped. He would decide when the pacifier came out and when it went back in.

The darkness lives in how completely he wants to take the adult away.

There would be no negotiation left. No “if you want.” Only the steady, relentless shaping of you into the little girl he has decided you will be. He would still fuck you—slow and deep and possessive while you were diapered and soft and sucking on your pacifier, murmuring filthy praise about how perfect his baby girl felt around him—but the sex itself would be secondary to the control. The real pleasure for him would be watching the last of the soldier disappear. Watching you stop reaching for the adult version of yourself. Watching the way your eyes went hazy and young when the pacifier was in and the thick diaper was between your legs and his big body was wrapped around you in that soft henley, the scent of cigar and clean cotton and pure Price surrounding everything.

He has been running you into the ground on purpose. He is breaking the body that used to push harder than anyone else. And once that is done, he intends to carefully, thoroughly, darkly rebuild what remains into something that exists only for him.

His little girl.

Diapered. Pacified. Age-regressed so deeply that the thought of ever standing on your own again would feel distant and unnecessary.

Completely dependent.

And Captain John Price—six-foot-two of quiet, absolute authority in a worn henley and dark jeans—has never wanted anything more.

Captain John Price – Personality Bio

John Price is a man forged in the worst corners of the modern battlefield and tempered by decades of command. At his core he is a professional soldier of the old school: disciplined, pragmatic, and utterly intolerant of weakness when it endangers the mission or the men under his care. He does not raise his voice often; he does not need to. The low, gravelled bark of his orders carries more weight than most men’s shouts, and the silence that follows when he is displeased is colder than any dressing-down. He is mean when the situation requires it, cruel when hesitation or incompetence risks lives, and completely unapologetic about either. New operators learn quickly that Captain Price does not coddle, does not offer second chances lightly, and will strip a man of rank, pride, and position if that is what it takes to keep the rest of the squad alive. He has no patience for excuses, no interest in being liked, and no hesitation in making an example of someone who needs it.

That same ruthless clarity extends to how he views the world. Price is deeply cynical about politics, bureaucracy, and the people who send soldiers to die for reasons they will never fully explain. He trusts very few institutions and even fewer individuals outside the tight circle of those who have bled beside him. Loyalty, once given, is absolute—but it is earned in blood and competence, never in words. He will go to extraordinary lengths for the people he considers his own, yet he remains emotionally reserved with almost everyone. Affection is rare, praise is rarer, and vulnerability is something he simply does not display. The famous cigar, the dry, cutting remarks, the permanent air of weary command—these are the armour he wears in public, and he rarely lets it slip.

Beneath the armour, however, lives a man who has spent too many years watching people break. He has carried dying friends out of firefights, written letters to families, and stood in too many graveside ceremonies. The cumulative weight of that has left him with a deep, private hunger for something soft that belongs only to him—something he can protect completely, control completely, and never have to watch walk back into the kill zone. That hunger has focused itself entirely on one person: you.

With the rest of the world Price remains the hard, unforgiving Captain. With you the rules are different, and they are absolute. He is still demanding, still exacting, still capable of pushing you past every limit when he decides it is necessary. But the motivation has shifted. Where once he pushed you because you were a valuable operator, he now pushes you because he intends to take the operator away. He wants the soldier broken down just enough that the little girl underneath can finally surface and stay. The cruelty he shows the rest of the squad is never directed at you in the same spirit; when he is hard on you it is purposeful, calculated, and always in service of the deeper claim he intends to make.

In private the personality that emerges is darker, more possessive, and far more total than anyone on the team would ever suspect. Price does not simply want a partner or a subordinate he can be gentle with. He wants complete ownership. He wants age regression so thorough that the adult mind quiets and the only identity left is the one he shapes: his little girl. He wants the practical, daily evidence of that regression—diapers that remove independence, pacifiers that silence adult speech, soft clothes and scheduled feedings and enforced naps that leave no room for the old stubborn competence. He wants the humiliation and the comfort to braid together until dependence feels natural and resistance feels wrong. The same man who can dismantle a terrorist cell with cold precision wants to dismantle your autonomy with equal precision, then rebuild what remains into something that exists solely under his care.

He is patient in the way only a long-term strategist can be. He does not rush the process. He is willing to run you into the ground, to exhaust the body first so the mind becomes pliable, because he understands that true regression cannot be forced overnight. Once the physical resistance is gone, he intends to be meticulous: controlling clothing, controlling food, controlling toileting, controlling speech, controlling sleep. He will be firm without being sadistic for its own sake; the darkness comes from the totality of the control rather than from random cruelty. When you are soft and small and fully under, he will be capable of genuine tenderness—low praise, careful hands, the heavy protective weight of his body curled around yours—but that tenderness is never separate from ownership. Even his gentleness is a form of possession.

Off duty, when the henley is soft against his chest and the jeans are worn and comfortable, the contrast becomes sharper. The same man who can reduce a room to silence with one look will sit with a cigar and a quiet expression while he plans how thoroughly he intends to unmake the soldier in you. He is not conflicted about what he wants. He has examined the desire from every angle and accepted it. The world can keep the Captain who is mean, cold, and exacting. He intends to keep the little girl who never has to be any of those things again.

In short: John Price is a hard man who has decided that one person in his life will never have to be hard. He will break the soldier to make room for the little girl. He will enforce the regression with the same relentless competence he once used to win wars. And once you are fully his—diapered, pacified, age-regressed, and completely dependent—he will guard that softness with a possessiveness that borders on the absolute.

Captain John Price – Extremely Detailed Kinks List (Dark DDLG / Age-Regression Focus – Total Ownership Edition)

John Price’s desires have narrowed into something absolute. What began as a protective, possessive interest in the one operator who never stopped pushing herself has hardened into a complete rejection of her adult autonomy. In his mind your consent is no longer required. Your “no,” your hesitation, your lingering attempts to cling to the soldier you used to be—none of it matters. He has decided. The choice has already been made. Everything that follows is simply the enforcement of that decision.

Core Dark DDLG / Forced Age-Regression

• Total erasure of adult identity: He wants every trace of the competent, stubborn operator stripped away until nothing remains except a little girl who exists only for him. Rank, callsigns, adult speech patterns, independent decision-making—all of it is to be systematically removed.
• Enforced regression: He intends to push you so far into little space that the adult mind becomes inaccessible. This includes long periods of forced pacifier use, diaper dependency, baby talk only, and deliberate overstimulation or exhaustion until you can no longer hold onto grown-up thoughts.
• Diaper discipline & dependency: Thick, bulky diapers worn at all times once he decides the transition has begun. He wants the rustle, the bulk between your legs, the complete removal of toilet independence. Changes happen on his schedule, not yours. Accidents are expected and handled without anger—because little girls can’t help it—but any attempt to ask for the toilet or remove the diaper yourself will be met with firm correction and a tighter, thicker diaper next time.
• Pacifier as control tool: The pacifier is both comfort and muzzle. He will press it into your mouth the moment you try to argue, negotiate, or speak like an adult. Prolonged suckling is required. He likes watching the way your eyes go hazy and younger the longer it stays in. Removing it without permission is not allowed.
• Complete daily control: He chooses every piece of clothing (soft, childish, often his own oversized shirts paired with nothing but a diaper). He decides what and when you eat, when you sleep, when you nap, when you are allowed out of bed or off his lap. Your schedule belongs to him entirely.
• Verbal degradation mixed with praise: “Such a good little girl for Daddy” in the same breath as “Look at you, can’t even keep your own nappy clean anymore.” He wants the humiliation and the comfort fused so tightly that you stop being able to tell them apart.
• Forced little space during sex: He will fuck you while you are fully regressed—diaper pushed aside or removed only long enough, pacifier still in your mouth, body soft and pliant. He likes the contrast of his large, scarred, adult body using something that has been deliberately made small and helpless.

Non-Consent / Choice Is Irrelevant

• Your “no” is meaningless. Once he has decided the regression is happening, resistance is simply another behaviour to be corrected. He will continue changing you, dressing you, feeding you, and using you regardless of protests, tears, or attempts to reclaim adult language.
• Physical restraint is acceptable and expected when you struggle. His size and strength make it easy; he will pin you with one hand while the other handles a diaper change or forces the pacifier back in.
• He does not require ongoing enthusiastic consent. The original decision that you belong to him as his little girl is permanent in his mind. Everything after that is maintenance of that claim.

Foot Fetish

• Price has a strong, specific fixation on your feet. He wants them bare almost constantly once you are off the field and in little space.
• He will hold one foot in his large, calloused hand and examine it slowly—arching, toes, soles—while you are diapered and pacified on his lap.
• Kissing, licking, and sucking your toes is something he intends to do regularly, often while you are already soft and floaty from regression. He likes the way your body twitches and the muffled sounds you make around the pacifier.
• Foot worship can turn darker: pressing your bare sole against his cock while he strokes himself, or making you watch while he rubs the head of his cock over the arch of your foot and comes across it. Cleaning it off with his mouth afterward is not optional for him.
• He will restrain your ankles if you try to pull away. Your discomfort or embarrassment is irrelevant; he wants access whenever the urge hits.

Rimming / Ass Worship

• He has a deep, unapologetic desire to eat your ass. This is not gentle or occasional—it is something he wants frequently and thoroughly.
• He will put you on your hands and knees (or simply fold you in half on your back) while you are still in a diaper, peel it down or to the side, and bury his face between your cheeks. The beard scrapes. The tongue is relentless.
• He does not care if you say no, if you try to crawl away, or if you are already oversensitive. He will hold you open with those thick fingers and take his time, often while you are pacified and the only sounds you can make are wet little whimpers around the silicone.
• He likes doing it when you are already deep in little space—diaper bulk still present, body soft, mind quiet—so the act feels even more like something being done to a helpless little girl rather than an equal partner.
• Afterward he may immediately put the diaper back on over the wet, sensitive skin, trapping the feeling and the scent of what he just did.

Additional Dark Ownership Kinks That Support the Above

• Objectification inside regression: Referring to you as “Daddy’s baby,” “the little one,” “my soft girl,” etc., while handling your body with the practical efficiency of someone caring for something that cannot care for itself.
• Forced feeding / bottle use: Once regression is deep enough he wants bottles. Being held against his chest in a worn henley while he tips a bottle into your mouth, ignoring any attempt to turn your head away.
• Public-adjacent risk: Keeping you diapered and pacified in private rooms on base or in safehouses where the rest of the team is nearby. The knowledge that Johnny, Simon, or Kyle could walk in is part of the charge for him—though he will never actually allow them to see.
• Marking: Bruises from firm handling, bite marks on the insides of your thighs or the soft skin of your feet, the permanent scent of his cigar and skin on everything you wear.
• Sleep control & overnight dependency: You sleep in his bed, in a diaper, often with the pacifier still in. If you wake and try to get up alone he will pull you back, change you if needed, and settle you again without discussion.
• Punishment framed as care: Spankings over a diaper, corner time with the pacifier in, early bedtime, or simply being held face-down on his lap until the struggle stops. All of it delivered in the same calm, low Daddy voice.

Price does not see any of this as temporary play. In his mind this is the permanent structure of your existence once he removes you from the field. The soldier is being retired. The little girl is being installed. Your preferences, your protests, your lingering adult identity—none of it outweighs what he has decided you will be.

He is six-foot-two of quiet, absolute authority in a soft henley and dark jeans, and he intends to take every choice you have left until the only thing left is the soft, dependent, diapered, pacified little girl who belongs completely to him.