Page 20 of Daddy Next Door

“Also, although we’ll be exploring who we are and what we want, Iwon’tbe your psychologist. I’ll be your Daddy Dom.”

"I've never done this before," I admitted. "Not really. I mean, I've been in little space on my own, and I've talked about it online, but I've never had someone actually . . . see me that way in person."

Ethan nodded, his expression thoughtful rather than judgmental. "That's perfectly okay. Everyone starts somewhere. What aspects of little space have you explored on your own?"

His question, asked with such matter-of-fact interest, gave me courage. "I have stuffed animals. More than a twenty-nine-year-old should probably admit to." I laughed nervously. "And coloring books. I love coloring when work gets stressful. And I watch cartoons sometimes. The old ones from when I was a kid."

With each admission, the words came easier. Ethan nodded encouragingly.

"What age do you typically feel most comfortable in?" he asked. "When you're in little space?"

It was such a specific question—the kind only someone truly familiar with DDLG would know to ask—that I felt a wave of relief wash over me. He really did understand.

"It varies," I said, my voice growing more confident. "My Little is usually around five or six? But sometimes younger, especially when I'm really stressed or tired. Never, um, infant-young though."

"That makes sense." Ethan nodded. "And have you ever explored the concept of rules or structure in your little space, even hypothetically?"

I shook my head. "Not really. I mean, I've thought about it. Like, what it would be like to have someone care enough to set boundaries." I hesitated, then added, "The idea of having rules actually sounds . . . nice. Comforting, somehow."

Ethan's expression softened. "Many littles find tremendous comfort in structure. It removes the burden of constant decision-making that adults face." He paused. "Would you be open to hearing what kinds of rules I typically establish in a dynamic like this?"

I nodded, curiosity overriding my nervousness.

"I believe in rules that promote well-being," he began. "A reasonable bedtime—not as punishment, but because rest is essential. Healthy meals and limited sweets—treats are for rewards, not everyday. Limited screen time, especially before bed. Finishing work responsibilities before playtime." His tone remained calm, conversational. "I also have rules about honesty, respectful communication, and self-care."

Each item he listed resonated with a deeper part of me. These weren't arbitrary restrictions; they were the framework of care I'd secretly craved.

"What happens if I break a rule?" I asked, my voice smaller than I intended.

"That depends on the rule and the circumstances," Ethan replied. "If you forget your bedtime because you're engrossed in a work project, that might just warrant a reminder. If you deliberately stay up playing games after being told to sleep, that would call for a consequence—maybe no games the next day, or writing lines about why rest is important."

His lips quirked slightly. "And for more significant infractions, there might be more serious consequences."

I nodded, absently twisting a strand of hair around my finger—a habit from childhood I'd never quite broken. "And what about . . . rewards?"

Something in Ethan's eyes warmed. "Rewards are important. Praise, extra privileges, special outings, new coloring books or stuffies. Other, more intimate things." He tilted his head. "What kinds of things make you feel special, Lily?"

The question caught me off guard—not because it was intrusive, but because so few people had ever asked it.

"Small things, I guess. Someone noticing when I've done something well. Comfort food. Silly jokes that make me laugh." I paused, then added in a rush, "Physical affection. Like hugs or . . . or having my hair played with."

I felt heat rush to my cheeks at the admission, but Ethan simply nodded, as though cataloging this information.

"What about when you're feeling little?" he asked. "What helps you feel safe and cared for in that headspace?"

I looked down at my hands, which had unconsciously curled into loose fists on the table. "Being read to," I said softly. "Coloring while someone sits with me. Having someone else make small decisions, like what to eat or what to watch." I swallowed. "Being tucked in at night."

Each admission felt like removing a layer of armor I'd worn for years. Yet instead of feeling exposed, I felt liberated.

"Thank you for sharing that," Ethan said, and the genuine appreciation in his voice made my chest tighten. "Those are all things I enjoy providing. I find great satisfaction in creating a safe space where someone can be their authentic self."

He reached for his mug, took a thoughtful sip, then continued. "I should also be clear about what I'm not looking for. This isn't primarily sexual for me. While DDLG can have sexual elements for some people, the caregiving aspect is what fulfills me most."

I nodded quickly. "It's the same for me. I mean, I'm not asexual or anything, but the little space part isn't about sex. It's about feeling safe and cared for." I hesitated. "Though I guess there can be overlap sometimes?"

"There often is," Ethan acknowledged. "The key is clear communication about when those lines blur. Some people keep them entirely separate—little space is non-sexual, and adult intimacy happens outside that dynamic. Others incorporate elements of both. There's no single right approach."

"What's your preference?" I asked, surprised by my own boldness.

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