Page 21 of Daddy Next Door

"I prefer keeping little space primarily non-sexual," he said thoughtfully. "Though I recognize that intimacy and affection exist on a spectrum. The most important thing is that boundaries are crystal clear and constantly respected."

"It sounds like you've thought about all of this a lot," I said.

"Absolutely." His smile was gentle. "This isn't something I take lightly, Lily. A power exchange of any kind requires careful consideration and ongoing communication."

I nodded.

He paused, then continued, "Now, if you're comfortable, I'd like to show you my little space properly this time. With permission, and with me there to explain its purpose. No pressure, no expectations—just so you can better understand what I've envisioned."

"I'd like that," I said softly. "Very much."

***

Ethanledmedownthe hallway toward the room I'd discovered earlier. This time, there was no furtive glancing over my shoulder, no guilty rush of adrenaline. Instead, a strange, fluttery anticipation filled my chest. His hand rested lightly at the small of my back, not guiding exactly, but present—a warm anchor in the sea of emotions threatening to overwhelm me.

He paused, his hand on the doorknob. "Ready?"

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

The door swung open, and soft light spilled into the hallway. Ethan stepped aside, allowing me to enter first. I crossed the threshold slowly, deliberately—so different from my earlier frantic exploration.

Without the haze of panic and guilt, I could truly see the space for what it was: a sanctuary crafted with extraordinary care. The walls were a soft sky blue, dotted with hand-painted clouds that looked like they'd been brushed on by someone with both skill and whimsy. Plush carpet in a deeper blue cushioned my feet. The lighting was gentle—neither the harsh overhead glare of adult spaces nor the cartoonish brightness of children's rooms, but something in between, warm and soothing.

"You painted these yourself?" I asked, gesturing to the clouds.

Ethan nodded, closing the door behind us. "I find painting therapeutic. These took about three weekends."

I moved further into the room, taking in details I'd missed before. A bookshelf filled with everything from picture books to young adult novels. A crafting table in one corner with neatly organized supplies—colored pencils arranged by hue, markers with their caps all facing the same direction, sketch pads stacked by size. A comfortable-looking beanbag chair beside a standing lamp perfect for reading.

"This first area is what I think of as the play space," Ethan explained, his voice taking on a gentle quality I hadn't heard before. "For coloring, reading, crafts—activities that engage creativity and focus."

He moved to the bookshelf, running his fingers along the spines. "I believe in the power of stories. These range from simple picture books for the youngest headspaces to chapter books for older little days."

He continued the tour, moving to the crafting table. "I've found that creative expression is important for many littles. A way to process feelings that might be difficult to verbalize." He picked up a coloring book—intricate mandalas designed for adults but with whimsical elements that would appeal to a younger sensibility. "This one's my favorite. Complex enough to be engaging but soothing rather than frustrating."

Each item he showed me came with an explanation that revealed not just what it was, but why he'd chosen it, how it might be used, the thought behind its placement. Nothing was random; everything served a purpose in creating this safe haven.

We approached a second doorway—the entrance to what he'd called the inner nursery. My heart began to pound harder against my ribs.

"This next space is more intimate—as you know," Ethan said, his voice gentling further. "It's designed for comfort, security, and deeper headspace.”

The inner room struck a delicate balance—clearly designed for an adult who needed to feel small, not for an actual child. The walls were a softer shade of blue, almost periwinkle, with tiny silver stars painted across one wall in a constellation pattern. A full-sized crib with modified height stood against one wall, its sides high enough to create a feeling of security but designed to support an adult's weight. The bedding was simple—soft flannel sheets in pale yellow and a quilt that looked handmade.

Beside it sat a rocking chair with wide, comfortable arms and a footstool. A bookshelf held more intimate items—a few stuffed animals, each looking carefully chosen rather than randomly collected; a night light that projected stars onto the ceiling; a specially designed adult-sized pacifier.

“It's..." I struggled to find the right words. "It's perfect."

He moved to the rocking chair, resting his hand on its back. "I imagined reading stories here, after difficult days when words are hard to find. Sometimes just being rocked and hearing someone else's voice can bring comfort no conversation can provide."

I nodded, unable to speak past the lump in my throat.

He chuckled. “It was quite a job, hiding all this from the delivery men.”

I laughed with him.

"Now. The crib," he continued, "isn't for every night. But there are times when feeling completely secure is what's needed. The sides create a boundary between you and the world. Protection."

He walked to a dresser I hadn't noticed during my first hurried visit. "There are pajamas here—soft things, comfortable things for when the weight of adult clothes feels too constraining." He opened a drawer, revealing folded fabrics in gentle colors. "Nothing babyish or costumey. Just comfort."

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