Page 22 of Daddy Next Door

I crossed to the dresser, drawn by an irrational need to touch, to confirm that all of this was real. My fingers brushed against something impossibly soft—a pale green pajama top made of the kind of fabric that feels like a cloud against skin.

My gaze moved to the bed, to the quilt with its pattern of moons and stars. "Did you make that?"

"My grandmother did, actually. When I was small." His voice took on a different quality—more vulnerable than I'd heard before. "It was the one thing I always wanted when I was sick or afraid. I've kept it all these years."

The fact that he would place something so personally meaningful in this space struck me deeply. This wasn't just a room he'd created on a whim or from theoretical knowledge. It was an extension of his own understanding of comfort and safety.

"May I?" I asked, gesturing toward the quilt.

Ethan nodded. I moved to the crib and ran my hand over the fabric. It had the softness that comes only from years of washing and love. Without conscious thought, I picked up the corner and pressed it against my cheek, inhaling the faint scent of laundry detergent and something else, something indefinably comforting.

"There's a stuffed tiger there that many find comforting," Ethan said softly, nodding toward a plushie with bold orange and black stripes sitting at the head of the bed. "His name is Bartholomew, but he answers to Bart."

I reached for the tiger, my movements slowing, becoming less deliberate. I picked him up, noting the weight of him—substantial enough to feel real in my arms but not so heavy as to be cumbersome. His fur was short and velvety, worn in places from handling. One ear flopped over his eye in a way that made him look perpetually curious.

"Hi, Bart," I whispered, adjusting his ear. My voice sounded different to my own ears—lighter, softer around the edges.

I hugged the tiger to my chest. Something shifted inside me—subtle but unmistakable, like the feeling of tension leaving muscles you didn't know were clenched. My shoulders relaxed, my breathing deepened, and the world around me seemed to expand and contract simultaneously, becoming both simpler and more vivid.

I was vaguely aware of Ethan watching me, his expression softening. He didn't comment on the change but adjusted his own posture and voice in response.

"Bart has been waiting for someone to appreciate him properly," he said, his tone gentler, his words more measured. "He's a very good listener."

I nodded, stroking the tiger's ear with my thumb. "He looks like he keeps secrets well."

"The very best at it. Guards them fiercely," Ethan agreed, moving slowly to stand beside the crib. "He was my first addition to this room. Everything else came after."

"Thank you," I said softly, my voice still carrying that lighter quality. "For showing me. For making this."

Ethan remained standing, but his posture was relaxed, patient. "Thank you for trusting me enough to see it properly." He paused, then added, "How does it feel, being in here now?"

I considered the question, trying to find words for the complex swirl of emotions. "Safe," I finally said. "Like I can breathe differently. And also . . ." I struggled, clutching Bart tighter. "Like I'm seeing something I've been looking for without knowing what it was."

Ethan nodded, his eyes crinkling at the corners with understanding. "That recognition is important. It means this space resonates with something already inside you."

"There's one more area," he said gently.

Ethan moved the decorative screen aside, revealing the part of the room I'd only glimpsed during my unauthorized exploration. In the soft lighting, it looked less intimidating than it had in my panicked state earlier—purposeful rather than threatening. The centerpiece was a padded bench upholstered in dark blue leather, its surface curved to support a body comfortably. Beside it stood a small cabinet with a polished wooden top. Ethan's hand trailed along the bench's padding, his touch almost reverent.

"This is the discipline area," he said, his voice calm and matter-of-fact. "A space for accountability and growth."

I approached slowly, still clutching Bart against my chest. The bench stood at hip height, its padding thick enough to provide comfort without softening its purpose. Up close, I could see the craftsmanship in its construction—smooth joints, careful stitching on the leather, a solid base that wouldn't shift or wobble.

"You broke a rule today, entering my private space without permission," Ethan said, his voice gentle but firm. His fingers continued their path along the padded surface. "For that, there are consequences."

My heart skipped a beat. I set Bart carefully on a nearby shelf, giving myself a moment to process Ethan's words. When I turned back to him, he was watching me with patient attention.

"What kind of consequences?" I asked, my fingers reaching out to touch the bench hesitantly.

"I could show you, if you're curious." His eyes held mine, steady and unrushed. "Five spanks with my hand. Nothing you can't handle."

The suggestion hung in the air between us. This wasn't punishment for my earlier trespass—we'd already moved past that. This was an invitation to understand, to experience this aspect of the dynamic we'd been discussing theoretically.

I ran my palm over the leather, feeling its cool smoothness. My mind raced with competing thoughts—curiosity, nervousness, and beneath it all, a strange yearning to know what it would feel like to surrender to this man's authority, even briefly.

"I'd like to understand this part too," I said after a moment's consideration, surprised by the steadiness in my voice.

Ethan nodded, his expression serious but not stern. "We'll keep it simple. Five spanks, just with my hand. Do you have a safeword?”

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