Page 42 of Hero Daddy

When I emerged from the bathroom, Chad was arranging something on the plush area rug. He looked up, and his expression shifted to one of such tender appreciation that my breath caught. Gone was the stern sensei, the disciplinarian, the demanding lover. This was yet another facet of him—gentle, nurturing, his gray eyes soft with affection.

"There's my sweet girl," he murmured, his voice a low, soothing rumble. "Those suit you perfectly."

He'd laid out a brand-new coloring book on the rug, its cover depicting an enchanted forest scene with detailed trees and hidden animals. Beside it sat an artist-quality set of colored pencils in a wooden case, the kind I'd always admired but never justified purchasing for myself. A soft cushion had been placed for me to sit on, and nearby, Chad had prepared the rockingchair with what looked like a handmade quilt draped over its arm.

"Would you like to color while I read to you?" he asked, gesturing to the setup.

I nodded, suddenly shy in a way I hadn't expected. This vulnerability felt different from the exposure of being spanked or the intimacy of sexual connection. It was a deeper kind of openness—the willingness to let him see the simplest, most unguarded version of myself.

I settled onto the cushion, crossing my legs beneath me, the soft fabric of the pajamas pooling around my feet. The coloring book opened to reveal intricate designs of woodland creatures—an owl perched on a gnarled branch, a fox curled among ferns, a family of deer in a moonlit clearing. The drawings were sophisticated enough to engage an adult's attention but whimsical enough to evoke childlike wonder.

Chad lowered himself into the rocking chair beside me. "These are classic fairy tales," he explained, "but not the sanitized modern versions. These are closer to the originals—a bit darker, a bit more complex, but with all the magic intact."

As I selected colors for the owl's feathers, Chad began to read. His voice, that deep, commanding instrument that had directed my training and whispered heated demands against my skin, now shaped itself around once-upon-a-times and enchanted forests. The cadence of his reading created a gentle rhythm, like waves against a shore, constant and soothing.

I found myself absorbed in the simple pleasure of choosing colors, of carefully filling in each space, of creating something with no purpose beyond the joy of creation itself. My breathing slowed, matching the steady rock of Chad's chair. The constant background hum of anxiety that usually accompanied my days—deadlines, bills, others' judgments, self-criticism—faded to near silence.

Time stretched and compressed strangely. I finished coloring the owl and moved on to the fox, my world narrowing to the page before me, the scratch of pencil against paper, and Chad's voice weaving tales of brave children and magical beasts. At some point, I shifted position, leaning against his leg as I continued to color. His free hand came to rest on my head, fingers gently stroking my hair in time with his words.

I felt myself slipping into a different state of consciousness—not quite drowsy, but somehow both more present and more distant from my usual self. Adult concerns seemed to recede behind a protective veil. My movements became slightly less coordinated, more instinctive. The colors I chose were brighter, less concerned with realism and more with what simply pleased my eye.

This, I realized with a soft rush of understanding, must be "Littlespace" —not a performance or a regression, but a genuine shift in perception. A mental place where simple pleasures were enough, where protection was accepted without question, where the complicated web of adult considerations simplified into basic needs: comfort, safety, creativity, love.

The tension I normally carried in my shoulders had completely dissolved. My face felt different – my features more mobile, more expressive, less guarded. When Chad paused in his reading to show me an illustration from the book, my gasp of delight at the beautiful artwork was entirely unfiltered, free from my usual self-consciousness.

"Are you happy, Little One?" Chad asked softly, his fingers still stroking my hair.

I nodded, blinking up at him with a smile that felt wider and more genuine than any I'd worn in years. "Thank you, Daddy," I whispered, the title falling naturally from my lips in this space where it belonged.

His answering smile held such tenderness that it made my chest ache. "This is how it should be," he said. "You, safe and content. Creating beauty. Letting yourself simply be, without all the weight you normally carry."

As he returned to reading, the fairy tale princess finding her way through an enchanted forest much like the one I was coloring, I understood what he meant. I wasn't a different person in this space—I was still Daliah, with all my complexities and strengths. But here, sheltered by Chad's care and the deliberate sanctuary he'd created, I could access parts of myself usually buried beneath layers of adult responsibility and social expectation.

When I was done, I set aside the colored pencils, satisfaction warming my chest as I admired the completed forest scene, now vibrant with greens and golds, subtle purples shading the twilight sky above the trees. Chad had fallen silent, the fairy tale finished, though his fingers continued their gentle rhythm through my hair.

My gaze drifted around the room, taking in details I hadn't fully appreciated before, and landed on a small wicker basket in the corner. It held an assortment of cloth dolls—simple, handmade things with yarn hair and embroidered features, their bodies soft and pliable, their expressions kind but somehow wistful.

Something about their imperfect handmade quality pulled at me. Without conscious thought, I found myself rising from my cushion and drifting toward them, drawn by a curiosity that felt both childlike and profound.

Chad watched me, his expression soft with understanding. "Would you like to play with them?" he asked, his voice gentle.

I nodded, suddenly shy again but unable to resist the pull of the dolls. I knelt beside the basket, my padded knees cushionedby the plush carpet, and reached for the first one, a girl doll with brown yarn braids and a simple blue dress.

"They're beautiful," I murmured, turning the doll over in my hands, appreciating the careful stitching that formed her smile, the tiny buttons sewn onto her dress, the soft stuffing that made her feel alive and warm in my palms.

"They're meant to be played with," Chad said, settling back in the rocking chair with the book closed on his lap. "Do whatever feels right to you."

I selected another doll—this one with black yarn hair and a red-checked dress—and then a third with blonde curls. I arranged them in a small circle on the carpet, straightening their dresses, adjusting their postures as if preparing them for a tea party.

"Let's play a game," I said in a high, slightly nasal voice for the blonde doll, positioning her at the head of the small circle. "I'll be the leader, and you all have to do what I say."

My hands moved of their own accord, the dolls becoming actors in a script I wasn't consciously writing. The blonde doll turned to face another—a slightly plumper one with reddish yarn hair that I'd pulled from the bottom of the basket.

"Except you," I continued in that same voice, now tinged with cruelty. "You're too fat to play with us."

Something cold slipped into my chest, an uncomfortable recognition. This wasn't random play anymore; this was memory taking physical form. I could have stopped—should have, perhaps—but the scene continued to unspool through my hands, the dolls repositioning as the plump doll was pushed outside the circle.

"I'm not fat," I made the red-haired doll protest in a small, hurt voice that sounded disturbingly like my own childhood tones. "I just want to play too."

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