Critiques and Writer's Discussion

you're seriously lucky I have to worry about people thinking I´m messed up in the head

This story is inspired by true story (kind of).  My cousin is a doctor, who own’s his own eye center, and is 50 years older than his daughter. When I was 14 years old, my mom and I went to Seattle to visit her step sitter, who I didn’t know. On the, I got food poisoning, but I didn’t poop my pants (I threw up).  We went to Vancouver, and my mom had call me on the store PA. Summer 2035 It's still unbelievable. It happened in the summer of 2025 when I was between sixth and seventh grade, a pivotal time for any twelve-year-old. Sixth grade is the last year of elementary school, and the last chance to be a kid, while seventh grade is the start of middle school, which is kind of like a mini-high school. It’s where the big kids go. I was almost a teenager, but there was a part of me that still wanted to be a little kid. The transition from childhood to teenager is both thrilling and intimidating, and it was even more complicated for me. You see, I was a bit of a miracle baby. My parents met when they were older, after they had given up hope of having children. My mom was forty, and my dad was fifty. They didn’t want to wait for the wedding, so they had me before they were married. My mom adores little kids. The only reason she waited so long is that it took her a while to meet the right person. She used to teach at a preschool, and she babysat my cousins when they were younger. However, by the time I was born, they were older and didn’t need a babysitter, so she focused all of her attention on me. Even now, in her sixties, she loves to take care of little kids. She writes children’s stories and frequently babysits for families in her neighborhood. As her only child, she kept me in the baby stage longer than usual. She nursed me until I was three, I slept in a crib until I was four, and I wasn’t fully potty-trained until I was five. Even after I stopped wearing diapers, I still had a bottle at bedtime. I used a pacifier until I finished kindergarten, and when my mom finally took it away, I sucked my thumb, which I did publicly until I was eight, and privately within my room until I was ten. My mom kept me in a stroller much longer than usual. My dad was a doctor, and owned a surgery center, so money was never an issue. He loves to travel, and he wanted me to see as much of the world as possible, so we traveled a lot when I was younger. I often wandered off, so my mom preferred using a stroller for its safety and convenience. When I was five years old, my mom was criticized by one of her friends. Her friend thought I was too old for a stroller, unaware that I was also wearing a diaper. Earlier that day, I had an accident, and my mom had a strict rule: if I wet my Pull-up, I had to wear a diaper for the rest of the day. We stopped using the stroller for a while, but then I got lost at a festival and was missing for over an hour. She thought my safety was more important than others’ opinions, and went back to using a stroller for two more years, which was until I was seven years old! Being the youngest, I was the last baby in the family. My aunties and cousins gave me plenty of attention, especially when I acted younger than I really was. When I was seven, during the summer between first and second grade, I had one of my last baby-like experiences. I went to an amusement park with my cousin, one of her friends, and her three-year-old nephew. By then, I hadn't worn diapers for years, not even at night. Mom stopped using the stroller a few months earlier, but she was still very protective. I was almost eight and too old for the women's restroom, but I wasn’t allowed to use a public bathroom by myself. I wore Pull-ups, just in case a family bathroom wasn’t available. I also had to ride in a stroller because My mom didn’t trust me to stay close to my cousin. I ended up being treated just like the three-year-old, including having my diaper changed. The babying stopped after my 8th birthday. Although it was a gradual change, it felt abrupt. All of a sudden, all my baby things disappeared, including my stroller. I guess my mom thought I was too old for them. When I used baby talk, mom told me to stop talking like that. When I wet my pants, she scolded me by saying, "Billy, you're too old for that!” Most of my childish habits faded away, but I still sucked my thumb. At that time, I was rarely around little kids. Since most of my mom’s friends were older than she was, their kids were older than me. I was usually the youngest in the group, often by several years. I was caught between being too old to be a little kid, and too young to be a big kid. I wanted to be like the older kids, but I was attracted to baby things, especially when we walked through the baby aisle in the grocery store. The phrase “I’m a Big Kid, Now!” always caught my eye. I would check weekly ads for diaper deals and, though I couldn’t explain it, I wanted to wear diapers again. We moved to Indonesia when I finished fifth grade. My dad retired, sold his practice, and taught at a medical school in Nusantara, Indonesia. He did it to seek a new challenge, explore another part of the world, and introduce me to diverse cultures. Nusantara is the new capital of Indonesia, and it was still under construction when we moved there. Although it had modern amenities, there weren’t very many people, especially other Americans. Since there wasn’t an American School, I was homeschooled online, which I preferred since I wasn’t comfortable with kids my age. My parents were friends with a couple that had two little kids: Lyon and Ophelia. When I met them, Lyon was four years old, and wasn’t fully potty trained, while Ophelia was two and hadn’t even begun. Their parents both worked, so my mom helped with daycare. They were at our house almost every day, and my mom helped potty train both of them. Ten months later, Ophelia was mostly potty trained, even during her nap. Unfortunately, Lyon regressed and needed to go back to diapers after his sister stopped using them. I was the big kid in the group. Even though I wasn’t old enough, or mature enough, to handle any of the real daycare responsibilities, I played with them. That kept them entertained, which seemed to help my mom. She told me that I was good with them, but really, I just wanted to play with them, like a little kid. For the first time since I was seven, our home had baby items again. I wanted to use them, but I didn’t want my mom to find out. One day, I tried on one of Lyon’s diapers and surprisingly, it still fit!  However, I was too afraid to use it. While I wanted to be a little kid again, I also wanted to be a big kid. My mom became less protective, and let me do things by myself. She allowed me to stay home alone for the very first time, and within a few months, I became the babysitter myself. Though it was just for a short while, that transition from needing a babysitter to being one made me feel truly grown-up. We traveled nearly every month, since my dad was eager to explore as much of Southeast Asia as possible. With each trip, I became more independent. They let me go to the beach alone and gave me my own hotel room, where I could watch movies and stay up as late as I wanted. Meanwhile, my parents went to restaurants, and ate food that I wouldn’t like. After school ended, my mom and I went back to the U.S.; my dad stayed behind to teach. We stopped in Seattle to visit my mom's stepsister, who was technically my aunt, though I didn’t know her. She saw me when I was four, and I was too young to remember it. For me, I was excited about being a big kid on a long trip. When we moved to Indonesia, ten months earlier, I was unsure of myself, and stayed close to my mom. After a year of travel, I was confident, and independent. My mom let me go alone to McDonald’s or the pool, and I felt comfortable exploring near the hotel as long as I stayed close. Best of all, we were flying business class, which meant I got my own little cubby, and didn’t have to sit next to my mom. Unfortunately, I think I ate something questionable before we left. I don’t know what it was, but it hit me in the middle of the flight to Singapore. Just as we began our descent and the seatbelt sign lit up, things took a turn for the worse. I thought it was gas, but sadly, it wasn’t. Worst of all, I had to wait until we landed to clean up. It was incredibly embarrassing. I wanted my mom to help clean it up, but she couldn’t. I had to handle everything on my own and did my best. In the end, I threw away my underwear. Unfortunately, my stomach issues weren’t over. I almost had another accident on the way to the hotel, and I wasn’t as lucky after lunch. Thankfully it happened close to my hotel room, so it wasn’t as hard to clean up. Afterward, I stayed in my room, watching TV near a bathroom so I wouldn't risk pooping my pants again. My main worry was the long flight to Seattle, especially since I was running low on clean underwear. My mom was concerned too; she picked up some Pull-ups for me to use on the flight. They weren’t even Goodnites, they were actual Pull-ups, just like Lyon’s. She suggested, “Billy, I know that you’re worried about having another accident on the plane. I think you should wear one of these, just in case. If it happens again, you can just throw them away.” While I was secretly thrilled, I didn’t want my mom to know. I had to act disappointed, but not enough for her to change her mind. I cried out, “I’m not a baby!” She reassured me, “I know honey, but I don’t think you want another accident. What happened today was awful. I know it’s embarrassing, but not as much as having another accident. Nobody will know, and it’s just until your stomach settles.” I hesitated, “Do I have to?” Mom replied, “No, but you might have another accident.” In truth, I wanted to put them on right away, but I didn’t want my mom to know that. I protested, “That’s because I couldn’t get to the bathroom. That won’t happen tonight.” “Okay, you’re right. You don’t have to wear them tonight, but I think you should wear one tomorrow.” Regrettably, I protested too much. While I wanted to wear one that night, I had to wait until the morning. After I woke up, mom asked. “How is your tummy? Is it better?” In reality, I felt fine. When I pooped, it was normal, and I wasn’t worried about pooping my pants. However, that’s not what I told my mom. I didn’t want her to change her mind, so I said, “Okay, but it’s still a little uncomfortable.” “Did you poo this morning?” “A little, but it was runny.” “Alright, I think you better wear a Pull-up on the plane. Just in case you have a problem. After we land, you can take them off, and nobody will know about it. It will be our secret.” When I took it from my mom, I almost let my excitement show, but she didn't say anything. Once I put it on and checked myself in the mirror, there was nothing obvious to see. After I came out of the bathroom, my mom said, “I put a few more in your backpack. Hopefully, you don’t need them, but just in case. Remember, please let me know if you have an accident.” I knew I was going to have at least one accident. This was the last chance to wear a diaper, and I wasn’t going to waste it. It was just too good of an opportunity to pass up. I had wanted to wear diapers for a long time, but I was always afraid. Now, not only could I wear one; I had my mom's permission to use it. Since I was in business class, and had my own cubby, nobody would know. I waited until we reached cruising altitude to do it, but I almost peed in it before we got on the plane. The wet Pull-up felt better than the dry one. I don’t know why, but I liked the squishiness. However, it created a problem. I was allowed to poo in it, but I didn’t know if I could pee in it. I didn’t know how my mom would react to me wetting myself, so I decided to wait until she went to sleep before changing it. However, I peed some more, and it leaked. It wasn’t a lot, but my mom noticed. Fortunately, she thought I was sleeping when it happened. When she saw it, she woke me up. “Billy, wake up. I think you leaked. Why didn’t you get up?” I shrugged, “I don’t know, I was sleeping.” Mom rolled her eyes. “Okay. Go clean up, and we’ll put a towel on your seat.” I needed another change a few hours later, and I was wet again after we landed. After we got off the plane, my mom asked, “Billy, do you need to go to the bathroom?” I shook my head, which was odd since I usually go straight to the bathroom after leaving the plane. For reasons that I still don’t understand, my mom reached over and squeezed the front of my Pull-up. She looked super disappointed, and said, “Oh Billy, you’re soaked.” She opened up my backpack and took out my last Pull-up. “What happened to the other one?” I played dumb. “What one?” Mom explained, “I put three Pull-ups in here. You used one when you leaked, and this is the last one. There should be one more.” I blushed, “I had another accident.” Mom looked dubious, “You did? Why didn’t you tell me?” “I was embarrassed, and you were sleeping.” Once again, I seemingly got away with it. I don’t think she was fully convinced, but she wasn’t mad. She replied, “Okay. Go put this on in the bathroom.” I sighed, “Do I have to? You said it was just for the flight.” My mom said, “Yes, you do. You’ll keep wearing them until we figure out what’s going on.” I reluctantly went into the bathroom to change out of my wet Pull-up, and put the new one on. When I came out, mom squeezed it to check if I was wearing it. Although my mom wasn't angry, she began to treat me more like a child. I was tired from jet lag, so she sent me to bed earlier than normal. She prompted me to use the bathroom, just like I was a child who needed to be reminded when to go. In Seattle, she held my hand, and at dinner, she cut my food into smaller pieces. My aunt and uncle thought I was still a little kid because the last time they saw me, I was in diapers. I showed subtle signs of regression that wasn’t expected in a twelve-year-old. I spilled my glass when I forgot to hold it upright. I made a mess while eating, and I developed nervous habits. At one point, I absentmindedly put my thumb in my mouth when I was anxious. I also had more accidents, but my Pull-ups concealed them. We arrived early in the morning on that first day, and I had an accident in the afternoon. That night, I wet my Pull-up and I had two more accidents the next day. I was wet again on the second night. I hadn’t wet my bed in three years, and suddenly I had five accidents in two days! On the second day of our trip, my mom called my dad. Even though he was 5,000 miles away and wasn’t a pediatrician, he was still a doctor. She asked if it was urgent or if it could wait until we got home. My dad talked to me about it and asked a lot of questions. Some of them were embarrassing, and I couldn't figure out why he wanted to know those things. It wasn’t until a few years later that I realized he was asking about wet dreams. Back then, I didn’t even know what a wet dream was. This led to the breaking point when my mom decided she had enough. If I was going to act like a baby, then I would be treated like one. It happened on the third day of our trip, while we were driving to Vancouver. We stopped at a Target, and I hate shopping with my mom. She browses every section regardless of what we need. I always get bored and wander off, which is why she used the stroller for such a long time. But those days had long since passed, and I usually waited at the front of the store for her to finish. It was an unspoken agreement between the two of us. As usual, I got bored and wandered off to explore the store. My first stop was the sports section, and then I moved on to the toys. After that, I aimlessly roamed the store, searching for my mom. When I couldn’t find her, I waited at the front of the store where the restaurant was. My mom eventually found me, and she was really mad. She asked, “There you are. Didn’t you hear the intercom?” I shrugged, “No, but I was waiting for you right here.” She said, “They had to call you on the intercom like a child.” She checked my Pull-up and sighed, “Billy! Not again.” Then she took my arm and led me away. I asked, “Where are we going?” “Since you can’t seem to act your age, I have to treat you like you’re a little kid.” My mom’s words stung, but she was determined. She firmly grabbed a cart and paused for a moment, considering whether to put me in the basket. I was obviously too big for that, so she dismissed the idea and headed straight for the baby section. Without hesitating, my mom put the largest size Pampers into the basket. She continued down the aisle, adding baby powder and a pacifier to the cart. As a final measure, she selected a stroller, pulled it out, and said, “Get in.” I cried, “What?” “You heard me, get in. I want to see if you fit.” “But why?” “I can’t trust you to stay close to me, so now you have to ride in a stroller.” “But mom, please.” “Don’t start with me. And don’t make a scene.” I recognized her tone and knew there was no point arguing about it. Reluctantly, I climbed into the stroller; and, to my surprise, I fit. My aunt pushed the shopping cart while my mom pushed the stroller. We headed to the self-checkout lane. Thankfully, that meant no one saw me. After we paid for everything, Mom approached the greeter and asked, “Is there a place I can take him to the bathroom?” The lady responded, “The men’s bathroom is right over there.” Mom clarified, “No, you don’t understand. I need to take care of his diaper.” Realizing the situation, the greeter explained, “Oh, I see. The family bathroom is between the two.” Mom led me into the bathroom, with the package of size 7 Pampers. As we stepped out, a woman with a young boy looked at us. Mom caught her eye and said, “Well, if he won’t use the potty like a big boy, I don’t have a choice.” After we got to the car, my aunt asked, “Does he need a car seat?” I cried, “No Mom! Please! I’m not a baby.” Mom took out the pacifier and said, “If you’re going to pout, suck on this.” I sat in the back seat, sulking, determined to make things as difficult as I could. If she was going to treat me like a baby, I might as well play the part. I pooped in my diaper, on purpose. The smell was so bad that we had to stop at a rest area. However, the bathroom was disgusting, and rather than making me lie on the floor, she changed my diaper in a quiet spot. Even if she was mad, she didn’t act that way. She changed it the same way that she did with Lyon, without shaming me. My attempt to punish her for putting me in a diaper clearly failed. The next stop was Vancouver, and things didn’t get easier from there. Rather than bringing a rollaway bed, they brought a crib to our room. I remember the bellboy pausing when he saw me. Thankfully, he kept it to himself. Mom wasted no time in making her expectations clear. She looked me in the eye and said the words that made my heart sink, “Until the wetting stops, you’re staying in diapers. And all of this,” pointing to the crib, diaper bags, and everything else that came with them, “will stay until you’re out of diapers. Do you understand?” Overwhelmed, I broke down in tears. “I’m sorry. Please, I’m not a baby!” Mom stood firm. “Nope, I’m not having it. You had your chance. Since you’re acting like a baby, I have to treat you like one. I’ll treat you like a big kid when you start acting like one.” I cried, “I’m sorry.” “Don’t be sorry about it. It’s what you wanted, so it’s what you’re getting.” She turned out the lights, and said, “Go to sleep, it’s time for your nap.” After we returned to Seattle, my aunt set up the crib she used for her grandson, and I sat in his highchair. The sleeping arrangements changed throughout our trip. I slept in a crib when one was available, but if not, I used a regular bed. Sometimes I sat in a highchair, but my mom never made me sit in one at a restaurant. However, The diapers and stroller were constant for the entire summer. Despite it all, I accepted my fate. Mom made it clear: I would stay in diapers until I stopped wetting them, and I would be treated like a baby until I was out of diapers. I didn’t know that I was supposed to let her know when I needed to go, so I used my  diaper without telling her. I just waited until she checked. Finally, at the end of our vacation, Mom looked at me, “Billy, tell me the truth. Do you like this?” Her question caught me completely off guard. I stammered, “What?” She smiled knowingly. “Stop that. Billy, it’s been two months, and you’ve whined less in those months than you have in years. I think you like this.” I couldn’t help but cry out, “That’s because you make me suck on my binky when I whine.” Mom wasn’t convinced. She looked me in the eye “And it looks like you like it.” Her words lingered in the air, making me think about everything that had happened. Mom then said, “It’s okay if you like it. And if that’s how you feel, I’m willing to continue, but there will be some rules around it.” I couldn’t hide the hopefulness in my voice, no matter how much I tried. “There will be rules?” She said, "When you decide to be a baby, you'll stay that way. You’ll have the same rules that we have right now, and it will stay that way until I know you’re ready to be a big kid.” “How long will that be?” She replied, “It depends. You’ll need to be potty trained first. After you’re potty trained, I’ll give you big kid underwear, and you’ll be a big kid, with big kid rules. Until then, you’ll stay in diapers, with baby rules. I wondered what my mom meant by being potty-trained again. I asked, “What do you mean? How are you going to potty train me again?” She smiled and replied, “Silly boy, I’m going to do the same thing that I did with Ophelia and Lyon.” I pressed further, “Are we starting now?” Mom shook her head and reassured me, “No, not yet. I don’t think you’re ready, and I don’t want to deal with that until we get home.” Any doubt about wanting to stay in diapers vanished after my next question. I looked at Mom and asked, “What do I do when I want to go back to diapers?” She answered, “Well, you can ask, but even if you don’t, I’ll know.” “How?” Mom said, “If you have an accident, I know that means you want to be a baby, so I’ll put you in a diaper and let you be a baby until you’re ready to be a big kid again.” As I listened, I found myself thinking: do I want to be a big kid, or do I want to stay this way?

Clearly he's never played with a chaos mage. (This is 100% my wheelhouse character in D&D, for exactly this reason)

I would be very surprised if she doesn't trigger herself here... Reminds me a lot of how you started your Hypnosis Doesn't Work Like That series. (Would love to see you post that here - I know you'd build even more of a reader base.)

Part 37. One of the most surprising—and oddly comforting—parts of our conversation was when she talked about my erection, or as she casually called it, “morning wood.” The way she said it, so matter-of-fact and without a hint of awkwardness, made it feel like just another topic we could talk about openly. Like it wasn’t something to be hidden or whispered about, but simply a part of growing up. It struck me how normal she made it all seem. Like we’d been having conversations like this forever. Life is strange sometimes—how the things that once felt too weird or embarrassing to mention can suddenly become moments of connection and understanding. A few days later, I saw Betsy waving at me again, her diaper sagging with familiar dampness. I smiled and waved back, amused by her cheerful persistence. But as I turned to walk away, something caught my eye—I had erection and a dark, wet patch blooming across the front of my underwear. I froze, confused. How had that happened? Eventually, I realized it was a pattern—subtle, but unmistakable. Every time I saw Betsy in a wet diaper, something stirred in me. It wasn’t just physical; it was emotional. A mix of protectiveness, tenderness, and a strange vulnerability that I hadn’t fully understood until now. During our time at the summer cabin, every time I changed Betsy, I experienced the same physical reaction—an erection and a damp spot in my underwear. When Besty sees my erection and the wet spot on my underwear. She would just smile and say is that because of me. That winter, every evening unfolded like a lullaby, soft and familiar. After her steamy bath—skin dewy, curls damp and fragrant with lavender—Besty would toddle barefoot across the hallway, her feet padding against the warm wood floor. She’d reach her room, climb onto the changing table with the confidence of routine, and settle in with a quiet sigh. Her eyes sparkled with sleepy delight, cheeks aglow from the heat of the bath and the joy of being cared for. She lay still, gazing up at the ceiling as her mother gently fastened the snug nighttime diaper, hands moving with practiced tenderness.  Once her mom kissed her goodnight and the door clicked softly shut, Besty would waddle over to the window, her diaper rustling faintly with each step. The room was dim, lit only by the moonlight spilling across the floor. She’d press her hand to the cold pane, breathe fogging the glass, and wave to me with a drowsy smile. The next morning, she would toddle over to the window, her diaper sagging slightly from the night, and give me a sleepy little wave. Then, without a fuss, she'd climb onto the changing table and lie down quietly, waiting for her mom to come in and start the gentle morning routine. I would experience the same physical reaction—an erection and a large damp spot in my underwear. One time, I stepped out of my bedroom just as Mom was walking down the hallway. She paused mid-stride, glanced at my underwear, then slowly lifted her eyes to meet mine. With a raised eyebrow and a hint of disbelief, she said, Son, you need to change your underwear before coming out like that. As the first hints of summer warmed the air and our family began packing for our annual trip to the cabin, I received my final report card—and I was stunned. A solid B average stared back at me from the page. After months of late-night study sessions, missed hangouts, and quiet self-doubt, I had pulled it off. My parents were ecstatic, their pride practically glowing through their smiles. And honestly, I was proud too. I knew I couldn’t have done it without Besty—her quiet encouragement, her unwavering belief in me, and the way she always made me laugh when I needed it most. At 15, I had grown into a lanky six-foot-two frame, all elbows and awkwardness, while Besty, now 14, remained small and sprightly at just four-foot-eight. Despite our physical differences, we were still inseparable. The cabin trip was a tradition carved deep into our childhood—same winding drive through the forest, same creaky porch swing, same scent of pine and lake water that greeted us like an old friend. Some things hadn’t changed. Besty still wore a diaper during the long car ride, a quiet solution to her persistent sleep accidents. It was never a big deal between us—just one of those things you accept when you love someone. Once we arrived, the rhythm of cabin life took over. We spent our days skipping stones across the lake, playing cards on the porch, and roasting marshmallows until the stars blinked awake overhead. But that summer brought something new—something we’d been dreaming about for years. Our dads decided we were finally old enough to float the river on our own. For our first run, they paddled alongside us, scanning the banks for debris and checking that the spring floods hadn’t carved out any dangerous surprises. The river was calm, familiar, and safe. When we reached the final bend, they gave us a nod—the kind that said, “You’ve got this.” It was more than permission; it was a rite of passage. The next morning, Besty and I launched our raft alone, hearts thumping with excitement and a little fear. We were no longer just kids at the cabin—we were adventurers, navigating the current on our own terms. That evening, as the sun dipped behind the trees and the cabin filled with the soft hum of crickets, we huddled around the TV, checking the forecast for the next day. In bold red letters, the screen flashed: Sunny and Very Hot. That was all the encouragement we needed. The river was calling, and we were ready to answer. Our moms sprang into action, gathering water bottles, juice boxes, and enough snacks to feed a small army. They packed frozen grapes, peanut butter sandwiches, and electrolyte drinks—anything to keep us cool and energized for the journey ahead. The next morning arrived with a golden haze. Sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting warm stripes across the cabin floor. I moved quietly through the room, the air still heavy with sleep. Betsy still lay curled in bed, her breathing slow and steady. I approached her gently, the way I always did, and began our morning routine. I cleaned her with practiced care, each motion slow and deliberate. Her eyes fluttered open halfway, and she watched me with a quiet trust that never failed to move me. The ritual had become something sacred between us—an unspoken language of love and patience. When I finished, she sat up and stretched, her movements languid and thoughtful. She padded toward her dresser, then paused mid-step. Turning back, she looked at me—not at my face, but lower, her gaze lingering briefly at my underwear. Her expression was unreadable, a flicker of something I couldn’t quite name. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, she said, “Today’s the day.” I blinked, unsure what she meant. Her words hung in the air like mist over the river—soft, mysterious, and strangely final. There was weight in them, a quiet significance that made my chest tighten. Whatever she was referring to, it mattered. And somehow, I knew the day ahead would be different. Not just because of the heat or the river, but because something in Betsy had shifted. A little while later, I stepped into our bedroom to change into my swimsuit—and immediately ran into a wardrobe malfunction of epic proportions. Turns out those extra two inches I’d grown since last summer hadn’t just stretched my height—they’d completely outpaced my swimwear. My old suit clung to me like shrink-wrap, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. It was less “form-fitting” and more “anatomically revealing,” outlining everything with the precision of a topographical map. I stared at myself in the mirror, half amused, half horrified. But then I shrugged. Everyone here had already seen the other three women in the buff at some point—how bad could this be? I walked out, trying to act casual. As I passed my mom, she gave me a quick once-over and raised an eyebrow. “Bit tight, huh?” she said, her voice dry as toast. I didn’t break stride. “You could say that,” I replied, deadpan. We headed outside to load the raft into the back of the car. The sun was already climbing, promising the scorcher the forecast had warned us about. As I hoisted the gear, Betsy slipped back inside to change into the new bikini her mom had picked out for her. I called after her, asking what kind it was and what it looked like, but she just smiled over her shoulder and said, “You’ll have to wait and see.” I stayed by the car, curiosity buzzing in my chest. I imagined bright colors, maybe something floral or sporty. I imagined her stepping out confidently, ready to take on the river. But when she finally emerged, she was wrapped in a long, oversized T-shirt that covered everything from her shoulders to her knees. No glimpse of the bikini. No dramatic reveal. Just a quiet smile and a breeze that tugged at the hem of her shirt. I didn’t press. Whatever she was feeling—shy, playful, uncertain—I respected it. But I couldn’t help wondering what she meant earlier when she said, “Today’s the day.” Maybe it wasn’t about the bikini at all. Our moms dropped us off at the launch point just as the morning sun began to shimmer off the river’s surface. The air was already warm, thick with the promise of a scorcher. Betsy and I wrestled the little rubber raft from the trunk, its faded yellow sides flopping like a sleepy dog. We worked together to inflate it, the pump wheezing and hissing until the raft stood firm and proud, bobbing gently at the water’s edge like it couldn’t wait to be set free. We packed it carefully with the essentials our moms had prepped—juice boxes still cool from the freezer, granola bars, and foil-wrapped sandwiches that smelled faintly of peanut butter and summer. With everything stowed and secured, we were just about ready to push off. That’s when Betsy reached for the hem of her oversized T-shirt and, in one smooth motion, tugged it over her head. Time slowed. Beneath was a pink string bikini—bright, bold, and completely unexpected. It clung to her like sunlight on water, delicate and daring in a way that made my brain short-circuit. “Holy cow,” I breathed, the words slipping out before I could catch them. Pink had always been my favorite color on a girl—there was something about the way it softened and sharpened at the same time. But this bikini? It was a whole new level. Skimpier than anything our moms would ever wear, it left little to the imagination and a lot to the heart rate. Suddenly, my own swimsuit felt like it had shrunk another size. I shifted awkwardly, trying to adjust without being obvious. My mom, never one to miss a beat, glanced over and smirked. “If that keeps growing,” she said with a chuckle, “you’re going to split that suit wide open.” I flushed, half mortified, half amused. Betsy just grinned, tossed her shirt into the car, and stepped into the raft like she hadn’t just turned my world upside down. With a final round of safety reminders and sunscreen touch-ups, we climbed aboard and shoved off, the river stretching ahead like a promise.