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Critiques and Writer's Discussion
For more in-depth critiques of stories and story writing discussion.
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Hey all! I know it’s been a while and I do plan to continue the story at some point in the next year so don’t go away just yet! In the meantime, I’ve got another story I’m currently working on if anyone is interested!! -
👀 Kat… umm… No words, carry on… -
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It has been over six years since I've had a proper Christmas. I may not celebrate it anymore but that's not going to stop me from enjoying this cheesecake and win. -
Part 30 On our final night at the lake, after we’d roasted our last s’mores and the fire had dwindled to glowing embers, I was getting Betsy ready for bed. The cabin was quiet, the air still warm from the day, and the soft hum of crickets drifted in through the open window. As I gently rubbed ointment on her skin and sprinkled baby powder, I noticed something different—she didn’t flinch like she used to. There was a time when this routine made her go silent, almost retreating into herself. But tonight, she kept chatting away, her voice light and easy, as if nothing unusual was happening. It felt like a quiet milestone. Something had shifted. She was finally comfortable with me helping her in this way, and that trust—unspoken but deeply felt—meant more than I could say. There’d been other changes, too. Over the past few months, I’d noticed the subtle signs of her growing up. I still don’t fully understand what the breast budding stage entails, but I could tell that Betsy’s body was beginning to change. It wasn’t dramatic, just a gentle shift—barely visible, but unmistakable. She was starting the journey toward becoming a young woman, and I was witnessing it in real time. The next morning, I changed Betsy out of her soggy nighttime diaper and into a fresh, soft one for the ride home. She wasn’t thrilled about it—her pout said as much—but she didn’t fight me either. She just sighed, resigned, like she knew this was part of the routine. Before we left, I made sure her diaper bag was packed with three clean diapers, wipes, ointment, and all her essentials. Then I double‑checked that the bag was tucked securely into the car, right where I could reach it if she needed anything on the drive. As we pulled away from the lake, the cabin shrinking in the rearview mirror, I found myself drifting into quiet reflection. The road wound through tall pines, sunlight flickering through the branches like a slow‑moving strobe, and the car hummed with that soft morning stillness that follows a long, satisfying trip. We’d packed so much into those few days—paddling the new canoes across glassy water that mirrored the sky, hiking through sun‑dappled woods where the air smelled like sap and earth, swimming in the cool lake until our fingers wrinkled, and learning to cook surprisingly good dinners under the guidance of Mom and Betsy’s mom. It was a trip full of laughter, shared stories, and small discoveries that felt bigger than they were. The kind of memories that settle into you quietly and stay there. But there were a few moments that stood out as… different. Not bad, just unexpected. I wasn’t used to seeing our moms so at ease in their own skin—walking around topless, unbothered by things like body hair or modesty, moving through the world like they owed it no explanation. At first, it had caught me off guard. I wasn’t sure where to look, or how to react, or whether I was supposed to pretend it was normal. But as the days went on, something shifted. I started to see it less as shock and more as… freedom. A kind of comfort I hadn’t really seen in adults before. They weren’t trying to prove anything or make some big statement. They were just relaxed—genuinely relaxed—in a way that felt rare. Unselfconscious. Unbothered. Human. Watching them, I realized how many invisible rules people carry around about how they’re supposed to look or act. And how easily those rules fall away when you’re surrounded by trees instead of strangers, by people who know you instead of people who judge you. It made me think about confidence—not the loud kind, but the quiet kind. The kind that comes from being comfortable with yourself, even when things aren’t perfect. Maybe especially then. And as the car rolled farther from the lake, I found myself hoping I’d remember that feeling. That ease. That freedom. That reminder that sometimes, the most surprising moments are the ones that teach you the most. As we cruised down the highway, the hum of the tires and the soft rhythm of the road made it easy to drift into thought. I found myself reflecting on Betsy—on the small victories and quiet milestones we’d reached over the past twelve weeks. I felt proud that I’d been able to get her into her nighttime diaper without a fuss, night after night. Even more heartening was the fact that she no longer relied on it for bowel movements. We’d moved past that stage—or so I thought. About an hour from home, I noticed Betsy shifting in her seat, her expression uneasy. At first, I brushed it off, assuming she was just restless from the long ride. But then she leaned forward slightly and asked, “How far are we from a bathroom?” Her mom glanced back from the passenger seat, her tone gentle. “About forty‑five minutes. If you need to, just use your diaper.” Betsy hesitated, her face pinched with worry. “But I need to poop,” she whispered. The car fell into a thoughtful silence. It was one of those moments that reminded me—again—that growth isn’t a straight line. It loops, it dips, it circles back on itself. And sometimes the most important thing isn’t the progress you’ve made, but the reassurance you can offer when things don’t go perfectly. Her mom spoke softly, offering options without pressure. “You can try to hold it until we get home, or we can pull over and you can go by the side of the road. Or you can use your diaper, and I’ll take care of everything when we get back.” Betsy considered it, chewing her lip, trying to be brave. She nodded at first, deciding she’d try to wait. But when I glanced over again, the discomfort was written all over her face. She shifted, tense and miserable. I leaned in gently. “Do you think you can wait?” She shook her head, eyes downcast. “No.” I softened my voice. “It’s okay. Really. You’re not doing anything wrong. Just do what you need to do—you’ll feel better.” Her shoulders relaxed just a little, and she let out a shaky breath. In that moment, what mattered wasn’t the setback. It was the trust—the quiet, steady kind that builds over time, the kind that says you’re safe, even when things don’t go perfectly. She gave a quiet nod, adjusted her posture, and let herself relax. The strain on her face made it clear it wasn’t easy, and I could tell it was going to be a big one. I stayed close, offering quiet support, knowing that moments like this weren’t just about physical comfort—they were about trust, reassurance, and growing through the awkward parts together. When she was done, she leaned into me, her small frame relaxing as she nestled her head against my shoulder. A soft sigh escaped her lips—part relief, part contentment. I wrapped one arm around her and offered quiet reassurance with a gentle pat, letting her know she was safe and cared for. As always, she reached back instinctively to touch her diaper, a familiar gesture that seemed to ground her—a little ritual of comfort she never skipped. Earlier, during Besty's last diaper change in the car, I hadn’t put her shorts back on. The afternoon had been warm, and she seemed happier without the extra layer. So when I reached down to pat her, my hand met the smooth, crinkly surface of her plastic pants. The sensation was unmistakable—firm and rounded with a distinct weight to it. I paused for a moment, registering the fullness. It was one of her biggest loads yet, and the realization stirred a quiet mix of concern and tenderness. She had been holding it in for a while, and now, finally, she could rest. When we pulled into the driveway, Mom circled around to open the car door and help us out. Betsy wriggled free from her seat with her usual energy, but as she stood, I noticed a close call—her diaper had sprung a minor leak. Thankfully, her trusty plastic pants had done their job, sealing everything in and sparing the car seat from disaster. It was clear from the way she moved that she was carrying a serious load. We were supposed to help unload the car, but I found myself distracted, watching Betsy shuffle back and forth between the driveway and the house. Her steps were determined, but the weight in her diaper made each movement exaggerated, the bulk swaying noticeably with every stride. It was hard not to feel a mix of sympathy and admiration—she didn’t complain once. After about twenty minutes, we were hauling another round of bags inside when her mom gently stopped her. “Sweetheart, let’s get you changed,” she said, motioning toward the hallway. “That diaper’s done its job, but it’s time.” I happened to be carrying a box destined for Betsy’s room, so I followed them down the hall. Walking behind them, I couldn’t help but glance again. Her diaper was sagging so low it nearly reached her knees, the plastic pants stretched to their limit. It was a quiet testament to just how much she’d been holding in—and how resilient she was through it all. Her mom helped Betsy up onto the changing table, her voice light with affection. With a playful grin, she said, “Let’s see what kind of present you left me in that diaper.” She carefully unpinned the sides and pulled the front through Betsy’s legs, pausing as she took in the mess. “Wow, Betsy,” she said, eyes wide with surprise. “I think this might be the fullest diaper you’ve ever given me!” Then she laughed softly. “But I suppose you’re two years older than the last time you gave me a ‘present.’” It took some time to clean her up—both front and back needed attention. As she worked, her mom spoke gently, letting Betsy know she’d be giving her a bath to finish getting her clean. I think that was the first time I saw Betsy walking to the bathroom with a messy bottom, and oddly enough, I found the moment kind of endearing. There was something sweet in her trust and the way she followed her mom without fuss. They were gone for about fifteen minutes. When they returned, Betsy looked fresh and relaxed, wrapped in a towel. Her mom turned to me and said, “Go ahead and get her into a nighttime diaper. Use a little extra ointment around her bottom, and put a T-shirt on her before you come back out to help.” With that, she headed back toward the living room, leaving me to finish getting Betsy ready for the evening. I gently helped Betsy back onto the changing table. As soon as she lay down, she lifted her legs with practiced ease, making it simple to slide a clean diaper beneath her. I began applying the protective ointment to guard against irritation, though I couldn’t ignore the strange mix of emotions that surfaced again—quiet, confusing feelings I still didn’t fully understand. Once I finished with the ointment, I carefully lowered her onto the diaper and adjusted her legs to apply a light dusting of powder and a final touch of ointment between her thighs. With everything in place, I fastened the diaper snugly, making sure it was secure but comfortable. After slipping on her plastic pants, I helped her into a soft T-shirt, and together we headed outside to finish unpacking the car. I watched as Betsy circled the vehicle, pulling bags and boxes out one by one. The way she was dressed made it clear—her diaper was bulky and unmistakable beneath the shirt. But she didn’t seem to care. She moved with confidence, completely unbothered by how she might appear to others. You’d expect an eleven-year-old to be more self-conscious, but not Betsy. Her comfort in her own skin was something I quietly admired. At least the diaper was clean and dry—for now, that was enough. -
You just really know how to keep the drama rolling. And every time I think I’m getting a handle on the dynamics between your characters you introduce something new and it throws me off (i.e. Marcus/Amber/Paul). It’s unpredictable and so refreshing. All the compliments! Best wishes for your holidays!
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