Mommies and Daddies

I had another funny conversation today, with my beloved, about my diapers; it started with a misunderstanding. She found a line on a bank statement that she couldn't understand, that recurred irregularly, but that added up to $400 CAD a month, when it did occur, so she asked me if I had a subscription set up, for my diapers. I do not, but this peaked my curiosity - I have bought diapers from a few companies over the years, and while my experience has been that they've all been good corporate citizens, and only charged me what I agreed to, and when, I have always had it in the back of my mind that this landscape could be, like fetish pornography, fertile ground for extortion.  Example: I would probably man (or baby) up, out of sheer rage, and have the following conversation with my credit card company, or bank, regarding an errant charge for diapers: "Excuse me, I have noticed a couple of unauthorized charges on my American Express card... transactions 46523 and 514632. Eh? Yes, that is correct, the Giant Toddler Pink Bunnies XL Overnights. Well, yes, I did order them, a couple of months back, but not on any subsequent occasions..."  You can imagine a similar scenario, involving a paywall... "It's a, uh, a midget noose-play website. I did pay to watch a couple of the videos, but, uh, they've been charging me $1000 a month for the last three years, and I finally decided I had to do something about it..."  Jokes aside, does this mean that I have $400 a month in bandwidth, to spend on diapers? I have spent $400 in a month before, say, when Rearz has a sale, but I watch my spend pretty closely, and it's closer to $210 CAD a month. Not to say that's an inconsequential amount of money, but, she's never really made note of it. It doesn't happen on any sort of regular cadence, because I tend to stock up during sales, and then burn through my stash for a while, and then maybe order something on a whim, and then if I get low before the next sale, I'll buy only what I need, month to month, and then a sale arrives, and I buy 6 cases, or whatever.  I was going to say that I wasn't sure I could spend $400 a month on diapers... that's $13.15 per day, CAD, if there are 30.41 days per month, which there are. However, were I to start using my diapers for everything, I'd definitely burn through more of them. Or, if I decided I was only going to wear novelty products - nothing but the latest from ABU, only available by the bag, not by the case, I suppose I could do it. But the prospect of taking up pooping in my pants, as a hobby, was not something to discuss with my wife, so I pointed out that the charge was not diaper-related, and also, that I was not spending $400 a month, without getting specific enough to back myself into a corner I didn't want to have to argue my way out of. Pointing out what she spends on shoes and clothing would possibly not have ended well, so instead, I held my tongue, and decided to just be quietly grateful that the whole conversation occurred without sparks, and, while I was wearing a mermaid-themed diaper. Which, I did not point out, I had been in for about 18 hours, so, that's a $4 day, right there! 

Rien qu’à te lire je suis stressé par les futures responsabilités de Sally. Un peu angoissant…

I emailed the center and asked if I can be scheduled for the bowel incontinence surgery for February 2027

To clarify… I know what the truth is, and there's reasons for there to be so many red herrings the reader could have picked up on one. But it would be really helpful if I could see which ones you saw. Let me know?   115. True Confession Isadora sat with the laptop open in front of her, brightly-coloured finches dancing on the screen, but she wasn’t watching them. Her hands were folded in her lap, her attention turned inwards as she tried to decide what she needed to say to Brock. That wasn't quite true. She knew what she was going to say. She was going to apologise, sincerely and without conditions, and then she was going to listen. She had promised herself already that she would accept whatever kind of penalty he thought appropriate. She knew now that she had done something very wrong, and there was no excuse she could hide behind. What she couldn't decide was whether to say anything else. Whether she had earned the right to say anything else, perhaps, although now she was starting to realise that Brock’s doubts about her competence were serving as a kind of mental umbrella. By telling herself that he wouldn’t listen, she could avoid thinking too hard about the conversation she had just overheard. She didn’t want to think about it, because there was no way to parse those words that was in any way compatible with the facts she already knew. It was like dropping into a world where black was white, or an intoxicated dance through the looking glass where the whole world seemed to be crazy. A part of her wanted to listen to that conversation again, to make sure that she hadn’t misheard or misunderstood. She was sure that she wouldn’t be able to recite it from memory, but she was also certain she had gotten the gist of the words. This was a conversation about the Arrencani Crime Family; a group whose existence she denied as the basis for all the deductions she had made so far. There couldn’t be a crime family. She just couldn’t see Lorenzo as a villain; he wasn’t that kind of person. But here she was, listening to his brother and his head of security talking about the crime family in such a matter of fact way. Roman had pretty much admitted responsibility for the carnage in Lasserville. Getting Lorenzo’s targets from the rifle range wouldn’t help if he hadn’t taken the shot himself; she’d been chasing a blind alley there, because it was entirely possible to organise a shooting without pulling the trigger. But it sounded like the foot soldiers weren’t happy about their boss keeping the action at arm’s length. Was there any other explanation for those words? She told herself there had to be. There was no way Lorenzo could possibly be involved in something like that. But she couldn’t see it, whatever else it was. Could ‘the shot’ be metaphorical? Referring to narcotics, perhaps, and a boss who sold stuff he wasn’t willing to try? That didn’t sound much better, but she could at least try to work out how it fitted together. How such a kind and genuine man could turn out to have real involvement with organised crime. Every attempt to find an answer, something that made sense, left her feeling the same unwelcome weight in her chest. The heaviness of a conclusion she didn’t dare think about in case it turned out to be true. And her thoughts scattered every time she got too close. All she could see in her mind’s eye was Lorenzo’s welcoming smile; the hugs from a man who felt in every way like a trusted uncle. He wasn’t even that good at lying. She was sure she knew that by now. When a guest at a Committee meeting or neighbourhood social event said something that could link back to the Pink Room, or when he’d bluffed to his poker buddies about how he knew Dr Rennie, his deflections had been clumsy and vague. He couldn’t hide how much he cared about Stella and Nina when they were at a meeting with their daddies, and she could easily believe some of the other board members knew there was an emotional connection there, even if they had no clues towards what it actually was. Lorenzo was a terrible liar, she had seen that a dozen times… so how could he possibly be masterminding a complex scheme like this without the police being able to put any evidence together? There was no way. It was impossible. Isadora knew that more than she knew anything, but she couldn’t prove it. The facts just didn’t line up, didn’t make sense. Was this how Sherlock Holmes would have felt, having removed the impossibilities only to see that there was nothing left? She was almost starting to cry now. Not just because of those intrusive thoughts trying to make her doubt Lorenzo. The bigger deal was that she was supposed to be an analyst. Master of logic, able to see the truth in a mountain of data. This was exactly the kind of task she was supposed to be good at, and she couldn’t do it at all. And after what had happened this morning, it was all too easy to wonder if Brock had been right about her. Was there any point to her presence on this team? Take the shot. Words so calm, about something so serious. She couldn’t get them out of her head. She just wasn't going to let herself dwell on which voice had said it. Or what a Lasserville negotiation might mean, or how Lorenzo's name had kept surfacing in ways that she couldn't quite interpret, couldn't twist into something innocent, so she stopped trying. There were at least a dozen possible explanations she hadn't thought of yet, and the most obvious explanation was always wrong in these situations. She knew that. You could read almost anything into thirty seconds of a conversation you came in at the end of, and the last thing she wanted to do was build a whole case against an innocent man based on a contextless snatch of conversation. She tried to turn her thoughts back to things she could actually do something about. Like how she was going to apologise to Brock. Not just for interrupting when he was listening; but for spending so long arguing with him when all the evidence said he could have been right. She still wasn’t convinced; but she still felt bad for being so rude about it. There had to be something she could do to make it up to him; but her thoughts were diverted again when she heard his car pulling up outside. She was already out of the front door before she had consciously decided to stand. The path felt longer than usual, or maybe she was just aware of covering it too fast for Estelle’s usual self-possession. The apology was already queueing up behind her lips, half-planned and likely to turn into a confused babble if she let any of her current emotions get too strong. As soon as she heard the car door close, she was stepping towards Brock, half bowing, trying to show him that she needed forgiveness. “Brock!” she called out, unable to wait any longer. She needed to apologise, and maybe to explain the thoughts that had led to her mistake in the hope he would understand. “I’m so sorry about this morning. I didn’t realise what you were doing until I watched the–” His hand closed around her wrist before she could get another word out, underscoring the sharp tone as he interrupted her. It was more decisive than rough, though that was splitting hairs. The kind of grip that communicated very clearly that she had said enough. She looked up at him and couldn’t read his expression at all. Maybe something close to long-suffering patience. “Quiet, sweetheart,” he was saying, but the words didn’t tell her anything that wasn’t conveyed more immediately by his firm grip on her arm. “I’ve got grown up things to deal with, so can you go play with your toys awhile? I’ll come talk to you when I’m done.” The words all made sense, but it was hard to understand what they were supposed to mean put together. ‘Grown ups’ stung more than she could have imagined; like he didn’t see her as an equal even after she had managed to find the ULF despite a lack of all the background knowledge he had used. She had never expected him to react like this, and she froze in the moment unsure of what he was trying to do. Was he that angry about what had happened this morning, so he wasn’t even willing to listen? Or was there something else? Did he just want to baby her, rather than treating her as a partner? She didn’t know if this was an attitude she should be railing against, or something she really deserved. And for half a second she froze, unable to find the words that she would need to respond to either eventuality. The fact that he was talking to her like a child was almost a threat; like he would use the trigger words and take away all of her choice if she showed the slightest reluctance to follow his instructions. So she needed to know what Brock really wanted, and she couldn’t think how to ask without risking… “Be good and go inside, baby girl.” The words came out of nowhere. And all of Isadora’s previous speculation was no longer relevant. She stalled in place, unsure how to respond. But before she said anything, Brock released her hand and was turning to one side. “What was that?” he asked, still in the jovial tone which seemed like his go-to persona for the poker games, but with an edge of steel tangible just behind the friendliness. And it was clear that the tone was understood. “I’m sorry,” Victor’s voice answered. He was standing by the back door of the car, like he’d only just stepped out. Brock must have given him a ride over, maybe to show him something or to discuss things they could subject their wives to. And as startled as Isadora was to realise that she’d missed the presence of a potential witness to their conversation – for the second time that day – she also felt reassured. Because suddenly everything made sense. Brock wasn’t being a pervert who wanted her to be a baby; and he wasn’t being a partner who didn’t value her contributions. At least not explicitly. Right now, he was just being Bernard Klein, and doing whatever was necessary in order to interrupt her before she could break cover in front of a friend. “You should be,” Brock said, that edge of steel still in his voice. He was open, friendly, casual, and yet somehow there was still a sense that the listener should be terrified if they hadn’t already been planning to do what Brock wanted. “I don’t think I ever told you our trigger words. Did I? So how did you know? And what makes you think it’s appropriate to say them without my permission?” “I… uhh…” Victor stammered, clearly realising that he was the one in Bernard’s crosshairs now. “I’m sorry, I just thought you might need a little help. It’s easy to get nervous when you’re used to… you know…” There was a moment of silence, as sharp as any knife. And Isadora could take in two things as she waited to see who would speak next. Firstly, Brock was upset with her but he still turned his harsh face towards Victor when the other man stepped out of line. He was defensive, protective, and that gave her a thrill she had never expected. And secondly, when the magic words had been spoken she hadn’t felt any need to obey. She’d heard the words and felt a thrill of terror when she imagined losing control like that, but there had been no urge to obey. She wondered whether that was because she had stepped away from the hypnosis long enough to resist its most potent effects. But she knew on some level that it was more likely her subconscious mind had recognised that Victor’s voice wasn’t Brock’s before she picked up on it herself. He didn’t have permission to use the trigger, so she could just ignore it. “I uhh…” another voice mumbled, from around the other side of the car. “I might have told him. I’m sorry.” “Okay,” Brock answered, his tone slow and measured. “I want to make it clear that Stella’s trigger is for my use only. I’ve spent some time making sure she can trust me again, because I don’t want her to fear me. And I’m not about to share until I know a lot more about what you think is an appropriate punishment.” Isadora’s heart leapt into her throat then. Not saying that she was safe; just that Victor needed to satisfy Brock’s test. She told herself that he was just playing the role, and that he would never actually give that permission. But she already found her imagination flooded by a deluge of possibilities; how it could feel if Victor had so much control over her. By the time she could clearly think again, the third man had finished rounding the car. Eli, she told herself. Eli Thorne. She had read his profile, and knew that he was a gardener working for a local landscaping firm. He mowed Victor’s lawn, among a few others, looked after the hedges at the Arrencani house, and also did some part-time work at the Yaxley Club. Isadora vaguely remembered concluding that Selma might have a romantic interest in the young man; but she wasn’t sure whether that was just the natural appeal of watching sandy-blond hair and those toned muscles flexing in the sun. It wasn’t hard to imagine being entranced, even without any plan to see more of him. Any feelings Stella might have had towards him were tainted now, though, by the times he had cared for her in the Pink Room. She’d called him Tyrone in her reports, before she could be sure about his real name. He was introducing himself now, which at least meant Isadora didn’t need to fake not knowing his name. “I’m Stella,” she answered, and then laughed, lowering her eyes so that she didn’t need to look at those pecs any longer. “I guess you know that.” “Yeah. Nice to meet you properly, Stella. I was just taking a look at your lovely garden. Victor suggested I might be able to help you out.” “I called you Tyrone,” Isadora mumbled, not sure whether or not that could be an acceptable thing to say. And then she imagined the surprise or confusion that must be on everyone else’s faces, and stammered without even raising her eyes from her own feet: “I mean, in that nursery they never even told me your name. So I imagined it would be Tyrone or something.” “I think I’d be okay with a name like that,” he broke the silence after a long pause. “I mean, it’s not like calling me Archibald, or Tarquin.” “Anyway,” Victor said. He came closer to Isadora again. But it’s clear he was still talking to Brock. “I thought it would be good for you to have a landscaper who’s not likely to pass on anything he overhears. But I think you’re still a little nervous about giving a little discipline when it’s needed. Maybe I could show you how to put her in her place?” “I know how to treat my wife, Victor,” Brock said sternly. “Maybe bratting is a request for punishment, or maybe she’s just excited to tell me what she’s been playing with. But in this case, I suspect a little spanking or some corner time would be more appropriate than forced regression. Unless that’s what she wants?” Isadora realised then that he was looking at her again. Inviting her to tell him what she was okay with. She immediately wanted to say that there was no need for punishment, and that she would promise to be good. But she was also sure that Brock would need to do something if he wanted to convince Victor and Eli that he was really treating his wife like a baby. She started shaking her head while she tried to think of the right words to say. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “I didn’t see anybody else was here, I didn’t mean to interrupt. I found something I want to show you, but it can wait if you’re busy. I promise, I’ll try not to do that again. But if you really want to…” She couldn’t think of any more words. She couldn’t bring herself to say what he was allowed to do to her. But somehow she wasn’t afraid, or upset, this time. She knew now that he wasn’t really angry with her, and that this might be nothing more than maintaining their cover. If that meant she had to take a spanking, well, it was a lot less than what some Operatives would have to endure if they were captured. In some weird way, it almost seemed like punishment would be a validation that she was a real field agent. “You need a firm hand,” Victor said, still offering advice. “It’s what you wanted, isn’t it? Show baby girl you’re serious, and maybe I can offer some tips.” “You’re probably right. That’s twice she’s let excitement overtake her today, so maybe a punishment would help her to learn when bratting is appropriate. Am I right, little one?” Isadora nodded slowly. She told herself that she was just playing a role, and that he wouldn’t really hurt her. That this didn’t mean anything, it was just something Stella needed to experience. That thinking about the next few minutes didn’t scare her at all, because she was sure Brock knew what he was doing. And that it excited her even less. “That’s good,” Brock said. “Let’s go inside then, and I’ll show you what punishment means in this house.”

You are right there is a lot more Chapters coming. Like about 120 more