Mommies and Daddies

That's a tough one. I wear 24/7, so o brainer for me. But also no chance of running into a friend when I go to the dentist.

Similar to that, except that my legs would be spread apart as far as my diaper would allow. 

Chapter 11 “Here is where our shared journey concludes for now, Leo,” Mrs. Gable announced, her voice returning to that brisk, administrative tone as she steered the van toward the curb of the Oakhaven regional transit stop. She didn't put the vehicle in park; she simply let it idle, the low thrum of the engine vibrating through the chassis, creating a sense of urgency that mirrored the frantic beating of Leo's heart. She didn't open the door for him immediately. Instead, she spent a long moment adjusting the collar of his coat and smoothing a nonexistent crease in his trousers, her touch lingering with a proprietary heaviness. She was polishing the specimen before releasing it back into the wild. "Remember," she whispered, her lips nearly touching his ear, "the distance between you and me is currently measured in miles, but the distance between your will and my command is nonexistent. You are carrying my care with you." When the door finally clicked open, the biting winter air rushed in, instantly clashing with the stifling, clinical warmth of the van. Leo stepped out onto the salt-stained pavement, feeling suddenly naked despite the heavy layers of clothing. He felt the slickness of the barrier cream beneath his jeans—a secret, visceral tether that linked him to the woman in the driver's seat. As he turned to look at her, she wasn't smiling; she was observing him, ensuring his posture was submissive, his eyes downcast. "Wait here," she commanded. "Do not wander. Do not speak to anyone until your parents arrive. Just stand in your stillness and think of how quiet it is without me." The van didn’t just leave; it retracted the only world Leo knew how to navigate. As Mrs. Gable shifted into gear, the headlights flickered like closing eyelids, and the vehicle surged forward with a clinical efficiency. Leo stood frozen on the curb, his gaze locked on the receding red glow of the taillights, which shrank into two bleeding pinpricks against the gray Oakhaven horizon. The sound of the engine faded from a thrum to a whisper, and then to a void, leaving behind a silence so absolute it felt heavy. For the first time in months, there was no voice in his ear directing his breath, no nitrile-gloved hand guiding his movements, and no schedule governing his existence. This sudden autonomy was not a liberation; it was a vertigo. Without the anchor of her presence, the world felt dangerously vast and frighteningly loud. He felt the slick, humid residue of the barrier cream shifting against his skin with every small shiver, a secret, visceral reminder that he was still "managed" even in her absence. He was a curated object left in a public space, stripped of his internal compass. He didn't know how to stand—not really—without the subconscious pressure of her gaze correcting his posture. He felt the sudden, frantic urge to check his status, to report the pressure in his gut to a supervisor who was no longer there. The headlights of a silver sedan sliced through the Oakhaven mist, two piercing white eyes that found Leo standing rigid on the curb. As the car decelerated, the tires crunching rhythmically over the salted asphalt, Leo didn’t move to greet them. He remained in the same state of frozen readiness Mrs. Gable had cultivated, his shoulders locked, his gaze fixed on the pavement. He felt like a piece of luggage left at a terminal, waiting to be claimed. The window rolled down with a mechanical hum, and the voice of his father broke the silence—warm, booming, and entirely oblivious to the psychological architecture that now defined his son. "Leo! Look at you, you've grown practically an inch!" "Get in here, champ!" his father beamed, the driver's side door swinging open to reveal a man who looked like a softer, unmanaged version of Leo. His mother leaned over from the passenger seat, her face a map of genuine excitement, radiating a warmth that felt entirely alien to Leo. She reached out to ruffle his hair as he climbed into the backseat, her touch devoid of the clinical precision he had come to expect. It was a messy, affectionate gesture—unplanned and uncoordinated—and it sent a jolt of anxiety through Leo’s spine. He didn't know how to react to a touch that didn't have a purpose. As the sedan pulled away from the curb, the interior of the car became a cacophony of normalcy. His parents chatted animatedly about the neighborhood, the new bakery on Main Street, and the surprising amount of snow they’d gotten the previous Tuesday. They spoke to him as if he were still the boy who had left for college, ignoring the hollowed-out shell of the man who now sat in their backseat. To them, the silence of their son was merely "college brooding" or perhaps just the exhaustion of travel. They filled the voids of his silence with their own laughter, weaving a tapestry of ordinary domesticity that felt to Leo like a foreign language. The hallway of the family home was a gallery of ghosts, specifically the ghost of who Leo used to be. As he walked toward his old bedroom, his gaze snagged on the "Wall of Achievement," a crowded collection of framed snapshots and candid prints. There, frozen in a glossy 4x6, was a version of himself that felt like a stranger from a distant century. In the photos, Leo stood tall, his shoulders squared and his chin tilted up with a natural, effortless certainty. He was the centerpiece of a sibling huddle at a middle school track meet, his expression one of fierce, uncomplicated pride. He looked like a boy who owned his space in the world, whose movements were governed by his own desires rather than a clinical schedule. He stopped before a particularly vivid image from his seventeenth birthday. He was laughing, a wide, confident expression that reached his eyes, his arm draped casually over his younger brother’s shoulder. That Leo didn't wait for permission to breathe; he didn't report his biological status to a superior. He was certain of his place in the hierarchy of his own life. Looking at the photo now, the contrast was violent. The man standing in the hallway was hunched, his eyes habitually scanning the floor, his spirit carefully pruned to fit the narrow parameters Mrs. Gable had designed for him. The pride in the photograph felt like a mockery, a cruel reminder of the autonomy he had traded for the comfort of total submission. “Gotcha!” The shout didn't come from a distance; it materialized as a pair of muscular arms wrapping around Leo’s waist from behind, hoisting him off the carpet with a sudden, violent jerk. It was Toby, the younger brother who had always been a whirlwind of kinetic energy, now a collegiate athlete with a grip like a vice. Before Leo could even process the sensation of flight, he was slammed backward into a heap of laundry and old pillows, the air leaving his lungs in a sharp, undignified wheeze. Leo didn’t laugh. Instead, his heart hammered against his ribs as he lay sprawled on the floor, his mind instantly diverting from the shock of the tackle to a frantic, internal audit of his clothing. His first instinct was not to push Toby off, but to instinctively clutch at his waistband. He felt a surge of genuine panic that the impact might have shifted his trousers, or worse, that the slickness of the barrier cream—still damp and heavy against his skin—might have caused the fabric to slide, exposing him to his brother’s gaze. He imagined the cream leaking through the denim, a clinical secret revealed in the middle of a living room. Then, as the adrenaline ebbed, a wave of profound absurdity washed over him. He was a grown man, lying in his childhood home, terrified that his pants were slipping because of a layer of zinc-oxide cream applied by his landlady in a gas station restroom. The sheer ridiculousness of his worry—the specific, manic nature of it—made him feel small in a way that had nothing to do with Toby’s weight. He was operating on a frequency of shame that his family couldn't even perceive, a secret frequency tuned exclusively to Mrs. Gable's requirements. Leo forced a laugh, the sound rattling in his throat like a loose stone. He shoved Toby’s shoulder, the push lacking any real conviction, but it was enough to create the distance he needed to verify his integrity. He didn't just push; he performed the role of the returning son, the brother who could still take a joke and give one back. He played the part with a desperate, meticulous energy, hoping that the outward projection of normalcy would act as a camouflage for the strange, sliding sensation of the barrier cream against his skin. “Get off, you lunatic!” Leo managed to shout, his voice pitching higher than he intended. He scrambled to his feet, his movements stiff, subconsciously fighting the lubricant that made his trousers feel as though they were migrating south of his hips. Every twitch of his muscles felt like a gamble against gravity. He focused on the physical sensation of his waistband, imagining it as a fortified wall, the only thing preventing the secret of his submission from leaking into the living room. “Supper is ready!” his mother sang out from the kitchen, the phrase acting as a dinner bell for a version of Leo that no longer existed. It was a call to gather, a summons to the family table where the only expectations were a hearty appetite and an update on his semester. For a moment, the warmth of the house and the smell of roasting garlic almost drowned out the clinical echo in his mind. But as he turned toward the dining room, he felt a sudden, sharp pinch of anxiety. To his parents, "supper" was a celebration of his return; to Leo, it was a timed event, a gap in his schedule that had not been approved by his manager. He followed Toby into the dining room, his gait slightly unnatural. The barrier cream had begun to set, creating a tacky, restrictive sensation that made him feel as though he were wearing a garment that didn't quite fit. Every time he shifted his weight, he could feel the invisible brand of Mrs. Gable’s care. He sat down in his old chair, the one with the carved initials of his grandfather, and felt a wave of vertigo. The domesticity of the scene—the mismatched napkins, the steaming bowl of mashed potatoes, the casual chatter of his father—felt like a movie set he had been cast in without a script. “So, the real question is,” his father said, leaning back with a glass of iced tea that condensed in the warm room, “who’s the lucky girl? Or are you still playing the field with a few different study partners?” The question landed like a physical blow. For a heartbeat, Leo’s mind went blank, searching for a narrative that didn't involve the clinical scent of latex or the rigid schedule of a landlady. He thought of the void where his social life used to be, now replaced by the singular, all-consuming presence of Mrs. Gable. He couldn't exactly explain that his primary relationship was with a woman who monitored his bowel movements and treated his autonomy as a symptom of disorder. “No one specifically,” Leo stammered, his voice sounding thin against the domestic roar of the dinner table. “Just… you know, the Macroeconomics curve is brutal. I’ve spent most of my time in the library. There’s this group of students, a study circle, but we’re all just trying to survive the semester.” He felt the lie tasting like ash in his mouth, but it was a plausible shield. He described a vague circle of acquaintances, inventing a classmate named Marcus who was obsessed with Keynesian theory, weaving a tapestry of a normal, boring college existence. As he spoke, he realized he was performing a play for an audience that desperately wanted to believe he was still their son. “And your classes? Still leaning toward the sociology track?” his mother asked, her eyes searching his face for a spark of the boy who used to be certain of his future. “No idea, really. I’m just… feeling it out,” Leo replied, his voice trailing off into the steam of the mashed potatoes. He tried to project a casual indifference, the kind of aimless drifting that characterizes a twenty-year-old in the middle of a crisis of identity. His mother paused, her fork halfway to her mouth, her gaze narrowing with a mixture of curiosity and concern. “That’s unlike you, Leo,” she replied softly. “You’ve always been the one with the five-year plan. Even at ten, you knew exactly which museums you wanted to visit in Europe. You don't just 'feel things out.'” “I’m just trying something new,” Leo said, his voice sounding brittle and rehearsed. “A certain... uncertainty. You know, just letting life happen without a map.” His mother laughed, a warm, melodic sound that should have felt comforting but instead felt like a critique of his performance. “Oh, honey, you’re just experiencing the Great College Crisis. Everyone goes through a phase where they pretend to be a bohemian philosopher for a semester. Just don't let it get in the way of your GPA.” “So, how is the GPA looking, Leo?” his father asked, leaning back in the chair with a satisfied exhale. It was a question rooted in a decade of tradition, a casual check-in on the metrics of success that had always defined the men in his family. Leo paused, the fork halfway to his mouth. For a moment, the dining room faded, replaced by the sterile, white-tiled reality of Mrs. Gable’s domain. He thought of the late-night study sessions that had been interrupted by "hygiene checks," the lectures he had missed because he was recovering from a chemically induced collapse in a nursing lounge, and the sheer amount of mental energy now diverted away from Macroeconomics and toward the meticulous management of his own body. He was still passing—barely—but the academic excellence that had been his identity in high school had eroded, replaced by a desperate, singular focus on pleasing his landlady. He was no longer competing with his classmates; he was competing with the clock and the clinical requirements of his life. “I’m doing pretty well,” Leo replied. The lie felt smooth, a practiced evasion. He didn’t mention the C+ in his latest seminar or the fact that his notebooks were now secondary to the schedule of his biological functions. To his father, "pretty well" meant a steady climb toward a degree; to Leo, it meant he hadn't suffered a public accident in three weeks. “That’s my boy,” his father beamed, oblivious to the psychological wreckage beneath the surface. “Keep that momentum. Just think—another two years and a half, and you’re navigating the real world.” “So, are you going to do any internships this summer?” his father asked, the question arriving with the casual weight of an expectation. Leo froze. To his father, an internship was a strategic stepping stone, a way to build a resume. To Leo, the concept of a summer commitment—a structured environment where he would have to manage his own time, his own dress code, and most importantly, his own biological functions without a supervisor—felt like being asked to walk a tightrope over a canyon without a net. He could almost feel the phantom grip of Mrs. Gable’s hand on his elbow, the clinical certainty of her voice reminding him that he was incapable of navigating a professional space without her "guiding hand." The thought of an office, a cubicle, a communal restroom where he would be alone and unsupervised, sent a shiver of genuine terror through him. “I’m not sure yet. I’ll have to think about it,” Leo managed, the words feeling like a fragile bridge over a chasm of panic. He could almost hear the sharp, corrective click of Mrs. Gable’s tongue in his ear, reprimanding him for the hesitation. As he looked at his father’s expectant face, a sudden, intrusive thought surfaced: would Mrs. Gable even allow it? He imagined the conversation—Leo tentatively asking for permission to enter the professional world, and her clinical, amused response. Even if she granted it, the logistical nightmare began to unfold in his mind. How would the arrangement actually work? He envisioned himself in a crisp button-down shirt and slacks, sitting in a corporate boardroom, while beneath the table, the hidden architecture of his dependency remained intact. Would she insist on accompanying him? Could he imagine her standing in a lobby, her hand firmly on his elbow, directing him toward a cubicle like a prized, precarious pet? “Actually, Leo, there’s something I’ve been meaning to mention,” his father said, leaning forward with an expression of genuine excitement. “Your Uncle Jim is running the logistics firm in the city. He’s looking for a junior associate, and he’s practically begging me to put a word in for you. It’s a high-pressure environment, but it’s the kind of place that molds a man. However,” he paused, his gaze becoming thoughtful, “he’s also offering a placement in the rural development branch—much slower pace, more independent. I told him I’d leave the choice to you. Depending on which path you decide, the opportunity is yours for the taking.” The words "decide" and "choice" felt like foreign concepts to Leo, echoing in a hollow chamber where his autonomy used to reside. He looked at his father, and for a moment, he felt a surge of genuine nausea. The idea of choosing—of making a decision that would dictate his future—was paralyzing. He didn't know how to weigh two options without a supervisor to evaluate them for him. He could almost see Mrs. Gable standing in the corner of the dining room, her arms crossed, her clinical gaze dissecting his hesitation. He imagined her voice, a sharp contrast to his father's warmth: *“You cannot decide, Leo. You don't even know how to dress yourself without guidance. How can you possibly choose a career path?”* “Of course, we don't need to rush into the specifics tonight,” his father continued, oblivious to the internal collapse occurring across the table. “But keep in mind, the registrar's office is a beast. If you want to pivot your degree, you really need to decide your major, Leo... by Christmas, really. That's the hard deadline for the spring shift.” The word *Christmas* usually conjured images of pine needles and the warmth of the fireplace, but in this moment, it sounded like a sentencing date. To Leo, the deadline wasn't just an academic requirement; it was a ticking clock that measured his distance from a normal life. He looked down at his plate, the mashed potatoes now a bland, lukewarm mass. He wondered if Mrs. Gable knew about the December deadline. He could almost see her marking a calendar with a red pen, not to help him choose a major, but to ensure that whatever choice he made was one that kept him tethered to her. In her world, a major wasn't a career path—it was a variable in her management of him. The thought flickered into existence like a rogue spark in a dark room: perhaps he wouldn’t tell her. The notion that he could withhold a piece of information—a deadline, a career opportunity, a simple fact of his academic life—felt like an act of high treason. It was a small, secret rebellion, a tiny sliver of autonomy that he could clutch in his fist and hide from her clinical gaze. For a fleeting moment, the idea of a private thought felt like a sanctuary, a place where Mrs. Gable’s influence stopped at the perimeter of his skull. But as he contemplated this silence, the weight of it became oppressive. He realized that withholding the information would require a level of deceptive confidence he no longer possessed. To keep a secret from Mrs. Gable was to invite a discovery, and in her world, an undiscovered secret was a victory, while a discovered one was a failure of transparency. The mere act of imagining the deadline as his own, rather than something to be reported and managed, sent a tremor through his hands. The silence wasn't a shield; it was a liability. “Let’s talk about the options after supper,” his father suggested, the phrase hanging in the air like an invitation to a future Leo no longer knew how to inhabit. It was a casual suggestion, a fatherly attempt to carve out a space for mentorship and planning. But to Leo, the word *options* felt like a cruel joke. In his current existence, there were no options, only protocols. There was no "branch" of a firm or a choice of major; there was only the singular, crushing trajectory of Mrs. Gable’s design. He watched his father’s face—the earnestness, the genuine desire to help his son navigate the complexities of adulthood—and felt a profound sense of grief. This was the gap between them: a world where a young man’s future was discussed over coffee and dessert, and a world where a young man’s dignity was scrubbed away with a clinical sponge. The "options" his father wanted to discuss were professional and academic; the options Leo actually faced were whether he would be allowed to use the bathroom independently or if he would have to wait for a supervisor's signal.  

IF i wear to bed its just a diaper thats it nothing else except sock because my feeties get cold 

I'm going to the dentist this week and I've worn there in the past, but there is a friend of a friend that works there. I almost never see her but there is the off chance that she could clean my teeth if my regular person is out that day.  I'm confident that if I wear a long cover shirt it should be discreet. Even with my Better Dry 10. What do you guys think?