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Chapter Seven — Strawberries and Chili  The second stroke comes before the first has finished. Smack. Harder. The uniform fabric doesn't protect anything. Heat spreads across skin already burning. The third. Smack. I hold my breath. Hands clenched around the chair legs. The fourth doesn't come. Sara holds me still. Her hand on my back. The silence in the room broken only by my short breath. "That's enough," she says. Her voice is calm. "I don't want to hurt you. I just want you to understand." Another silence. Tears fall. Silent. I can't stop them. Sara's hand shifts. Not to strike. She strokes my back. Softly. Through the fabric. "Up," she says. "Get up." She helps me. Legs weak. Bottom burning. I stand in front of her, hands wiping my cheeks. Sara looks at me. Her eyes are calm. No anger. Just a kind of tired patience. "Now," she says. "I'll change your diaper. Then you finish your shopping and go home." My fingers move. Find the edge of my skirt. Lift it. Sara nods. "Good girl." I lie down on the floor. The concrete is cold against my back. Neon light above me. Cardboard boxes stacked against the wall. Sara kneels. Her hands find the edge of the tights. Pulls them down. Slowly. Carefully. Cold air on the skin of my thighs. "Here we are," she murmurs. "Let's get this ugly diaper off." Her fingers find the tapes. Rip. The first. Rip. The second. The damp releases. The light smell of old urine rises in the air. Sara pulls the diaper out from under me. I feel it slide away. "Lift." My hips rise. The wet diaper comes free. Then I lower back down. Cold concrete against the bare skin of my bottom. Sara rolls the diaper into a ball. Sets it aside. The rustle of wipes. Cold wet on my skin. Light detergent. Precise strokes. Efficient. Not a caress. A cleaning. Then the new diaper. The plastic unfolding. The rustle of the soft inner lining. "Lift." My hips rise. The diaper slides under. The soft back against my bottom. Then down. The front tabs. Click. Click. Click. "Done." I pull myself up. The new diaper is thick. Soft. Warm around my hips. Sara straightens my skirt. Adjusts my apron. Her hands are gentle. Then I hear a different click. The pacifier. She clips it to my collar. "Here," she says. "Up. Come on. Let's finish this shopping." I head toward the back door. Sara's hand on my shoulder. Then I stop. I see the basket. The one where I put the strawberries. It's there, on the counter of the back room. I go closer. Look inside. The strawberries are ruined. Crushed. Red juice stains the cardboard. A few have white mold on one side. My heart drops. I lift the basket. Show it to Sara. I don't say anything. The pacifier is in my mouth. Eyes wet again. She bends down. Looks. "Oh." A pause. "I wanted to make a cake," I say. The voice comes out small. Infantile. "I wanted to make a cake with those strawberries. For Mrs. Smith. To thank her." My chin trembles. "They looked beautiful. Big. Red." My fingers touch the edge of the basket. "I wanted it to be perfect." Sara is quiet. She looks at me. Then she sighs. Turns. Takes another package from the sale counter. Normal strawberries. The ones from the shelf below. Beautiful. Red. Intact. She puts them in my cart. "Take these," she says. "I'll ring them up at half price. Strawberries are my favorite, and I want to taste this cake." Her hand on my shoulder. "Come on. Let's finish the shopping." I take her hand. She doesn't pull it away. She lets me hold her fingers. She walks with me through the aisles. The cart ahead. My steps beside hers. I stop at the spice shelf. Take the dried chili. A small red packet. Calabrian Chili — Hot. I turn to Sara. Rise on my tiptoes. She bends down. My mouth near her ear. The pacifier removed for a moment. Warm breath on her skin. "I want it to have an aphrodisiac effect." A moment of silence. Then she straightens. Eyebrows raised. "Ah." She laughs. A small laugh. Almost disbelieving. "Well, good luck to Mrs. Smith. And Mr. Smith, I imagine." We start walking again. "Do you need dark chocolate too?" she asks without turning. She already knows the answer. I nod. We get everything. Dark chocolate. Flour. Eggs. Powdered sugar. At the register, Sara scans it all. Beep. Beep. Beep. "Mrs. Smith said to put it on her tab," I say. Sara nods. Then I separate the cake ingredients. Set them aside. "Not these," I say. "This is my gift for Mr. and Mrs. Smith. I'll pay for it myself." I take out my wallet. Hands still trembling a little. But my voice is steady. Sara looks at me. Then shrugs. "As you like." She scans the cake ingredients. Beep. Beep. The total appears on the screen. I pay. Cash. Bills on the counter. She counts them. Puts them in the register. The drawer closes with a metallic click. "Here," she says. Hands me the receipt. "Good luck with the cake." She smiles at me. "And with tonight." I smile back. Shy. Cheeks warm. "Thank you, Miss Sara. For everything." "You're welcome, little one." The pacifier clips back to my collar. My fingers close around the shopping bags. I bow. Slight. Polite. "Goodbye." "Goodbye, Aisha. Come back anytime." I exit. The doorbell chimes behind me. The air outside is fresh. The sky is lower. The afternoon stretches out. I walk toward the bus stop. The bags dangling from my hands. The shelter is metal and glass. Two benches. A yellow sign with the timetable. I sit down. Set the bags beside me. Adjust my skirt. Knees together. Hands in my lap. The pacifier moves slowly. Rhythmic suckling. Relaxing. I look at the road. A few cars pass. A man on a bicycle. A dog sniffing a fire hydrant. The new diaper is thick around my hips. Clean. Dry. Perfect. I close my eyes for a moment. Breathe. The bus arrives with a sigh of compressed air. The doors open. I take the bags. Stand. Board. Chapter Eight — The Dinner The bus leaves me at the right stop. The sun is lower than when I left — the afternoon has bent toward evening, the light gone more golden. The villa gate is there. Open. Someone left it ajar. I enter. The shopping bags cut into my fingers. The gravel crunches under my shoes. The villa rises in front of me — the ground-floor windows lit, a warm light filtering through the kitchen curtains. The smell reaches me before I reach the door. Meat. Rosemary. Garlic. The door is open. I enter. The hallway is silent. The kitchen light spills onto the wooden floor. Low voices. Mrs. Smith's laugh. — ...I can't wait to see what she's done. Her voice. Then his, deeper, answering something I don't catch. I stop on the kitchen threshold. Mr. Smith is sitting at the table. His long hair loose over his shoulders, his shirt open at the collar. He looks relaxed. Mrs. Smith is beside him, a cup of tea in her hands, her silk robe open over her bare legs. They've already changed. Light evening clothes — him, dark trousers and a white shirt; her, a short wine-colored dress. They see me. Mrs. Smith smiles. — There she is. Our little chef. Mr. Smith turns. His eyes find me. A slow smile. — Welcome back. — M-Mr. and Mrs. Smith. I bow. The bags rustle. I straighten. — I got everything, ma'am. Flour, sugar, oil. And... I got some things for the cake too. I paid for it myself. It's a gift. Mrs. Smith raises an eyebrow. — A gift? — Y-yes. To thank you. For... everything. A silence. Mr. Smith looks at me. His eyes are warm. Then he nods. — Then we can't wait to taste it, can we? His hand finds Mrs. Smith's on the table. She smiles. — Absolutely. Mrs. Smith stands. Takes the bags from my hands. — Go put the shopping away. The pantry is waiting for you. I'll prepare something to drink. The pantry smells of wood and old flour. The shelves are dark wood, orderly. Glass jars lined up. Labels handwritten. I put away the flour. The sugar. The oil. Then I separate the strawberries. I wash them. I cut them. Red juice stains my fingers. The sweet smell fills the air. The chili I chop fine, almost a powder. I mix it into the melted chocolate, slowly, watching the color darken, the red lost in the dark brown. The batter is smooth. Soft. I pour it into the pan — the one I found in the cupboard, round, non-stick — and put it in the oven. The heat brushes my face when I close the door. The venison has been in its marinade since morning. Mrs. Smith prepared it, following my instructions. Red wine, rosemary, garlic, juniper. I open the fridge. The meat is there, submerged in the dark liquid, ready. I take it out. I dry it. I salt it. When the meat hits the hot pan, the hiss fills the kitchen. Smoke rises. The smell of the meat sealing, the crust forming. Behind me, I feel Mr. Smith's presence. He doesn't say anything. But I feel him there, on the threshold, watching me. I don't turn around. I keep cooking. The meat turns. The other side. The sound is satisfying — that ssssss that promises something good. Mrs. Smith enters. The clink of glasses. The wine flowing. — How much longer? — Ten minutes, ma'am. The meat needs to rest. Then I'll serve. — Perfect. The table is set when I bring the meat. I transfer it to a wooden carving board — the dark crust, the rosy slices inside, the juice slowly running. Beside it, roast potatoes. A celery root purée. The salad with walnuts. I put it all on the table. I stop. My hands clasped in front of my apron. Mrs. Smith nods. She takes the knife. Slices. The meat yields under the blade. Tender. The slice falls onto the plate. She offers a piece to Mr. Smith. He takes it. Brings it to his mouth. A bite. The silence. Then he closes his eyes. — My God. He chews. Slowly. Then swallows. — Katia. Where did you find her? — I told you. She's our new helper. He looks at me. His gaze is different. Warmer. More present. — You made all this? — M-Mr. Smith. Yes. — Philip. — ...Philip. His name on my tongue. Strange. Intimate. — Sit down — says Mrs. Smith. — Eat with us. I dine with them. It isn't food, what we eat. It's something more. Each bite is chewed in silence. Each sip accompanies a smile. The conversation is light — the weather, the garden, the deer Philip brought down — but underneath there's another current. Something growing. Then comes the moment for the cake. I bring it to the table. The cake is perfect — the smooth surface, the glossy glaze, the strawberries arranged in a circle on top, fanned out. Mrs. Smith looks at it. Then at me. — It's beautiful. — Taste it, ma'am. Please. I cut the first slice. Offer it to her. The second to him. Mrs. Smith lifts her fork. A piece. Brings it to her mouth. Silence. She chews. Her face relaxes. Then she closes her eyes. — Oh. A sigh. — Philip. Taste it. He takes his fork. Brings the cake to his mouth. Chews. Then he stops. His eyebrows rise. — What's in it? Mrs. Smith smiles. Doesn't answer. — It's... spicy — he says. — But sweet. It's... — Chili — I say. The voice comes out small. — I put Calabrian chili in the chocolate. A silence. Then Mr. Smith laughs. A low, warm laugh that comes from somewhere inside. — Chili. In a cake. — They say it's... an aphrodisiac. The words come out before I can stop them. Silence falls. Mrs. Smith puts down her fork. Looks at me. Her blue eyes are fixed on mine. — Aphrodisiac — she repeats. Her voice is low. Almost a whisper. — And who taught you these things, little Aisha? Heat rises to my face. I look at the plate. — I read it, ma'am. In a book on ancient cooking. Silence. Then Mrs. Smith takes another bite. And smiles. — Good girl. Mr. Smith finishes his slice. His eyes are dark, attentive. His breathing slower. Then Mrs. Smith stands. Her wine glass is empty. She moves to Philip. Places a hand on his shoulder. — Darling — she says. Her voice is soft. — Aisha has a surprise for you. Tonight. In the bedroom. He looks up at her. Then at me. — A surprise? — Yes. But you must be patient. Her fingers slide along his shoulder. Then she turns to me. — Aisha. Go to your room and get ready. — M-ma'am. — Go. I stand. My legs tremble a little. The diaper rustles under my skirt. Through the kitchen, the hallway, the stairs. My room is the same. The bed made. The pacifier on the nightstand. The window looking over the garden. The bunny pajama is in the wardrobe — folded, neat, pink. I spread it on the bed. The flannel onesie, soft, with ears sewn onto the hood, the white puff of a tail on the back, the snap buttons at the crotch. I undress. The uniform falls to the floor. I'm left in my diaper — the clean one Mrs. Smith put on me after the inspection. The diaper is thick. Soft. Printed with teddy bears playing with alphabet blocks. I take the pajama. Put it on. The long sleeves. The zipper up the front. The snap buttons at the crotch close with a decisive click. The diaper is trapped inside, soft, warm. I'm wearing only that and the diaper. Nothing underneath. The flannel brushes my skin. On the nightstand, the strawberry perfume. I spray a little on my wrists. Behind my ears. The room smells fruity, like a little girl, like overripe strawberries. The pacifier is there. I look at it. Then I take it. Put it in my mouth. The rubber closes between my lips. The sucking. The soft click of the air vent. I take a breath. Across the room. The door. The hallway. The bedroom door is there. Dark wood. A sliver of light underneath.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX   “Are you wearing the pull up I gave you?” Peter asked. “No.” Alex answered. Peter nodded. “Wanna sit down?” “Please.” The two sat down on the beanbag chairs. “So.” Peter said. “Have you ever thought about diapers before?” “I don’t think so.” Alex replied. “You don’t think so?” Alex started to think. Looking through the recesses of his mind and then it hit him. “Um, actually.” “Yeah?” “Do you remember two years ago when Aunt Molly, mom’s sister came over and she brought Nick (her second youngest son and their cousin) with her?” “Yeah. Nick was 5.” “And he was still in diapers because he didn’t want to potty train.” “Yeah. I almost snatched a few diapers out of the diaper bag.” Alex bit his lip. “I did.” “What?” “I took a diaper out of the diaper bag.” “You did?” “Yeah?” “Wait? Was that, that one soggy diaper that mom found thrown out in the downstairs hall bathroom?” “Yep.” “That was you?” “Yeah. I snatched it from Nick’s diaper bag when no one was looking and then went up to my room to put it and wore it until it was really wet and then threw it out in the downstairs hall bathroom.” “Oh.” “Yep.” “Um, okay.” “Yeah.” “Why did you take a diaper?” “I don’t know. The urge to take a diaper just came over me. I was looking at the diaper bag and I just decided to take one.” “Okay.” “And I think I just buried that in the back of my mind. I just completely remembered it.” Peter nodded again. “Okay.” “Yeah.” “Alex.” “Yeah?” “I think you might like diapers?” “Really?” “Yep.” “You don’t think it was a stupid childish whim?” “Nope.” “Okay.” “Did you want to take another diaper?” Alex thought again. “I, I did and I wanted to take a pull up too.” “Okay.” “When I took the diaper I wanted to take another one but I thought I heard someone coming. And Aunt Molly and Nick had left by the time I wanted to take a pull up.” “Alex?” “Yeah?” “That time we spent the weekend at Aunt Emily (another of their mom’s sisters) and Uncle Evan’s house and Aunt Emily found a pack of Simon’s (their second middle child and another cousin of the boys) diapers out on the couch was that you?” “It was. I wanted to look at them and I forgot to put them back.” “And Aunt Emily thought it was one of the younger kids fooling around.” “Yeah.” “Alex.” “Yeah?” “I really think you do like diapers.” “Really?” “Yeah.” “Are you sure?” “I think so. Did you want to take one of Simon’s diapers?” “Yeah. I wanted to see what they looked like and how they would fit.” “Then I think you do like diapers.” “Oh.” “And this is something else you pushed into the back of your mind?” “Um, yeah.” “I think you do like diapers Alex.” Before Alex could respond their came a knock on Peter’s closed bedroom door. “Peter? Alex?” Their mom’s voice came from the other side of the closed door.

cooked Hamburg in gravy over noodles

yes my typical morning get out of bed feed the cat fix my coffee take pills take a shot of insulin and check in here all still in my overnight wet n messy diaper from sleeping

I love your art! Im so glad you’re here. I hope we can chat sometime!