Rainbow Diapers

e story I’m writing has this constant switch between mom, mommy, and mother. For the record, dad, daddy, and father have the same connotations, but I rarely use them when I write. When I refer to a father figure, it’s almost always dad, except in dialogue from female characters speaking to their father. I use mom for a familiar but still respectful tone. Mommy is the diminutive term, and it is always powerful. Mother is a cold and distant term. A lot of this is personal. I lost my mom when I was 16, and I always say that I lost my mom, not my mommy, and definitely not my mother. In our stories, when the connotation really matters, how do you code-switch between the three terms? In my current story, it’s hard because I need to keep track of those three terms. In his dialogue, especially when he is trying to win her over, he uses mommy. When he is talking about her, his default is mom, and when he wants distance, it’s mother. There is also the added layer of what happens when the possessive my is included.

I have a feeling this one may spark just as many fans as it will those "repulsed" by a pivotal moment in this chapter. Enjoy Chapter One Hundred & Sixteen: Part Seven: Harley turned, her high ponytail swinging like a bright pink banner, and followed Paul as he led her down the hallway past the kitchen. From her angle, she had an unobstructed view of his backside, and the sight hit her like a slow-motion wave. Paul’s red Coyotes jersey had ridden up slightly, the hem caught in the waistband of his thick Safari-themed diaper. With every step the diaper crinkled loudly, the puffy white padding shifting and bouncing in that unmistakable, adorable toddler waddle. The jungle animals printed across the seat stretched and flexed with the motion of his padded bottom, the plastic shell gleaming faintly under the hallway lights. Harley’s breath caught. Her eyes traced every crinkle, every sway, and inside her chest something hot and possessive uncoiled. Her pupils widened slightly behind her glasses, the corners of her lips twitching as her mind flickered—   God, look at him, she thought, the hunger rising sharp and sudden. She could already picture herself reaching up, not with gentle pats but with both hands—grabbing the back of that diaper, crinkling the buttery-smooth plastic between her fingers, feeling the thick, swollen padding press against her palms. The mental image sent chills racing down her spine. Aww, wook at my wittle Pauly-wauwy waddling awound in his big, soggy diapee! Does my sweet wittle baby have a full, heavy bottom? Does he? Yes he does! Yes he does! Mommy Hawwey’s gonna take such good care of her pwecious wittle stinker! The over-the-top baby talk echoed in her head, bright and intoxicating, the kind of playful nonsense she could shower him with for hours.   Harley’s pulse quickened. She could see it so clearly—scooping him up, bouncing him on her hip, cooing right in his ear while her hands squeezed that crinkly, padded backside. The fantasy was so vivid she almost reached out right then.  Her fingers flexed once at her side. Just once. Then she pulled it back. Controlled it. Because this wasn’t that moment. Not yet.   “…focus,” she muttered under her breath, barely audible.   But she didn’t. She snapped herself out of it the moment Paul stopped in front of the bedroom door on the left, opened it, and stepped inside. Harley followed, and the sight that greeted her made her heart stutter. “This is… temporary,” Paul had said earlier. But Harley didn’t see temporary. She saw a fully realized world.   The elevated rail bed sat prominently, structured yet soft, surrounded by walls painted with younger, brighter versions of heroes—superheroes and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, but softened, simplified, made safe. The colors weren’t loud, but they were alive.   Her eyes darted immediately to the now-prominent changing table, fully stocked and on full display: stacks of Safari, Critter Caboose, and ABU Pre-school diapers lined up neatly, wipes, creams, and powders arranged with care. No more hiding. No more shame. Just open, honest acceptance. Finally, her gaze locked on the large rocking chair near the far window, bathed in soft afternoon light. Harley’s heart nearly exploded at the simple, perfect image that flashed through her mind—sitting there, cradling Paul against her chest, rocking him slowly while he nursed from a bottle or simply leaned into her.   This is it, she thought, the hunger twisting into something deeper, almost reverent. This is where I belong. This is where he belongs. With me.   “Harley?” Paul’s voice pulled her back. “Harley?” She blinked. Snapped back. Because she realized— She hadn’t moved. Hadn’t said anything. Hadn’t even breathed properly. And Paul— Paul was watching her now.   Waiting. Bracing.   Expecting something else entirely. Maybe too much. Maybe too exaggerated. Maybe too much like everyone else. But what came out instead— Was simple. Measured.   “I think it’s cute.”   Paul blinked. Confused.   “And smart.”   “…smart?” he repeated.   Harley smiled then—finally moving, stepping toward him—but not reaching where he expected. Not pulling at his waistband. Not commenting on what she had clearly just seen. Instead— She placed a hand gently on his shoulder. Grounding. Normal.   “Yeah, smart,” she said softly. “Because of how close your parents are to you, silly.”   She ruffled his hair lightly, the gesture easy, natural—teenager to teenager, not caretaker to child. Paul’s shoulders relaxed a fraction. The surprise showed in his eyes—he had expected the usual onslaught of coddling. Instead Harley was treating him like… a person. His tracker stayed a steady green. For the first time in a long while, being around someone who knew about his condition didn’t feel like walking a tightrope.   Harley moved over to the changing table, spotting Paul’s diaper bag hanging on the opposite wall. She quickly slung it onto the table and began packing it with calm efficiency: three Safari disposables, three Critter Caboose, two ABU Pre-school, a full package of wipes, and a container of baby powder. Satisfied, she turned back to him.   “Okay silly-billy, are you gonna put on a pair of shorts or did you want to get ice cream without pants?”   Harley couldn’t help the small giggle that escaped as Paul looked down at himself, cheeks turning a little red but a small smile breaking through anyway. He shook his head.   “Right… my shorts are upstairs. I’ll go get them and we can go.”   Harley nodded, slinging the now-packed diaper bag over her shoulder. They left the nursery together. At the door she paused for just a second longer, her smile turning whimsical on the surface but laced underneath with a hint of wickedness and a quiet dash of sadness. Not yet, she thought. But soon. This room is perfect… and one day it’ll be ours.   She closed the door softly behind them and walked into the kitchen. “Need any help getting up the stairs?”   Paul shook his head. “I can do it. I promise I’ll be careful.”   Harley nodded as he disappeared up the staircase behind the pantry. While he was gone she grabbed his Safari adult-sized sippy cup from the cabinet, filled it with ice, cracked open a can of La Croix vanilla-orange sparkling water, and poured it over the ice before screwing on the sippy top.   Paul returned a minute later wearing a pair of cargo shorts. Harley could still hear the faint crinkle of his thick diaper with every step, but she simply smiled—normal, easy, no exaggeration. Paul brought down his shoes and sat gingerly on the banquette bench in the kitchen. He looked up at her shyly but with as much maturity as he could muster.   “Could you help me put these on and tie them for me?”   Harley was ready to shower her “sweetie-pie” with kisses, but she kept her voice light and normal.   “No worries, Paul. I’ve got you.”     Harley laced up his shoes with careful, steady hands, her mind already spinning ahead.  He’d look even cuter in Velcro shoes with little Barney or Bluey designs, she thought, but she kept the idea to herself for now. Once his shoes were on, Harley helped him up and handed him the sippy cup.   “You need to stay hydrated with a little treat before ice cream.”   Harley watched him take the first sip. His eyes widened, a genuine smile lighting up his face.   “Oh Harley, thank you. I haven’t had flavored La Croix for like forever.”   Harley smiled back, opening her own cooled can and taking a sip with a playful wink. “Just don’t tell your mom or dad.”   Paul shook his head, promising he wouldn’t. They left the house through the front door. Harley suggested,   “Why don’t you sit in the back? The tinted windows will hide you while you drink your sippy cup.”   Paul agreed without hesitation. He climbed gingerly into the back seat of Harley’s mint-green Toyota Corolla. Harley buckled him in carefully, placed the diaper bag on the seat beside him, and closed the door with a soft click. She slid into the driver’s seat, adjusted the rearview mirror so she could see him, and started the engine. In the mirror Paul was already sipping from the sippy cup, looking smaller and more relaxed than he had in days.   Harley’s hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel, the hunger still simmering beneath her calm exterior. She had played it perfectly so far—measured, normal, safe. But the nursery, the crinkling diaper, the way Paul had trusted her enough to ask for help with his shoes… every little moment was fuel.     The Corolla’s engine hummed low and steady as it pulled away from the curb, tires whispering over asphalt, then a more polished & vintage tire rolled slowly over stone.   Not at a curb. Not outside a house.   But at the top of a sweeping wraparound drive, where arrival itself felt ceremonial. The black Rolls-Royce came to a stop in front of Club Continental, its polished body reflecting the estate’s golden holiday lights and the fading December sky above Orange Park. Late afternoon had softened into that delicate hour where the sun no longer warmed so much as illuminated, laying amber across the stucco walls, the red clay roof, the arched windows, the moss-hung oaks swaying gently as if the whole property had been waiting decades for this exact entrance.   The estate looked less like a hotel and more like memory made architecture.   Mediterranean lines.   Old Florida grace.   Green shutters.   Ivy clinging to the walls.   Garlands wrapped around the entry rails, wreaths hung beneath arches, and warm white lights traced the roofline in a restrained but unmistakably expensive glow.   Inside the car, Bryan adjusted his cuff once. Not because it needed adjusting. Because his hand needed somewhere to put the weight of what he was carrying. Tonight was supposed to be a party. A studio holiday event. A polished evening of handshakes, champagne, music, and easy laughter. But beneath all of that sat the truth he had brought with him like a second shadow: he needed an answer. He needed a way forward that didn’t pull him across oceans, across time zones, across production schedules that had already stolen too much from his family once before.   Tokyo still lived in him.   Not as a place. As guilt. As missed mornings. As phone calls taken from hotel rooms. He had told himself for years that work was sacrifice. That sacrifice was love. But now, with Paul home, hurt, recovering, vulnerable in ways Bryan was still learning how to hold, that answer no longer felt noble.   It felt incomplete.   The driver stepped out first, dressed like he belonged to another era—pressed dark uniform, polished shoes, cap angled with exact care, the entire look recalling a 1930s professional chauffeur without ever tipping into costume. He moved with precision, closing his door softly before circling the Rolls-Royce and opening Bryan’s.   Bryan stepped out into the coastal breeze.   The white embroidered overcoat caught the air immediately, lifting just slightly from his frame, revealing the deep navy three-piece suit beneath. The coat was dramatic, yes, but not theatrical on him. It looked earned. White fabric flowed down past his knees, the dark embroidery crawling along one side and near the hem like smoke captured in thread. Beneath it, the vest sat close against his chest, the navy rich and controlled, the crisp shirt and tie giving him the kind of presence that made people look twice without knowing they had. He stood for half a second in the gold light. Then turned back.   His hand extended. And Lilly took it.   She emerged from the car like the evening had been waiting for her. The royal-blue gown moved first, soft and fluid, the lace sleeve shimmering faintly as she stepped carefully onto the drive. The off-the-shoulder neckline framed her collarbones with quiet elegance, the fabric gathering at her waist before falling in graceful lines, the high slit offering a flash of leg with each motion—not loud, not attention-seeking, but deeply assured.   Bryan’s hand tightened gently around hers. For a long moment they simply stood there, arm in arm, gazes locked as deeply as the ocean itself. He leaned closer, voice low.   “You’re going to ruin every other dress in that room.”   Lilly laughed softly, the sound disappearing into the breeze.   “And you’re going to make half the studio wonder if you’re here for the party or to take over a gothic kingdom.”   Bryan smiled.   “There’s still time.”   She slipped her arm through his. And together, they walked toward the entrance.   Inside, the holiday world unfolded around them. The ballroom opened wide beneath cascading chandeliers and strings of golden lights draped across the ceiling like constellations pulled indoors. A towering Christmas tree stood at the center, dressed in crimson ribbon, gold ornaments, deep green velvet bows, and crystal pieces that caught the glow with every flicker of candlelight. Garlands ran along the balcony rails, thick with pine, berries, and warm lights, while tall cocktail tables stood dressed in ivory linens, each one crowned with small arrangements of winter roses, eucalyptus, and gold-dusted pinecones.   Above the entrance hung the banner.   Legendary Holiday   The word “Legendary” carried the studio’s unmistakable style, bold and cinematic, but tonight it had been softened by the season—gold lettering, evergreen trim, tiny lights woven into the edges like stars.   Music wrapped around everything.   A half orchestra occupied the small stage: violinists in black, bows moving like synchronized breath; a grand piano shining beneath candlelight; brass players waiting with polished horns; a saxophonist whose instrument gleamed warm under the chandeliers; a harpsichord tucked elegantly near the strings; a drummer seated behind a restrained kit, brushes resting lightly in hand.   Everything felt expensive. Classy. Old-world. Designed to make power feel festive.   “Bryan!”   Jason Williamson approached before they could get far, and Bryan felt the evening shift into its second rhythm. Jason was in his late fifties but carried himself with that executive ease that came from years of being listened to. His tuxedo was charcoal with a subtle sheen, the lapels sharp, the pocket square perfectly folded. His hair was silver at the temples, his smile practiced but not false.   Beside him, Betty his partner of nearly 30 years looked impeccable in an emerald gown with long sleeves and a structured waist, her blond hair pinned elegantly, diamonds at her ears catching the chandelier light like small sparks. She greeted Lilly warmly, the kind of air-kiss embrace that belonged to women who understood public grace and private evaluation in equal measure.   “Lilly, you look stunning,” Betty said.   “So do you,” Lilly replied, smiling with the polished warmth she knew how to wear without losing sincerity. “This place is unbelievable.”   “Jason insisted on history this year,” Betty said, glancing toward her husband. “He said if we were going to celebrate legacy, we needed a room that had some.”   Bryan shook Jason’s hand firmly.   “Good call.”   Jason smiled. “Coming from you, that means something.”   There was laughter. Small talk. The graceful machinery of corporate affection. But Bryan knew the window would be brief.   As another couple approached behind them, he leaned slightly toward Jason, voice dropping beneath the music.   “Have you had a chance to review my request?” he asked. “Not just North America. Local.”   Jason’s smile remained in place, but his eyes sharpened.   “We have,” he murmured. “Bryan… it’s a lot to ask.”   Bryan nodded once.   “I know.”   And he did. He knew exactly what it meant. Projects moved where money moved. Talent followed schedules. Presidents didn’t get to rewrite geography because their hearts had finally caught up to their families.   But he also knew what he had given.   Twenty-five years of injuries hidden under professionalism. Twenty-five years of making other people look heroic on screen while absorbing the risk behind it. Twenty-five years of saying yes.   His jaw tightened slightly.   “You know me, Jason. Twenty-five plus years. I gave it everything. Especially after Rachel passed.” His voice stayed low, but something inside it turned raw. “I could’ve stepped away then. Maybe I should’ve. But I didn’t.”   Jason’s expression softened just enough. Bryan continued.   “I need that chance now. For me. For Lilly. For my son.” A beat. “He’s sick.”   That last word did something to him. Even saying it quietly. Even here. Even dressed like this. It stripped away the polish. Jason’s hand came to Bryan’s back, a public gesture covering a private response.   “Find me later,” he said. “We have a solution. It puts your needs first, but keeps you in play.” His hand pressed once, firm. “We can’t afford to lose you, Bryan.”   And then the line moved.   Smiles returned. The moment vanished into the party before anyone else could notice. But Lilly had seen enough. Not heard every word. But felt the shift. When Bryan turned back to her, she didn’t ask. Not yet.   She simply slid her hand into his again. A small gesture. A quiet answer. I’m here.   They moved deeper into the venue, letting the ballroom breathe around them. Near a side hall, a small crowd gathered around several hand-painted oil portraits displayed on easels—different versions of the estate across generations. In one, the property stood almost untouched by modernity, its waterfront view open and bright. In another, guests in early twentieth-century dress gathered beneath the trees. Another showed the estate alive with evening lanterns, women in gowns, men in suits, old Florida glamour caught in brushstrokes.   An employee stood beside them, speaking with practiced pride.   “Club Continental’s history begins in the 1880s, when B.J. Johnson, founder of the Palmolive Soap Company, came south looking for a place to escape the harsh Wisconsin winters…”   Lilly slowed instinctively. Bryan followed. The guide continued.   “His daughter, Karrie, fell in love with Orange Park. In 1906, she and her husband purchased a waterfront estate dating back to around 1870. They named it Winterbourne—‘Winter Waterway,’ from her husband’s native Scottish tongue.” Lilly looked up at the painting of the estate in earlier years, and something about it pulled at her.   A home becoming a gathering place. A private life becoming legacy. A family story turned into a venue where strangers came to celebrate.   “…in the early 1920s,” the guide went on, “the estate was full during the season. Guests came from the north. There were bridge games, horseback riding, boating, swimming, and formal balls. Some of the fountains and tiles from that period still remain.”   Bryan leaned slightly toward Lilly.   “People have been coming here for a century to pretend life is simpler than it is.”   Lilly smiled faintly.   “Maybe that’s what parties are for.”   Bryan looked at her.   “Is that what we’re doing?”   She held his gaze.   “For tonight?” she said softly. “Maybe we’re allowed.”   That landed gently between them. But tonight wasn’t betrayal. Tonight was oxygen.     They continued toward the bar. The bar itself was dark wood and polished brass, lined with glassware that caught the chandelier light. Bottles stood arranged like jewels, and behind them, bartenders moved with elegant efficiency.   “What are you having?” Bryan asked.   Lilly scanned the holiday menu, then smiled at one drink near the bottom.   “That one sounds dangerous enough to trend.”   The bartender followed her gaze.   “Cranberry Snowglobe Spritz,” he said. “Vodka, cranberry, rosemary syrup, prosecco, sugared rim, edible shimmer.”   Lilly’s eyes lit.   “Absolutely.”   Bryan shook his head affectionately.   “Of course.”   “And you?”   “Florida Old Fashioned,” Bryan said. “Bourbon, grapefruit, orange bitters.”   The drinks arrived like small performances. Lilly’s was ruby-red and sparkling, a rosemary sprig tucked against the rim, sugared cranberries floating near the top, edible shimmer swirling when she lifted the glass. She took a sip, paused, then gave Bryan a look.   “Oh, that is absolutely going online later.”   Bryan took a slower sip of his Old Fashioned, the citrus cutting through the bourbon warmth.   “Mine tastes like someone made a classic cocktail retire in Florida.”   Lilly laughed.   “There’s your caption.”   They mingled after that, the night taking them through clusters of people who knew Bryan by reputation, by scars, by old productions, by impossible sequences he had made possible without ever needing credit. They sipped slowly, glad-handing with a few couples—producers, stunt coordinators, and studio executives who all wanted a moment with the man who had coordinated some of Legendary’s most iconic action sequences. Bryan introduced Lilly with quiet pride, his hand never leaving the small of her back. The conversations were light but genuine, a reminder of the professional world they both still belonged to even as their personal world had shifted so dramatically around Paul. A stunt coordinator clapped him on the shoulder and told a story about a rain sequence in Atlanta that had almost gone sideways. Then a younger director stumbled slightly over praise, clearly nervous, and Bryan made it easy for him with a joke that let him breathe.   Lilly watched him in those moments.   The way he gave people his attention. Not all of himself. But enough. He was respected, yes. But more than that, he was trusted. And she realized again, not for the first time, that Bryan’s strength had never been the spectacle. It was not the explosions, the falls, the fight choreography, the chaos he could control on set.   It was the way people relaxed when he entered a difficult room. The way danger became manageable because Bryan Goldhawk had looked at it and decided it would be.   Bryan, meanwhile, watched Lilly from across conversations and felt that old pull in his chest. She was effortless tonight. Not because she wasn’t trying. But because she had stopped trying to be only one thing. She could charm Betty Williamson, speak intelligently with a studio marketing VP, joke with a wardrobe head about impossible dress fittings, and still glance toward Bryan every few minutes in a way that said, I know where home is.   That was the thing about Lilly. She shone. But she didn’t drift.   The orchestra shifted. At first it was subtle. A tightening of strings. A darker pulse from the piano. Then the first unmistakable phrase of Carol of the Bells rose through the ballroom—but transformed. Not the usual clean holiday version. This one built like thunder under glass. Violins moved in sharp, haunting repetition while the piano struck beneath them with cinematic weight. The drums entered gently, then with more insistence. Brass warmed the edges.   Then the saxophone joined. Smooth. Unexpected. Almost dangerous.   Lilly turned toward the stage, eyes widening slightly.   “Oh…”   Bryan set his glass down.   He didn’t ask. He simply offered his hand. Lilly looked at it, then at him.   “You know people will look.”   Bryan smiled.   “Let them.”   She placed her hand in his. And they stepped onto the floor.   The dance was not flashy. Not showy.   That would have been too easy.   This was controlled. Intimate. Ballroom-rooted, but softened by familiarity. Bryan led with quiet confidence, one hand at her back, the other holding hers with just enough pressure to guide without commanding. Lilly followed, but not passively. She met him. Balanced him. Answered each movement with her own.   They turned slowly at first. Then wider.   The hem of her blue gown swept across the floor like water catching moonlight, the slit flashing with each step. Bryan’s white coat moved around them like a frame, the dark embroidery creating a stark contrast against Lilly’s blue whenever they turned close.   People noticed. But Bryan and Lilly didn’t dance for the room. They danced through it. And somewhere in the motion, the year fell away. Not gone. Never gone.   But no longer pressing against their throats.   The music swelled. Strings climbing.   Saxophone curling through the melody like smoke. Lilly’s hand tightened slightly in his. Bryan leaned closer, his voice low enough for only her.   “You know I’m still trying, right?” She didn’t ask what he meant. She knew.   As a father. As a husband. As a man trying to stop measuring love by what he could provide and start measuring it by where he was willing to remain.   Her eyes softened.   “I know,” she said.   It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t a vow. It was better. It was true.   The song reached its peak, and Bryan guided her into one final turn, drawing her back close as the last notes rang through the ballroom. Applause rose around them—polite at first, then warmer, fuller. Lilly laughed softly, breathless in the smallest way. Bryan kept hold of her hand.   For one extra beat.   And as the room returned to itself—conversation, glasses, music resetting into the next piece—Jason Williamson watched them from across the ballroom, expression thoughtful. Bryan didn’t see him. Not yet. He only saw Lilly. The last note of Carol of the Bells lingered in the ballroom air. Golden light. Crystal chandeliers. The faint glow of Christmas reflected in Lilly’s eyes as Bryan’s hand still rested against the small of her back.     For one suspended second, the world felt warm enough to forget everything else. Then— The gold began to blur. The chandeliers stretched into streaks. Warm candlelight smearing like wet paint across glass.All of it dissolving into brightness until the frame narrowed, sharpened—     And suddenly—Neon green. Digital. Cold. 3:00 PM   The glowing numbers of a dashboard clock sat illuminated against dark plastic, flickering faintly with the hum of an idling engine. For half a second— Black.Then— The low rumble of a car heater. The muffled hiss of passing traffic. A turn signal ticking softly somewhere outside. And Harley’s voice—Warm. Playful. Lightly exasperated.   “Oh, come on, Paul,” she said, dragging out the words just enough to tease. “You can’t nap the whole afternoon away.” The world came back into focus slowly.   Sunlight spilled golden through the tinted windows of Harley’s mint-green Corolla, fractured by shadows from passing oak branches overhead. Outside, Jacksonville drifted by in soft motion—shopping plazas dressed in oversized Christmas bows, palm trees wrapped in lights, holiday banners fluttering lazily in the December breeze. Inside the faint scent of vanilla from Harley’s lip gloss mixed with peppermint air freshener and the lingering sweetness of orange LaCroix.   Paul stirred. Slowly.   His cheek pressed awkwardly against the seatbelt strap. Somewhere between asleep and awake. His body heavy. Warm. Safe. Dizzy? The soft crinkle beneath him grounding him before consciousness fully caught up. One eye cracked open. Then the other. Blurry shapes. Muted color. And— Harley. One hand resting casually on the steering wheel. Bubblegum-pink hair spilling over one shoulder. She glanced sideways at him briefly. Smiled.   “There he is,” she said softly, quieter now. “Thought I was gonna have to dump cold water on you or somethin’.” Paul blinked twice. Still groggy.   “…wha?”   Harley laughed under her breath.   “Yeah, exactly.”   She tapped the steering wheel lightly.   “You’ve been out, mister.”   Paul shifted. Immediately regretted it.Because—Squish. Warmth. That unmistakable awareness settling in all at once. His cheeks colored faintly.   “Oh…”   Harley’s eyes flicked toward him briefly again—not lingering, not making a thing of it.   “Ice cream?” he asked hopefully, the words slow, almost slurred, like his face had fallen asleep and was only now remembering how to work.   Harley couldn’t help it. She giggled. Not at him. With him.   She turned slightly in the seat, reaching back with one hand, her fingers gentle as they brushed the side of his cheek.   “You want to go back and get another one?”   Paul blinked at her.   “Another one?”   “Yes, honey,” she said, smiling softly. “You’ve still got some… well, I guess birthday cake ice cream soup left in your Blizzard cup.”   Paul followed her gaze toward the passenger door, where the Dairy Queen cup sat in the holder, half-melted and streaked with blue and red sprinkles, the whipped cream long gone into a sugary puddle. He stared at it. Then back at her.   “Wait… we already had ice cream?”   Harley’s smile dimmed just slightly—not gone, just gentler now. “Yeah. We did.”   Paul frowned, trying to reach backward in his mind and finding only fog. “Harley, I mean… when did we go out? Are you sure?”   His sentences came out broken, mirroring the fog in his own thoughts. That’s when he felt it—not the wet diaper under his shorts, but his right hand. Sticky. He looked down and saw faint blue and red sprinkles smeared across his fingers. His tongue felt thick, coated in the sweet, familiar taste of birthday cake. What happened to those last few hours? Why can’t I remember? Harley watched the flicker of uncertainty cross his face, her own heart doing a quiet flip. She kept her voice steady, normal, the way a friend would speak to another after a long day.   “Drive-through was quick. We parked by the park to eat outside and enjoy the view. You were pretty wiped, but you smiled the whole time. It was a good birthday moment, Paul. I promise.”   Paul’s memory drifted back in fragments—the cold sweetness on his tongue, the winter sun on his face, Harley’s laugh floating through the open car window. He didn’t fight it. The fog was lifting, but the warmth of the afternoon lingered. By the time he fully came back to himself, he was staring at the ceiling of his new room, the soft overhead light diffused and warm, Harley standing beside the changing table as if no time had passed at all.   “Easy,” she said gently. “You’re okay. You were just sleepy.”   Paul blinked again, still trying to organize the afternoon into something that made sense. Harley didn’t crowd him. Didn’t perform. Didn’t turn the moment into something bigger than it needed to be. She opened the wipe warmer first, and to Paul’s surprise, her focus went to his hands. Warm cloth over sticky fingers. Slow, careful passes across his palm, between his fingers, along the side of his thumb where a stubborn patch of blue sugar clung to his skin.   “That birthday cake Blizzard fought back,” she said lightly.   Paul let out a quiet breath that almost became a laugh. And with that small joke, another memory surfaced. The Blizzard. The parking spot by the public park. Harley suggesting they eat outside and enjoy the view. His spoon sinking into cold, sweet cake batter ice cream. Then— the memory simple cut.   Paul’s eyes shifted toward the wall.   “Do… do the patches do that?” he asked quietly. “Like… make you forget?”   Harley’s expression softened, but she didn’t pretend to know more than she did. “Maybe pain meds, maybe exhaustion, maybe your body just said ‘nope, nap time.’ But we’ll tell your dad and Lilly, okay? Not in a scary way. Just so they know.”   That helped. More than he expected. Because she didn’t dismiss it. But she also didn’t panic. She just made it something manageable. Harley finished helping him get settled and ready, moving with calm efficiency, following the instructions Lilly had left without turning it into a production. When she was done, she glanced down at his shorts in her hands.   “Do you want these back on?”   Paul nodded. Harley helped shimmy them up over the bulky padding, the crinkle louder now but somehow less embarrassing in the quiet safety of the room. A few minutes later, he was on his feet again, steadier than he felt, and waiting for the part where Harley would become too much—too bright, too gushy, too loud, too determined to make him feel small.   Instead, she asked, “So what sounds better? We can play something, watch TV, you can read, or we can just hang out until dinner shows up. Speaking of which… pizza and wings?”   Paul stared at her.   Because somehow that question felt bigger than it was. Paul found himself torn again, though this time it wasn’t born from panic, humiliation, or the crushing fear that had haunted so much of the last few months. This felt different. Quieter. Stranger. Almost hopeful.   His BIG side—the version of himself that still desperately wanted to hold onto normalcy—latched onto that feeling immediately. It exhaled. Relieved. Grateful. Harley wasn’t tiptoeing around him, wasn’t overreacting, wasn’t treating every moment like glass that might shatter if touched too hard. She joked with him. Let him breathe. Made space for him to feel embarrassed without making embarrassment the center of the room.   And selfishly?   He wanted more of it.   Wanted to sit on the couch and just… be eighteen for a while. Watch Batman Forever and argue about whether Val Kilmer was underrated. Let Harley roll her eyes and force him into some movie she swore was “required viewing,” even if he pretended to complain about it first. Maybe eat junk food. Laugh. Forget for a few hours that his body had rewritten so many rules he used to take for granted.   But another part of him tugged too. Restless.   His little side practically burst through the front door of his brain like it had been waiting for permission.   “Noooo! Pway!”   Loud. Immediate. Unapologetic.   “Pway wif Harley!”   The thought came fast and warm and needy in a way that startled him. Because that side of him didn’t care about movies. Didn’t care about being cool. Didn’t care if Harley thought he was mature. That side wanted comfort. Fun. Softness.   Wanted the familiar safety that had somehow started making the hard days easier. Wanted the fun snappies. The cozy things. The feeling of sitting on the floor surrounded by blocks and toys without anybody laughing or whispering or pointing.   “We pway Batman! We make da Batcave! Harley can pway too!”   It came with flashes in his mind so quickly they almost overlapped—Harley sitting cross-legged on the carpet. Building something silly with him. The foam mats. Toy cars. Batman figures. Her baby talk just to him.   “Pwease?” the little voice practically pleaded now, restless and impatient. “No more sad. Wanna pway. Wanna Harley.”   Paul swallowed.   Because the truth was—He wanted both so badly it almost hurt. No standing there, caught somewhere between eighteen and overwhelmed, between healing and hiding—Paul realized something quietly terrifying.   He didn’t want Harley to reject either version of him. But his big side didn’t want to waste this. This version of Harley felt safe in a different way. Like a door opening.   “Maybe…” Paul said carefully, “we could watch a movie?”   Harley’s face lit up immediately. Not exaggerated. Not fake. Just delighted.   “Of course we can.”     And that was how the night began. Not with a big declaration. Not with a perfect plan. Just the two of them on the couch, Batman Forever glowing across the TV, the room dimmed around them while the movie filled the walls with neon Gotham colors and ridiculous drama. Paul sat tucked into one corner, Harley at the other end at first, giving him space without making it feel like distance.   Halfway through, when Kiss from a Rose began, Harley started singing under her breath. Quietly at first. Then a little more. Her voice surprised him. It wasn’t polished in a show-off way. It was warm, clear, a little smoky around the edges, like she sang because music needed somewhere to go and her chest had decided to be that place. Paul turned his head slightly.   “You’re… actually really good.”   Harley stopped instantly. For once, she blushed before he did.   “Oh, shut up.”   “I mean it.”   She looked at him then, and something shy flickered across her face, almost too quick to catch.   “Thanks,” she said softly.   The movie kept playing, but for a few seconds, neither of them watched it.   Later, Harley chose A Goofy Movie, claiming it was “criminally underrated” and refusing to hear arguments. By then, they had moved to the floor, a large New York-style pepperoni pizza open between them, steam still rising from the cheese. Breadsticks sat in a foil-lined basket—Italian herbs on one side, parmesan dusted thick over the other—and a carton of sauced fried chicken wings rested nearby, sticky and golden, the smell rich enough to make the whole room feel like a sleepover. Harley paused the movie long enough to fasten a bib around Paul’s neck after wing sauce had already made a small disaster of things.   “There,” she said. “Practical. Not a statement.”   Paul gave her a look.   She grinned.   Then unpaused the movie right as Max and PJ hit the pizza scene.   “Oh, wait, wait,” Harley said, grabbing a slice and lifting it dramatically. “We have to try the cheese pull.”   “Harley…”   “No, this is cinema.”   “That’s movie magic.”   “Obviously,” she said, already stretching the slice upward as mozzarella pulled in thin, stubborn strings. “But I believe in us.”   Paul laughed. Actually laughed. Without it hurting too much. His slice didn’t pull nearly as far, snapping almost immediately and falling back onto his plate. Harley gasped like he had failed an Olympic event.   “Terrible. No commitment.”   “You gave me a defective slice.”   “You picked it!”   “You handed it to me!”   They argued for three more minutes over cheese physics until both of them were laughing too hard to make sense. By the time the next movie started, the room had shifted again. The food was mostly gone. The evidence of the evening sat around them—pizza box open, napkins crumpled, Harley’s soda half-finished, Paul’s sippy cup within reach. The diaper bag sat on the floor near the couch, the changing mat folded nearby, supplies put away neatly after another quiet, practical reset for bedtime. Paul was back in his safari pajamas now, warmer and more comfortable, the pacifier resting against his collar by its clip. He wasn’t embarrassed.   That surprised him.   He noticed it and almost didn’t trust it. But it was true. He felt… content.Not sleepy yet. Just settled. Harley let him pick one more movie.   “The Martian?” Paul asked, sounding uncertain. “Something we can both watch.”   Harley tucked her legs beneath her on the couch. “Sounds perfect.”   The movie played softer than the others, its light flickering across their faces in blue and silver. Space. Silence. Distance. The kind of story that made quiet feel bigger. Maybe that was why Paul found himself talking. Or maybe it was because Harley had made the whole evening feel like a place where talking wasn’t dangerous.   “So…” he said after a while, “why were you driving delivery trucks?”   Harley didn’t answer right away. Her eyes stayed on the screen, but her smile changed. Less playful. More real.   “I was supposed to go to school,” she said. “That was the plan.”   Paul looked at her.   “What changed?”   “My dad needed surgery.” She shrugged like she wanted it to sound smaller than it was. “Nothing dramatic. Not life-or-death. But it kept him out of work for six months. And my little brother, Luke, still needed somebody around. My mom was already stretched thin, so…”   “So you did it.”   “Yeah.” Harley glanced at him. “I took the delivery job because it paid fast, and I could work weird hours and still be home enough to help. Dad hated it at first. Said I was pausing my life for him.”   “Were you?”   She thought about that. Then shook her head.   “No. I was taking care of my family. There’s a difference.”   Paul sat with that. The words landed somewhere deeper than he expected. Taking care of family. Not losing yourself. Just choosing where you were needed for a while.   “I don’t know what mine looks like anymore,” he admitted, voice quieter.   Harley turned toward him. Paul looked down, then gestured vaguely toward himself, pointing to the noticeable bulge of his diaper the visible shape of everything he couldn’t separate from his life anymore.   “Because of… this. I mean, I want to take online classes. Maybe acting. Maybe voice stuff. Maybe writing. I don’t know. But I don’t know how to picture it now.”   Harley’s expression didn’t pity him. She just listened.   Then she said, “Maybe you don’t have to picture the whole thing yet.”   Paul looked at her.   “I hate that answer.”   She smiled. “Yeah, me too. Doesn’t make it wrong.”   He huffed softly. Harley shifted closer, her shoulder brushing his.   “You’re talented, Paul. Like, actually talented. And you’ve got people who love you enough to help you figure out the next step, even if it’s weird or slow or not what you thought it would be.”   He swallowed.   “Like you?”   The question came out before he could stop it. Harley’s face softened.   “Yeah,” she said. “Like me.”   Then she leaned into him. Not dramatically. Not like she was trying to prove anything.   Just resting her head lightly on his shoulder while the movie kept glowing in front of them.   Paul froze at first.   Not because he didn’t like it. Because he did. That was the problem. Usually he was the one leaning into someone else. His dad. Lilly. Savvy. People stronger than him. Safer than him. But Harley was leaning into him. Like she thought he could hold a little bit of her weight too. Like she trusted him with it.   Something fluttered inside his chest. Small. Bright. Terrifying.   Does she like me?   He didn’t know what to do with the thought. So he did nothing. He just stayed still. Let her rest there.Let himself be strong enough for one quiet moment. Harley’s knowing smile crept across her face as she gently patted the front of Paul’s diaper, the touch affectionate and reassuring. She didn’t say anything more. She didn’t need to. He’s so close now, so close to being mine. Midnight in Jacksonville wrapped the city in a velvet hush. The December sky had deepened to an inky indigo, scattered with a handful of stars that glittered like distant promises. Streetlights cast long, amber pools across quiet sidewalks, and a faint breeze carried the distant salt of the Atlantic. Bryan Goldhawk’s key slid into the front-door lock with a soft, satisfying click, the sound cutting through the stillness like the final note of a long, triumphant evening.   He pushed the door open, Lilly’s hand laced tightly with his. Both of them moved with that loose, animated energy that came from a little too much champagne and a whole lot of happiness. Lilly’s cheeks were flushed a pretty pink, her laughter still bubbling up from the car ride home. Bryan’s grin was wide and easy, the kind that reached all the way to his eyes. They weren’t drunk—just buzzed enough to let the night’s joy loosen their steps and soften every touch.   The moment the door closed behind them, Bryan pulled Lilly close in the entryway, his hands settling at the small of her back. She rose onto her toes, meeting him halfway in a slow, lingering kiss that tasted like celebration and relief. Bryan chuckled low, the sound vibrating through his chest as he kissed her again, deeper this time, his fingers tracing the lace of her gown. They lingered there for a moment, wrapped up in each other, the world outside forgotten. It wasn’t just the promotion—it was the way they had fought through the hardest year of their lives and still found their way back to this: two people who chose each other every single day.   They finally broke apart, breathless and smiling, and stepped further into the living room. Because there, illuminated softly by the muted glow of a lamp left on low—Was Harley. Curled comfortably into one side of the couch.One arm draped protectively along the cushions.   And in her lap— Paul. Sleeping hard.   His head resting peacefully against her thigh, one hand curled loosely against the blanket covering him. His pacifier clip rested against his shirt, unused for now, his breathing slow and even, exhaustion finally claiming what stubbornness had tried to outrun all evening.   Harley looked up. Didn’t seem startled. Just… soft.   “He couldn’t sleep,” she said quietly before either parent could ask, fingers continuing to gently comb through Paul’s hair with absent affection. “I think maybe the ice cream and excitement kinda caught up to him. Poor guy just crashed on me.”   Lilly’s expression melted almost immediately.   “Oh…”   Because truly—How could anyone be upset at that?   It was sweet. Almost painfully sweet. Bryan checked his watch instinctively. 12:30 AM. His brows lifted slightly.   “Patch time,” he murmured.   Lilly nodded and gently peeled back the blanket covering Paul, then leaned down and pressed a tender kiss to the top of his forehead. She carefully guided the pacifier into his mouth. Paul’s lips closed around it automatically, a small, contented smile creasing his face as he began to suckle softly.   Bryan, riding a quiet surge of adrenaline and pure paternal joy, bent and scooped his son into his arms with surprising ease. Paul instinctively snuggled his face into the crook of his father’s neck and shoulder, the thick diaper crinkling faintly. Bryan offered a loving pat to the padded behind and murmured,   “Okay sport, let’s get you to bed, buddy.”   As Bryan carried Paul down the hallway toward the nursery, Lilly turned to Harley with genuine warmth. “We have a guest room all made up if you want to stay the night. It’s late.”   Harley bit her lower lip, clearly tempted. The offer was kind, safe, practical. But something deeper—something desperate, urgent, primal—burned in her chest. A hunger that had been growing for weeks, fed by every glimpse of Paul’s vulnerability, every soft crinkle, every trusting look. She wanted more than a guest room. She wanted to be the one who stayed. The one who was needed.   She smiled politely, shaking her head. “Thank you, but I should get home. I’ll see you soon, though.” (If you know than you know, if not well then the best reading experiance play the attached song and loop it until the end of the chapter)   Harley slipped out the door, the cool December night air brushing her cheeks as she climbed into her car. The engine purred to life. She pulled away from the curb, the headlights cutting through the darkness as the city lights blurred past.   Inside the car, the song began to play—low at first, then swelling through the speakers like a heartbeat. Harley’s hands tightened on the wheel. Her mind raced with vivid, unrelenting images: Paul’s head in her lap, the thick diaper beneath her fingers, the way his body had relaxed completely into her care. The hunger surged, hot and possessive. He’s mine, she thought, the words thrumming in time with the music. Not just for tonight. Forever. The desire wasn’t gentle anymore; it was a force, driving her forward into the night. Bryan lowered Paul carefully into bed. The teal LED lighting cast the room in soft color, dim enough to feel dreamlike, warm enough to feel safe. Shadows from the sports-themed mobile danced faintly overhead as it turned lazily, footballs and basketballs spinning in quiet circles.   Paul barely stirred. Still sleeping. Still tucked somewhere safe between medicine, exhaustion, and trust. Bryan’s hand resting briefly against Paul’s chest. The patch. Gentle fingers peeled it away carefully. No fuss. No waking him. Just practiced tenderness. Then Bryan leaned down. Pressed a long kiss against Paul’s forehead. Voice barely above a whisper.   “Night-night, Paul.”   A beat.   His hand brushes lightly against messy hair.   “Daddy isn’t going anywhere.”   Emotion tightened quietly in his throat.   “No sir,” he whispered, smiling despite himself. “Daddy’s gonna be home now. Right next to you for as long as you need, buddy.”   Another small pause.   “I love you.”   Paul shifted faintly in sleep. Breathing deeper. Settling. Bryan lingered one extra second. Then quietly rose. Leaving the room glowing softly behind him.   Outside— Headlights turned sharply. Then slowed.   A storage facility.   Blue roll-up doors lined beneath fluorescent security lighting. Her heart pounded with that same unrelenting hunger. She unlocked the door and stepped inside.   The space had been carefully staged. Pieces of gift wrapping littered the floor like colorful confetti. Several boxes marked “clothes” and “toys” stood open, their contents spilling out: t-shirts, onesies, bibs, two fuzzy baby-blue adult-sized booties, wooden baby blocks, and a few Tonka trucks scattered across the concrete. On the workbench sat half of a small birthday cake—squished and smashed as if it had been enthusiastically shared. Two pointed paper birthday hats rested beside it. In the master bedroom, Lilly’s blue satin silk dress slipped from her shoulders and pooled at her feet, revealing the soft bare lines of her legs and the delicate front of her matching silk thong panties. Bryan crossed the room in two strides, pulling her into his arms. Their kiss was deep, passionate, and hungry—the kind that had been building all night. Lilly’s hands slid under his shirt, nails grazing skin as she moaned against his mouth. Harley’s eyes gleamed in the dim overhead light. She crossed to the small camcorder set up on a tripod, the viewfinder flickering to life. The footage wasn’t perfectly clear—quick flashes of Paul in a t-shirt and diaper, wearing a birthday party hat; Harley and Paul on a blanket rolling a ball back and forth; Harley lighting the small birthday cake; a brief, blurry glimpse of something she was carrying into frame. The viewfinder rewound, then stopped.   The camera panned slowly across the workbench to a prescription bottle lying on its side. The label read: “Warning contains: Dissociative Anesthetics.” A few pills had spilled out onto the pages of a legal contract spread beneath it. The camera hovered over highlighted terms—NDA, penalties, subjects, clauses—before moving to a note written in bold red Sharpie: “No digital recordings of anything.” Then, in even larger, more emphatic letters: “NO MENTION OF PHYSICAL RECORDINGS!!! That’s YOUR loophole”   Harley’s hands entered the frame. She popped the video tape out of the camcorder and quickly labeled the cassette in neat, deliberate handwriting: “Paul’s 1st Birthday”   “President of Production Strategy & Media Partnerships,” she breathed, repeating the title with playful reverence, her voice husky. “Bryan Goldhawk… oh, Bryan.”   Their bodies pressed together, Lilly in nothing but the satin bra and thong, Bryan in tight black boxer shorts. The kiss deepened, hands exploring with familiar, loving urgency. It wasn’t just physical—it was the culmination of a year of shared battles and quiet victories. They had fought through fear, hospital nights, and uncertainty, and they had come out stronger, more in love than ever. Bryan’s hands roamed her back, pulling her impossibly closer, while Lilly whispered his name again like a prayer and a promise.   Harley stood back in the center of the storage unit, the cool December air inside the metal space humming with anticipation. The highchair now dominated the middle of the room—a pristine white adult-sized piece with a padded seat, sturdy tray, and cheerful nursery-themed decals running along the backrest and tray edge: smiling teddy bears, yellow ducks, ABC blocks, and baby bottles. It looked almost too innocent against the industrial backdrop of stacked boxes and concrete floor.   She walked over slowly, savoring every moment. Her fingers trailed across the large plastic tray, tracing the smooth curve where a child’s arms would rest. She paused, her fingertip catching a large smear of leftover birthday cake icing. With deliberate slowness she lifted it to her lips and sensually licked it off, eyes half-closing in pleasure. A soft, delighted giggle escaped her as the sweet frosting melted on her tongue. She unsnapped the tray with a quiet click and set it aside, her heart racing.   She slid her pink sweatpants down her legs, revealing a pair of ruffled satin panties in soft baby blue with pink trim. A cute cartoon bear smiled from the front, the fabric hugging her curves with playful innocence. Harley stepped out of the pants, then grabbed the small camcorder and a slim black remote from the workbench. She took a seat in the highchair, lowering herself onto the padded cushion. The plastic creaked faintly under her weight, the high back cradling her like it was made for this moment. She closed her eyes for a second, savoring the way the tray would have locked her in place, the way the seat pressed against her, the sheer wrongness and rightness of it all. A shiver of pure delight ran through her. Then she opened her eyes, pressed play on the viewfinder, and leaned back.   The screen flickered to life with clips of a homemade movie.   It began with Harley turning on the camera, smiling brightly into the lens before stepping out of frame. She reappeared, leading Paul by the hand back into the storage unit. Something was off about him—he was there, but not all there. His movements were slower, almost childlike, his eyes glassy and distant. He spoke younger, the regression seeming to have settled in permanently.   “What we doin’, Haw-wee?” Paul lisped, his words soft and toddler-like, a heavy slur on the consonants as he toddled beside her.   Harley’s face lit up with pure joy as she announced in the most babyish voice imaginable, leaning down to his level with exaggerated delight and clapping her hands excitedly.   “Ohhh my goodness, Mommy Haw-wey’s got a surpise for her special wittle boy, yes she does, oh yes she does! It’s a SURPRISE BIRTHDAY PARTY FOR PAULY!!!!!”   Paul clapped his hands excitedly and stomped his feet like a thrilled toddler, but he lost his balance and plopped down onto his padded bottom with a soft crinkle. He didn’t cry. Instead he looked up with wide eyes and shouted,   “YAY! Bwirthday pwesents for Pawwy, Haw-weey?”   Harley grinned, shutting the storage door behind them and locking it with a decisive click. “Of course we got presents and yummy, tummy cake. But first you stay there and let Mommy get you dressed, sweetie pie. Yes hims does, my wittle baby boy!”   She gently removed his shirt, leaving his thick diaper on full display. Then she reached for the new shirt she had set aside—a soft white short-sleeve tee with light blue sleeves and delicate pink trim around the collar and cuffs. Across the chest, the word “BABY” was spelled out in large, playful bubble letters in pastel shades of purple, blue, pink, and green, each letter decorated with tiny stars, a yellow duck, a rattle, and colorful ABC blocks. Harley slipped it over Paul’s head and gently guided his arms through the sleeves, smoothing the fabric down over his diaper with obvious delight.   “There we go, my pwecious wittle baby! Look at you in your new BABY shirt! Doesn’t hims look soooo adorable for Mommy Haw-wey? Yes hims does!”   Paul looked down at the colorful letters and giggled, the shirt soft against his skin. Harley handed him a rattle to play with while she brought in the highchair. Paul looked up and giggled, shaking the rattle with uncoordinated joy as Harley smiled down at him with pure maternal adoration.   The next clip showed Harley strapping Paul securely into the highchair and attaching the tray. She fastened a plastic disposable baby bib around his neck that read “Mommy’s birthday baby boi” in bright letters and placed a pointed paper party hat on his head. She pinched his cheeks affectionately.   “Mommy Harley could just eat yous up because you’re so stinking cute! Yes hims is, my pwecious wittle birthday baby!”   Paul giggled again, shouting, “Cake! Pawwy want cakey!”   “Such a hungry wittle boy,” Harley cooed, her voice dripping with over-the-top baby talk. “Well then Mommy  thinks it’s time for cake!!!”   She held up a Cookie Monster-themed cake, the blue frosting sculpted into the character’s fuzzy face, but with “PAUL” spelled out in colorful block letters across the base. She lit a single candle, then began singing “Happy Birthday” to him in an exaggerated, playful voice, setting the cake down in front of him. “Go on, baby, blow out the candle and make a wish for Mommy!”   Harley and Paul—mostly Harley—blew out the candle together while Paul was too busy trying to read the words on his bib. Soon enough his attention returned to the cake. Harley picked up the camera, the shot now tracking as she encouraged him in full baby talk.   “Go on baby, it’s time for numies. Go ahd and SMASH like a big boy. Yes hims can, my big, strong wittle boy!”   “Big Boy,” Paul repeated in his lisping toddler voice. He balled up his fist and SMASHED the cake with glee, frosting and crumbs flying everywhere.   Harley’s scream of pleasure echoed through the storage unit as the sound of buzzing filled the room. Her face—eyes half-lidded, lips parted in ecstasy—while her other hand held the vibrator, the buzzing growing louder and more insistent. The footage continued with quick clips: Paul double-fisting pieces of cake, getting it all over his hands and face. Harley leaned in, wiping his face with a cloth while cooing,.   “Such a messy baby! Oh yes hims is, Mommy’s messy wittle cake monster!”   Paul repeated the word “MESSY” with delight. Harley waved her hand dramatically in front of her face, exaggerating a sniff.   “Did you make a tinky? Hmmm? Did my wittle Pawwy make a stinky poo-poo for Mommy?”   Paul shook his head no, but Harley continued the baby talk, bending down to take an exaggerated sniff under the tray. She popped back up with wide eyes.   “Oh yes him did! Pawwy made Mommy Haw-wey stinky baby poo-poo’s. Did Pawwy make mommy a present? Yes hims did! We need to get you all cleaned up, poppy pants. Yes we does, my stinky wittle boy!”     More rapid clips followed: Harley changing Paul’s poopy diaper with careful, loving hands while murmuring endless baby talk; Harley standing at the workbench, crushing a pill from the prescription bottle and mixing it into Paul’s baby bottle; Harley helping Paul open a present; and finally Harley cradling Paul in her arms, feeding him the same bottle of milk while he suckled contentedly. Throughout it all Harley’s moans of absolute pleasure grew louder, building until she climaxed hard, her face flushed and eyes fluttering in pure bliss.   The viewfinder went dark for a moment.   Back in the master bedroom, Lilly and Bryan reached their own climax together, their shared release a passionate crescendo of love and relief after everything they had endured. The camera panned slowly away from them to the nightstand, where Lilly’s iPhone pinged softly with a new notification.   It was a private message under the latest WB video.   From @AuntySam Hey SMG & WB, love your content, your WB story is heartbreaking. I’m so, so, so sorry about what’s happened. So happy he’s back at home with such a loving step mommy. But the real reason for my message SMG, is that I was told to reach out by a friend about getting to know each other and how we love people who share a similar lifestyle. I was told to say Mama K recommended I reach out, she said to contact her. Hoping to hear back from you soon.     Harley sat in the highchair, the vibrator still buzzing faintly in her hand, the tape labeled “Paul’s 1st Birthday” resting in her lap. Her chest rose and fell with deep, satisfied breaths. A slow, possessive smile spread across her face as she stared at the frozen image on the viewfinder. Paul’s first birthday had been captured forever. And Harley’s hunger was only just beginning to be satisfied.

Hi all, been a lurker for a while now but found myself in a little predicament.  I realised I was into ABDL (mostly DL) almost 5 years ago, but only quite recently started wearing consistently. I'm not quite 24/7, but also not that far off.  All that is going great, and I'm having a good time, but I've run into a small problem at the gym and I guess I want some fresh perspectives.   My gym does not have stalls to change, and the bathrooms are too small, so if I want to change I basically have to do it in front of others. At first I was too shy for this, but a few months ago I pushed through it and changed myself.  By itself I know there's nothing wrong with it, I exclusively use medical white diapers, I change standing up without even using a wall and be as quick as possible. I even getting a plastic bag to dispose of it at home.   Now the real problem is that recently I realised that I'm starting to like this a bit too much. To the point of looking forward to going to the gym much more than before.  I know that public exposure is not okay and me liking this makes me uncomfortable; I also know that I didn't start doing this for the exposure, and I feel like I take all the steps necessary to minimise its impact.    So I guess I'm kinda asking other people's opinions on it, how's would you "judge" the situation?

The final part in Anna, Ryan and Jane's story.   Will hey finally get out of Sallas once and for all? Will they be stopped at the last hurdle? What is the world outside Sallas like?  ---  I'm only able to write as much as I do thanks to the amazing support of my readers. Writing is my only income and I appreciate everyone who reads my stories more than you all can imagine. If you enjoy my stories and want to see updates a week before everyone else PLUS read 35+ stories only available on my membership sites please have a look at the links below. All support is very gratefully accepted ❤️ https://reamstories.com/elfy https://subscribestar.adult/elfy --- Anna crawled to the front of the speeding van and lifted herself to look out the window. Ahead of them, she saw a tunnel. She didn’t recognise where they were at all, but Thorn seemed to be exactly where she wanted to be. As they approached, she started pressing on the horn. Anna saw two heavy duty trucks, that had seemingly been parked to the sides of the tunnel opening, pull into the road, their own horns blaring. Like a closing door they narrowed the gap. The van flew past, and Anna didn’t need to see behind her to know they were going to be blocking the way for them. She hoped there was a plan to get the drivers to safety as well. After all the bullets, things had calmed down a little and Anna noticed Thorn was breathing heavily, as if she had just run a race. She looked pale and there was sweat running down her face. “Are you…?” Anna started. “I’m fine.” Thorn cut her off, “Everyone back there, OK?” “Yeah, a little banged up but we’re alright.” Ryan said. He was sitting against the wall of the van with Jane right next to him. “Believe it or not, this is mostly going to plan.” Thorn let out a quick exhalation of a laugh, “We need to stop up ahead. The last stop before the coast.” The van emerged from the other side of the tunnel and there were thankfully no government cars waiting for them. They were truly out of the city now; fields were stretching out in front of them along with occasional isolated buildings. After a minute or so on the road, Thorn turned the car through a gate on to a dirt track. She had slowed down quite a bit as they approached a large barn. Everything Anna saw on the drive from the tunnel looked sleepy and uninhabited, but this barn was an exception. As the van approached, she saw people running around in different directions, they were nearly all women. Thorn beeped in a specific pattern and the door to the barn was opened. For the number of people outside, it was just as packed inside, though part of that had to do with the half dozen vehicles squeezed in there. The van came to a stop, and the doors opened a second later. Women in combat fatigues climbed into the back of the car and almost pushed Anna and her family out. Thorn was climbing out of the front seat at the same time. “You’re hurt!” Someone exclaimed when they saw Thorn. “It’s a through and through.” Thorn said, raising her good hand in a gesture to say she was alright, “Which car is ours?” “Stay here.” The woman said, “We’ll take them.” “No.” Thorn shook her head, “I made a promise and I’m seeing this through.” “But…” The woman started. Thorn looked at her. The hard gaze that required no words to accompany it, a look that to remind the woman who was in charge. The woman nodded and pointed towards a light blue car that looked at least twenty years old. Thorn started walking over to it, one of her arms still hanging limply. “Everyone!” Thorn called out, “Let’s go! Come on!” Anna, Ryan and Jane were chivvied along to the car Thorn had climbed into. Anna took the front seat whilst Ryan joined Jane in the back. Anna heard a comment being made about Jane’s diaper, when she turned around, she saw that her friend was leaking pretty badly. “I think I was scared…” Jane practically whispered as her cheeks turned red. It wasn’t just Anna’s group that was getting into cars. All of the vehicles, all very similar in colour and type were now occupied, each of them with four people. As they waited, a woman was leaning through the side window and doing a quick patch job on her commander. Thorn winced as bandages were quickly and roughly put over her wounds. “Alright! Move out!” Thorn shouted out the window. All the vehicles came to life, including the van that the four of them had arrived in. The doors at the other end of the barn to the side they had entered opened, and cares started moving out. Almost as soon as they were clear of the building, each vehicle turned to a different direction and started driving. Anna then understood that they were creating a bunch of diversions to make it as hard as possible for the authorities to find the right car. The car Anna was in pulled out near the tail end of the line of cars and turned quickly before Thorn stepped on the accelerator. They weren’t on a road, in fact, it didn’t seem like many of the cars had headed back to the road. Instead, they were driving through a corn field, where the plants were so tall it was nearly impossible to see where they were going. It seemed Thorn had some idea though, as she didn’t seem concerned about hitting anything as she sped through. “There should be a little road… Ah ha.” Thorn broke into a smile as the corn gave way to a small dirt road. It ran between the edges of two fields of corn. “It seems so surreal.” Anna muttered as she stared out the front window. “You doubted The Rose Resistance?” Thorn asked as she looked at her passenger. Anna had to laugh despite the tension of situation. For the moment they weren’t being shot at or followed, there didn’t seem to be any danger, it was enough to let her relax, just a little. She hoped the other cars were having similarly easy times. She was still uneasy at the idea of so many people risking their lives for her as if she was someone important. The fields thinned and ten minutes later they were turning on to a windy concrete road. They carried on along it. Anna strained to see where they were, but the road was lined with trees and hedgerows which afforded her only glimpses of the countryside beyond. It was somewhat of a shock then, when they made a left turn that revealed a sheer cliff in front of them. Beyond the drop was the sea, stretching to the horizon. Anna’s mouth fell open. “Nearly there.” Thorn said as the car trundled along the road, turning gently until they were running parallel to the cliff. Anna had no words. She kept staring out of the window with tears falling down her face. She hardly dared to believe that she was really seeing the escape she so desperately sought. That there was a boat ready to take them out of Sallas forever. She prayed she wasn’t dreaming, to wake up and find herself back in the house would’ve been a cruelty she didn’t think she would recover from. Jane and Ryan talked a little, Thorn joined in occasionally, everything a little strained from the tension they all still felt. Anna remained silent. After fifteen minutes along the cliffside, passing various places to stop to admire the view or have a picnic, the land began to slope noticeably downwards. Ahead of them Anna could see a small dock and, her breath catching in her chest for so long that she thought she might pass out, there was a boat waiting. Anna kept waiting for it all to go wrong. She kept waiting for the boat to pull away without them, or for the government cars to suddenly appear right behind them, shooting wildly. She looked out all the windows, but they were alone, no one was there to stop them. When she turned in her seat to look at her companions, she could see her own emotions mirrored back at her. Excitement and joy mixed with the anxiety of a completely unknown future. The car drove down to the small dock and parked next to the boat. Anna nearly fell as she climbed out, her legs feeling weak after everything she had been through. She stared at the boat as if blinking might make it disappear forever. “Well, here we-…” Thorn started. She was very quickly cut off by Anna who had almost jumped on her with a hug, “Woah there.” “Thank you.” Anna said, her voice shaky, tears streaming down her cheeks, “I can never repay you…” It didn’t seem that Thorn knew exactly how to react to such an embrace. When Anna let go, she saw that her rescuer seemed more unsure right then than in any of the high-adrenaline events they had just gone through. Anna looked at the small crew of the boat and saw them trying to hide smiles. “Right, well, you’d better get going.” Thorn said after clearing her throat. “Are you sure you won’t come with us?” Jane asked. “I’ve got work to do here.” Thorn said, “And if I didn’t do it, who would?” Anna helped Jane on to the boat where a couple of members of the crew, smiling and welcoming, took the woman below deck. Ryan climbed on to the boat as well, but waited by the side, waiting for his wife. Anna turned back to Thorn but no longer knew what to say. She felt as if she should’ve had some grand speech ready to go, some words of wisdom that would resonate forever with Thorn. She had nothing. “Good luck, Anna.” Thorn said, “Live your life.” Anna’s bottom lip trembled and she sucked it in. She nodded and then turned away from Thorn, turned away from her troubles, and turned away from Sallas. She stepped on to the boat with help from Ryan and then turned to face the dock as the sailors on board started to untie ropes. Even then, she kept expecting it all to go wrong, for a fleet of ships to come and blockade them, or a veritable army to stop over the hill guns firing. “We did it.” Ryan said. He sounded shocked more than happy, exhausted more than excited. “Yeah…” Anna smiled and leaned against him, accepting an arm around his shoulders. “What do you think will happen next?” Ryan said, his chin resting on the top of Anna’s head, “Where are we going to go?” Anna chuckled. From the way Ryan reacted she guessed he didn’t remember the reason why. The last question he had asked was exactly the same as the one she had said when they were leaving college together. Back then the great unknown was Sallas and facing a future where they were marked as troublemakers, where Ryan would have to work a dead-end job and where Anna was caught in limbo between being treated as an equal at home, and seen as little more than a child by society. “I don’t know.” Anna answered truthfully, “I never really dared to home we would get this far.” The boat’s engine had been idling, but now the revs seemed to increase and, ever so slowly, they pulled away from the pier. Anna felt a great anxiety being left behind, a weight she had been carrying for nearly her whole life getting ripped off of her shoulders. With each wave that the boat started to go over, she was increasing her distance from Sallas, every second taking her further from the place than she had ever been before. “We should head below.” Ryan said as he gestured towards a doorway and some stairs. “You go.” Anna said quietly, “I’ll be down in a minute.” Ryan lingered. He only reluctantly let go of the hug, but he didn’t leave Anna’s side. Sallas was still in view, but it was getting harder to see details. Thorn had turned and hurried back to her car. She honked her horn a couple of times, the sound just barely reaching the boat, and the car drove away. “I’ll be fine.” Anna said as she stared at the retreating view of Sallas, “You should check on Jane. This is the first time she’s left Sallas, she might be freaking out.” “It’s the first time I’ve been out of the country too.” Ryan said, though it was clear he wasn’t exactly cut up about leaving. He kissed Anna on the forehead, “Don’t stay up here too long, you’ll get cold.” Anna was finally alone, standing at the back of the boat with her hands on the rail. She didn’t leave the spot until the last of the Sallas coastline disappeared from view. As it faded into the distance, Anna let out a long breath, finally feeling free. She was a complex ball of emotions, she had imagined how she would feel leaving Sallas for most of her life. She had pictured joy, excitement, and even anger, but in reality, it was nothing. It would take a long time for the shock to wear off, for the new reality to set in and realise she was finally free. Epilogue The building was huge. Bigger than any place Anna had been in Sallas, without question. She had one leg crossed over the other as she sat in an otherwise empty conference room. It was just her, a long table, and a dozen unoccupied office chairs. She’s chosen the one nearest the window, which she looked out of at the city around her. A few floors up from the ground, Anna could see the cars coming and going, the people walking, and if she hadn’t known better, she could’ve thought she was right back in Kingston again, like she’d never left Sallas at all. She didn’t really know what she expected. A city is a city, no matter where you are, but for some reason Anna had built up in her mind that the world would just look… different. Anna smiled. She was looking down at the ground at the foot of the building. She saw a woman in a business suit, holding a hot drink in one hand whilst talking on a phone with the other. It was a sight as exotic to Anna as anything she had seen in their newly adopted country. A woman, clearly important, or at least self-important, who had a job and was an adult. Anna couldn’t look away. That was what she had wanted to see more than anything else. When the woman got into a taxi that had pulled up next to her outstretched hand, Anna’s gaze followed the yellow car until she saw large billboard. It was something she had been looking at a lot whilst sitting in that room, a sight she had tried to ignore, to not let intrude on her newfound happiness, and yet it was one she couldn’t help glancing at repeatedly. The sign advocated for a new way of living, or rather, an old way of living. “Don’t like the modern world? Return to traditional values.” The billboard advised. Followed by a link to a website to learn more. This wasn’t an isolated event either. Since arriving in the country a couple of months previously, Anna had seen numerous billboards, a lot of people advocating for this lifestyle on the internet, and even some politicians clamouring to return to “traditional values.” It had very quickly become clear what these values meant. The image on the billboard across the road, a smiling man and woman, blonde hair and blue eyed, with their kid in front of him. The man in a suit, the woman in a homemaker’s dress that seemed to fit the fashion of fifty years ago more than it did these modern times. Anna felt anxious just looking at it. Sure, it was only the extremists of this movement that were espousing the values of Sallas, with full on infantilisation of women, but whilst the diapers weren’t present, the ideas were. It wasn’t something Anna had anticipated. The exporting of Sallas ideals on a world who didn’t know what life was like within the closed off country. The very world that Anna had risked her life to escape was now getting airtime on the news and online, with influencers quick to talk about how men were neglected and second class. Anna scoffed at the very idea, she knew what being a second-class citizen was really like, after all, and it wasn’t men having to give up some of their superiority to treat women like human beings. “Sorry about that.” The door behind Anna opened and Jane stepped inside. Anna turned in her seat and smiled at her friend. They had only been out of Sallas for a short time, but it already seemed like Jane had flourished. Without the oppressive atmosphere she had seemed to grow into her own person in a way that had been impossible before the escape. She now walked in, dressed like a woman rather than a girl and sat down at the table. “Did you have any problems?” Anna asked. “Nope, not at all.” Jane replied, “There was a stall in the women’s bathroom that had some extra space. I’m getting better at doing it myself, I had to do the tapes three times though. It’s much easier laying down to do it.” “Well, hopefully you won’t have to do it at all soon.” Anna said encouragingly. She saw Jane raise an eyebrow in disbelief, “I’m serious. You’re doing great.” “It just feels weird.” Jane said with a deep exhale. “Which bit?” Anna asked. “All of it.” Jane replied, “The fact that in any room I enter I’m probably the ONLY one in diapers. Hell, potty training in general is so strange. I never thought about it back in Sallas.” Anna nodded her head and reached a hand across the table. Jane took it in hers. There had been teething problems for sure, but it was impossible to deny that they were all better off now. Anna was still getting used to walking around without any padding under her clothes, with no one staring at her, the fact she could go places on her own, or with Jane, without people batting an eyelid was a freedom she hadn’t really even thought about before leaving. “Are you ready for your speech?” Jane asked. “No.” Anna replied, “I mean, I guess I am. I’m just not sure about standing up in front of all those people and talking…” “You’ll be OK.” Jane said reassuringly, “Ryan and me will be right behind you.” As if on cue, the door opened, and Ryan walked in. He had gotten tired of sitting around and waiting to be told the main chamber was ready, so he had been off exploring the building. He came back in and sat down next to Jane. “You look worried.” Ryan said as he observed his wife. “It’s that obvious?” Anna asked. “I know what to look for.” Ryan grinned, “Hey, if it’s too much, we could give the speech to someone here to read. I’m sure people would understand if you needed more time.” “I made a promise to Thorn.” Anna said. She would’ve loved to run away and hide from what was to come but that wasn’t going to be an option, “People died to get us here. It’s time we started paying The Rose Resistance back.” News out of Sallas had been sparse to say the least. The country was very closed off to most outsiders, it was as hard to report on what was happening in the country as it was to get news of the wider world when living there. Most news about what was happening in Sallas came from their government press releases, and if you read between the lines, you could sometimes even see some of the truth. For instance, the fact that there had been no news about Thorn or The Rose Resistance gave a very strong impression that after the dramatic day of escape, the organisation hadn’t been crushed, Thorn hadn’t been arrested. If either thing had happened, Anna was sure Sallas would be crowing about it forevermore. Indeed, once the three of them had been dropped off on the shore, one of the first things that had happened was extensive interviews about the internals of Sallas. It shocked Anna to know that some of the people recognised her and even knew her name. Her advertising hadn’t been restricted to just internal campaigns after all. One of the sailors who had guided the boat handed over a bunch of documents to the agents of Anna’s new home, they had been spirited away very quickly. No matter who or how Anna asked, no one would tell exactly what was going on. She remembered what Thorn had said and considered that she likely had some contacts with foreign governments already. They had to get their money and equipment from somewhere after all. There was a knock at the door. Anna stood up before it had even opened. A woman in a suit stood in the doorway with a smile. Eve, the rather beautiful middle-aged woman, had been assigned to Anna as a liaison and to look after her in the government building. “They’re ready for you now.” Eve said. Anna nodded and picked up her papers. She took a deep breath and gave each of Jane and Ryan a hug. They stayed close together as they left the room and walked a short way down the hallway to a large wooden door. From the other side, Anna could hear murmuring of, admittedly mostly male, voices. Anna took a deep breath as she prepared to walk in and address the masses of politicians and dignitaries in the auditorium beyond. She balled her hands into fists in an effort to steel her resolve. Before she could move forward, she felt a most unexpected feeling. There were hands on both of her fists. She looked to the side to see Ryan, prying open her hand so that he could hold it. On the other side, Jane kept hold until Anna loosened her grip. They both squeezed her a little and together they walked through the door. ---  With this story completed I have started a NEW story! "The Designation" is about a young man who is about to go into the Designation Office to find out if he will be made Big... or Little: https://reamstories.com/page/lpjgftb4y2/story/mozb40hx8a1381/chapter/mozb42a128b2460 https://subscribestar.adult/posts/2486397

I think we are all afraid at first. I am.