Rainbow Diapers

Oooh, that's an interesting idea   Writing progress: Spent most of this morning rearranging the plan for a chunk of Act IV; just finished writing the intro for chapter 104.   Let me know if there's any mistake here… I only realised when I was uploading this to Inkitt that my original chapter 92 was ~8k words, which seems a bit heavy; so I split it into 92 and 93. But that was a last minute edit so I might have introduced mistakes. 92. Clean Slate Isadora woke slowly, and quickly knew that something was different. For a moment she couldn’t place the ceiling above her, but she knew that it was different, and the sheets draped over her felt different as well. Not really heavier, as such, but different. She glanced from one side to the other, trying to piece together where she was from the first few fragments of last night’s memories, and then she finally realised. She wasn’t in the nursery. She wasn’t in a crib. For a moment she missed the familiar bars, but she quickly dismissed that thought. She wasn’t a baby, and she didn’t need bars to keep her in bed. She was, in fact, back in the master bedroom at the Klein house on Tennyson Avenue. She wasn’t a prisoner anymore; she could start acting like an adult whenever she wanted to. She sat up slowly, noticing a slight tug from sheets that had been tucked in carefully on both sides. She didn’t remember walking to bed, so she guessed that Brock must have carried her there after she fell asleep mid-research. That was exactly the kind of thing he would do.  The movement made her notice a slight pressure inside her. She needed to pee on waking; not exactly an uncommon response. She caught herself just in time, remembering that she wasn’t diapered now. It was time to pretend to be a grown-up again. “No,” she muttered to herself. “Not pretend, I am a gr… An adult.” She sighed and shook her head, then took a couple of attempts to free herself from the bedding. It really was comfortable, even though the sheets no longer had that thick plastic layer that crinkled underneath her as she moved. She was back to normal, and she wasn’t pretending anymore. Well, maybe… she had to pretend to be Stella, because that was her job. But now that she was free she didn’t need to convince herself to stay in her cover identity all the time. She could be herself when she was alone, and use Stella as a mask again, to put on when she was interacting with all the neighbours. As she stumbled blearily to the bathroom, she felt a slight moment of pride that she’d managed to avoid wetting herself this morning. She was overcoming the hypnosis already; getting back to habits and instincts that fit her better. Somewhere deep down in her mind, she wondered if all operatives had this kind of trouble separating themselves from their legends after a long time undercover. She had told herself too many times that she would do whatever was needed in order to complete her mission, hoping that was a first step towards making herself the equal of experienced, respected agents like Brown, Smith, or Brock. But she realised that she was only now coming to terms with what those words really meant. And she had some doubts; though she was still pretty sure that this first step would be the hardest. On future assignments she wouldn’t be so scared, and there would be no need for her partner to go behind her back. By the time that thought came to mind, she had already flushed the toilet and started washing her hands. But then she froze, hot water running over her fingertips long after the suds had drained away. What had Brock said last night? He’d apologised for thinking that she wouldn’t bring any intelligence back from the Pink Room. He had already known what happened down there; probably in more detail than Isadora had suspected. She didn’t hate him for that; it was only his expectations. And he’d been man enough to admit that he had been wrong. She had surpassed his expectations. There was something wrong with that revelation, and she didn’t need to deal with it now. She finished washing, turned the tap off, and reached for a towel on the heated rack to dry her hands. Every movement was second nature, with no time needed to adapt again to the layout of the room. It was almost as if she had never left. As she opened the door again, she listened out for sounds of movement anywhere else in the house. She didn’t hear any, so if Brock was in the house he was being as stealthy as ever. She was sure that if he could sneak up behind an alert sentry without being noticed, he could easily hide his presence in an ordinary suburban house. If he didn’t want to be seen, she wouldn’t see him. But then again, there was a good chance that Brock was already out somewhere. She’d already seen enough records to let her know that he had been away from the house more than ever while she was away; whether that was playing golf at the Yaxley Club first thing in the morning or taking a dozen flights in one week to visit cities on every continent. He wasn’t away today, though. He was sitting in his regular chair in the lounge, fast asleep. Isadora had to move through the room to get to the kitchen, and she wondered if the faintest movement of her bare feet across the carpet might wake him. But he seemed to be sleeping deeply tonight, and she didn’t blame him. She might not know all of the places he had been to, but she was sure that he would still be recovering from jet lag. She got to the kitchen without making a sound, and carefully slid the door closed before she turned to open the refrigerator. Everything in there was just where she had decided to put it when she did her first grocery shop as Estelle, so many weeks ago. The vegetables in the crisper drawer were all fresh, and the sauces were arranged according to how long they had been open to keep any neglected item from going off. That wasn’t something they had even talked about; Brock had just noticed the brands she bought, and apparently copied her habits without making it obvious. Someone looking in the fridge would have no way to know that she had ever been away. Maybe that was a way to make her more comfortable when she returned; or maybe it gave any visitors the impression that the couple knew each other a lot better than they really did. Isadora sighed. Every little thing Brock did for her seemed so thoughtful, so logical, even so romantic. But then she remembered her time in the Pink Room. Where she had spent so long telling herself that she was willing to go through an experience like that for the sake of the mission, only to discover that Brock had sent her there while already knowing what she would discover: Nothing of interest. He had been wrong, of course, and that was why he had apologised. He’d made it sound like he felt guilty about underestimating her, but when she thought over that conversation again she realised that there was another detail missing, if she wanted his words to make any kind of sense. Isadora cracked two eggs into a Pyrex jug, and started to beat them with a fork. There was a balloon whisk hanging on the wall right in front of her, which would have made the job go more quickly. But a fork had been her instinct. Just like using pre-ground black pepper from the little novelty cruet set on the table, rather than the fancy grinder at the back of the counter. She could make bacon and eggs in her sleep, and these days she would prefer poached eggs if she had the choice. But when she was under a lot of stress, she fell back on scrambled eggs over fried bread; the first breakfast she had learned to cook back when she was a student. She was turning a normal hot breakfast into comfort food just by making it the way she used to when she was younger and more innocent. A memory flashed into her mind. Scrambled eggs with little chunks of cheese mixed in, so they had a little more texture, and a couple of shredded rocket leaves on top before laying crispy bacon over the top. An even earlier memory; the way her father used to prepare them when he took over cooking for a day. Right now, it sounded like the perfect option. Isadora opened the fridge again, and glanced over the cheese selection on the top shelf. There were a few different little bundles, most of them wrapped in carefully-folded wax paper to keep them fresh. Her eye went straight to one bearing a label that read ‘Y Fenni’ in the neat capitals that Brock had adopted as Bernard Klein’s natural handwriting. Isadora didn’t know what that meant, and was a little embarrassed to admit to herself that she didn’t even know what language it was derived from, but she had tried the cheese plenty of times before when Brock was cooking; and she suspected that the slightly peppery kick would make perfect for recreating her dad’s imperfect recollection of eggs benedict. She chopped the cheese into small pieces, dumped it into the jug with her eggs, added a little milk and a little salt and pepper, whisked it again, and then set the jug in the microwave. But that meant she had to wait a little longer before her food needed any more attention, leaving her with an uncomfortable amount of time to think. She didn’t want to think now; that was probably one of the reasons she was focusing so much attention on cooking, if she were to be honest with herself. So she opened the fridge again, pulled out a few leaves from a bundle of rocket, and quickly tore them into rough pieces. Then she took the jug of eggs out of the microwave, stirred again, and put it back for thirty seconds more. She couldn’t avoid thinking about it any longer. The next step in making breakfast was to watch the timer and to wait. And while she did that, Isadora couldn’t stop her mind drifting onto what Brock had told her. He had said that he didn’t expect to learn anything from the Pink Room, and that he had been surprised. He made it sound like he’d been underestimating her. But that didn’t make sense; because she hadn’t told him anything that could have been the missing information. It wasn’t her he’d underestimated, but the importance of that mysterious basement. And in that case, it meant that he had arranged for her to be drugged and imprisoned, subjected to hypnotic conditioning to turn her into an adult baby, so that she could infiltrate a place that he thought didn’t contain any useful information. The big question then became “Why?” Isadora thought hard about it, and her mind didn’t stop working as she took the eggs out of the microwave to stir them again. Frying the bacon and a couple of slices of sourdough bread was so easy that it didn’t take any of her mental capacity at all. She was just trying to think of reasons why her partner would do those things to her, if it wasn’t for the intelligence he didn’t expect her to find. And for all the thought she couldn’t help putting into it, she could only think of two options. Neither of which she wanted to believe. The obvious answer was that he’d wanted her out of the way. That was all too easy to believe. She had been pushing to help, insisting she was capable, and it was clear that Brock resented her interference. He wanted to act as a solo operative now. So what had seemed like a grudging acceptance of her abilities could have been the perfect excuse to sideline her somewhere she couldn't interfere with whatever he was really working on. Safe enough that he didn’t need to worry her, but risky enough that she might feel like she was contributing in some way. Isadora didn’t want to believe that, because it opened up too many other questions. Like whether Brock’s mysterious investigation was just because he wanted to take down the Lorenzo by himself, or because he was starting to go rogue, focusing on his own objectives or freelance jobs that he couldn’t afford for Kane to hear about. The second option wasn’t any more comforting. Even thinking about it made Isadora’s stomach clench. What if Brock could play the role of Bernard so easily because he had more in common than anyone suspected? What if hearing about Nina’s subjugation as an adult baby had awakened some hidden desire in her partner? The way he’d so naturally called her ‘babygirl’ when she returned, the lack of any visible discomfort until much later in the day… He was playing the role of Bernard, who wanted to use the hypnotic conditioning to take advantage of his wife, so that he could push her into scenarios he knew she wasn’t actually interested in. And Brock played the part so well that it was almost hard to imagine that he didn’t really feel those desires on some level. But he wouldn’t do that, would he? She didn’t want to even think about that possibility. It would be better to imagine that Brock was a double agent, who only wanted her out of the way so that she wouldn’t see his betrayal. But when she tried to visualise the scenes where he would have asked Lorenzo to orchestrate this, only one version of his hypothetical motivations felt real; only one of those imagined scenes made her pulse quicken when she called it to mind, as if it were a real possibility. Thankfully she didn’t have any more time to think on that matter before the microwave beeped loudly. Isadora muttered a curse under her breath; she had been intending to stop it with a second or two remaining on the timer so that the sound wouldn’t wake her partner. It probably wouldn’t make any difference; even suffering jet lag, Brock would probably have been aware of her presence as soon as she entered the room. But she still wished she could have tried it. She quickly decanted fried bread from the skillet onto a plate, scraped the scrambled eggs from the jug on top, then a sprinkling of shredded rocket, some crispy bacon that hadn’t turned out as crispy as she might have preferred, and finally the other slice of bread. Then she balanced a knife and fork on the side of the plate, taking care not to spill it as she picked everything up. It might be easier to eat at the kitchen table, but Isadora wanted to get started on catching up with everything she had missed as soon as possible, so she had decided to take breakfast back to the nursery and work while she ate. She turned around to fill a mug of coffee from the machine, and then hesitated when she saw a little box of pills in a familiar livery sitting on the kitchen counter next to the coffee machine. They looked like the ones Brock had found in Victor’s bathroom, while they were still trying to work out what was really going on around here. Isadora’s heart raced as she considered the possibility that Brock could slip her the tablets without her knowing. She had second thoughts about the coffee, because she hadn’t been the one to fill the machine and had no way to determine whether anything had been added to it. But it only took a couple of seconds for her to realise how useless that concern was. Brock was the one who cooked; if he really wanted to give her something, there was no realistic way she could stop him. So she might as well take the simpler path, and act like she trusted him until any effects became obvious. She picked up the plate again, making sure that everything on it was well balanced, and then used her left hand to take the coffee mug. She moved carefully, half-turning and then using her elbow to push the kitchen door open. Getting into the nursery with both hands full would be a little harder, but she didn’t expect it to be a real problem. “Good morning, honey,” Brock said from his chair. As she looked towards him he stretched and opened his eyes. “Did you make enough for everybody?” His voice was cheerful, and he seemed just as chipper as always; an attitude that didn’t fit with the tiredness she had expected him to be feeling. But when she looked into his eyes she could see the dark shadows beneath them; Brock was doing a very good impression of someone who was firing on all cylinders, but once she was actually paying attention no amount of acting skill could substitute for the makeup he would have needed. “I thought you were asleep,” she said. “Maybe you should be. I was just going to catch up with some reading.” As soon as his mouth opened, she found herself wondering if he was about to call her a babygirl again. It would have been so easy for him to shut down any critical comment, and she still wasn’t confident in her ability to resist those words. Would he let her be an adult today, or would commenting on his health be enough motivation for him to shut her up? “Maybe I should be,” he said with a shrug. “But we’ve got a lot of work to do. I can rest when it’s all over.” “Do you want breakfast?” she offered, wondering if she needed to be extra nice to her partner if she wanted to keep her faculties. He hadn’t been critical yet, but she found that she was still on edge, waiting for his mood to shift. And maybe he needed to, because if someone was listening in they wouldn’t expect her to be so outspoken without consequences. Could she ask him about that? “And where did you put my…” she gestured up towards her hair, hoping that he would understand and equally hoping that he would allow her to be involved in solving any problems going forward. “The transmitters?” he asked with a little laugh. “Laundry room, remember? I left them in the junk drawer, where they can’t possibly pick anything up. And yes, I already swept this room since the last time we had visitors, and none of the lounge windows face a suitable position for a laser mic. Not the ones Arrencani has, anyway.” Isadora nodded slowly. So if he was going to punish her it would be because he wanted to; not just keeping up appearances. That seemed like a small step forward, but she was still on edge. “I can make my own breakfast,” he said with a smile, and Isadora wondered if she should have done something for him; should have tried harder not to disappoint Daddy. She knew that those feelings came from training that she didn’t need, but it was hard to put them out of her mind. And there was just a hint of disapproval in his voice, and she could easily imagine that would be reason enough to make her a baby again. To make her helpless, so that she might learn to think of his needs first. “What’s that you’ve got there? Bacon and scrambled eggs?” “It’s something my dad used to make,” she mumbled. “Kind of childhood memory thing. Something simple I rarely screw up, and it reminds me of when I didn’t have so much to compare it to.” “That sounds nice,” Brock answered quickly. “If you want to show me sometime, maybe it would be a good thing to learn. But I don’t want to intrude if it’s a personal thing. But I will ask, would you like me to join you for breakfast? I’m sure you still have a question or two.” “Actually, yes,” Isadora said, a little more aggressively than she had intended. “I mean… there’s so much I need to catch up on, all those recordings. But I think I need to talk to you first. To get the big picture, and find out what I missed. So I know where to look and what to look for when I’m analysing everything. Time for debriefing?” “Give me a couple of minutes to make breakfast,” he said. “Here or the nursery, it’s your choice today. I want to make sure you’re comfortable with me.” That was a good sign, as well. Isadora got one step closer to convincing herself that Brock had only been playing with her yesterday to convince Arrencani that Bernard Klein was real. But it was still hard. And when Brock walked into the nursery with a bowl of food ten minutes later, he immediately switched off his button cam again. That meant that he didn’t want Kane to see what he was about to say or do, and Isadora’s heart raced just thinking about all the things he could have in mind.

I dont think so.  A diaper is essentially the same thing with or without the print.  When I hear AB its more of the way they act than just wearing a diaper.  I wear Bambino's but I dont act like a little or regress otherwise.  

They are ABDL diapers. 

I don't pay for stuff I can get free.  I have a package on the way with estimated delivery January 29. Free shipping. 

I'm sitting in a nice soft and squishy mess in my diaper right now and it feels amazing.