Rainbow Diapers

I'm looking for an older story, probably over 10 years old at this point. The dom was a lawyer woman, who helped the sissy baby sub move in and discovered his crossdressing. The sub was a programmer, and I think started off as a crossdresser but got into diapers after making a bet with the dom. It was written on a blog site, and I think it was over 80 chapters long.  I remember a few scenes- The lawyer runs into the programmer as he's moving into his new apartment. I think they're neighbors? She helps him move some bags, one of them tears open, and she sees some women's clothing, which leads to them starting a bet (that then leads to their relationship later on). She puts him in chastity because his erections are making it impossible for him to wet his diaper. A lesbian couple babysits the sissy and takes him to a lesbian club, where he's fed a baby bottle of urine from one of the other patrons. The lawyer has recurring dreams about her two big conflicts (her relationship with the sissy, and the contract mentioned next). One repeated line I recall is her feeling "Used and Confused", or something like that. Near the end, the lawyer has a huge contract deadline and knows that there's a trap somewhere in the language. The sissy reorganizes things and finds the trap.  The resolution of the bet is that the lawyer "wins", but they have alternating periods of control over the sissy. I think when it's her turn, the sissy's in full sissy baby mode, and when it's the sissy's turn, he's living a fairly normal adult life, but dressed more femme.    It's been quite a while, so the details are fuzzy, but I'd love to find this again!

Last two parter for the at least until later tonight or Sunday..... Chapter One Hundred & Three: Part 1 Paul’s whine came first—low, breathy, dragged out through clenched teeth like he was trying to keep it inside his chest and failing. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just… there. A thin sound of resistance that didn’t match the size of his body, or the way his shoulders filled the chair, or the way his knees knocked softly under the table every time he shifted and the plastic under his shorts answered with that faint, humiliating crinkle. Martina stood behind him, close enough that he could feel her presence like warmth at his back—steady, immovable, the kind of calm that didn’t ask permission.   Her hands were already holding the bib.   Clean. Fresh. Soft cotton with a stupidly cheerful Safri pattern that didn’t belong in a room that still smelled like lemon zest and guilt. And her voice—Spanish, firm, bright, affectionate in a way that made it worse because it didn’t match how hard his face was burning.   “No, no, no… none of that, Paul,” Martina said, the words lilting like a lullaby with teeth. “¿Me entiendes? This bib is going on you—not to hurt you, but to help you. I just washed that shirt. No uh-oh’s this time.”   She said it warmly. Like she was talking about the weather. Like the day hadn’t cracked open and spilled everyone’s insides all over her tiny dining table.   Paul’s hands tightened around the edge of the chair. He felt the fabric of his slate-blue golf shirt tug against his shoulders as he tried to sit straighter, tried to reclaim something—anything—about himself that didn’t feel like it had been taken.   He swallowed. His throat hurt. His pride hurt worse.   Amber sat across from him, her white shorts bright against the darker wood of the chair, her purple designer top—too pretty, too polished—like she’d dressed for a life that hadn’t just been dragged through the mud. She watched him with eyes that were still swollen from crying earlier, still sharp from fighting, still dangerous in that way people got when they were humiliated and hadn’t decided whether to repent or retaliate.   Her step-ins whispered when she crossed her legs. A soft crrrk of padding and plastic that made her jaw tighten like she’d bitten down on a curse. She kept her tone respectful. She kept it Spanish. But the venom sat underneath it like a blade hidden in velvet.   “Oh, Paul…” Amber said, her voice sweet enough to fool strangers. “No sabía que tu babero combinaba con tus pañales.” (I didn’t know your bib matched your diapers.)   Her eyes flicked down—fast, surgical—to the bulk under his shorts. Then back up. A smile that wasn’t quite a smile.   “But Mom…” Amber added, tilting her head with false innocence. “Yo no necesito babero, ¿verdad?” (I don’t need a bib, right?)   Martina paused. Just for a breath. Just long enough for Amber to feel the weight of her own question land in the room. Then Martina turned her head slowly, the way she did when she was deciding whether someone deserved mercy or discipline. Her face was calm. Her eyes weren’t.   “No, Amber,” Martina said evenly. “You don’t need a bib because you finished your dinner.”   She let that hang. Then, with the faintest lift of one eyebrow—almost amused, almost motherly, almost threatening:   “Unless you want me to feed you a second bowl.”   Amber’s mouth opened. Not to answer. To react. Because Martina didn’t raise her voice, didn’t insult her back, didn’t take the bait— she simply reminded Amber who the rules belonged to. And in that reminder, there was something worse than anger.   There was authority.   Paul’s head snapped up. His whole body tensed like a wire pulled too tight.   “No. No, no, no—” he blurted, urgent, breathless, his voice cracking on the last word like it couldn’t decide whether it wanted to be adult or small. “I’ll eat. I’ll eat.”   The words came out too fast. Too eager. Too afraid. He hated himself for how quickly he surrendered. He hated Amber for watching. Martina didn’t gloat. She didn’t even look at Amber again.   She just moved—slow, respectful, inevitable. She pulled her chair closer to Paul’s with a soft scrape against the floor.   The sound was ordinary. But it made Paul’s stomach drop anyway, because it sounded like the beginning of something he couldn’t stop. Martina slid over his bowl and spoon with the same calm she’d used when she’d grated lime into the stew. With the same calm she’d used when she’d put crayons in front of two eighteen-year-olds and told them to behave like children until they remembered how to be friends.   Her hand brushed Paul’s shoulder once—light, grounding. Then her voice shifted into English. Because she was making sure he heard her clearly.   “This isn’t to punish you,” Martina said, and her tone softened on the next part, the way it always did when she was talking to someone she loved and didn’t want to lose, “mi niño…”   Paul flinched at the nickname anyway. It made his skin heat.   “But we both know you’ve had a hard day,” Martina continued, calm as law. “You hardly touched anything when I served it to you twenty minutes ago. Your doctor, Lilly, your Dad—and especially me—know you need to eat. Your body needs strength to fight the sickness.”   Martina leaned in closer—not invading, not smothering, just present. Unavoidable.   “Now hush,” she said quietly, finality settling into her voice like a door locking, “and just relax.”   As if he could relax with a bib being tied around his neck. As if he could relax with Amber sitting across from him in padding she hated, watching him like she was waiting for him to choke. As if he could relax with the echo of her words from twenty minutes ago still ringing in his skull like a bruise you couldn’t stop pressing.   Martina didn’t give him time to argue. Her words ended, and action began. She tucked the spoon into the stew. Scooped up a healthy spoonful—thick, warm, steaming, the smell of chorizo and lentils and lime curling up into the air like something holy.   Not coaxing. Not baby-talking. Not pleading. Just holding it there, patient and steady, Paul stared at it. He could feel Amber’s eyes on him. Accusing. Amused. Hungry. He didn’t want to give her anything. Not another second of weakness. Not another sound. Not another inch of his dignity. But his stomach twisted with the truth Martina had named out loud: He hadn’t eaten in a while. His body was running on adrenaline and shame and whatever was left in him after a day of spirals. Martina didn’t move the spoon closer. She didn’t rush. She waited. Paul’s throat worked. His lips parted. He opened. Reluctant. And he accepted the stew.   The taste hit him like a memory he didn’t deserve.   It was beyond this world excellent—warm and rich and bright with lime, comforting in a way that didn’t ask questions. For a split second, his body forgot to be ashamed. And something inside him—some instinct, some leftover little flicker that didn’t belong to the version of him that wanted to be grown—slipped out before he could stop it.   “Yummy.”   The word was soft. It hung in the air like a confession.   Paul froze. His cheeks went bright red. Martina didn’t laugh. She didn’t tease him. She simply nodded, like the word belonged.   Like it was allowed.   “Así es,” Martina said gently in Spanish, approval threaded through her voice like warmth. “Sí, está muy bueno, Paul. Here’s another.”   And she lifted the spoon again. Amber watched her mother feed Paul another spoonful.  Her face stayed composed, but inside her, something ugly and honest curled tighter. The little she-devil inside her—quiet, petty, wounded—was enjoying this. Not because she wanted Paul to suffer.   Not exactly.   But because she wanted proof that he wasn’t above her. Because she wanted the scales to feel balanced. Because if she had to sit here in padding, forced into empathy by humiliation—then she wanted him to feel it too. She wanted him to have to swallow his pride the way she was swallowing hers. And yes—there was a part of her, cold and embarrassed and furious, that was actually looking forward to a little pain. Not because she was evil. Because she was eighteen and scared, and her guilt had nowhere to go, so it turned into sharpness.   It turned into cruelty. It turned into pleasure that made her hate herself even more. She could already feel the countdown in her bones. Lilly would come, Paul would leave with her. This “thing” would be carried out of her home like a bag of supplies she didn’t want to look at again. And until that happened— Amber was going to indulge in the only control she still had.   Martina paused the spoon for a moment, giving Paul the chance to breathe—and Paul almost thought she was going to let him have the dignity of choosing.   Almost.   But instead, instinctively, Martina reached for his safari sippy cup. The adult-sized one, bright and ridiculous, was sitting there as if it belonged in a different universe. She lifted it. Brought it to his mouth. And slid it between his lips with the same calm she’d used all day.   “Bebe,” Martina told him in Spanish. “Drink up, mi niño.”   Paul’s stomach dropped. He didn’t have a choice. Not without making it worse. Not without making it loud. Not with Amber watching.   So Paul closed his eyes for half a second, and he began to drink. The lid pressed against his mouth. The suction required. The way it pulled him backward inside himself. The way it made him feel like he was shrinking even while he stayed the same size. The quiet crinkle under his shorts answered when he shifted to sit up straighter, trying to swallow like an adult, trying to drink like an adult, trying to keep his face from betraying him.   But his mind—his mind didn’t stay at the table. His mind snapped back.   Just twenty minutes ago.   When he’d apparently sat in more wreckage than Amber after they blew up their relationship— and the crater they’d made was still smoking.   The cold late-November air pushing into the apartment like a wet palm pressed against a fevered forehead.A breeze that carried the outside in—damp sidewalk, distant car exhaust, the faint smell of leaves that had given up and started to rot.   It cooled the room the way a splash of water cools a burn. Not gently. Not kindly. But fast. Instant. Unavoidable. The two of them had moved at the same time. Like guilty kids who heard a parent’s footsteps and suddenly remembered what the rules were. Paul had reached down too quickly, his hand sweeping crayons off the floor in a frantic, graceless arc. The plastic of his safari pants gave a faint crinkle-crinkle that sounded too loud in the sudden quiet. Amber had snatched her picture up like it was evidence. Like it could tell the story of her innocence if she held it carefully enough. The paper had been wrinkled and bent, corners soft from being squeezed too hard. She’d tried to smooth it out against the table with the flat of her palm, pressing, pressing, pressing—like pressure could erase the fact that she’d crumpled it in anger.   Paul’s picture lay on the table too. Colored “pretty,” sure. But the way he’d attacked the page… it wasn’t pretty in the way Martina meant. It was furious. Dark strokes. Heavy pressure. Places where the crayon had nearly torn the paper because he’d been grinding it down like he was trying to break through the page and into something softer on the other side. Amber’s stomach had turned when she saw it. Because it looked like his brain had bled into the drawing. Both of them were holding their respective sippy cups to their lips like obedient children in the aftermath of a tantrum.   And then Martina stepped inside out from the balcony. Stoic. Calm.   The kind of calm that didn’t mean she wasn’t angry. The kind that meant she was dangerous. She stood there for a moment, framed by the open door and the outside light behind her. The breeze tugged at the edge of her cardigan. Her hair barely moved. Her eyes did. Martina didn’t look at their faces first. She looked at the room. At the table. At the floor. At the scattered crayons that hadn’t been gathered fast enough.   At the way Amber’s shoulders were too high and Paul’s posture was too stiff, like both of them were holding their breath in the same shallow, guilty rhythm.  Two eighteen-year-olds sitting like children because they’d been forced into a lesson neither of them had been ready to learn.   Martina’s chest rose. Held. A heavy sigh she didn’t let out yet.   Because whatever had happened while she was gone— whatever had boiled over in the thirty-five minutes she’d given them—she didn’t have time to fix it right now. Not in the way a mother wanted to fix things. Not by rewinding. Not by making it neat.   They were adults after all. Eighteen. Old enough to drive, to vote, to swear, to break hearts and pretend it didn’t matter. Friends from the beginning. Friends from the sandbox days, scraped knees, and those summers that felt endless. Martina had always believed—stupidly, stubbornly, beautifully—that they would find their way back to each other. They would have to.   It felt like the room was waiting for another fight. Waiting for Martina to explode. Waiting for her to demand an explanation. Waiting for someone to finally cry.   But it didn’t come. Instead Martina did what she always did. She led. Her face softened into joy—real joy, or at least the version of joy she could summon on command, the kind that had raised a child and survived heartbreak and kept a home from collapsing. She spoke in Spanish, bright and warm like sunshine after rain.   “Hola, mis dos amores.” (Hello, my two loves.)   Amber’s spine went tighter. Paul blinked once, not fully understanding but recognizing the music of her tone. Martina kept going, her voice light, almost sing-song.   “Qué dibujos tan bonitos colorearon. Tan hermosos, como ustedes.” (What pretty pictures you colored. So beautiful, like you both.)   Amber’s mouth parted like she wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly. Martina smiled wider, clapping once as if she’d just walked into a kindergarten classroom and found two angels waiting for her approval.   “Vamos a colgarlos en la nevera.” (Let’s hang them on the fridge.)   Martina’s hands moved automatically. She picked up Amber’s picture with care—smoothing out the wrinkles, flattening the page against the table with the palm of her hand like she could press the shame out of it too. Martina leaned in and kissed Amber’s cheek with pride, the way she used to when Amber was little and brought home a spelling test with a gold star. Amber flinched at the affection. Not because she didn’t want it.Because she didn’t deserve it.   Paul watched, confused. He wasn’t as fluent in Spanish—he caught pieces, tone, warmth—but the words didn’t land clean. He would’ve asked Amber to translate once. He would’ve leaned toward her and murmured What’d she say? and Amber would’ve rolled her eyes and whispered it back.   But that wasn’t an option anymore.   Not after what they’d done to each other.   So Paul nodded anyway. Smiled, a little too slow. A little too stupid. At least that’s how Amber saw it. Like he was trying to pretend everything was fine because he didn’t know what else to do. Martina moved around the table, kissed the top of Paul’s head affectionately—soft, maternal, almost casual.   Then she took his picture too. Both teens watched, embarrassed— and underneath it, buried deep, a sliver of pride they didn’t want to admit to. Martina hung both pictures on the fridge. Two pages side by side like proof that something could still be made, even from mess. She clapped her hands again, brisk now, shifting the energy like a director calling a scene change.   “Es hora de cenar.” (It’s dinner time.)   And suddenly, like the household was a machine and Martina was the switch—everyone had a job. “Paul,” Martina said, voice still warm but edged with authority. “Limpia la mesa, por favor.”   Paul blinked. He understood enough. Clean the table.   He stood, the thicker padding shifting under him with a louder crinkle than he wanted. The sound followed him like a shadow. He grabbed a cloth and started wiping, movements too careful, too stiff—like he was trying to be invisible while doing something that made him feel painfully visible.   “Amber,” Martina called, already turning into the kitchen. “Ven conmigo.”   Amber stood. The step-ins made their own soft rustle as she moved. She hated that sound. Hated that it followed her like a confession. Martina handed her a fresh loaf of pan crujiente—crusty bread that still smelled warm and alive, like it had been pulled from an oven and wrapped in paper before the world could touch it.   She set a cutting board down. A bread knife. “Córtalo grueso,” Martina instructed. Thick slices.   Amber nodded, swallowing her pride like it was dry bread in her throat. She sliced. The knife sawed through the crust with a satisfying crackle, the inside soft and steaming. She toasted the slices lightly, then rubbed them with fresh garlic the way Martina had taught her years ago—like a ritual, like a spell.   Paul set down placemats. He tried to make his hands steady. Tried to make his breathing normal. Tried not to think about the way his body still felt like it belonged to someone else. Martina gathered the sippy cups, moving with efficiency that felt almost holy.   She refilled the ice. Topped hers and Amber’s with lemonade. Then she paused at Paul’s cup and poured something different. His cup got what Lilly had packed for him—chocolate milk, thicker, sweeter, with extra protein. Medicine disguised as sweetness.   Martina tightened the lids on both sippies with a soft twist-twist and handed them to Paul. He took them obediently, his cheeks burning. Amber placed the bread basket down, the toasted slices stacked neatly like they belonged in a magazine.   Martina returned with bowls of stew—warm, inviting, the scent rising like comfort you didn’t deserve. Lentejas con chorizo. Garlic, onions, paprika, cumin, smoky sausage. She set down a bowl of pico de gallo too—fresh chopped tomato, onion, cilantro, lime—bright and alive against the heaviness of the stew.   She murmured a quick grace, more habit than performance.   And dinner began. Amber ate steadily. Grateful.Trying to be normal. Martina ate with the calm satisfaction of someone who had held the day together and was finally allowed to taste the reward.   But Paul—   Paul was the odd one out in more ways than one. His body wanted the stew. His stomach growled like an animal. His mouth watered.   This was the dish he’d helped shop for—ingredients they’d picked out at the farmer’s market earlier while Martina explained to Amber, now, how they’d walked between stalls, how the air had smelled like citrus and herbs and sun. Martina was careful. She kept Paul’s “adventures” out of the story. She didn’t mention the accident. Didn’t mention the way Paul had needed her. But Paul could still feel it sitting under his skin like a bruise.   He ate two slices of bread.   The first he dipped into the stew—just enough to taste it, to tease himself with something good without committing to the joy. The second he topped with pico de gallo. Bright, acidic, sharp. A bite that felt like waking up. After that—nothing.   Not even the sippy cup touched his lips.   Paul stared at his bowl as if it was a stranger. He stirred the stew slowly with his spoon, aimless circles, like if he kept the food moving, he could keep his thoughts from settling. His hurt was too full. There wasn’t room for anything else. Martina watched him without staring. That was her gift.   She could watch without making you feel watched. She gave him space long enough to see if he’d rebound on his own. To see if he’d choose growth. To see if he’d pick up the spoon and feed himself like an adult.   But the longer Paul sat there stirring, the clearer it became: He wasn’t coming back on his own tonight. Martina’s jaw tightened once. Barely.  Whatever plan she’d set in motion— the quiet time, the coloring, the forced reflection—it had failed. She didn’t know how spectacularly it had crashed and burned. She didn’t know their friendship had incinerated instead of healing. But she knew enough. And she had to ensure Paul got better. By his hand or hers. Martina excused herself for a moment.   “Ahora vuelvo.” (I’ll be right back.)   She excused herself softly, pushing her chair back. Amber glanced at Paul, flipping her hair behind her ear like she was trying to remember what it felt like to ignore those who didn’t desver her time of day, Paul was now one of those people. Martina returned a moment later—and her hands were full. Paul’s bib. Clean. Bright against the dimness of the day.   Paul’s memory snapped back to the present so hard it startled him. Amber’s chair scraped back suddenly. Gleeful. Sharp. The sound made his nervous system flinch. His body reacted before his brain could. Warmth pooled in his crotch. A quick rush—almost a gush— but when his hands moved, frantic and humiliating, pressing through the safari diaper and plastic pants…He was still dry on the outside.   Thank God.   Amber stood with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.   “Sí, mami,” she said in Spanish, too sweet, too eager. “Déjame enseñarte. A Paul también le van a encantar las fotos bonitas.” (Let me show you. Paul would love the pretty pictures too.)   Her voice was mocking him. He heard it. Martina removed Paul’s sippy cup gently, like she was preventing him from choking on his own pride, and went back to feeding him. Paul stared down at the bowl. More than halfway gone now.   Amber ran down the hall toward her bedroom, her step-ins giving her away with that soft crinkle-crinkle she no longer tried to hide. Paul didn’t see shame in her eyes when she returned. He saw vengeance. Cruelty wrapped in excitement. And pleasure sitting on top like a bow.   The binder she carried was rich purple, thick and heavy, with elegant white font across the front: Wedding Plans It hit the table with a thud that rattled the spoons. Amber’s joy was real. The bonus—the little sick bonus she couldn’t stop herself from savoring— was that she got to twist the knife deeper into Paul’s chest while she did it. Amber flipped it open like she was opening a future.   “Okay,” she began, voice bright, breathless, the way girls talk when they want to make sure everyone knows they’re winning. “So… Marcus and I talked, and we’re gonna stay engaged until the end of our first year at the University of South Carolina.”   Paul swallowed. The words hit him like cold water. Amber kept going, page after page, detail after detail, her excitement spilling out like confetti.   “His parents already put a down payment on an off-campus apartment,” she said, eyes shining. “It’s literally perfect.” She described it in stunning detail: A bright, modern building with clean white stucco and warm brick accents, tucked just far enough from campus to feel grown-up, but close enough to feel safe. A gated entry with ironwork that looked expensive. A small courtyard with string lights and benches, the kind of place you took photos for Instagram because the lighting always made you look like you had your life together. Inside—open concept. A kitchen with quartz countertops and stainless steel appliances that gleamed like the future itself. A living room big enough for a sectional couch and a mounted TV, the walls painted a soft neutral that made everything look more expensive than it was. Three bedrooms. One for Marcus. One for Amber. One for Lila—because of course, Lila had been accepted too.   Amber talked about independence like it was a drug. No curfew. No parents. No rules. A life where she got to choose what she wore, when she ate, who she loved, and what she became.   Martina smiled and looked at Paul. “¿No te parece increíble?” she asked him gently. (Doesn’t that look amazing?)   Paul had his sippy cup at his lips. He couldn’t answer. He couldn’t speak.   He nodded once, swallowing chocolate milk that tasted suddenly too thick. Martina took the edge of his bib and wiped his mouth like he was five. Paul’s face burned. Because he felt it—felt the contrast like a blade running down his spine and severing any and all chance he had at a fraction of that future laid out in front of him.   Because in that moment, he didn’t feel like Amber’s equal. He felt like her little brother. Her baby brother. Sitting in an incredibly soaked wet diaper, being fed stew by a surrogate mommy, while she spoke about a future that didn’t even have a space for him in it.   Amber kept going. Engagement dinner plans. Who Marcus would name as groomsmen. Who Amber would have as bridesmaids. She said names like they were confetti. She said dates like they were promises.   Each spoonful Martina fed Paul felt like it was emptying him out further. Like the bowl wasn’t the only thing being consumed. And then Amber turned the page. Wedding venue. And something in Paul went cold. Because there had been something on that page before. He could feel it. Like a phantom limb. Like a memory that still ached even when you pretended it didn’t exist.   Amber had replaced it. Maybe moments ago. Maybe on purpose.   And now what sat in the middle of the page was a new dream, which had belonged to both of them. Once. A pinky promise made years ago, torn to shreds and replaced with Marcus’s name in neat ink. Amber’s finger tapped the photo like she was showing off a trophy.   Her voice softened into awe—but the cruelty stayed tucked beneath every word, deliberate as a blade.   “This,” Amber whispered. “This is where we’re doing it.”   She slid the photo closer. And Paul saw it.   The Cummer Museum Gardens.   For most people who lived in Jacksonville—or even just passed through long enough to pretend they were locals—you had to see the gardens at least once. It was one of those places the city bragged about in that soft, proud way: Look, we have beauty too.   But for Amber and Paul, the gardens weren’t a tourist checkmark.   It was a portal. It was the closest thing two kids could find to another world without leaving the city.   Because Amber and Paul—back when their biggest problems were scraped knees and pop quizzes —had been obsessed with fantasy like it was oxygen. They lived in it. They spoke in it. They built their friendship inside it the way some kids built forts. They devoured Lord of the Rings like it was scripture—Amber tracing the map with her finger like she could feel mountains under her skin, Paul reciting lines like he was auditioning for a role he’d been born for. And then there was The Legend of Zelda—the big one.   The one that wasn’t just a story. It was a mythology. It was them, in their own heads.   Amber loved Zelda the way she loved the idea of being brave and beautiful and powerful—someone who carried destiny in her bones without needing anyone’s permission. Paul loved Link the way he loved the idea of loyalty—the quiet hero, the one who didn’t need a speech to be worth something, the one who kept going even when no one clapped. Amber’s voice softened into something dreamy, reverent, almost holy, as if she were lifting the memory up like an offering.   “This,” she said, tapping the picture. “This is where Marcus and I are gonna do it.”   Paul’s vision blurred back to the past. Two small kids stepping through an arch covered in ivy as if they were stepping through a dungeon entrance.   Amber dressed as Zelda. Martina had fussed over it, because Martina always did—because if her daughter was going to be a princess, she was going to do it with respect. A purple dress, a belt, gold details. Amber’s hair brushed until it shone. A crown that never sat perfectly because Amber kept adjusting it like she couldn’t quite believe she got to wear something that made her feel chosen.   Paul dressed as Link. Green hat that flopped a little. Faux leather straps. A toy shield he held like it had weight. A small plastic sword he insisted was real, because in his head it was. His eyes had been bright and serious with the kind of conviction only kids have—like the world would fall apart if he didn’t do the job right.   They’d run through those hedges like they were running through Hyrule Field. They’d duck behind the trimmed bushes like they were hiding from monsters. They’d make the long straight stretch of lawn into a quest path, the fountain into a magical destination, the arches into gateways that required courage to pass.    Amber wasn’t just telling a story now. She was holding the proof. “It’s like…” she breathed. “It’s like something out of a movie.”   She smiled wider—too bright, too practiced, like she was narrating her own highlight reel.   “It’s perfect because it’s… quiet. And elegant. And it feels timeless. Like… like you’re walking into something that’s already blessed.”   The photo she’d shoved under Paul’s nose—like it was new, like it was hers, like it belonged to Marcus now— that photo wasn’t new at all.   It was old. Old enough to have softened at the edges. Old enough to have lived in a drawer, then a shoebox, then a binder, then a memory you forgot you still had until you needed a weapon.     It was old because Paul had bought it for her. A dollar fifty. That’s what it had cost.   One dollar and fifty cents at the gift shop, where the postcards sat in neat rows like little sealed-off worlds. Paul had stood there, small hands hovering, taking it way too seriously, picking this one because it had the exact angle they loved—the exact view that made the gardens look like a kingdom.   He’d paid for it with sweaty kid coins and pride.   Amber had taken it like it was treasure.   And then—right there, on the walk back out, under those branches, with Martina and Bryan chatting behind them like the world was safe—   Amber had kissed him on the cheek.   Just like Zelda.   Quick. Dramatic. Innocent.   Paul had gone red like a stop sign.   Amber had recorded the moment in her memory like she was storing a gem.   And they’d pinky promised—because pinky promises were law back then—that one day they’d get married there. A stupid childhood dream. The kind of thing you say without thinking. The kind of thing you say because the world hasn’t hurt you yet, so you assume it never will. The kind of thing you say because you still believe love is something that always stays.   And now—Her fingers traced the picture without touching it, almost tender—almost.   “I can see it so clearly,” Amber went on, voice lilting as if the words were silk. “Everyone sitting there, watching, and the sun is going down just enough that everything looks gold. And I’ll be in this dress—like, not too much, but enough. And Marcus will be waiting,” she said, and the way she said Marcus felt like a door shutting. “And he’ll look at me like I’m the only thing in the world.”   Her voice softened into a vow—soft enough that it almost sounded kind, almost sounded like a girl just excited about her life.   “And we’ll promise each other never-ending devotion. An everlasting love between two soulmates. Like we were destined for one another.”   And the worst part—what made it sharper than any insult they’d thrown at each other earlier—was that she was using their old language to do it. Fantasy language. Forever language. Promise language.   She’d taken the sacred little relic of their childhood and wrung it out right here in front of him like she wanted to see what fell out. Amber had taken that memory, that sacred little place where they used to escape, and used it to extract the final remaining amounts of joy and reverence those eight years had left.   Like she was wringing something precious out until it bled.   Amber looked up. And her eyes flicked to Paul. Just for a second. Just long enough. And there it was—that small, cruel satisfaction. Like she knew exactly what this was doing to him. Like she wanted him to feel it. Martina’s spoon stopped midair. Her jaw tightened. The air changed—subtle, but real—like the whole kitchen had braced itself.   And Paul—Paul’s face finally broke. Hot tears of sadness started streaming down both his cheeks, silent at first, the way you cry when you’re trying not to give anyone the satisfaction of hearing you.       And then—     Martina SLAMMED THE BINDER SHUT!!!!!!     Chapter One Hundred & Three: Part 2 The sound cracked through the room like thunder. Martina had hit the binder with such force that she cracked the stew bowl nearly clean in half, and the remaining liquid slowly oozed out, staining the binder. Amber’s whole body jolted. Martina’s voice rose—sharp, furious, real. Her accent thickened with anger. “¡AMBER!” Martina’s voice rose—sharp, commanding, no warmth left to soften the blow. “YA ESTOY HARTA de que estés tratando de DESTROZARLE el corazón a Paul.” (I’ve had enough of you trying to break Paul’s heart) Amber’s face drained of color. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. Martina’s gaze snapped to Paul, and her fury didn’t soften. “And PAUL—” she said, voice shaking now, “Estoy increíblemente FURIOSA por la forma en que le hablaste a MI hija. La insultaste a ella, me insultaste a mí y a cómo la crié.” (I’m incredibly PISSED OFF at how you spoke to MY daughter. You insulted her, me and how I raised her.) Paul’s face went white. Not from guilt alone. From the realization. The cold, hard truth slamming into him like a wall: Martina knew.   All along.   She’d heard it in the silence. She’d read it in the crayons. She’d seen it in the way they drank from those sippy cups like kids who’d just been punished. She’d smelled the smoke even when they tried to pretend the fire was out.   And she’d given them time anyway. Enough rope. Enough space. Enough freedom to either repair something or hang themselves with their own cruelty. They had dug their graves. And now Martina stood over them, shovel in hand, eyes burning with love and rage and disappointment so deep it felt like grief.   Martina’s eyes moved from Amber… to Paul… and back again, slow and deliberate, as if she was scanning for injuries she couldn’t see. As if she could physically locate the exact places they’d hit each other and measure the damage. Amber’s face drained so fast it looked unreal—like someone had pulled the plug on her color. Paul’s breath hitched, and the tears that had already been there didn’t stop… they thickened, hot and humiliating, sliding down his cheeks and catching on the edge of the bib Martina had just tied around his neck like it was a safety harness.   For a second—just a second—no one moved. Even the air felt like it was holding its breath.   Martina’s voice came out low at first.   Not loud.Not screaming. But dangerously controlled.   The kind of quiet fury that didn’t need volume to hurt. “Amber.” Her voice was sharp enough to slice. “Paul.”   They both flinched.   Martina took one step forward, then another, until she was standing close enough to the table that her presence filled the whole room. She looked down at them like a storm cloud with a heartbeat. And then her voice rose—not into a scream, but into something worse: A mother’s rage. A woman’s heartbreak.   “I have had enough,” Martina said, each word precise, as if she were placing bricks in a wall. “Enough of you trying to destroy each other. Enough of you taking turns ripping skin off like you’re in some kind of competition to see who can bleed the other out first.”   Amber’s throat bobbed. Her fingers hovered over the binder like she didn’t know whether to protect it or throw it. Paul’s hands clenched around his spoon so hard his knuckles went pale. The faintest crinkle came from his lap when he shifted—plastic against fabric, the cruel reminder that even his body was loud right now, even when he tried to be invisible.   Martina’s eyes snapped to the sound. Not with disgust. With recognition. With a kind of sorrow that looked like it had teeth. “You two,” Martina continued, voice tight, “have known each other since you were babies. Since you were small enough to fall asleep in the same room without needing to prove anything.”   Her gaze cut to Amber.   “And you—mi hija—you sit there and talk about devotion like it’s a wedding vow you can print and file away in a binder…” Then her eyes shifted to Paul.   “And you—mi niño—you sit there and act like you’re the only one who’s ever been hurt, like pain gives you permission to become cruel.”   Paul’s jaw clenched. Amber’s eyes burned with tears she didn’t want. Martina’s chest rose and fell once, heavy. Then she leaned forward, palms braced on the table—close enough now that both of them could smell her perfume mixed with lime zest and stew and the sharpness of gin on her breath.   And Martina said, with absolute certainty: “This… will not be tolerated.”   Her eyes narrowed.   “Not in my house. Not in Bryan and Lilly’s. Not anywhere.”   The words hit like a slap. Martina straightened again, and when she spoke next, the fury sharpened into something cleaner—something that sounded like rules being written into stone.   “You two may not get along anymore,” Martina said. “You may not even want to be friends.”   A beat.   “And that’s fine. You two are the only ones who can decide your future moving forward.”   Amber blinked like she couldn’t believe she was hearing it. Paul swallowed, the tears still slipping down, his face hot with shame and grief and the kind of anger that had nowhere safe to go.   Martina didn’t soften. “But you will not become this to one another.”   Her hand lifted, palm down, pressing the air like she was forcing them to calm even if their bodies refused.   “Personal and emotional punching bags.”   Amber’s mouth opened like she wanted to argue. Martina’s eyes flashed.   “No.”   One word. A full stop. And then Martina turned her attention directly onto Amber, and the room shifted again—because this wasn’t just disappointment now.   This was protection. This was war.   “That means,” Martina said, voice cold enough to freeze, “Amber… you keep everything you learned about Paul over these last three days to yourself.”   Amber went still. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. Martina stepped closer, her face now level with Amber’s, and her voice dropped so low it felt like a secret and a threat at the same time.   “God help you if I—if Lilly—or Bryan get wind of this rumor at school, in public or online.”   Amber’s eyes widened. Martina didn’t blink.   “Because I will simply disown you as my daughter. Period.”   The silence that followed was so heavy it felt like it pressed on Amber’s lungs. Paul’s breath caught. Even through the tears, even through the humiliation, something in him reacted to that line like a shock. Not satisfaction. Not revenge. Fear. Because disowning wasn’t a punishment. It was a severing. And Martina didn’t say things she didn’t mean. Martina’s voice stayed razor-steady.   “The secret you know stays with you forever,” she said. “Or unless Paul tells you it’s okay to tell—and I highly doubt that.”   She held Amber’s gaze like a vice.   “Do you understand?”   Amber’s voice finally stumbled out, cracked and small, the cruelty from before gone like it had never existed.   “Sí,” Amber whispered. “Yes.”   But Martina’s eyes didn’t soften.   “That’s not enough.”   Amber swallowed hard. Martina pointed—two fingers, not aggressive, just commanding.   “Look at him.”   Amber’s head turned slowly. Like it weighed a hundred pounds. Paul was still crying. Still sitting there in that bib, his face flushed and wrecked, his eyes drowning in their own tears. His shoulders were tight like he was holding himself together with muscle alone.  Amber’s hands trembled.   Martina’s voice came again, firm as steel. “Promise him.”   Amber’s throat tightened. Paul’s eyes lifted to hers. And for a second, Amber saw it—saw what she’d done. Not just the gossip. Not just the binder. The way she’d reached into the oldest part of him and twisted. Amber’s hands moved before she could stop them. She reached across the table and took Paul’s. His hand was warm. His fingers stiff at first, like he didn’t know whether to accept it.   Then he let her hold on.   The crinkle of their clothes—his thicker, louder… hers thinner but still humiliating—filled the space between them like an unwanted witness. Amber’s voice came out shaky, stripped of performance, stripped of venom.   “I promise,” she whispered. “I promise you… your needs—all of it—stays between us.”   Her eyes flickered to Martina, then back to Paul.   “Between us.”   Paul’s throat worked. His pride screamed for payback. His anger wanted to bite. But Martina’s eyes were on him—watching, measuring, waiting to see if he’d choose cruelty again. Paul swallowed hard, and something else slid into his voice.   Gratitude. Not clean. Not easy. But real.   “Thank you, Amber,” he whispered, still shaking. “That means… a lot.”   Amber’s eyes filled again, fast and humiliating. Martina didn’t let them sit in that moment too long. Because Martina wasn’t done and first looked at Paul, who swallowed, eyes glassy, shame sitting heavy on his tongue. His vision was still locked to Amber’s eyes.   “I’m sorry.”   A beat—his throat working like he was fighting not to fall apart again.   “I wanted to hurt you back… because you hurt me.”   His eyes dropped to their hands, then back to her face—raw, unguarded.   “But I didn’t have the right.”   His breath trembled.   “I’m sorry for what I said. I’m sorry for who I became.”   Martina watched as Amber nodded a silent “Thank You” but nothing changed between them, as Martina continued.   “If you two want to act like children,” Martina said, voice calm again but dangerous, “then I expect the same respect from you as I would from a child.”   Amber stiffened. Paul’s jaw clenched. Martina’s eyes hardened.   “Until you earn back my trust…”   She turned to Amber first.   “Amber,” Martina said slowly, like she was delivering a sentence. “You will refer to me at all times—no matter where you are, no matter who is around—as Mami.”   Amber’s face went bright red instantly.   “M-Mom—” she started, voice cracking, “not at school. Not in front of Marcus or his family, please—”   Martina didn’t even flinch.   “It doesn’t matter,” she said simply. “You heard me.”   Amber looked like she might melt into the chair. Martina’s gaze slid to Paul.   “And you,” Martina said, voice softer but no less final, “moving forward… my name will be niñera.”   A pause.   Martina tilted her head slightly, the tiniest touch of mercy in her eyes.   “Or if it’s easier, mi niño—nana.”   Paul’s face broke in a different way. Anger flashed. Embarrassment hit like a wave. Guilt followed, heavier. Because losing Martina’s name wasn’t just a punishment.   It was losing his anchor. His safe word.His comfort. And Martina felt it too—felt the heartbreak in her own chest as she watched his eyes flicker like a wounded animal’s.   But she didn’t take it back.   Because she loved him enough to hold the line.  Paul swallowed hard, his voice barely more than breath.   “…Yes,” he whispered. Then, smaller— “…nana.”   Martina’s expression softened for half a second, and she reached out, cupping his cheek with a gentleness that didn’t erase the discipline. It was love inside the boundary. Not instead of it. Paul’s eyes fluttered closed. His breath shook. And somewhere deep in Amber’s gut—hot and ugly and surprising—jealousy sparked.   Not because she wanted Paul’s pain. Because she wanted her mother’s tenderness to be hers again. Amber’s voice came out small, shy in a way that startled even her—like the word pulled from a younger version of herself hiding inside her ribs.   “…Okay,” she whispered. “…Mami.”   Her cheeks went burning. The embarrassment was instant, brutal. But Martina nodded, loving and approving, and pressed a quick kiss to Amber’s cheek like a reward. Amber flinched at the affection.   Martina stepped back and looked at them both—two padded eighteen-year-olds sitting at her table, tear-streaked and humbled, connected by the same humiliation and the same history and the same terrible, aching question: How do we come back from this?   Martina’s voice turned calm again, but the authority underneath it was absolute.   “This,” she said, tapping the table once, “is a good start.”   Amber’s heart lifted for half a second. Paul’s shoulders loosened—barely. Then Martina’s eyes narrowed again.   “But don’t confuse that with forgiveness.”   The air went cold. Martina’s gaze cut between them.   “You are each still in major trouble.”   Amber swallowed. Paul’s stomach dropped. Martina’s mouth tightened, her tone becoming final, motherly, unstoppable.   “And you’ll each take the spoon.”   Right now. Paul’s breath hitched. Amber’s face went pale.   And Martina—still furious, still disappointed, still loving them both in a way that didn’t let them escape consequences— stood up , walked into the kitchen opening a drawer and pulling out. A long, flat bamboo paddle spoon, wide at the head and tapering down into a smooth, sturdy handle—simple, practical, almost old-fashioned. The wood has that warm, honeyed tone, with faint grain lines running like quiet fingerprints through it. It’s clean, but not sterile. The surface is slightly matte, the kind of finish that’s been used enough times to lose its factory shine. In Martina’s hand it has weight—not heavy like iron, but solid in the way good wood is solid. Reliable. A tool made to push through resistance, restoring order to a world that had almost burned itself down. Paul’s face went absolutely white. His head shook before he even realized he was moving. A quick, frantic no that started in his neck and spread into his shoulders, into his hands, into his legs. His whole body vibrating with the kind of panic that didn’t need words to explain itself. Because he knew that spoon. He knew what it meant. And he knew, with a sick clarity, that today had stacked consequences like bricks—one on top of another—until the weight of them had finally become something Martina could no longer ignore.Martina didn’t rush him. She didn’t slam anything down. She didn’t raise her voice. She just… walked over. Purposeful. Calm. Controlled.   Like a storm that had already decided where it was going to land. The spoon was in her hand. Not a weapon. Not a threat. Just a tool—simple, ordinary, inevitable.   She pulled her chair out gently, the legs making the faintest scrape against the floor. The sound was so small it felt louder than it should’ve been. Like the apartment itself was holding its breath.   Paul’s eyes flicked to Amber—one quick dart of desperation—then back to Martina. His lips parted. Nothing came out. Not because he didn’t have words. Because his pride and his fear were both fighting for the same space in his throat. Martina sat beside him with the same steady grace she’d had all day.   And then—softly—Martina tapped her knee.Just once. She leaned in close enough that her voice became private. Close enough that her words belonged only to him. And she whispered his name like she was calling him back from the edge of something dark.   “Paul…”   Her tone wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t even angry anymore. It was worse than anger.   Then, in Spanish—low and intimate, like a secret that still carried authority—Martina murmured: “No tengo tiempo para esperar, mi pequeñín.” (I don’t have time to wait, my little one.)   Paul’s throat tightened so hard it hurt. Because hearing mi pequeñín—my little one—should’ve been comforting. But right now it felt like a mirror held up too close. Too honest. Martina’s eyes stayed on him, unwavering. And her next words came even softer, like she was speaking into the part of him that wanted to hide.   “Tengo permiso de Lilly… solo para un recordatorio rápido de las consecuencias que te ganaste hoy. Por todo.” (I have permission from Lilly… just for one quick reminder of the consequences you earned today. For everything.)   Paul’s breath hitched. His stomach dropped.   His hands gripped the edge of the chair like it could keep him from sliding right out of his own body. Paul on shaky legs, stood up. He knew the drill. There was no point in hiding it anymore, he let his shorts drop past his knee, and both Martina & espically Amber witnessed it, the sight of an absolutely near-drenched diaper. The once-white padding was simply sagging, the tapes straining under the additional weight. His plastic pants kept everything contained and leak-proof. Martina’s face changed to that of worry and heartbreak for a moment before she reached around and laid a tea towel over her lap for extra protection and motioned Paul to lie over her knee. He slowly got into position, Amber wasn’t told to turn away no, she would get to watch as would Paul.   This was the worst part, the waiting. Martina had already said everything she was going to say; it felt like waiting for the executioner to swing the axe and take your head. Paul had been in this position once long ago; he was seven. He made Amber cry, for the fifth time that day. It was enough for his Dad to agree with Martina and give her permission to paddle me. At seventeen now, he doubts his dad would bat an eye- The spoon swings. A tight fssht of air. Then— THWACK.   The sound is two-layered, violent in a way your brain registers instantly. The hard crack of wood on flesh followed by the wet, heavy body-sound  collapsing around it CRACK—WHUMP. The spoon lands and the flesh doesn’t just dent—it shudders. Because Martina doesn’t “spank” the padded behind, no, her blow lands across the lower exposed parts of the thighs, the spoon is long enough where it’s handle makes contact with BOTH of them.   The second it landed, his body folded like it had been unplugged.   “AHH—!”   And then the sound changed. Not into words. Into something broken. A second noise—smaller, wrecked—   “—nnnh…nannnnna!”   Like the pain didn’t just hurt him. Like it humiliated him on the way through. Martina’s chair scraped back, quick and controlled, and she was already there—hands firm but gentle as she hooked an arm behind his shoulders and pulled him up, guiding his weight like she’d done it a hundred times before.  His face pressed into her shoulder. His body trembled—hard, involuntary—like the pain had left sparks behind. Martina gathered him closer, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other rubbing slow circles between his shoulder blades.   “Shhh… shhh, mi amor,” she murmured, voice low and warm, like a blanket pulled fresh from the dryer. “Ya pasó… ya pasó.” (It’s over… it’s over.)   She rocked him gently, side to side, the motion small but steady—something ancient in it, something that told his nervous system it didn’t have to fight anymore.   “Eso fue todo, bebé,” Martina whispered, soft baby talk slipping out without effort, without embarrassment. “Ya estás bien. Ya estás conmigo.” (That’s all, baby. You’re okay now. You’re with me.)   Paul’s breath hitched again, sharp and wet, but it started to slow—one uneven inhale at a time—his fingers curling into her shirt like he was afraid the world might pull him away if he let go. Martina kissed his temple once, quick and protective, as he scrambled off her lap. Martina told Paul, shorts stay off, and your diaper won’t be changed until Lilly arrives in the next few moments. Paul’s face still flushed with tears shuffled to the side and turned back around, looking at Amber, who stared at her mother, the spoon back in her hands.   Martina’s presence behind her wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It pressed into the air like gravity—steady, unmoving, impossible to argue with. Amber kept her eyes forward after dropping her shorts, jaw locked, lips pressed tight enough to sting. Her fingers curled into the edge of the seat. Especially after Martina coldly & calmly stated after she climbed up and leaned over her knee.   “Amber, señorita joven, vas a recibir cinco. Uno por cada una de las chicas que despertó a Paul y empezó todo este DESASTRE.” (Amber, young lady, you’re going to receive five. One for each of the girls who woke Paul up and started this whole MESS.)   Don’t flinch, she told herself. Don’t cry. Don’t give them anything.   The spoon moved. The sound was small. Just a whisper of motion. But Amber heard it anyway. Her body heard it. And when it landed— the shock snapped through her like electricity.   “Ah—!”   The sound tore out of her before she could stop it. Sharp. Thin. Unwanted. Her whole torso jerked. For half a second she was nothing but nerves and heat and humiliation.   Then she clamped her mouth shut so hard her teeth clicked. Her face went instantly hot, color flooding up her throat and into her cheeks like shame had its own bloodstream.   She blinked fast. Once. Twice. Refusing to let the wetness in her eyes turn into tears. Across the table, Paul didn’t say a word. But Amber could feel him watching anyway. She could feel it like a spotlight on the side of her face. The first hit didn’t break her. It just cracked something. A hairline fracture in the armor. Amber swallowed, forcing her lungs to work like nothing had happened. Her Step-In crinkled faintly when she shifted again—tiny, betraying sound. Amber didn’t look back. She didn’t move. She didn’t give Martina the satisfaction of seeing her flinch again.   But her hands trembled anyway. And she hated herself for that too. Then the spoon moved again.Amber’s stomach dropped. Her shoulders tightened. Her thighs clenched. Her breath turned shallow.   The second time it landed, she tried to swallow the sound—FSSHT—It lands with a heavy, wet slap— but pain didn’t care about pride.   “—ngh!”   It came out strangled, angry.   Amber’s head snapped forward a fraction, her eyes squeezing shut for one humiliating second before she forced them open again. Her pulse roared in her ears.   “I’m fine,” Amber said, voice thin, furious, not even aimed at anyone.   Just… thrown into the air like a shield. The words didn’t sound believable. Not even to her. The crinkle of her Step-In answered her instead, soft and constant as she tried to settle her shaking legs.   Paul’s face had gone pale.   Amber didn’t look at him. She couldn’t. If she looked at him, she would see what she’d done. Her words turning into knives.   And then the spoon moved again. Amber’s eyes widened. Her body recoiled before the pain even arrived, like instinct had crawled up through her spine and taken the wheel. No—   It hit. The third time didn’t just hurt. It broke through. “Ahh—!”   Amber’s voice cracked on the sound, higher than she wanted, rawer than she could control. Her knees twitched like they wanted to fold inward, her whole posture collapsing for a second into something small and defensive. She caught herself at the edge of it, gripping the chair so hard her fingers went numb. But she couldn’t stop the tremor that took over her legs. Couldn’t stop the way her breath started coming too fast.   Too shallow. Too desperate.   Her chest rose and fell like she was drowning. The room blurred at the edges. The walls felt closer. The ceiling felt heavier. And then something worse than pain hit her—panic. Not panic that she was being hurt. Panic that she was losing control.   Because Amber had always been the kind of girl who could handle discomfort. Amber could smile through things. Amber could endure. Amber could perform.   But this wasn’t a performance.   This was her nervous system getting dragged down into a place she couldn’t charm her way out of. Her throat tightened around a sound she didn’t want to make. The spoon pulls back, and there’s a faint, sticky chhk as the wood separates from the skin’s surface, like tape peeling off damp skin.   She swallowed hard. She tasted tears. She forced them back.   Paul’s eyes flicked to hers for the briefest moment— and Amber hated the way his gaze softened. Then the spoon moved again. Amber’s body tensed so hard it felt like her muscles might snap. “No,” she whispered.   It wasn’t defiance. It was pleading. It was the first time her pride stopped sounding like anger and started sounding like fear.   Martina didn’t answer the whisper. She didn’t need to. Martina’s silence was the answer.   The fourth hit landed and Amber’s composure finally fractured all the way through. The spoon hits harder. This time the impact lands closer to where the bone  runs nearest the surface, and the sound is sharper—almost metallic even though it isn’t metal.   KRAK.   “Stop—!”   It came out ragged, breathless. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just… desperate.   Her voice broke on the word, like it had been scraped raw. Her eyes burned. Her chin trembled. Her breath hitched in a stuttering rhythm that wasn’t crying yet—but was right on the edge of it. Amber’s hands came off the chair for half a second, hovering like she didn’t know what to do with them.   Like she didn’t know where to put the shame. Her skin prickled. Her stomach turned.   And the humiliation—the real humiliation—wasn’t the pain. It was the way she could feel the padding between her legs now with every shaky breath. The way it crinkled when she shifted, when she tried to brace herself, when she tried to survive.   The way it reminded her— You’re wearing what he wears. You’re in his shoes.   Amber’s eyes flicked to Paul again, quick and involuntary. His face was flushed. His jaw tight. But there was something else there too. A tension in his mouth like he was fighting a smile he didn’t deserve. Not because he wanted her hurt. Because hearing someone else crinkle beside him—hearing someone else break—made him feel less alone. Amber saw it.   And something ugly sparked in her chest. A flare of resentment so hot it shocked her. How dare you feel comfort right now. The thought made her hate herself. Because she didn’t want to be cruel again. But the cruelty was already in her blood today.   Then the spoon moved again. Amber’s breath stopped. Her eyes went wide. Her whole body locked like an animal waiting for impact. The fifth hit landed and the sound that came out of Amber wasn’t controlled. WHIP—FSSHT! Then the connection is immediate and ugly—wood meets skin with a violent, heavy slap: WHUMP! It wasn’t polite. It wasn’t the voice of a girl who had a fiancé and a future and a perfect life mapped out in a binder. It was a raw, broken scream ripped straight from her lungs.   “AHH—!”   And then— she collapsed. Not physically. Emotionally.   Her face crumpled like paper. Her shoulders shook. A sob burst out of her like something tearing free. She tried to stop it—she did. She pressed her lips together so hard it hurt. She swallowed and swallowed and swallowed like she could force the tears back down—but the sobs kept coming anyway, ugly and loud in her own ears.   Her breath stuttered. Her chest heaved. Her hands came up to her face too late, like she could hide the fact that she’d finally shattered.   Amber cried like she was five years old again. Like she’d been pulled backward through time, stripped of every grown-up defense, reduced to a shaking, humiliated teenager in padding she didn’t want, learning what it felt like to be helpless.   One second she was over her mother’s lap—shaking, sobbing, crinkling with every breath like her own body had turned into a betrayal—and the next she was sat up on her mother’s lap. As Martina rocked her slowly, not dramatic, just a steady sway—left, right—like she was rocking a storm back into the ocean.   Her hand slid up Amber’s back, warm through the fabric, rubbing circles between her shoulder blades. Amber made a small, ugly sob into Martina’s collarbone. Martina pressed her lips to Amber’s hair.   Not a kiss for show. A kiss that said: You are still mine.   “Shhh,” Martina soothed. “Ya… ya pasó.” (It’s over now.)   Amber shook her head hard, frantic.   “No,” she whispered. “No, it’s not. I— I couldn’t— I couldn’t stop—”   Her voice broke. She hated the sound of herself like this. Weak. Messy. Small. The kind of small she’d mocked in other people because it terrified her. Martina’s thumb brushed Amber’s cheekbone, wiping away a tear like she’d done a thousand times.   “Lo sé,” Martina said quietly. (I know.)   Amber’s throat tightened. Her breath came in shaky bursts. She could still feel the sting, the shock, the heat of it—five times over—like her skin had memorized it. But the worst part wasn’t the pain. It was the way she’d cried.   The way she’d begged without words. Martina’s words came slow. Deliberate.   “You are not a bad girl,” Martina said softly in Spanish. “Pero hoy… fuiste cruel.” (But today… you were cruel.)   Amber let out a sound like she’d been punched. Her fingers curled into Martina’s shirt. Martina continued, steady.   “Y lo que haces cuando eres cruel…” Martina’s voice sharpened just a fraction. “Tiene consecuencias.” (And what you do when you’re cruel… has consequences.)   Amber’s tears spilled again, but quieter now. Not panicked. Just exhausted. Martina’s hand moved to Amber’s jaw, lifting her face gently.   “Mírame otra vez.” (Look at me again.)   Amber did. Her eyes were red. Her cheeks wet. Her pride in pieces. Martina’s expression wasn’t cold. It was heartbreak wrapped in authority.   “I love you,” Martina said, voice firm. “Más que tu vergüenza. Más que tu rabia.” (More than your shame. More than your anger.)   Amber’s mouth trembled. Martina’s thumb wiped one last tear away.   Then both “little ones” found themselves on either side of the apartment's front door, shorts pooled around their ankles, their respective “protective” underwear pristine white for Amber or saggy & soggy for Paul. However, where they matched was their thighs under the padding, while Paul only sported a light spoon mark, Amber’s thighs glowed like Ruhdop’s nose. The pain was pulsing throughout Amber’s body while Paul’s pain was cooling but the embarrassment, but more importantly, the loss of his first and maybe even best friend was now beginning to take hold and it hurt more than any spoon ever could. Both of them were put in a “time out” but the real question stood: is their friendship dead or just on a time out? If so, for how long? But what if it was “gone.” What if anything, could be done to bring it back to life..... Their next rehearsal was slated for tomorrow morning at 11am.  

A wet and messy Attends Premier diaper and baby print plastic pants this bitterly cold morning outside, but I am warm and squishy inside.

...............................WOW ..........................

Like most of the USA right now, we are in the grips of a winter storm. The snow has yet to start but it is 0 degree Fahrenheit outside and well below zero with wind chill factored in. Enough of my weather report, now my morning diaper report: wet, warm, messy, squishy ,comfy in an Attends Premier diaper and baby print plastic pants from My Protex. I like to wear plastic pants over cloth back disposable diapers and Attends Premier diapers are both convenient to buy because a local medical supply store sells them, and they are actually quite good. I like the feel of plastic pants, the added security from a leaky diaper, and the plastic pants prevents my wet diaper from sagging. I don't wear plastic pants over plastic back disposable diapers. I also think my plastic pants are doing a good job with stinky control right now. I have no plans to change my wet and poopy diaper soon; want to enjoy the warm potty in my diaper nestled against my perineum for awhile.