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AARDVARK, PLATYPUS, AND TWINKLETOES: ATTORNEYS AT LAW, SCENE 36: HUNTING DOWN THE FRAT BOYS 1 2 3 4 18
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By Blushing_Alex · Posted
I've been giving it some more thought and I think a dollhouse would be needed too. A large one, perhaps styled to look like the home I was living in at the time so that the dolls could play out domestic dramas in it. -
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By Diapered Identity · Posted
Hi everyone! I am really happy to read all your nice comments and I love the fact that you all have ideas and hopes for how this story will develop. I have now finished the outline for every chapter until the end, and just to give you and idea of what to expect, it will be 71 chapters long. No specific reason, that is just what I needed to finish off what I wanted to see on this vacation. Not to spoil anything, but Liam has definitely not reached his lowest point yet... Anyway, here are the next three chapters! Enjoy 🙂 Chapter 51: Sulking The day had passed in a kind of held breath. His dad had come in at ten, again at eleven, once more at half twelve. Each time the same ritual — a knock on the bathroom door, a pause, the careful clearing of his throat. "Ready when you are." Not a question, not an order. Something in between, delivered to the middle distance, as though the words embarrassed him as much as they did Liam. Liam had gone. Every time. He'd sat, he'd pressed, he'd produced something — enough to satisfy whatever mental checklist his dad was running. Then his dad had stepped in, torn off a wad of paper, and held it out with a stiffness that said he was following instructions he hadn't written. "Your mum says I need to — just let me—" The first time, Liam had tried to take the paper himself. His dad had pulled it back, jaw tight, eyes on the wall above Liam's head. "She said I do it. Not you." He'd wiped him — quick, minimal, a perfunctory front-to-back that barely made contact — and stepped away as though he'd touched something hot. Then the pull-up back up, the joggers, the flush. Three toilet visits. All dry. No incidents. It should have felt like a victory. A whole day of proving that his body could behave, that the system worked, that he didn't need to be watched or wiped or managed. But it didn't feel like anything, because proving things to his dad was like performing for an empty theatre. His dad didn't care whether the pull-up was dry or not. He cared that he could tell Mum it was dry — that he could hand her a clean report at the end of his shift and retreat back into whatever quiet, apologetic space he occupied in all of this. Liam sat on the sofa with his knees drawn up. The television was on — some Norwegian nature program about elk migration that neither of them was watching. Outside, the sun had already dropped behind the ridge, and the cabin was filling with the thick, grey light of a mountain afternoon. The pull-up was warm against his skin, snug and dry, and he hated it — hated the fact that he was aware of it, that he could feel its edges against his thighs, that every shift of his weight brought the faintest whisper of plastic that only he could hear. James was in the kitchen, making tea. The sound of the kettle, the clink of a mug, a spoon tapping twice. Ordinary sounds. The sounds of a man who had been left alone with his son for eight hours and had managed it by making it as small as possible — by reducing the day to a sequence of scheduled toilet visits and long, careful silences. They hadn't spoken about last night. They hadn't spoken about Sophie, or Mum, or the towel, or the words Liam had been forced to say at the table while his thighs burned against the chair. His dad had not mentioned any of it. He had simply knocked on the bathroom door every ninety minutes and waited, and Liam had gone, and the hours had passed. It was almost peaceful. Almost bearable. If he could just stay here — in this suspended, airless bubble where nothing was discussed and nothing was demanded and the only requirement was that he sit on a toilet at regular intervals while his dad stared at the wall — he could survive the rest of the holiday. The front door opened at half four, and the bubble burst. He heard them before he saw them. Boots stamping on the mat, the clatter of ski poles against the wall, Claire's voice carrying from the hallway — "Absolutely gorgeous up there today, the snow was perfect" — and then his mum, quieter, asking his dad something Liam couldn't catch. The gust of cold air reached the sitting room. Liam pulled his knees tighter and stared at the elk, which were crossing a river in single file, their legs dark with water. James appeared in the kitchen doorway, wiping his hands on a tea towel. He spoke towards the hallway, not towards Liam — as though delivering a report to a superior. "He's been fine. Bit quiet, but fine. He went when I asked. No incidents. Pull-up's been dry all day." A pause. Grace said something — low, clipped, inaudible. James nodded and disappeared back into the kitchen. Liam heard the zip of a ski jacket, the rustle of layers being peeled off, the creak of the boot rack. Then footsteps — his mum's, steady and deliberate — coming down the hall. She appeared in the sitting room door. Her face was flushed from the cold, her hair flattened from the helmet, and she was already looking at him with that expression he'd come to know over the past week — the one that wasn't anger or disappointment but something more operational. Assessment. Triage. But at least with a smile this time, maybe the winter air of the mountains had cooled her temper a bit. "Right," she said. "Time for a check before dinner." Liam crossed his arms. He didn't move. He sat exactly where he was, knees up, arms folded tight across his chest, jaw set, staring at the television with a concentration that was so aggressive it was almost a sound. "Liam." "I'm dry," he said, and the word came out harder than he'd intended, pushed through his teeth like something physical. "Dad already checked. I've been dry all day. I don't need—" "Bathroom. Now." "I literally just—" "You literally just nothing. Dad says, it's been two hours since your last visit, and I want to see for myself. Up." He didn't get up. He sat there with his arms crossed and his jaw tight and let the silence build, because the silence was the only weapon he had left. He couldn't lock the door. He couldn't refuse. But he could make it take longer. He could make it cost her something. Grace waited. Three seconds. Five. Then she crossed the room in four steps, grabbed his upper arm, and pulled. "I said up." "Ow — get off—" "Then move. Move your legs. Get off that sofa." He stood up, wrenching his arm free. He made a sound — a long, theatrical groan that started somewhere in his chest and came out through his nose, designed to communicate maximum contempt without technically being words. "Ughhhh." He walked to the bathroom. He didn't walk — he migrated, dragging his feet across the floorboards with a heaviness that made each step sound like furniture being moved. His shoulders were hunched, his head dropped forward, his arms still crossed. Every line of his body said: I am doing this, but I am not cooperating. "Move faster, Liam. I haven't got all evening." In the bathroom, he stood in front of the toilet and waited. He knew the drill. He'd done it three times with his dad. But with his dad it had been abbreviated — a stiff, minimal wipe, no eye contact, no commentary. With his mum it was supervised properly. She stepped in behind him and shut the door. "Joggers down. Pull-up down and sit." He pulled the joggers to his knees. The pull-up underneath — dry, pristine, the skater-boy pattern untouched. "All the way down," Grace said. "I can't see anything when you're hovering." He pushed the pull-up to his ankles and sat. One hand went to his lap automatically, covering himself, the fingers curled inward. "Happy?" he said. Grace folded her arms. She didn't answer. She stood against the sink and waited. He sat for a minute. Produced a thin stream. Stopped. Sat. Produced a little more. "Right," Grace said. She tore off a wad of toilet paper and stepped towards him. "Lean back." "I can do it my—" "You can't, actually. That's been established." She put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him gently back, then reached in between his legs and wiped — thorough, efficient, making sure to get under the foreskin and even getting the droplets that had settled on his testicles. "The state of your underwear said otherwise. Lean more." He leaned. His face burned. She wiped again, checked the paper, dropped it in the bowl. "Stand up. Let me see the pull-up." He stood and held the pull-up open with both hands, his other hand immediately going back to cover himself. Dry, pristine. She nodded. She didn't acknowledge the victory. "Pull it up. Wash your hands." He pulled the pull-up up, then the joggers. Flushed. Turned to the sink. She was still standing there, blocking it, arms folded. "Drink something," she said. "I am guessing you've barely had any water today, your pee looked quite yellow." "Ugh." He squeezed past her, went to the kitchen, poured a glass, drank it in three aggressive gulps while staring at the ceiling, and slammed the glass on the counter. "Don't slam things." "I didn't slam it. I put it down." "Then put it down more quietly, or I'll take it off you like I have to take everything else off you. Understood?" He stared at her. She stared back. Neither of them blinked. Dinner was worse. Sophie was at the far end of the table, next to Claire. She hadn't looked at him since she'd come in — hadn't acknowledged his existence except to step around his outstretched legs in the hallway as though they were an obstacle, something left on the floor that someone ought to move. She was talking to Claire about a run she'd done that afternoon, something about moguls and a girl from Stavanger who'd wiped out in front of the T-bar, and her voice was light and easy and aimed in a direction that was specifically, geometrically not his. Liam ate in silence. He picked at the pasta that Claire had made, pushing the sauce around with his fork, building small structures and demolishing them. When Grace told him to eat properly, he shovelled three enormous forkfuls into his mouth in rapid succession, chewing with exaggerated, open-mouthed movements, staring at his plate. "Close your mouth when you eat," Grace said. He closed his mouth. He chewed slowly. He put his fork down. He sighed — a deep, body-length exhalation that seemed to come from somewhere near his knees and exit through the top of his skull. Rob cleared his throat and asked James about the weather forecast for tomorrow. James said it looked good. Rob said that was encouraging. The conversation died, and the scrape of cutlery filled the silence. "Can I go?" Liam said. "You've eaten four bites." "I'm not hungry." "Then sit there until everyone else is finished." He sat. He let his body go slack in the chair, sliding down until his chin was nearly at table level, his legs splayed under the table, his arms hanging at his sides. Across the table, Grace's mouth tightened. The tendons in her neck went taut. "Sit up, Liam." He didn't move. She reached across and grabbed his shoulder, pulling him upright in his chair. "I'm not going to ask you again. Sit up straight, or you'll sit there an hour after everyone's left." He sat up. Slowly. By degrees. Making the adjustment take ten seconds when it should have taken one. He felt like his Mum deserved every bit of defiance he could manage at this point. Claire leaned towards Sophie and said something about hot chocolate. Sophie nodded. The two of them got up and went to the kitchen together, and the table felt colder without them — just Liam, his parents, and Rob, who was studying his water glass with the intensity of a man deciphering ancient text. The tape nappy went on at nine. Grace stood in the bathroom doorway with the supply bag. "Bedtime routine," she said. "In. Now." Liam was on the sofa. He'd been on the sofa for forty minutes, watching nothing, existing in the gap between the television's noise and the murmur of conversation behind him. Sophie and Claire had gone upstairs. Rob had taken himself to bed. James was reading in the armchair, or pretending to. "Jesus, just…." He stood. He dragged himself to the bathroom, every step an act of protest, his feet barely clearing the floor. Grace was already inside, the supply bag open on the floor, the tape diaper laid out on the bathmat. The thick, plasticky kind with the tapes in the sides — not the pull-ups. The nappy. "Joggers and pull-up off." He stood with his back to her and pulled the joggers down. Then the pull-up — dry, clean, a whole day without incident, and it didn't matter, because the reward for a dry pull-up was a tape nappy. He stepped out of them and his hands went immediately to his front, covering himself, his shoulders hunched forward. He stood there facing the tiled wall, shivering slightly, the bathroom air cold against his bare skin. "Turn round for me, please. Lie down on the mat." "Mum—" "Lie. Down. Liam." He turned. He didn't look at her. He lowered himself onto the bathmat, the cold tiles pressing through the thin fabric against his back, and pulled his t-shirt down as far as it would go. His hands stayed between his legs, fingers laced. "This still? Move your hands, Liam. I can't put it on if you're covering yourself." He moved them. Slowly. An inch at a time. He put them flat on his stomach and stared at the ceiling light, which was too bright and too close and illuminated everything. Grace lifted his ankles and pushed his knees towards his chest. He made his legs heavy — dead weight, boneless — and she had to shove harder, readjusting her grip on his calves. "Liam. Help me. Lift." He didn't lift. His legs went slack the moment she tried to slide the nappy underneath him, and the whole thing crumpled. He was NOT going to give her the satisfaction of even resembling someone who agreed to this. "Right." Grace's voice was tight now, clipped. She grabbed both ankles in one hand, lifted them high enough to clear the mat, and slid the nappy under his backside with the other. It was rough, efficient, the way you'd change a baby who was thrashing — not gentle or patient, just done. She grabbed the zinc cream and unscrewed the cap. The smell hit the small bathroom immediately — thick, sweet, medicinal. She smeared it across his groin in fast strokes, without warming it first. The cold cream on raw skin made him flinch. "Stay still." She pulled the front panel up between his legs and taped the left side. Ritsch. Then the right. Ritsch. She checked the fit with two fingers inside the waistband, adjusted the right tape, gave the front a firm pat. "Up." She pulled him to his feet by his wrists. He stood there in the tape nappy, the bulk of it pushing his thighs apart, the plastic crinkling with every micro-movement. His hands went back to the front. "Pajamas are on the hook." She pointed at the door. The navy flannel bottoms and the top were hanging there. "Get dressed, brush your teeth and then off to bed." She picked up the supply bag, the used pull-up in its knotted nappy bag, and left the bathroom. She didn't close the door fully — it drifted to a few inches from shut. Liam stood in front of the mirror. The tape nappy sat wide and white on his hips, impossibly thick, the tapes pulling the plastic taut across his front. He wanted to slam the door behind her but instead chose to gently close it, clenching his teeth in unvocalized frustration. He pulled the pajama bottoms on — the nappy bulged beneath the flannel, visible as a rounded, unmistakable shape — and buttoned the top. Each button took him longer than it needed to. Nobody was watching, but the slowness had become a habit, a way of being, the only form of resistance left to him. He brushed his teeth. He opened the door. The loft was dim. Sophie was sitting cross-legged on her bed with her phone, the screen casting blue light across her face. She was wearing a hoodie and leggings, her hair pulled back, earphones in one ear. She glanced up when he appeared at the top of the stairs, then looked back at her phone. He crossed the loft to his bed. The plastic sheet crinkled loudly as he sat down, and he saw Sophie's eyes flick sideways — just for a second, registering the sound — before returning to her screen. The tape nappy shifted and compressed under his weight, and the flannel pajamas did nothing to disguise it. The bulk sat between his legs like something borrowed from another life. He pulled the duvet up and lay on his back. The plastic sheet whispered with every adjustment — shoulder, hip, the small of his back. Each crinkle was a broadcast. Each breath pushed his stomach against the rigid waistband of the tape nappy, and the zinc cream had warmed to body temperature now, slick and thick in the folds of his skin. Downstairs, he could hear the low murmur of voices — his mum and Claire, talking in the kitchen, too quiet to make out. The tap ran. A glass was set down. His mum's voice rose slightly, then dropped again. They were talking about him. He was sure of it, he felt paranoid. They were discussing him the way you discuss a problem — calmly, practically, with cups of tea and lowered voices — and whatever they were deciding, he would find out in the morning, nothing could convince him otherwise. He was right to be angry. He was right to resist. They couldn't just — manage him like this, check him like this, tape him into things and schedule his bodily functions and have his dad wipe him three times a day and his mum smear cream on him like he was a toddler with nappy rash. He was seventeen. He had rights. He had been kissing Sophie two days ago, and now he was lying on a plastic sheet in a tape nappy while she sat two meters away scrolling through her phone as though he were furniture. He was right. He was RIGHT. He was not a child, and he was not going to just play along with this punishment. The plastic sheet crinkled. Sophie took out her earphone. The tiny sound of music leaked into the quiet. "Can you stop moving," she said. Her voice was flat, not cruel. Tired. "It's really loud." He went still. He lay rigid, barely breathing, and stared at the ceiling while the voices murmured on downstairs, and the wind pressed against the window, and the night came in. -
By Crinklz Kat · Posted
Just a picture from Goodnights social media showing a goodnight with the question You can only choose one. A; sleep in every day B; endless supply of goodnights C; 3-day weekends D; Icecream for every meal -
A quick note before the story: This story actually started out as a much shorter story about an elementary school teacher and one particularly difficult day in her classroom. I originally just wanted to explore what it feels like to have an accident while teaching, but somewhere along the way, the story started to grow into something much bigger. Eli, her friends, her world, and the rest of the story all kind of fell into place naturally. Now, somehow, it’s become a much longer story than I ever originally planned. It’s probably going to be the longest thing I’ve ever written, which was not really part of the plan, but it’s been really fun! Thanks for stopping by, and I hope you enjoy the story. -E The Incisors Chapter 1: Wednesdays By two twenty two, Room B12 had begun its daily transformation from classroom into disaster zone. Construction paper scraps covered the floor in little islands of color. Somebody had gotten green paint on a chair that had definitely not been green five minutes ago. A glue stick had somehow rolled beneath the bookshelves and appeared to be settling there permanently amongst the dust bunnies. The drying racks along the back wall sagged under the weight of cardboard sea creatures and half-finished watercolor paintings. Above it all, a paper mache possum lazily rotated on its fishing line tether, silently watching the classroom in its quiet judgment. The room smelled like tempera paint, damp paper towels, and the faint sweetness of vanilla coffee. Well. Was it still technically coffee if it was fifty percent melted ice? The actual coffee had sat mostly untouched on Eli's desk all day, now largely in a puddle of its own condensation. It had started the morning as an iced caramel macchiato from Black Cat's Cafe, purchased at seven am with the best of intentions. Mostly because she'd stayed up way too late the night before, because it was a Wednesday, and because she still occasionally forgot she wasn't in her twenties anymore. She'd taken three sips. That had been enough. Now the cup sat beside a jar of paintbrushes, mostly full, the ice melted into a sad, pale tan puddle. Every now and then throughout the day she'd considered taking another sip, then she'd remember. It was as though she and the coffee were trying to maintain some sort of friendship despite irreconcilable differences. Unfortunately, coffee had become one of those things. One of the things that belonged to her old life. A thing she still bought from time to time, now mostly out of habit than anything else. Some mornings it felt easier to keep buying it than to admit she'd become someone who had to think about every sip. She checked the clock. It was still somehow Two twenty two. Eight minutes. Eight minutes wasn't very long. Eight minutes was a good song, or waiting for the air fryer to finish cooking dinner, or scrolling through your phone while the kettle boiled. Eight minutes was practically nothing. Eight minutes was doable. The sharp, insistent pressure low in her abdomen disagreed. Eli pressed her lips together. "Ms. D?" The voice pulled her back into the classroom. She looked up. Tyler stood nearby, holding something that resembled a baked potato covered in green feathers. She threaded her way through the classroom almost automatically, stepping over backpacks, sidestepping a water bottle, and gently redirecting a student carrying scissors back to her seat. She moved through the room the way people moved around their own homes, fluidly without thinking about it. This was her kingdom. It just so happened that her kingdom smelled faintly of glue and tempera paint. "I think I messed up." Eli crouched beside him. Big mistake. Her bladder immediately filed a formal complaint. A sharp pulse of urgency tightened low in her abdomen, and she froze for the briefest moment as she felt a familiar warmth before it disappeared as quickly as it had come. It wasn’t much. But it was enough to let her know that she’d have to be more careful. She smiled despite herself. She just had to pretend everything was okay. At least for another eight minutes. "You absolutely did not mess up." "It's ugly." Tyler rotated the creature in his hands as though another angle might somehow improve things. "No, it's..." She tilted her head. "Developing." Tyler frowned. "It looks weird." "It does look weird," Eli agreed. "I knew it." The poor kid looked genuinely crestfallen. Oh no. Maybe she should have thought that one through. Don't accidentally convince a fourth grader his dragon is ugly. "But dragons are weird," she said quickly. "That's a good thing." She gently took the creature from him and held it up between them. "Look at this thing. It has beautifully weird wings." Tyler nodded solemnly. "And?" "And dragons are weird. Weird is kind of their whole thing." He thought about that. "Yeah, I guess so." "I've never seen a normal dragon. Have you?" A smile threatened the corners of his mouth. "Trust the process." She handed it back. He smiled properly this time and immediately began gluing even more feathers onto the dragon. Across the room something clattered loudly. Then came shouting. "I HAD IT FIRST." "NO YOU DIDN'T." "YES I DID." "Derek!" Eli called. Silence fell over the room. Derek looked up. A paintbrush dripping blue water remained firmly in his hand. "I didn't splash him." "I didn't say you did." "Oh." Derek looked mildly surprised by his own confession. A few students laughed, and Eli smiled despite herself. The room hummed with the restless energy unique to elementary schools in the final minutes of the day. The students had already started mentally leaving. Their bodies remained in their seats mostly out of courtesy. Outside the windows, the California afternoon had taken on that soft golden quality it always seemed to acquire before dismissal. Beyond the blacktop she could see the tops of eucalyptus trees swaying above neighboring houses, their leaves flashing silver whenever the breeze caught them. The light made everything look almost like an illustration in an old picture book she liked. Two twenty three. Seven minutes. Okay. Fine. She could do seven minutes. She'd done worse. Probably. To be fair, her bladder had never exactly been the most reliable. Even back in college, going to the movies with Eli meant she would inevitably need to scoot past everyone at least once. Sometimes twice, depending on the movie. Lately, though, it felt like somebody had secretly replaced her bladder with one the size of a juice box. Or maybe a thimble. A very small, terrible thimble. One second she was perfectly fine.The next with out any warning, she was in dire need of the nearest toilet. Another pulse of urgency rolled through her, sharper this time. She stopped moving. For one suspended heartbeat she felt another tiny loss of control before her muscles caught up, and she forced herself not to think about it. She let out a slow breath through her nose and shifted her weight as casually as she could. No one noticed. Of course they didn't. Twenty six fourth graders were far too busy being fourth graders, and she’d gotten good at hiding things and pretending nothing was wrong. Still, Wednesday had a way of feeling longer than every other day. Too far from the weekend to feel hopeful, too far from Monday to justify complaining. Just... Wednesday. Another sharp pulse tightened low in her abdomen, stronger now. Not yet. Please not yet. She only needed a few more minutes.
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