Diaper References

Roads

There was a particularly evil excited smirk on Tiffany's face as she sauntered over. "Ohh I'd love to help with widdle baby James here, he's so much cuter now! I have plenty of references if you need them Miss Bernardino." She leaned forward and pinched James' cheeks! Gwen laughed cheerfully, only gently giving Tiffany a look when it was too much. Tiffany gave a nod and took a step back, but the wicked smile remained. "That would be wonderful, I do have date night on Monday with my girlfriend, so if you could look after the little one until I get back." 

Thank you for your patience, friends. I recently took on a new employment opportunity (apparently, one cannot pay the mortgage and utility bill with diaper stories), so my schedule is a bit all over the place (hence the slowness to update). @Sumi, you asked some great questions in your post from a week or three ago, and I promise I'm not completely ignoring it. For now, how 'bout some more milk?   Act V: Beyond the Milk [Note from QH: And now, we return the story to Alfie’s POV...] Forty-Six: The Creation of Pants It’s an amazing sleep. One of those sleeps you just don’t get very often as an adult. The kind where it feels like you’re asleep forever, and wake up feeling well rested and completely content, only to have this sudden panic that it’s noon, and you probably should’ve gotten up hours ago for work, or school, or whatever. But then you realize that it’s a Saturday morning and so you can instantaneously relinquish all of that stress, burrow yourself deep under the blankets again, and completely zone out. “I don’t really sleep,” a voice says to me. It seems as if it may be in the distance, though I suspect it’s much closer. Too, it’s a familiar voice, though I can’t quite place it yet. “I mean, there are times when I just need to, I dunno, veg out a little? It’s more like meditation, I guess. And it’s funny, because I’ve never meditated before in my life. But when you have all the time in the world, you can kind of figure out those things, you know?” “What?” I ask. I open my eyes for a moment, but the light blinds me and I quickly close them again. It might not even be that bright–I suspect any amount of light would’ve done that to me. “Sorry, I’m rambling,” the voice says. It’s a feminine tone. Friendly sounding.  Freya, maybe? Marta? The voice doesn’t exactly sound like either of theirs, but my senses still feel like they’re booting up again. “How long was I out?” I ask. “Uhm…” “Probably a while, huh? Went through a few packs of diapers on me? Go ahead and get it out of your system–tease me about being such a big baby.” “Wh-where do you think you are right now?” the voice asks. I open my eyes again, though I can only manage to keep them open by squinting. It’s not that it’s bright, per se, it’s that everything is…white. Oh, come on. I sigh. “Harriet?” She laughs. “Hello, Alfie. It looks like you’re finally coming around?” “How long have I been here?” “I’m not sure,” she says. “There’s not really ‘time’ here. So, I guess…a while? You just sort of appeared, as you usually do. Though you’ve never shown up unconscious before.” I can open my eyes a little wider and see that I’m in that damn white place again. That weird ethereal nowhere that I always seem to drift to after having an orgasm while deep under the effects of the milk. Did…I cum? It’s such a ridiculous question to have to ask, but that’s the only way I’ve ever gotten to this place previously.  I try to remember where I was before waking up, but those memories seem distant and hazy. I search the mental archives for the most recent memories I have.  The clown girl. The stolen milk. Driving the truck back to The Cradle and feeling simultaneously frightened and empowered.  I was at Daycare. I remember that now. I suppose it’s not that hard to believe that there’d be an experience at the Daycare that would send me here again. But… “You said I’ve been here a while?” I ask. Harriet nods. “Yes. It surprised me too. I kept waiting for you to, uhm, disappear again. But you’re still here.” I don’t know what that means, but it seems disconcerting. I slowly rise to my feet, stretching my limbs as far as I can. “Is this what it was like when you first came here?” I ask. “I don’t know,” she says. “Maybe.” As my eyes begin to focus more, it’s hard to look at her and not see Mother. They look the same. Something tells me that they are the same–though, again, I don’t know what that means. There are minor differences, I think. Subtle things like body language. Mother’s posture seems much more perfect. There’s a reverence about her–she carries herself like she knows she’s the most powerful woman on the planet. But this Harriet just seems so…normal. Everyday. Her shoulders are a little slumped. There’s no confident smile on her face. She looks tired and weary.  The same body, but with a different soul, if such a thing were possible. Mother. I remember now–I had seen Mother. We were talking. I had things I wanted to say to her. I might have even said the name Harriet to her. What else had I said? Mother had asked me something: “Do you like being a baby, Alfie?” I don’t know how I responded, but I doubted that I said “Nah.” Neither of us say anything for a while. I stare down at my feet, noting how I don’t seem to be standing on anything at all. It gives the illusion that I’m falling, or at least floating, but because it feels like I’m standing on something the experience doesn’t seem to be as nauseating as I’m sure that it could be. I don’t really feel any sort of physical ailment at all. No headaches. No abdominal discomfort. Mentally? Well, sure, I’m a mess. Anxiety and confusion course through me.  Ah shit. I realize I’m naked. Harriet isn’t, she’s wearing a simple dark-colored robe of some sort. It’s not the most flattering thing, but it keeps her bits covered up. My instinct is to try and hide my shame, but…what’s the point? For all I know, this is just a dream. Still, I’m curious. “How come you have clothes and I don’t?” She laughs. “You can have anything you want, here. It took me some time to realize that, of course.” I sigh, a little frustrated with that answer. “You realize I don’t know what you mean by that, right?” “If you think of something hard enough–if you think of something in just the right way–you can…create it. Summon it? I’m not entirely sure. It’s hard to explain, and it took me a long time to figure out that I could do it. I didn’t have anyone here to tell me that I could do that, like you do now. Remember that one time you were here, and there was grass and trees and sky and…” “Yeah,” I say. “Where is all of that now?” “That’s the hard part,” she shrugs. “You can create anything you want here. But you have to keep your mind on it for it to stay here. If your thoughts stray, it ceases to remain. It gets even harder when you want to do multiple things at once. Like, say, creating a grassy field while talking to someone–I have to be able to maintain focus on the earth beneath our feet while maintaining a conversation.” “I’ve never been that good at rubbing my belly and patting my head,” I say. “Right. Well…I’ve had time to practice. The meditation helps. Also, sometimes, it’s easier to just…not need things. It’s boring around here when it’s just white like this, but it also frees up so much of my mind.” Perhaps that explains the simple clothes she’s wearing–it’s just less taxing on her psyche. Less taxing on her psyche. What kind of goofy comic book am I in right now? “Aren’t you lonely?” I ask. “Why don’t you just, you know, think of some people to interact with?” “It doesn’t work with people,” she says. “I’ve tried. It has to be things. Places. Ideas, even. Like, for example, imagining a beach at sunset.” And with that, I find that my feet are suddenly half-buried in warm sand. I look to my left and to my right, finding that the beach extends in both directions as far as I can see. The sun is in my eyes. I use my hand to shield my face, and see–and hear–the waves of the vast, flat ocean lapping at the shore. It’s not quite perfect–the lack of clouds, seagulls, and other people do cause it to feel a little artificial–but it’s no less amazing because of it. The sun feels warm on my skin. It feels good. “Can I do this?” I ask. “Dunno,” she says. “What about buildings?” “Look behind you.” I do, seeing a row of buildings perched on the beach’s edge. They’re all mostly similar to each other, with some subtle differences in, perhaps, color and the number of windows they have. It’s impressive nonetheless. “Can you go into them?” I ask. “It’s tricky,” she says, “but not impossible.” “But no people,” I say, talking more to myself than to her. “Sounds…lonely.” “A little.” I turn around, and I watch her sigh with relief as the houses vanish and a little extra space in her mind is returned to her. “What about doors?” I ask. “Doors?” “Can you make a door that leads you out of this place?” She laughs. “Do you think I’d be here if I could do that?” I sigh. There’s a part of me that still thinks that, at any moment, the ‘world’ around me is just going to fade away and I’m going to find myself back in a crib at Daycare again. But lots of moments have passed, and I’m still here. This isn’t like the other times.  === Mother said to me: “Do you like being a baby, Alfie?” I cooed: “Mm.” Because, yeah, I really have enjoyed my time at The Cradle and all that it entailed. Even the diapers. Sometimes, especially the diapers. And I now remember what she said then: “I sure hope so. Because after this, that’s all you’ll ever be.” And, well, that certainly implies some permanence, doesn’t it? Maybe not the permanence I would’ve expected, but I think I’d be a fool if that didn’t relate to my current predicament. A fool. That’s exactly what I’ve been. I see magic–actual magic, as best as I can tell–and I allowed it to feel normal. There she was, a woman who can make enough breastmilk to feed a community. A woman who can make breast milk that reduces people to slobbering, pants-filling babies. And I don’t think I, or anyone else, ever stopped to say: “What else can she do?” Everyone at The Cradle is a fool, playing with things they don’t actually understand. Look at me. I got careless. And now I’m…I don’t know. Blinked off the face of the Earth? Stranded in nothingness?  === Harriet isn’t too far away from me, but she’s given me some space. I didn’t ask for this, but I respect her knowing that I needed it. Maybe she needs it too. With every moment that passes by, it seems less likely that I’m going to just blink away and reappear somewhere else. This is how things are now. For how long, I couldn’t say. Harriet, too, would probably like to know how long we’re going to be here. I have questions for her. She has questions for me. Eventually, we’ll get around to asking them. But what’s the rush? Actually, maybe I’ve got to get a few questions out of my system: “Do you ever get tired?” “No,” she says. “Do you sleep?” “Not really. I don’t get hungry. I don’t get thirsty. I don’t have to go to the bathroom. These aren’t, like, physical bodies. They seem like they are. But…I don’t know.” She shrugs, a frustrated glare on her face. “They’re just not.” I’ve been standing since I first stood up–when I first found myself in this place. I’m not tired. I’m bored, but not tired. I’m still naked. Maybe that’s part of the reason she’s looking away from me. My flaccid manhood dangles in front of me helplessly. There was a time, what feels like ages ago now, when this would absolutely destroy me with humiliation. It’s still unpleasant, for sure, but maybe the time spent in The Cradle has helped. All the people who’ve seen my dong during a diaper change. All the people who’ve just seen me in a diaper. All the people who’ve seen, or smelled, me use a diaper.  After a while, it gets a little difficult to feel as ashamed as I used to. Harriet can conjure things with her mind. She’s made herself clothes. Can I do that?  I think about pants. That doesn’t seem to do anything, though–except make me feel strange for thinking about pants so intently. Harriet had said that I need to think about things I want to ‘conjure’ in a very specific way. But if she doesn’t even know what that means, how the hell am I supposed to know?  I think about pants…differently. I imagine myself wearing pants. I imagine pants forming around my legs, like a second skin that slowly weave their way into existence. For a moment, I feel something–the slightest rush of air against my bare legs–but no pants are created. Maybe I should just ask Harriet to create pants for me.  No, no–she figured this out for herself, and I can do the same thing. There was probably a time when she was here, all by herself, and she was naked for god-knows how long and she had to slowly learn how this place works. I’m already at an advantage here in that I have her to guide me. For now, I’ll just be naked, I guess. “If you were to guess,” I say, “how long do you think it’s been since I came here?” She shrugs. “I…I have no concept of time anymore. A day? Two days?” “But not, like, a month?” “No, I don’t think so,” she says. “But who actually knows?” “Do you think time here correlates to time…in the, uh, real world?” I ask. It’s such a weird question, but that’s just the way it’s going to be in ‘here’ for the foreseeable future, isn’t it? She shrugs. “I just wonder, like, when it is in the real world, you know? Is it the same day I got, like, zonked out? The day after? Or have three years passed and now everyone assumes I’m dead?” Harriet lifts her eyebrows. “I don’t think it’s the latter. Well, I hope it’s not. Pants. I’m thinking about pants again. I’m focusing on pants. I’m trying to find new and creative ways of exploring the very concept of pants in my consciousness.  Pants. Pants. Paaaaants. I close my eyes tightly and take a deep breath, holding it as I attempt to reach deep within myself and make contact with another level of my psyche. Harriet had mentioned meditation earlier as what she needed to summon things into being here. And like her, I’ve never meditated once in my life.  Well, that’s not entirely true. I pretended to meditate once, back when I was with Julie-fucking-Ross. God, that seems like an eternity ago. Back before she started dating my father. Back before I really despised her. At the time, Julie was going through this semi-spiritualized journey of sorts. I think she had, like, read a book or something about inner-peace and new-age whosie-whatsits, and decided that she was going to make some big changes in her life based on that. Me, still trying to be a good boyfriend at the time, gave a mild shrug of approval and even offered to try meditation with her.  Candles were lit and she put some soothing music on–something with a lot of harps being plucked, as I recall. She sat on the ground with her legs crossed and her hands stretched out at her sides. I asked her why she was poised like that, thinking that maybe this was somehow proven to be the best position for meditation–like it allowed for better spirit-flow or something silly like that. She said: “This is just how people do it, Alfie.” And I guess that was indicative of how Julie went about all things in life, doing the things that everyone else did without considering the reasons why.  I didn’t cross my legs. I didn’t hold my hands out to my sides. I didn’t close my eyes and stare off into space, occasionally chanting some monosyllable ‘ohm.’ I just sat there on the floor, watching her and taking note of how silly the whole thing was. I waited and watched, wondering how long this charade would go on for. But Julie–well, she’s always been tenacious. She stayed like this for way longer than I thought she would. It was at least an hour, maybe even close to two. And, like, I truly did not believe–and I still don’t to this day–that she was actually ‘meditating.’ She liked to make little scenes like this. She probably wanted me to watch her. When we were done, she wanted me to talk about it after the fact with my family and my mutual friends. She wanted me to say things like: “Yeah, I didn’t really get it, but she was totally meditating! It was incredible, the way she was able to disconnect from the world like that.” It was exhausting, really, to always be inadvertently made into her hype-man.  And I stared and stared at her. And the time just kind of melted away. And soon I wasn’t really looking at her–I was just kind of looking at nothing. I was thinking about nothing. I was just…there. And… Well…shit. It occurs to me, only now, that maybe I actually was meditating. While staring at my ex-girlfriend, as she tried to prove how connected she was to some other plane of existence, maybe I actually had achieved the very thing she was looking for. And maybe she did actually meditate, I don’t know. I didn’t think that I had. But…I was wrong. So maybe I can do it again? How did I do that? Sit. Stare. Focus. No, don’t focus too much. Just…let it all go. Don’t think about nothing–just allow myself to be nothing. I realize that I’m still holding my breath. How long have I been holding my breath for? Minutes? Shouldn’t I be dead right now? Maybe I don’t have to breathe here. Just like how I don’t need to drink, or eat, or sleep.  I’m focusing again–but not focusing too much. My eyes are closed and I let myself just…be. I let the rest of the world around me fade away. Which is pretty easy to do when there is no world around me. No sounds or lights or other distractions. It’s just me and this endless expanse of nothing. And Harriet too, but it’s easy enough to not even have to think about her either.  Pants. I’m thinking about only pants. Or maybe it’s not so much pants themselves, but the concept of wearing pants. Of some sort of garment that’s wrapped around my body. I think it’s working. I feel something. Warmth. The feeling of soft material brushing against my manhood. I’m wearing something! I feel it slowly materializing my midsection. I’m so excited that I open my eyes and look down.  Pants? No. It’s not pants. It’s a diaper. I’m wearing a fucking diaper. Of all the things that my mind can conjure in a place like this, I end up in a diaper again. Somewhere behind me, I can hear Harriet giggling at me. === Time passes. I couldn’t say how much or how little. There are no clocks, and there’s no sun or moon. For that matter, there aren’t even biological clocks like hunger, needing to urinate, or just getting tired. Still, I have a vague sense of time passing. My body still recognizes the cadence of an hour–but the problem is that it’s easy to lose track of just how many ‘hours’ scoot past me. It’s been a day, I think, since I woke up here. Maybe a day and a half? I don’t talk to Harriet as much as I probably should. For the most part, she keeps a little distance, though she’s always happy to chat when I want to. I think she thinks she’s doing me a favor by not being in my face all the time, and she’s probably not wrong about that. This ‘place’ is like nothing I’ve ever experienced before, and it takes a while to acclimate to its nothingness. Once upon a time, she went through a similar period of acclimating, and she had to do it by herself. My diaper comes and goes, as my focus on it waivers. Slowly but surely, I come to learn how to dedicate a small part of my consciousness to maintaining the diaper’s existence while the rest of my mind wanders elsewhere. Here, with seemingly infinite time and no other distractions, I find that I’m a quick learner. Soon enough, I’m wearing a shirt too. Briefly, I’m able to make myself some actual pants, but it seems to be a much harder thing to maintain. I stick to diapers, as embarrassing as they are, just because it’s something I have little trouble with.  I have a theory as to why that is: For the last few weeks, thanks to the milk, my entire world has revolved around diapers. Even here–detatched from what I know as reality–the milk continues to have a hold on me. It’s easier than it should be to just think like a baby. “What’s the most elaborate thing you’ve created here?” I ask Harriet at some point. “I recreated my childhood home,” she says. “Well, as much of it as I could recall. I tried living in it for a while.” “That’s kind of neat.” “No,” she says, shaking her head. “It was terrible. It was lonely and sad. For one, there were so many details that I couldn’t get right. Like, I’d know that there was a red couch in the living room, right? But it’s hard to recall what that couch exactly looked like–so anything that I placed there just didn’t feel right. No matter what, it felt fake.” “Hm.” “It’s, like…the uncanny valley,” she says. “Isn’t that a thing?” “Uh, yeah, it’s a thing.” “Like, everything looks so close to being real, but not close enough and so it looks even weirder. It’s one thing to make a house, you know? But you can’t make it feel lived in. Mail on the counter. Dirt being tracked in through the front door. A cereal bowl on the dining room counter. Magnets on the fridge.” “So…you’re saying that I shouldn’t try to recreate my childhood home.” She shrugs. “Well I’m certainly not going to do it again.” “You once told me that this place is like a prison,” I say. “I didn’t really get that before, but I think I get it now.” “I think of this place as, like, where my mind gets dumped while someone else is using my body.” “Someone else…” I repeat to myself. “Like…who? What?” She shrugs. “The hell if I know. An alien? A wizard?” “Do you think that, since I’m here too, there’s someone else in my body?” She shrugs again. “I…I don’t know.” “We’ve got to get out of here.” She clicks her tongue and shakes her head. “Like I said before–if I knew how to do that, I wouldn’t be here right now.” “We’re going to figure that out,” I say. She scoffs. “No, I’m serious,” I say. “There’s two of us now. I mean, you figured out so much on your own, right? With no assistance from anyone else? Now imagine what the two of us can do together.” She laughs–it almost sounds like one of Nikki’s signature snorts. “Zero plus zero is still zero.” I think I get what she means. “We don’t know if we don’t try. And…well, what else do we have to do around here?” The expression on her face says more to me than her words ever could. She looks tired and a little checked out. She looks like she’s abandoned much of whatever hope she originally had a long time ago. She’s spent an unknowable amount of time in this bleak nothingness, trying and failing to escape from it–or, at the very least, creating distractions for herself. Her more optimistic days are behind her. Okay then.  === More time passes, as it does. The hell if I know how long it's been. I’ve made myself a bench that I’m sitting on. I continue to wear only a diaper. Sometimes I think about trying to make other clothes, but I’ve given up caring. It’s easier to just stick with this for now. But I’ve done some experimenting, and found that I can change the, well, state of the diaper. I can’t actually pee or mess in it–but I can create a diaper that looks and feels like it has been. Right now, my diaper is heavy with pee and tinged yellow. When I stand, it hangs between my legs. When I sit, it squishes around me.  It’s comforting, in a very strange way. It reminds me of those early days at The Cradle, when diapers and milk seemed so exciting and magical. I felt like I was part of something big and special. Harriet sits down next to me, giggling a little as she does. Of course, I can’t help but blush at the fact that she knows I’m choosing to sit here in a swampy adult diaper. “I-I’m not laughing at you,” she says. I roll my eyes. “Oh yeah? That’s exactly what someone who is laughing at me would probably say.” “It’s the bench, actually.” “What about it?” “It might not seem like much to you, but–this is kind of wild. For the first time, in a very long time, I’m sitting on something that I didn’t have to make myself. You have no idea how wild that is, Alfie.” “I didn’t really think about that.” “This is, like, the happiest I’ve been in a very long time. And it’s just a bench!” She starts laughing again. “Ah, well…so happy I could make you laugh, then.” “I…I’m sorry about before,” she says. “I shouldn’t have been so pessimistic.” “I get it,” I say. “I really do. You’ve been here for god-knows how long and you still have no answers about why you’re here or for how much longer you’ll be here. That’s got to be draining.” “It is,” she says. “But it’s nice to have company. And it’s good that you have hope. It’s a little inspiring, honestly. I needed that.” “Happy to help,” I say, shrugging. She’s laughing again, but this time she’s looking down at my lap. “Okay…now I’m laughing at you.” “You have no idea how weird this is,” I say, staring at her face as she snickers behind her hand. “I could say the same thing. The first time I’ve spent time with anyone in a long time, and it’s a guy in a pissy diaper.” I sigh. “It’s hard to look at you and not think of, uh, Mother.” “Mother,” she repeats. “She’s nothing like me, is she?” “No, not really. I mean, obviously you look alike. But she’s…”  “She’s what?” I’m not sure what to say here. Truthfully, I barely know Mother at all and the words I would use to describe her to someone else–words like ‘powerful’ and ‘confident’–would probably not sound good if I mentioned them to this Harriet. “She’s just different. Her body language, and, like, how she talks.” “What would she do if she saw you were in a pissy diaper?” she asks. I laugh. “I…uh…” “Would she change you? Like a baby?” “N-no… She’d probably pass that job off to someone else.” Harriet laughs. “That’s wild.” “She’s a, uh, influential woman, you know? She wields power.” “I don’t think I could get someone to bring me a bottle of water if I asked,” she says, her eyes still fixed on my diaper. “Let alone get someone else to clean up the mess I helped make. I’ve never really had power like that before.” “Well, for what it’s worth–the you in the ‘real’ world is thriving in her little colony of adult babies.” She laughs and shakes her head. “I-is it bad that…I want to touch it?” “My…diaper?” “J-just a little,” she says. “I know that’s weird, but… Well, again, I’m just fascinated by the presence of things I haven’t had to make myself.” “I mean, no, I don’t mind…” I feel like half of the world’s population has touched my diapers over the last few weeks, what’s one more? “But, you’re not, like, grossed out by it?” She laughs. “It’s not real pee, right? Maybe, when you really think about it, it’s not even a real diaper.” “Uh, knock yourself out,” I say. “Touch it if you want to.” This stupid place. Can’t sleep. Can’t eat. Can’t pee. Probably can’t even get an erection. I feel her hand lightly press into the diaper. It feels like it should, with the thick padding being pressed against my skin–the feeling of squishy dampness that I know all too well. It sounds like it should, the way it crinkles as it flexes. And… “Okay,” I say, politely brushing her hand away from my diaper. “That’s, uh, enough of that…” “What’s wrong?” she asks, a concerned look on her face. “Did I do something I shouldn’t have? I just wanted to…” “No, no, you’re good,” I say, sighing. “It’s just…” There’s an erection forming in my diaper, and I fold my hands over the front of the padding in an effort to conceal it. Her cheeks redden a little, as she now seems to understand. “Oh…” “I gues…that can happen around here, huh?” I ask. “If I’d been here for as long as you’ve had, all alone, I’d have probably touched myself so much that my, uh, penis would’ve fallen off by now.” She laughs, her cheeks getting even redder.  But that’s got me thinking. Previously, I was able to get to this place through having an orgasm while under the influence of milk. What would happen if I had an orgasm here? Would it send me home? Send me somewhere else? Without even taking a moment to consider how insane it’s going to sound, I turn to Harriet and open my mouth: “I think I want to try something. All I need to do is cum.” She laughs, narrowing her eyes at me. “Are you asking me for help?” Forty-Seven: Big It seems only right that I explain myself. I tell Harriet all about my milk-induced orgasmic planar traversals–a phrase that would probably be a fantastic name for my story once all this weirdness is behind me and I have the time to write my story, assuming that day ever comes. I then explain my current theory: that, maybe, if I’m able to reach climax in this place, I’d be sent…elsewhere. Maybe back to the real world? Or maybe somewhere even weirder. Harriet takes it all in, nodding her head as I yammer on about it. Even when I feel like I’m just kind of rambling, she seems interested. Never once does she smirk, shake her head, or laugh at me like I’m some kind of dolt.  “It’s not a bad idea,” she finally says. “R-really?” “I did, at one point, wonder to myself if this was just a very elaborate ploy to get me to jerk you off…” “Oh, hm…” I hadn’t even considered that. She shrugs. “But I’d have just done that if you asked me–no convoluted story necessary.” “Is that so?” She laughs. “Your presence is such a pleasant change from the monotony that I’ve been trapped in, Alfie. You have no idea how fucking bored I was. You can have anything you want.” It takes me a moment or two to snap out of my dumbfounded stupor. I could do all the nasty things I want with Mother? Well, she’s not Mother. But: I could do all the nasty things I want with a good looking woman? Hell, even: I could do all the nasty things I want with another human, here in the privacy of some sort of weird pocket dimension? “Noted,” I say. “Perhaps, firstly,” Harriet says, “it’s important to know where we are. Like, is this really a place? Or are we just somewhere deep inside of this, uh, ‘Mother’s’ consciousness while she uses our bodies?” I shrug. “I mean, what’s the difference? Either my plan works or it doesn’t.” “Okay,” she says, laughing. “See, it’s good that you’re here. I have a tendency to overthink things. I need someone who’s more of a, uh…” “Non-thinker?” “I would’ve probably chosen a much nicer word.” I’m not offended, but I have too many jumbled thoughts to dwell on this for too long. “Let me ask you something, here.” “Okay?” “Have you, uh, touched yourself here?” I ask. “Like in this place? Can you do that here? Does it work?” There’s a bashful look on her face and a little extra pink in her cheeks as she glances away from me. “Yes. It works. And when you spend a lot of time alone…you do a lot of…that.” “Okay, that’s good. So I can get off.” I say it like I’m a scientist, making note of an important detail, when really I’m just talking about masturbation. “Yes,” she says. “I think you’ll be fine.” “So, look, we’re essentially speedrunning the whole intimacy thing here,” I say. “But…” “Speedrunning?” “Like, uh, videogames?” I say. She shakes her head. “I was never really into them.” I don’t really want to have to overexplain my bad joke so I start over again: “Normally, when I like someone and want to, like, be with them, it’s like pins and needles, you know? A lot of vague suggesting and not a lot of me using my words. I think that’s why I usually go for girls that are a little more…self-assured, you know? Girls who know what they want and are a little more forward than I am.” “What are you getting at?” she asks. I laugh and wag a finger at her. “See, this is exactly what I’m talking about.” “Just spit it out.” “I have to cum,” I say, my face blushing. “I mean…I think it’s something worth trying. And I could do it myself, but I’ll feel all awkward about it if you’re watching me. Or…even if you’re not watching me–like if you even know that’s what I’m doing. So I think it’d be better…” “For god’s sake, Alfie. Just say that you want me to get you off. I already said that I would.” “Yeah,” I say. “That.” === “Diaper or no diaper?” she asks. That question gets my face good and red–not just because she’s asking me if I want to get off in a diaper in the first place, but because I think I might actually prefer being in a diaper. I think I could admit as much to her–why the hell not?–but I feel like, maybe, I don’t need to be that greedy. Or, I just want to hold onto one little slice of dignity. And suddenly, I’m not wearing a diaper, and I’m completely naked again. It’s a funny thing, how quickly it seems I’ve become accustomed to the vast nothingness of this place. Both Harriet and I create things to fill that space now–tables, chairs, floors, walls. Sometimes trees and grass and picturesque horizons. It’s hard to know who is creating what at times–it’s like one of us builds something with our mind, and the other expands on it. Not only is it getting easier for me to do, but I think it’s a little less taxing on Harriet to have to do everything herself. We make our immediate surroundings together, and everything beyond that is just…white. We’re sitting on a bed. It’s nothing special, beyond the fact that it’s got incredibly soft sheets–softer than anything I think I’ve actually felt before. In a way, it’s frustrating, because I know that some day I’ll want to buy sheets like this, and I’ll never find any that feel like how I remember these feeling. Or, if I do, they’ll be absurdly expensive. I’m naked, and so is she. I didn’t ask for that, but I’m not mad about it. She looks fantastic, and that’s definitely helping to get me worked up.  “It’s been a while,” she says, her hand on the top of my thigh now. It’s so close to my manhood that it feels like a tease–but I think she’s just as nervous about making that move as I am. “Even before, uh, all this, I wasn’t exactly drowning in romance.” “Who would even want that?” I sigh.  “I’m not…promiscuous, is what I’m saying.” I shrug. “Okay.” “I’m just saying. I haven’t been with a guy–or a girl–for a long time.” “Look, really,” I say. “It’s not a big deal. And you don’t have to do anything you don’t–” “I want to,” she says. “I’m just nervous, alright? I’m worried that I won’t be any good.” I laugh. “See, I believe you now when you say you haven’t been with a guy in a while. LIke, you do remember what men are like, right? We’re easy. If you just sat there and blew on my dick from, like, a foot away, I’d still get all riled up.” She’s laughing too. “Is that what you think a blow job is?” And now we’re laughing very hard together–the silly pun combined with the absurdity of our current situation is goddamn hilarious. “I like you,” I finally say, wiping tears out of my eyes. “I wish I knew you, uh, out there.” “I’m more likable here, trust me,” she says. “I was a nobody out there. This place is the most interesting thing that’s ever happened to me.” “You’re not alone there,” I say. Maybe she’s finally ready, or maybe she just wants to change the subject, but her hand leaves my thigh and her fingers grasp my shaft. I let out a soft gasp as her grip tightens. “You tell me what feels good, okay?” she says. I laugh again. “Everything feels good. That’s the problem sometimes, I think. That’s why I get myself into so much trouble.” “Alright,” she says, her voice just a whisper now. “That’s enough talking. Let me do this.” I want to close my eyes, but I can’t look away. I watch as her slender hand glides down my shaft, pauses, and then slowly slides up towards the head. Yes, it feels good. Of course it feels good. The first few swipes of her hand are like little experiments–testing to see what the resistance is like and how my reaction changes depending on where in the shaft her hand is and how much pressure she uses. Soon, her speed increases and her grip tightens. She seems more confident with what she’s doing. Between my groaning and the slow, pleasured rolling of my head, I think she’s getting a lot of really good feedback to work with. The world around us is changing, I think. The walls are getting shorter, then longer, while changing colors. There’s a window sometimes, and sometimes there isn’t. When there is a window, there is sometimes a sun that shines through it, and sometimes it’s moonlight that illuminates our space. I hear water on the ground–the gentle babbling of a stream, maybe. I don’t know which of us is doing that. Maybe it’s me–maybe my mind is all over the place while she pleasures me and this is what happens. I feel a shudder roll through my spine.  “You like this?” she says. “Yes.” “You like being…a baby?” she asks. Oh, come on. She’s doing this for my benefit, I think–asking a question that she knows is going to set me off. And it’s working. “Y-yes. I…I’m a baby…” “I know,” she says. “I can tell. A big baby.” “Fuck…” There’s a blissful numbness spreading through my body, a loss of bodily awareness that sometimes comes (pun, likely, intended) from a good orgasm. “Yeah?” she asks, as if she had translated my groans and moans into something profound. “Are you going to…” “Y-yes…” “Do it,” she says. “Fuck…” “I-if this works,” she says. “If you, uhm…get transported, or whatever…” “F-fuck,” I mutter, only half-listening to her as my body tenses. “Please find help, okay?” she whispers into my ear. “Get us the fuck out of here.” “Fuuuu–” === “Well now,” a voice says. It’s…loud. Not like they are yelling, but more like they are talking into a microphone linked to a large PA system. Or a megaphone. Their voice just seems…big. “What do you make of this?” The voice is feminine, I think. It’s cold. A little nasally. A different voice responds: “Some is going to be in trou-ble.” Their voice is also feminine, though playful and a little more song-like, but it’s just as big and loud as the first. I don’t know where I am, but I’m definitely somewhere–and that somewhere is not the white nothingness where Harriet and I just were a moment ago.  I’m laying face down on the ground. The ground. Yes, there is a ground here. I’m lying on dirt and grass. And I’m naked, though this seems slightly less important. I’m somewhere. My theory, I think, worked. Cumming my way through the multiverse, baby. “I don’t think it’s one of ours,” the nasally voice says. “Look at him–he’s naked.” “Aye,” the playful one says. “But maybe he took all his clothes off.” “Seems unlikely,” the first says. “Though, I suppose, not impossible.” I feel something poking at me, nudging my body. It’s something big. Blunt. Whatever’s poking me seems strong enough to get my whole body to shake when it touches me. I could roll over, but I don’t think I want to see where I am, or who it is that I’m dealing with. “He’s alive, ain’t he?” the playful one says. So loud. “Warm,” the other says. “Maybe just unconscious. Why don’t you pick him up? We’ll carry him back home and see if he’s one of ours or not.” “And what if he’s someone else’s?”  “Finders keepers,” the nasally voice bellows, at which the playful voice cackles with glee. Yes, I think. I belong to someone else. Maybe I should say that right now, before it's too late.  Just like when I first went to the ‘white place,’ there’s this immediate sense of things being wrong. I mean, obviously it’s not normal there. But it’s like your whole body knows that something is off and that you don’t belong there. I feel that way here too. Wherever I am now, I am certain that this isn’t a place I belong. I feel something grabbing me–a hand on either side of my body. Maybe? They feel like hands, but they also feel like they’re way too big to be hands. Nobody’s hands are this big.  I feel myself being hoisted off the ground. It seems to come easily for whoever is picking me up, like I’m just a ragdoll. And when I open my eyes, I see that the distance between myself in the ground is growing quickly, and I’m being lifted into the air a little higher than I would’ve expected. That’s when I see her–the other woman who isn’t picking me up. Long dark hair. A stubby nose. Big glasses. An ugly seafoam green skirt and a bluish top. She’s not an attractive woman. She looks like someone’s mean elementary school teacher–the kind who would slap your hand with a ruler or scold you if you took too long at the water fountain. And, well, she’s big. Not, like, Nikki-big in that she’s just kind of muscular. I mean…she’s big. A giant, even? It’s hard to say just how big she is, because I don’t have anything around I can compare her to for context, but based on my own size and our proximity to each other she’s got to be, like…twelve feet tall? Twice the size of me, that seems right. “Not one of ours,” the ugly nasally-voiced giant woman says. “He’s cute though. I think I’d like to keep him anyway.” “Lemme see,” the other says, and I feel my body being spun around in her giant hands. And there she is. Slightly more attractive, I suppose, though that’s not saying much. She looks younger, with blonde hair pulled into a big ponytail. She’s wearing a blue and white striped shirt and a pair of denim overalls. She’s a slingshot-in-the-back-pocket away from having some major ‘adult woman Dennis the Menace’ vibes. “Ohhhh, yeah! I like him already! Look at his cute little face! We have to keep him.” Both of them are like cartoon characters come to life. And big. “What’s yer name?” blonde ponytail girl says to me, her giant face getting closer to my much smaller face. “A-alfie…” “I don’t like it,” the nasally woman says. “I don’t even know what that word means.” “And what would you call him?” the blonde says, her giant hands still holding me good and close to her face. Her breath is like a strong wind, smelling of…onions, maybe? I don’t care for it. “Smooshy,” she says with a confident nod.  “Aww, I love it!” Blonde exclaims–sending globs of spittle the size of ping pong balls onto my face. More onion stench. “Little Smooshy! I’m Peggy! But you can call me Mommy if you want.” With that, Peggy presses my body against her chest, her giant arms wrapping around me for a bear hug. She’s too strong. Too big. She’s pressing me into her chest which is, well…proportionally bulbous. It’s the sort of thing that weird men probably have strange fantasies about–and I won’t lie that it’s, conceptually, something I find pretty pleasing. But she’s too strong, and seems to lack a sense of just how much she’s crushing me. “You must be careful with him,” the nasally woman says. “You do remember what happened to the last one you squeezed so hard, don’t you?” “Yeah…” Peggy sighs, finally relinquishing most of the strength in her arms. She flops me about with her hands again, and now I’m cradled in her arms like I was a child.  Which makes me wonder: Are these women large? Or am I just small? And…what happened to the last one that got squeezed too hard? Hoo boy. The world around me gives little context for this, as everything seems more proportional to the women. The trees are especially tall. The road that they found me in is exceptionally wide. A road sign not too far from us–just a speed limit sign like one I’ve seen a billion times before–just seems comically large.  While I don’t think I’ve ever been here before, it doesn’t seem entirely unfamiliar to the point of being alien. We’re on a long dirt road that stretches as far as I can see in either direction, cutting through a dense forest. The speed limit sign–and the suggested speed of 35 MPH–suggests that cars exist here too, and I’m guessing they’re also big. I’m reminded of the California backwoods someone has to traverse to get from Harper’s Bell to The Cradle. This place definitely has that vibe. “Y-you can understand me?” I ask Peggy. “They’re so cute when they talk,” Peggy gushes. “Yes, well, they shouldn’t be talking to us,” the other’s voice booms. “The littles should only be talking to the littles.” “I don’t mind if he talks to me, Lenore,” Peggy squeals. “I hope he tells me that I’m the best mommy in the whole wide world.” She hasn’t answered my question. She’s acknowledged that she can hear me, sure, but not that she understood, or cared about, the actual words that came out of my mouth. Still, I’m going to assume that they can understand me, seeing as how I can understand them. I’m learning things. Peggy and Lenore. Littles. And, does that make them ‘bigs?’ “First thing’s first,” Lenore, as I now know the nasally woman to be, says. “You’re going to want to make sure to put a diaper on that one. Why, he’s liable to wee all over you.” DIapers? I sigh, annoyed that I somehow seem to be in yet another place that’s all about diapers. This is my fate, I guess–diapered in all dimensions. “Yes, I know, Lenore,” Peggy says. She focuses her attention down on me again. With another wave of warm onion breath, she says: “You’re not going to wee on me, are you, little Smooshy?” “N-no, I don’t think so,” I say. “But…” But seemingly uninterested in what I have to say, Peggy cuts me off, saying: “If you wee on me and ruin my favorite overalls, I’m gonna be real cross with you, you got me? I promise you, Smooshy, you don’t want that.” No, I’m sure I don’t. What does an angry giant do to a little when punishment is needed? A spanking would probably flatten me into a cartoonish pancake. Peggy carries me down the road, rocking me back and forth like I was actually a small child who needed it, as Lenore walks alongside us. Honestly, I don’t hate the feeling of being held and rocked, nor the feeling of being small and handled by someone so much larger than me. Is a new kink being unlocked? Or just an expansion of the wild kinks I’ve already been inoculated to over the last few months? “It may be one of Myrtle’s” Peggy says to Lenore as they walk. Lenore scoffs. “Doubtful. Myrtle doesn’t feed her littles enough. They’re all scrawny and wiry.” “Smooshy is kinda thin…” “He’s not that thin.” Peggy giggles, poking me in my stomach with her giant fingertip. It doesn’t feel like a poke–it feels more like a jab, causing me to make an “ugh” sound. She says: “He does have a little bit of a tummy, don’t he? Someone’s been feeding him.” Geez, thanks a lot. I make a mental note to myself to go to the gym when this is all said and done. === The forest begins to thin out, and the road comes to a clearing. There’s a house on the hill there, at the end of the driveway that the women are just turning onto. Without the context of the large women who carry me, it almost looks like a regular house–the kind I could just walk up to, step inside, and feel like it’s ‘normal.’ It’s kinda quaint–a simple one-story white building with a mid-century look to it. It has a well manicured lawn with a garden, an attached garage, and some of those bright pink plastic flamingos sticking out of it. But the closer we get, the more undeniable it is that this house, too, is enormous. Hell, those flamingos are hilariously large in comparison to what I’d expect. “I’m gonna take him downstairs,” Peggy says. “I’ll put him with the others for now.” “Please put some clothes on him,” Lenore says. “At the very least, a diaper. If I find any stains on the carpet later, it’s your nose I’ll be rubbing in it.” Peggy scoffs defiantly. “Well duh. You think I’m going to let this little scurry around without a diaper on?” “Just making sure,” Lenore grunts. I sense, perhaps, that she’s usually the more responsible one, cleaning up after Peggy? “C’mon, little Smooshy,” Peggy chirps, skipping up the hill ahead of Lenore. “I’m going to make you look so cute and pretty! The other littles are going to be so jealous!” From behind us, I can hear Lenore sighing. “Peggy, please, don’t rile them all up.” But Peggy isn’t paying attention. Her skip has turned into a jog, and she recklessly pops through the front door–using her arms and my body to push the large door open, and smacking my head against the door frame. “Oopsies,” she says, barely sounding sincere in her sympathy. Somewhere else, Harriet is wondering what happened to me. Is my body there? Is she still holding onto my cock? Or is she suddenly sitting in an imaginary bed all alone? And then, in a different somewhere else, The Cradle is going about its day; big babies waddle around in dirty diapers like they do. What do they think happened to me? What actually happened to me? Does anyone care? Maxine. Nikki. My editor, Benny. Mom. Dad. Julie Fucking Ross. They’re all still ‘there,’ somewhere, going about their life like nothing has changed. I have to admit, I’m pretty jealous. I wish that were me. I crave normalcy. I crave the ‘everyday.’ But no, instead I’m in some sort of weird diaper-inception.  Only me, right? Just my luck. “First thing’s first, Smooshy, I gotta put a diaper on you,” Peggy says. Her large body careens through the house so quickly–or perhaps it’s just that the sense of scale is so skewed–that I can’t focus on anything. It’s hard to say what the inside of the house looks like. I can’t pinpoint landmarks I’d want to remember for later, should I try to escape this place.  Is escape even an option? Perhaps, if I want to get out of here, I’d have to do the same thing I did to leave the ‘white place.’ I’d need to, uh, cum again. “If you must,” I finally mutter, assuming she either won’t listen or respond to anything I say anyway. And it seems that I’d be correct, because she doesn’t even bat an eyelash at me. Out of curiosity, I try something else and shout: “Hey, big ogre-lady! Can you even hear me?” She rolls her eyes and looks down at me briefly. “You’re a little yappier than the other littles. What are you so fussy about? Sounds like you’re going to need a pacifier in addition to a diaper.” So…what does that mean? She can hear me, but can’t understand me? Or she thinks so little of me that she truly doesn’t care what I say? Thud! Suddenly, I’m being flopped down onto a padded surface. Mattress? No…changing table. I’ve been on enough of those recently to know one when I’m on it. Thank god for the padding, or else my sore head would probably be bouncing off another hard surface. Peggy seems to lack a more careful touch. “Smooshy,” she says, “I think I’m gonna put you in a, uhmmmm, blue diaper.” “Yeah, sure,” I sigh. “Whatever.” She rolls her eyes again. “You sure do make a lot of sounds, don’t you? Here, before we go any further…” Her hand disappears from view for a moment, reappearing with a pacifier between her thumb and forefinger, aimed at my mouth. It looks so small between her fingers, but by the time it’s between my lips, I realize it’s actually a little bigger than the pacifier Maxine had once given to me. Holy shit, that was, like, lifetimes ago. Its soft latex bulb fills my mouth, and almost immediately seems to stupify me. There’s a natural instinct to just suckle, but I don’t know if that’s my own instinct, or if the effects of Mother’s milk somehow transcend space and time. There’s no point in resisting or fighting a woman who is twice my size, and so I just let it happen. I let myself just lie there as her big hands carefully unfurl a blue disposable diaper and lays it between my legs. I’ve felt small plenty of times before while someone’s changed my diaper–that’s just how it goes while you’re treated like a baby. But now, I’m actually small. And she’s big. And she lifts my legs up into the air, raising my bottom off the surface of the changing table, so that she can slide the diaper underneath me. Manhandled like a doll. My cheeks feel like they’re burning. The diapers might be small in comparison to her hands, but because the bottle of baby powder looks proportional to her size, it looks comically large. Shake shake shake. It’s like a blizzard, entirely centralized around my midsection–though she gets a good amount on my things and belly too. Not that she seems to care about this. “Maybe I shoulda given you a bath first, huh?” Peggy asks. I imagine it's a rhetorical question, seeing as how I can’t respond–whether I want to or not. She shrugs. “Ah well. Sooner or later, you’re gonna need a good scrubbing, yeah?” She pulls the front of the diaper through my open legs and folds it over me, pulling the tabs tightly to the front so that she can seal me into it. “There you go!” she finally says. “Oh, you look just darling in a diaper! Now then, I think you’re missing a few things…” She plops something else onto the changing table. Pink and, maybe, softball-ish in size. But for the life of me, I can’t figure out what they are. That’s when she picks one up and turns it over, revealing a cavity inside of it. I realize what’s happening at the same time that she fits it over my hand. It’s, like, a mitten. A thumbless mitten. Well, there goes the use of my hands. Worse, the mittens have buckles at the cuffs, which she tightens into place after slipping them over my fingers–preventing me from even prying them off my wrists later.  “I don’t normally do this,” Peggy says, “but because you’re such a chatty thing, I think I’m gonna make sure you don’t make too much noise.” The pacifier is pulled from my mouth, replaced a moment later with another one of a similar size, though this one is attached to a strap which is then wrapped around my head and fastened in the back. A…pacifier gag? “There we go!” Peggy exclaims. “This is perfect. I think I can introduce you to the other littles now. You’re not gonna cause me any problems, are ya? You’re not gonna make trouble?” I shake my head. With my hands bound and my mouth plugged up, what can I even do? She picks me up again, carrying me with her hands under my arms and holding me out from her as she walks. She says: “Bad babies, just so you know, get spankies. And I don’t think you want spankies, do you?” That giant hand on my little ass? No, I probably don’t want that. Though… Maybe, in the dark recesses of my mind, there’s a small part of me that kind of wants to feel that once. That little voice that says: “Maybe someday in the future, you’ll be pretty annoyed that you didn’t let a giant woman spank you in the ass.” There’s probably a whole community of people online who obsess about a prospect like this. Entire Subreddits related to fiction and imagery surrounding giant women administering spanking.  And I could be their god. Alas, that’s probably not what I should be thinking about right now. I need to get out of here. And how do I do that? Well…probably the same way that I got here. I need to…cum again.  Though I’m in quite the pickle now, seeing as how I don’t have access to my hands, I’m in a thick diaper, and I can’t even use my mouth to explain to someone else what I need. I don’t want to just jump to the conclusion that I’m screwed, though I should probably get comfortable with the idea that I’ll be here for a while. === This is what a day care looks like on TV shows. The interlocking, colorful foam pads on the floor. Signs showing the alphabet and numbers hanging on the walls, mingling with pictures of animals and cartoon characters. There’s toys and stuffed animals strewn across the floor.  And I’m not alone. There’s three others here–all of them dressed like babies, though none of them actually are. They’re my size–which is to say, not gigantic. There’s a man with dark, shaggy hair, wearing a blue and green onesie. A woman with long reddish hair pulled into pigtails, wearing a yellow dress with a very short bottom that makes little effort to hide her equally yellow-stained diaper. Another woman, of sepia skin and short, dark hair, wore only a diaper and plain baby-blue colored t-shirt. All of them have their hands trapped in similarly disabling mittens as mine–though I’m the only one with a pacifier stuck in my mouth. “Everyone?” says Peggy, calling for the others’ attention. “This is Smooshy. He’s gonna be living with us now, alright? I don’t want any of you to give him a hard time. And, likewise, Smooshy, you better be on your best behavior. Our littles are well trained and very obedient. Don’t you go messing that up, alright? Like I said before…spankies.” I nod my head, acknowledging what she’s said. “I’m gonna go upstairs for a little while. I’ll check on y’all later. Anyone need a changing?” Peggy’s eyes scan the group, and the girl in the yellow dress raises a padded hand. To this, Peggy narrows her eyes and stares at the girl’s diaper before huffing and approaching her. She lifts the hem of the dress to get a better look at the diaper. With a dismissive sigh, Peggy breezily waves her hand in the air.  “That doesn’t seem that bad,” she says. “I’ll change that later. Toodles!” And with that, she stomps out of the room and up a flight of stairs.  Seeing as how this appeared to be a one-story house from the outside–and because there are no windows in here–I’m guessing we’re in the basement. “Welcome,” the guy says. “I, uh, don’t know who your previous owners were, but I should warn you ahead of time that Peggy and Lenore aren’t much better.” “Y-you shouldn’t tell him that,” the girl in the tee says. “That’s a terrible introduction.” “It’s true, though,” the girl in the yellow dress sighs. “My diaper needed to be changed, like, two hours ago. I’m definitely going to get a rash now.” “Smooshy, huh?” the guy says to me. I shrug. It’s not my preferred name, but maybe it’ll have to do while I can’t say what it actually is. “I’m Wobble,” the guy says. “I’m Tinkles,” says the girl in the dress. “Stinker,” the girl in the tee sighs. I’m guessing that these names were chosen for them by the bigs, like my own. And clearly, the bigs have poor taste in names. “Look, it’s not so bad here,” Tinkles says. “Yeah, the bigs here are kind of a mess. But we have each other. That’s something.” They seem almost…resigned to their fate. There’s no defiance in their eyes. They’ve accepted that this is the way things are, and seem to have made peace with it some time ago. I wonder if this is the only life they’ve ever known–some sort of infantilized servitude to these ‘bigs.’ If I could talk, I’d have only one question: “What the fuck is this place?”

Welcome aboard Annabelle. What type of music do you like to listen to? 

@FlyingFox don't get me wrong, and don't take what i am saying the wrong way. I am NOT roasting you for you previous story arcs unintended ending. However i am very happy and grateful for this current story arc. I really like the way you are continuing this arc. As a matter of fact because of your attention to detail, you really make the story relatable, and a pleasure to read. That's what I'm saying about your last arc ending. i walked away from it it for a while. Because i felt the author had betrayed us, the readers for an easy way out. if i really wanted to i could roast you but i wont. It would be a waste of my time and the outcome could detrimental to the current story, and the outcome probably wont have a positive outcome. Bottom line, i really enjoy the current story and i look forward to the next installment Denis Leary wrote a song about people like me. Im an a**hole  I-95 Song (Jimmy Buffett)