Diaper References

118. Ground Truth The first thing Isadora noticed as she woke was the warmth. After that came the softness. She was so comfortable that she could have stayed in bed all day, but she knew that sooner or later she would have to move. Her hands moved around her and she found herself surrounded by soft toys, which meant she was probably in the nursery. That thought, and the slightest twinge of discomfort from her bottom, reminded her of what had happened the night before. It was the first time since the mission started that she had felt so safe and comfortable, with no second thoughts about everything around her. She wasn’t sure when she had gotten over the ‘sub drop’ feelings, but Brock had actually been there for her, taking care of all her needs to make sure she got a good night’s sleep. She stayed where she was a little longer and listened. For once she wasn’t in any hurry to move, but she wasn’t going to let herself be lazy. She wasn’t going to stay in bed all day; she was just trying to guess what time it was before she had to open her eyes. The house was never entirely quiet; it had its own vocabulary of sounds, and she had learned most of them by now. The central heating had a particular sigh when it first came on in the mornings, and there was a branch somewhere near the back of the house that knocked lightly against a window frame when the wind came from the east. She guessed that it must be quite late in the morning, but something sounded a little different today, and she wasn’t sure why. Eventually, she couldn’t justify staying in bed any longer, so she sat up, yawned, and stretched. Then she looked down at herself, seeing pink shortalls that she must have changed into at some point during last night’s playtime. She hadn’t put her pyjamas on, but she guessed that Brock had pulled a blanket over her. It was the kind of thing he did. And after that thought, she wondered what he would be doing this morning. He was nearly always out of the house before she woke, giving her no opportunity to pick his brains about their investigation or any kind of plan. She wasn’t surprised to find that she still had no idea what he spent most of his time doing. But then she opened the door, and immediately heard sounds from the kitchen. Brock was still home. And she realised that she should have known that, because he had promised he would be here in the morning. For all the times her partner had let her down or misled her about the nature of the investigation, she couldn’t remember him ever being late for some date they’d agreed on. And now she was embarrassed. Nobody cared what she looked like when she woke up in the morning, but if Brock was awake and present she felt that she should be attempting at least some minimum standard of presentability. Instead of going through to the kitchen or lounge, she hurried up the stairs to the master bedroom. She flicked the hair out of her eyes, took one look at herself in the full length mirror, and decided that wasn’t going to be enough. She quickly selected some moderately grown-up clothes from the closet; a playsuit that wouldn’t have looked out of place jogging in the park. Then she grabbed a bottle of dry conditioner from the shelf and spritzed it over her hair before quickly dragging a brush through it. The tangles quickly gave way under her determined onslaught, and she tossed the brush onto the bed with a smile. She thought briefly about different kinds of braids or bunches, but decided against it today. If Brock was making breakfast, she wanted to let him know she was awake, and that meant hurrying. Instead she just brushed her hair back, and secured it with matching butterfly and flower clips on either side; childish enough to be recognisable, but not to be noticed. Or at least she hoped so. Then she was bounding down the stairs, aware of a sweet aroma in the air, and she found her thoughts drifting onto wondering what might be for breakfast today. “Morning, sweetheart,” Brock said as she passed the kitchen door. Of course he knew that she was awake, and that she was coming down. He always did. “I just made breakfast. Do you want your cute plate today, or a grown-up one?” “I… uhh…” Isadora stammered, off-guard as he asked the type of question she wasn’t prepared for. But she was well aware that she needed to tell him what she had discovered this morning; and the nursery was the only place in the house with a full countersurveillance suite, so an excuse to take breakfast in there would probably make things easier. “Let’s eat in the nursery. I don’t need to grow up just yet.” “We can do that,” Brock answered with a smile. “I’ll be with you in just a minute.” Isadora nodded and headed for the kitchen. Some pedantic part of her, lurking in the back of her mind since college, instinctively started counting her own heartbeat to judge how much time had passed. Maybe she could tease her partner about taking longer than a minute… unless her count only reached eighty before he was pushing the door open with his hip, a tray held carefully in both hands. A minute was probably an accurate estimate. He set the plate down on the little table, and Isadora gave a little smile. “French toast?” she asked, and Brock just nodded. There were two plates. Hers was obviously the yellow plastic one, which would reveal a picture of some Disney fairy on the bottom once her food was gone. Her toast was already cut into fingers as well, and was a light golden brown; just the way she liked it. She told herself that she should be used to everything Brock did being perfect, but it still held a little surprise. Next to the plate he’d put a matching plastic knife and fork, with magic sparkles printed all the way up the handles, but she decided that she felt like eating with her fingers today. There were drinks on the tray as well; two small shots of grapefruit juice, a sippy cup filled with cordial, and a steaming Irish coffee for Brock. And between the plates, there was a little conical jug of syrup; stable enough not to be easily knocked over, but with a top just wide enough to dip her toast in if she preferred that to pouring it over. Brock sat on the corner of the bed, with his own plate on his knee. He gently sipped his coffee, not exactly watching Isadora eat, but still aware of everything around him. She only needed to glance towards the shelf with the sensor wands on before he stood for a moment and conducted the usual perfunctory sweep of the tiny, enclosed space. Everything seemed to be clear. She ate one of the strips of toast and thought about how to say what she needed to say. She had rehearsed it, while she waited for him yesterday. She had planned to be measured and professional about it, to present her findings calmly and let the work speak for itself. She’d thought about each question he might ask; questioning her level of certainty, or whether she had found some shortcut to an answer he surely already knew. But now that he was here, nursing his coffee so close that she could reach out and touch him, it seemed simpler than all that. “I know where the video was filmed,” she said. She’d expected a change of posture, some slight shift to signal that she now had his full attention. But of course, his focus was always there, so nothing had changed. She took another bite of toast, smiled for a moment, and continued: “The ULF broadcast. Rongkwan, on Lace Market Street. Balcony off a private meeting room, second floor back.” She watched his face while she said it, trying to pick out any clue to confirm that she was right. She hadn’t even been in person to check it out, but she couldn’t believe she was wrong now. All she needed was Brock’s nod. “I don’t know the place,” he said, and took another sip of his coffee. “A Thai restaurant?” “Yeah…” Isadora stammered. “You mean… Are you saying I’m wrong? But where is it then?” “You could be right. The certainty you came in with, I’d guess you probably are. We could check it out some time. But I can’t hand you a grade, because I don’t know the right answer. I’m eager to see what you’ve got, though.” “Okay,” Isadora said, while she tried to think back over their previous conversations. She’d been sure that she was searching for something that Brock had already discovered by other means, maybe using hints from something one of his contacts had already said. Did he really not know? Was this another test, or had she misunderstood the task? “So, yes, it’s a Thai place,” she continued, trying to keep her uncertainty on the inside. “Just outside Chinatown, but close enough that you’ll see that style in the rooftops out of the window. I searched social media for photos and videos of Fairhaven, cross-referenced all the backgrounds against streetmaps to build a three-dimensional collage of the whole Chinatown area. There were four walls that were close matches to the one shown in that video, and I’m pretty sure this is the one.” He nodded once, slow and deliberate, the way he did when he was filing something away rather than acknowledging it. She had the sense that he was running her reasoning against something he had in his own head. “I looked around,” he said. “Fairhaven Chinatown was my guess too, it’s the only place around here that has that kind of architecture. I saw there’s a power transformer on the wall, briefly visible when the camera lurches. Looks old, an obsolete model, but I walked around the areas I thought most likely and I couldn’t see it.” “You were doing it by hand?” “I looked up the transformer model in the database, but there’s no record of where they can be found. And the Internet isn’t my world. When I was a Monitor, the tech was mostly analogue. So I looked for the overhead lines between buildings, trying to find a pattern that matched. But I realised soon enough that it wasn’t a valid use of my time. Looking around all of Chinatown would have taken way too long, and I had no reason to think they’d use the same place again in any case. It would only have been confirmation, and I already knew they were around here.” “You knew…” Isadora started to ask a question, then realised that she needed to take a step back in her assumptions. “I only looked at Fairhaven, because I was sure it was local after what you said. I thought you found something from the video, but… if you couldn’t pin it down, what were you talking about? You said Millennium House would have missed it.” “You looked at the wall,” Brock said with a half smile. “There must be a million walls in the world, and so many of them look the same to a casual glance. I would never have thought that was even something you could search. But you…” His half-shrug was the greatest praise she could have hoped for. From someone as terse as Brock, even acknowledgement that there was something he couldn’t do was out of the ordinary. She took another bite of toast. It was delicious, but right now she was more concerned with trying not to look too pleased with herself. But wasn’t she allowed to bask in the moment? She had done well. Not just a task that Brock had set her as a test, but something he couldn’t actually work out himself. She’d been hoping ever since they were deployed to have that kind of success. But somehow, something wasn’t quite right. She knew how good she had expected this moment to feel; she had spent so much time looking forward to it. But what she felt now wasn’t pride, not entirely. It felt like something was missing, like at the peak of her professional triumph, she was somehow disappointed. She didn’t want to deal with that now. She didn’t want to think about how she felt about field work, or what her motivations were, when she should just have happiness. She didn’t want Brock to be here while she questioned her own responses, so she tried to move the conversation forward instead.u “So what were you looking at, if not the wall?” “What’s wrong, Folker?” he brushed the question aside, maybe knowing that it wasn’t what was really on her mind. “Is something bothering you?” She looked down at the toast in her hands, the childish plate. And then she knew what was wrong, and she knew that she couldn’t tell him. But she couldn’t ignore it either. “I’m fine,” she said, and she mostly meant it. There wasn’t anything wrong in this scene; it was just such a contrast with the night before. It felt slightly unreal for Brock to talk to her so professionally now, after all the time he’d been playing her husband. She told herself that they were just stepping out of the roles they had been playing, now that there was no chance of being overheard. And that it felt strange to her because she’d seen so little of Brock. All the time they had spent together, all the intense moments, had been between Bernard and Stella Klein, and she barely knew the real man she would have to trust with her life. At last, he was treating her like a real partner. The one thing she’d been striving for, above everything else. And she missed him pretending that he cared. That was the dark secret hiding at the back of her mind; that on some level she liked being talked down to like that. She’d been fighting against it for her whole life, but when Brock changed his tone like he was flicking a switch, it was disconcerting. And she missed the intensity of the night before. As weird as it had been, subjected to a spanking in front of his friends, not quite certain about his real motivations… When he stepped away from all that and she knew for sure that it had been an act, all she felt was disappointment. “Last night…” she mumbled, not sure how to phrase the question but hoping that once she was talking the words would naturally follow. “That… spanking… the aftercare… was that completely, one hundred percent just playing the role? There isn’t some part of you enjoying that?” “I’m a professional,” he said. “I can play a thousand roles. Maybe there could be something in this that appeals to me, but not in the context of a character I’m playing. Not when I’m putting everything into domming like a guy who isn’t me. But that’s not the question you wanted to ask, is it?” “No, it’s just…” Isadora hesitated then. Was what she was feeling some leftover of the hypnosis? An implanted desire to please her imaginary husband, which made her feel some discomfort when every trace of Bernard vanished? She knew it wasn’t. But she wasn’t entirely sure what she really meant, and she couldn’t ask the question until she was sure. But there was something she needed to say, something simple enough for her to express. “Last night,” she said again. “I told you I’m okay with it if you want to baby me again. To sell the role, or if you think it would be easier. And I think… I don’t know why it’s like… Okay, straight up. When I’m in that role, the helpless Stella who can’t fight anything… I think maybe I can get into the role enough to enjoy it in the moment. And it’s an intense thing, so it feels maybe a little weird to suddenly be all business again. You know?” “Okay,” he said, and gave a half smile that she couldn’t read anything into. “I know things like that can have a big impact, but I understand. I’ll only do things like that if it’s necessary. I won’t push you, but if the situation comes up again I’ll do my best to make sure you get a safe moment to wind down.” “Even if it isn’t…” Isadora started, and then surveyed the sentence ahead with dread. She didn’t want to say that, and sought refuge in a simple question with no emotional baggage hanging from it. “So, on that video. Was there a clue besides the wall? I’m sure none of the signs were actually legible.” “You looked at the surroundings,” he said, quickly calling up the video on the laptop, and skipping to the moment where the camera was knocked. “I looked at the people. See the guy to the left of Chen? You can't see his face. But you can see his posture, skin tone, general build. The way one shoulder drops slightly, like he’s trying to hide some pain for this big performance.” He paused. “I could have made a good guess about whose silhouette that is. But the bandage on his hand, the same brand as a batch stolen from Fairhaven St Martin’s District Hospital last year, pretty much confirms it.” “Should I be able to recognise him?” she asked. She didn’t think she’d met any of the ULF members, but if he’d been in Evergreen Estates even briefly there was a chance the would have seen him. “I think so,” Brock gave a nod, and swallowed the rest of his coffee before continuing. “You’ve been closer to him than I have. I’ve only seen him through a high-magnification zoom sight. His name’s Malik Okafor, and if you need any more proof of his identity, look at the freeze frame when his hand is visible. Someone broke the middle finger of his left hand just before the ultimatum video was filmed.” “Omar?” Isadora said slowly, trying to match up the names in her memory. After so long using her made-up names, it was still hard to remember who was who among the Pink Room’s nurses and orderlies. “He tried to…” “I know,” Brock said as soon as she trailed off, saving her the anxiety of putting those events into words. “Thank you. It made it a lot easier to confirm my identification. “He wasn’t like the others, I think. He’s ULF, I’ve seen him on the periphery of investigations before, but never had anything solid enough to put on his records. This time, he’s the guy they’ve sent to make sure Arrencani delivers on the contract. Needs access to all of the Arrencani businesses, to check if the family is planning to stab Chen in the back. I strongly believe he would never have been allowed to know about the Pink Room otherwise.” “I can’t…” Isadora mumbled. Pieces of information clicked together in her new ways. A recording from Brock’s surveillance, a couple of overheard words, the way Selma had talked to Omar. There were a dozen little places where that story just seemed to fit. But she didn’t want to believe that it was true; she couldn’t. “There’s no way. I can’t believe Lorenzo’s involved in something like that. And why would he?” “He seemed nervous about the Doherty business,” Brock said slowly. “I suspect you read that as discomfort with the idea of violence. But it could just as easily be that he was considering how his neighbours might react. Disturbed by thoughts of the secret escaping, rather than the man’s actual story.” “No,” Isadora shook her head firmly. “You’ve seen Lorenzo mumble and make excuses that don’t quite add up whenever someone is close to guessing that the Pink Room exists. You’ve played poker with the guy. You know he can’t bluff. There’s no way someone could be that bad at lying in one context, and still be able to hide that… what? You think he knows an international terrorist organisation has moved into town and he’s helping them hide from the authorities? No way. A guy who’s bad at lying is always bad. If he loses so much at the poker table, nobody could…” she paused a long time, but then went straight on. “Okay, you could. I know you’re making conscious decisions about which tells Bernard has, or whatever. But outside our business? Even if you accept Lorenzo as a small town drug lord, which I think is already beyond belief, that’s not the kind of person who works on world-class deception and counterintelligence masking. And what would be the point?” “Guns,” Brock said. “The police are after Lorenzo as being in charge of guns, vice, gambling, and protection. But those all feel like side-businesses. The way they’re organised, the distribution of his fronts across the county. The real deal behind the Arrencani crime family is arms dealing. He’s using Bercher’s military connections to obtain a stolen WMD for sale to Chen. That’s all I know for certain.” “I can’t believe it,” Isadora said, shaking her head. “Not Lorenzo. I could imagine him breaking the law, but not hurting people. And nukes, you’re saying? How would he even… that’s not something you can just call in a favour for. That's not how any of that works.” “It isn’t a favour.” Brock remained infuriatingly calm as he laid out the most absurd allegations. “It’s a transaction. And Roman’s been doing this his whole career. The same network, the same contacts, just bigger products each time. Jambalaya was going to be his big score, until it went sideways. The truth drug Lorenzo looks after is small scale, something unusual for a niche market, but it shows that he’s still in touch with defense R&D. This is just one more product, a new peak for his career. Maybe a nuke, maybe some new kind of cluster bomb, we don’t know. But that threat told us they’re looking at casualties in the millions.” “You really think Lorenzo’s capable of all that?” she snapped. The allegations were patently absurd, and seeing all her practical objections fall one by one only made her angrier. “How would he even be in that business? He’s a… a…” Isadora found herself stammering, as she realised that behind all this excitement she couldn’t bring to mind what industry sector Lorenzo’s legitimate enterprises were in. “He’s a businessman!” she growled in desperation. “A childcare specialist. A Hollywood star’s husband. Not an arms dealer.” “He’s got both Roman and Enzo’s contacts,” Brock kept his voice steady, but she thought she could sense a moment’s hesitation now. “Guns would be the easiest thing for him to get his hands on. And once he’s in narcotics and extortion, there’s enough overlap in the customers. People know people who know people, that’s all it takes. He could even have been the token man on the outside for the black market businesses that got Enzo discharged. I’m telling you, the supplier here is the Arrencani family, and the buyer is the world’s craziest terrorist group. We can’t let personal feelings–” “What personal feelings?” Isadora realised that she was yelling now, but she couldn’t stop herself. “I’m looking at the evidence. Once you realise the police reports could have been wrong, there’s nothing to point to Lorenzo. In all the time you’ve been talking to them, he’s not said anything to suggest he’s capable of murder. Has he?” She saw Brock open his mouth to respond, but she wasn’t going to face that smug grin again. “No! You’re not going to tell me he said something in the times you switched the recording off. Evidence you can’t produce doesn’t mean anything.” “Lack of evidence doesn’t prove –” “It’s not just that.” Isadora was on a roll now, and she knew she couldn’t stop or she would break down in tears. “There was a shooting in Lasserville, you know? And a fake Interpol investigator showed up to point them here, without any kind of evidence. If he’s as tied up in the underworld as you think, why would somebody need to frame him? That goes to show the police records can’t be trusted.” “Actually–” Brock tried to cut in, but all of Isadora’s frustration over this investigation was coming to the boil now, and she didn’t dare let him get a word in. She couldn’t bear for everything to fall apart after she’d fought so hard to find the truth. She pushed herself up from the little table, and the childish plate rocked on its rim before settling. The French toast was still there, half eaten. Somehow wasting food that was so perfect felt more of a crime than yelling at her operative, l the senior partner. She wanted to stay, and that made everything worse. He’d made her breakfast. He’d cut it into fingers and brought it on a tray, and now he was sitting there telling her with that careful, patient voice that a man she trusted was a monster. She couldn’t be in this room anymore. “I’m going for a walk,” she said, which wasn't something she had decided until the words came out. She didn't look back until she heard the door click closed behind her; and knew that now her only option was to find the real arms dealers on her own.

I may have to do something like that. Normally, I wear on the weekends, especially while I do laundry. However, since the dryer is busted in my building, I'll have to do it here at the hotel. I may wear while I wait for the laundry here.

I would be interested but sadly I'm a male and yeah hope you find someone soon though

We have an out of town guest for a few days, so I did not wear a diaper to bed. I really could have and remained discreet but opted not to. Well, diapers give me a lot of comfort, security, convenience and I couldn't sleep. I got up very early, my wife sound asleep and the guest sound asleep in another bedroom, and now I am in a private part of or house in a Goodnights XXL that I have wet, and now even messed. Pretty bold, but I'll get nice and clean soon, and there will be zero evidence of my wet and poopy pants when my wife and guest are out of bed. I am discreet, and heck with it, I am going to wear a diaper today under my pants. I'll wet my diaper without my guest knowing, but my wife might know if she notices a brief glassy-eye gaze when I wet my diaper. By the way, I think I'll wear a Seni Quatro diaper and a satin diaper cover from Satin Maiden the USA.

Underestimated