Other Fetishes

I can see why Paul is smitten on savvy.  Shes beautiful.  Hope the meeting between Paul and Andy goes well. 

No problem. I'm afraid my spare time is somewhat limited at the moment, so I doubt I'd be able to help.

Enjoy the last parts of Paul & Savvy's date, a little Halloween backstory & lore around Savvy & "Daddy," with a tease of the final part of chapter 121 for late Saturday or really late Sunday (heading to the Bills game this weekend).  Chapter One Hundred Twenty-One: Part Nine The mountains had disappeared into darkness. The view drifted toward a medium-sized bedroom window on the upper floor, its white shutters left partially open. Moonlight slipped between the angled slats, drawing pale silver lines across the carpet, the foot of a large bed, and the folds of an ivory duvet. Most of the room remained hidden in darkness, except for a small rectangle of blue-white light hovering above the pillows.   An iPhone.   Two slender hands held it above the covers, the screen illuminating neatly manicured fingernails and the soft fabric gathered around the woman's waist. One thumb moved slowly across the glass, paused, then swiped again. Golden chandeliers appeared on the screen, followed by a magnificent Christmas tree, a raised stage beneath burgundy curtains, and a handsome young man wearing a royal-blue suit.   The phone tilted slightly. 2:15 a.m.   Savannah lay against two oversized pillows, her long brunette hair scattered loosely around her face. The carefully styled waves she'd worn to dinner had softened into something more natural, a few strands falling across her cheek while the rest spilled over one shoulder. She wore a delicate silver-blue silk nightgown, its thin straps resting against her shoulders and its softly draped neckline trimmed with pale lace. The satin caught the moonlight whenever she moved, creating faint ripples of silver across the fabric. Beneath the duvet, her legs still carried the pleasant exhaustion of an evening spent dancing in high heels, and her shoulders ached just enough to remind her how many hours she'd spent enjoying herself.   She should have been asleep. Her body was certainly ready.   But her mind seemed determined to replay every wonderful moment of the evening, and the small smile on her face had become almost impossible to suppress. Savannah lowered the phone onto her chest and closed her eyes. She counted several slow breaths, shifted her head against the pillow, and tried to convince herself that the photographs would still be there in the morning. Five seconds passed before she laughed softly at her own expense.   "Oh, good Lord. Get yourself together, Savannah."   She lifted the phone again.   The photographs were waiting exactly where she'd left them. There was the Remington's enormous Christmas tree, its golden ornaments glowing beneath the exposed timber ceiling. Another image showed the live band performing beneath the stage lights, while a third captured Paul sitting across from her at dinner with the unmistakable expression of someone preparing to deliver a terrible joke.   She smiled at that one, remembering how hard she'd laughed. Then she swiped again.   And stopped.   There they were. The selfie.     Savannah, radiant in her midnight-blue evening gown, her sapphire-and-diamond necklace catching the chandelier light. Her brunette hair fell over one shoulder, and her smile carried the open happiness of a woman who had forgotten to worry about whether the camera was finding her best angle.   Beside her was Paul.   Eighteen years old, handsome in his sapphire-blue three-piece suit, his gold-patterned tie still neatly arranged beneath the collar of his white shirt. His dark hair was slightly tousled from dancing, and his cheeks carried the faintest hint of color.   But Savannah wasn't studying the suit. She was studying the way he leaned against her.   His head rested comfortably near her shoulder, the side of his face nestled against the upper part of her chest. His arm circled her waist, while her free hand rested affectionately against his shoulder. Their natural height difference was visible even in the photograph, though Paul's relaxed posture made it more noticeable.   He was simply smiling.   And the expression on his face was so genuinely happy that Savannah felt warmth rise through her chest all over again. She enlarged the photograph slightly. Paul's smile filled more of the screen.   Oh, sweetheart.   She remembered how carefully he'd positioned himself before she took the picture, fussing with his tie and making some ridiculous comment about whether he looked like a respectable gentleman or a teenager attending his first school formal. Savannah had laughed, slipped her arm around him, and drawn him closer.   And Paul had relaxed against her.   Completely.   That was what she loved most about the photograph. For one small moment, he had stopped trying to be anything other than himself. Savannah stared at the image, her smile slowly widening as the memories returned. She could almost feel the warmth of his arm around her waist, hear the gentle laughter in his voice, and remember the way he'd looked at her after their final kiss.   Then her thoughts traveled backward. Back to the magnificent dance floor of the Remington, where the final notes of Britney Spears' ...Baby One More Time had faded beneath the vaulted ceiling.   And the night began playing again.     The restaurant erupted into applause as the pianist completed the final flourish and the violinist lowered his bow. Crystal chandeliers shimmered above the sunken parquet dance floor, scattering warm golden reflections across the polished wood. Beyond the curved wrought-iron railing, guests smiled from candlelit tables while the enormous stone fireplace continued burning beneath its Christmas garlands. Savannah remained in Paul's arms for several seconds after the music ended. Her cheeks were flushed, her breathing slightly quicker than usual, and her sapphire earrings swayed gently as she lifted her face toward his.   The kisses had only made everything more extraordinary.   But beneath his happiness, Savannah could see a familiar uncertainty returning. He shifted his weight carefully, his shoulders tightening slightly as he became more aware of the now-swollen diaper he was wearing.   He had already whispered that he needed changing.   And Savannah had promised to help.   When Paul offered his hand, she accepted it without hesitation. Together they crossed the dance floor and began climbing the curved staircase leading back toward their table. Her midnight-blue gown swept gracefully behind her, the satin catching the golden light, while Paul walked beside her, occasionally glancing up with an expression that made her want to kiss him all over again.   He had been wonderful tonight. Confident. Funny. Attentive.   And when the music began, he'd moved with a grace that had reminded Savannah just how much of his life existed beyond the medical struggles and his reflexive regression she'd come to know. Yet Paul was having a harder time separating those parts of himself. He had spent the evening feeling like a young man on a date. Now his body was reminding him of the vulnerability he could never entirely leave behind. The embarrassment was familiar, arriving almost automatically despite the warmth of Savannah's hand around his.    "You should've said something earlier."   He knew that. He'd noticed the discomfort growing during the dancing, but he'd been having such a wonderful time that he'd kept telling himself he could manage a few more minutes.   Then another song. Then the kiss. He hadn't wanted to interrupt any of it.   Savannah squeezed his hand as they reached the top of the stairs. Paul glanced toward her. Her smile was reassuring without being overly concerned. And for the moment, that was enough. They returned to their candlelit table, where the remains of their drinks stood beside a small arrangement of evergreen branches and winter roses. Paul removed his sapphire-blue suit jacket and draped it carefully over the back of his chair, leaving him in his fitted waistcoat, white shirt, and gold-patterned tie. Savannah collected her structured navy handbag from the neighboring chair. Inside were the supplies she'd packed before leaving the estate: a clean PeekABU diaper, a sealed travel package of aloe-and-lavender wipes, a small container of baby powder Kim had given her, and a discreet disposal bag.   She was grateful she'd brought them.   Her eyes moved toward the hallway beyond the dining room. The Remington's men's and women's restrooms were located near the main corridor, but farther along stood a separate family-style accessible restroom. A single-occupancy room offered the privacy Paul needed without requiring him to explain himself to strangers. Savannah gently touched his arm and nodded toward the hallway.   Paul understood. They left the table together.   The sounds of the restaurant softened as they moved into the corridor. Dark timber paneling lined the walls beneath antique brass sconces, while framed photographs of the surrounding mountains hung between seasonal arrangements of evergreen branches and burgundy ribbons. The carpet absorbed their footsteps, leaving only the distant music and murmur of conversation behind them. When they reached the family-style restroom, Paul opened the door and stepped inside. Savannah followed, closing the heavy wooden door behind them before quietly turning the lock. The room was spacious and beautifully appointed, with cream-colored stone tiles, polished brass fixtures, a marble vanity, and a large mirror extending across the wall above the sink. A discreet shelf stood near the counter, offering space for personal belongings.   It was also missing one rather important feature.   Savannah looked around.   Then again.   Not even a fold-down changing surface.   Paul followed her gaze and frowned.   "Uh… Savvy?"   She glanced toward him.   "Yes, sweetheart?"   "There's no changing table."   "I noticed."   He looked around the room, then back at her, his confusion becoming increasingly obvious.   "So… what do we do?"   Savannah considered the available space, then glanced toward a clear section of wall away from the sink. There was enough room for Paul to stand comfortably, and the tiled floor appeared dry.   "We can do a standing change."   Paul blinked.   "A standing change?"   She smiled.   "Mm-hmm."   He looked down at himself, then toward the wall.   "How exactly does that work?"   The question was so genuinely bewildered that Savannah almost laughed. He sounded as though she'd just suggested performing an elaborate magic trick involving his trousers and several impossible laws of physics. She kept her voice reassuring.   "Well, sugar, first we get you somewhere steady. Then we'll work through it together."   Paul gave her a skeptical little smile.   "You make that sound awfully easy."   "We'll see."   She set her handbag on the shelf beside the sink and arranged the supplies on a clean disposable surface. Then she approached Paul, gently guiding him toward the far wall.   "All right, sweetheart. Stand right here for me."   He moved into position. Savannah checked the space around him and waited until he was comfortable leaning lightly against the wall without putting unnecessary pressure on his healing ribs.   "You steady?"   "Yeah."   "Ribs okay?"   "Little sore. Nothing terrible."   She nodded.   "Tell me if that changes."   Paul watched her with growing curiosity as she prepared to help. She seemed remarkably calm about something he regarded as a logistical nightmare. When she asked whether he wanted help with his clothing, he hesitated only briefly before nodding.   "Please."   Savannah carefully unfastened his belt and helped lower his formal trousers enough to manage the change, taking care to keep the expensive fabric away from the floor. His diaper had become heavily saturated, explaining the increasing discomfort he'd experienced toward the end of their dance. She noticed his embarrassed expression and gave him a sympathetic smile.   "Goodness, Paul. No wonder you were uncomfortable."   He looked away.   "Yeah."   She tilted her head affectionately.   "I think somebody should've asked for a change about two dances ago."   Paul's cheeks turned bright pink.   "Oh, come on, Savvy."   She laughed softly.   "I'm not scolding you, honey. I was having a wonderful time too."   Paul smiled despite himself.   "So was I."   "I noticed."   Her tone became gentler.   "Let's get you comfortable."   The change began quietly, with Savannah helping Paul remove the used protection and assisting with cleaning where his hand tremor and balance difficulties made it necessary. The aloe-and-lavender wipes released a faint, soothing fragrance into the room, mixing with the clean scent of soap and polished stone. Savannah worked carefully, keeping the process practical and private. She asked Paul to adjust his position whenever needed and allowed him to handle whatever he could comfortably manage himself.   There was no unnecessary fussing.   No prolonged embarrassment. Just an ordinary problem being addressed with kindness. Once Paul was clean and dry, Savannah unfolded the fresh PeekABU brief. He watched her with obvious skepticism.   "Okay. Seriously. How's this supposed to work?"   She smiled.   "I'm gonna need a little teamwork from you."   "Teamwork?"   "Yes, sir."   She indicated the space in front of him.   "Take a small step away from the wall, sweetheart. Just enough so we can position everything."   Paul followed her directions, keeping one hand against the wall to maintain his balance. Savannah helped him position the fresh protection before asking him to lean back again so they could adjust it securely. His fingers trembled slightly as he shifted. Savannah paused until he regained his balance.   "Good. Just like that."   He tilted his head.   "Savvy?"   "Yeah, honey?"   "Where'd you learn how to do this?"   Savannah paused.   For a moment, the small bathroom seemed to grow unusually quiet.   Paul was still looking at her. Curious. Trusting.   Completely unaware that his question had reached backward into a part of Savannah's life she rarely revisited. She lifted her eyes toward the mirror.   And remembered. Florida. Several years earlier. Halloween.   The fraternity house was enormous, the sort of sprawling Southern mansion that made ordinary university housing look almost quaint. Three stories of pale stone and white-painted columns rose beyond tall wrought-iron gates, with expansive balconies overlooking a circular driveway crowded with luxury cars and expensive SUVs. Orange lights twisted around the columns. Artificial spiderwebs stretched between decorative pumpkins, and enormous inflatable ghosts bobbed beside the front steps. Somebody had parked a golf cart near the entrance with a plastic skeleton sitting behind the wheel, while a fog machine pumped white mist across the lower staircase.   Inside, the house had become a chaotic mixture of wealth, alcohol, elaborate costumes, and terrible judgment. Crystal chandeliers hung above polished marble floors, temporarily decorated with paper bats and miniature pumpkins. A massive staircase curved toward the second floor, where music thundered from another room. Colored lights moved across the ceilings while the bass vibrated through the walls. The air smelled of expensive cologne, perfume, spilled beer, artificial fog, and the sugary punch being served from enormous glass dispensers in the kitchen.   Everywhere Savannah looked, there were costumes.   A young man dressed as a Roman emperor stood beside the staircase, arguing with somebody wearing an inflatable dinosaur suit. Three women in glamorous angel outfits posed for photographs beneath a chandelier, while a group of fraternity brothers dressed as superheroes occupied the billiards room. Near the kitchen, two young women dressed as witches were laughing with a man in a tuxedo who apparently believed carrying a plastic martini glass transformed him into James Bond. There were pirates, vampires, cowboys, cheerleaders, fairy-tale princesses, horror-movie villains, and more than a few men who had interpreted Halloween as permission to wear almost nothing.   It was loud. Expensive. Ridiculous.   And exactly the sort of party Derrick enjoyed.   The front doors opened.   And Zorro arrived.   Derrick stood in the entrance looking as though he'd stepped directly out of an expensive costume advertisement. Tall and broad-shouldered, he wore fitted black trousers tucked into polished knee-high boots, a dark shirt open slightly at the collar, and a dramatic black cape that moved behind him whenever he turned. A wide-brimmed black hat sat above a black eye mask, while a leather belt emphasized his athletic build. His dark hair had been styled carefully, and his expression carried the easy arrogance of someone thoroughly accustomed to being admired. But where Zorro would traditionally have carried a sword, Derrick had chosen an entirely different arrangement. Tucked conspicuously into his belt were an oversized white adult diaper, a travel-sized packet of wipes, and a small container of baby powder.   He seemed enormously pleased with himself. And several steps behind him came Savannah.   Snow White. Or, more accurately, Derrick's deliberately exaggerated babyish interpretation of Snow White.   Savannah had spent the better part of an afternoon getting ready, and the costume was impossible to mistake for anything else. A glossy jet-black bobbed wig framed her face, the blunt fringe falling just above her eyebrows. A bright red satin headband rested over the wig, its oversized bow standing upright like something borrowed directly from a fairy-tale illustration.   Her dress was a short, theatrical variation of Snow White's familiar blue-and-yellow outfit. The fitted royal-blue bodice had a square neckline edged with narrow gold trim, while a bright red ribbon crossed the center and tied into a decorative bow. The sleeves were rounded and puffed, made from shimmering turquoise-blue satin with large red teardrop-shaped inserts that stood out against the fabric. Below the bodice, a brilliant golden-yellow satin skirt flared outward from her waist. It was deliberately much shorter than a traditional princess gown, ending high above her knees and revealing several exaggerated layers of pale lavender-white tulle underneath.   The ruffled underskirt was enormous, almost tutu-like, forming soft, translucent tiers that bounced and shifted whenever Savannah walked. The costume's playful proportions were further emphasized by the bulky disposable diaper worn as part of the agreed Halloween theme, which made the skirt sit awkwardly and altered her usual graceful stride. Bright red patent-leather heels completed the outfit, their glossy finish matching the oversized bow in her hair. Her makeup was theatrical but carefully applied: dark eyeliner, rosy cheeks, and brilliant red lipstick that contrasted dramatically with the pale complexion created by the wig. She looked like Snow White reimagined for a very unconventional university Halloween party.   Bright. Colorful. Exaggerated. And considerably more conspicuous than Savannah had anticipated.   She remembered looking at herself in the mirror before leaving and laughing at how absurd the costume seemed. Derrick had been delighted, insisting that the ridiculous details were exactly what made their matching outfits so entertaining.   At the time, she'd wanted to make him happy.   She'd agreed to the theme. She had even enjoyed aspects of the playful role they sometimes explored privately.   But the moment they entered the fraternity house, Savannah began realizing that Derrick's idea of a successful evening involved considerably more public attention than hers. The bass thumped through the marble floors like a second heartbeat as Derrick swept them deeper into the house, one hand firm at the small of Savannah’s back. Every step made the short golden skirt flare and the layers of pale tulle bounce against her thighs. Beneath it the diaper sat thick and high, the plastic outer shell already warm against her skin from the crowded rooms, the padding heavy enough that her usual long stride had shortened into something smaller, more careful. The ruffles kept trying to hide it; they never quite succeeded.   “Look at Daddy’s pretty little Snow White,” Derrick drawled, Southern vowels soft and pleased as he guided her past a knot of costumed guests near the staircase. His cape brushed her bare arm. “All dressed up and padded nice for the party. Everybody can see what a good girl my princess is.”   Savannah felt the flush crawl up her throat. A few heads turned. Someone laughed. She kept her chin lifted the way she always did when attention found her, but her fingers tightened around the small red apple Derrick had insisted she carry. The costume that had seemed silly and private in the mirror at his apartment now felt enormous under the chandeliers. The bulky white diaper shifted with every step, the elastic at her thighs pressing, the bulk between her legs impossible to ignore when the short skirt rode up even an inch. Derrick stopped to greet two fraternity brothers. He turned her slightly so the light caught the red bow in her wig and the way the turquoise sleeves puffed against the blue bodice.   “This is my wittle Snow White,” he told them, voice pitched just loud enough. “Had to bring her own diapee tonight. Daddy’s got the spares right here if she needs a change.” He patted the oversized brief still tucked in his belt and grinned beneath the mask. “Isn’t she precious?”   One of the brothers whistled low. The other laughed and said something Savannah didn’t catch. She smiled because that was what the night required, but her stomach had gone tight. Part of her still liked the private shape of this—the way Derrick’s hands knew her, the way the thick padding made her feel held and small when it was just the two of them.   That part hummed under her skin. The rest of her wanted the floor to open.   They moved on. Derrick kept talking, the baby talk rolling off his tongue as easily as the Southern drawl he usually reserved for home.   “Does Daddy’s peepee princess need anything? A sippy? A little rest for those pretty legs?”   Savannah shook her head once, sharp. “Derrick.”   He only laughed and kissed the top of the black bob. “Awww. My shy baby.”   By the time she finally tugged his cape and said she needed a break, the music had climbed into her skull and the diaper had grown heavier, warmer, the padding saturated enough that every step sent a soft, damp shift against her. She had been holding it longer than she wanted to. The private agreement had never included standing in a crowded hallway while people glanced down at the ruffled skirt and the white bulk beneath it. Derrick’s theatrical smile stayed in place, but his hand at her back firmed.   “Come on, then, wittle Snow White. Daddy knows just what to do.”   He threw one arm into the air.   "Stand aside, everybody!"   Several guests turned. Derrick grinned beneath his black mask.   "Zorro's got his wittle Snow White!"   A few people laughed. Savannah smiled uncertainly. Derrick turned toward her with exaggerated affection.   "Come on, princess. Does Daddy's wittle baby need help walking?"   Savannah rolled her eyes.   "Derrick."   He laughed.   "Awww, look at that face."   Then he turned toward the crowd again, lifting the oversized white brief from his belt like a magician displaying a prop.   "Don't y'all worry! Daddy Zorro's here to rescue his little princess!"   Several people cheered. Others laughed. Someone near the staircase raised a phone. Derrick flourished the white brief dramatically.   "One little wave, and Daddy'll make that pee-pee diaper disappear!"   The crowd erupted into another round of drunken laughter. Savannah joined in, but her smile had begun feeling increasingly forced. She was accustomed to attention. At six-foot-two, with a striking appearance and an outgoing personality, she had never exactly disappeared in a crowded room.   But this felt different.   The attention wasn't directed at her beauty, her confidence, or even the ridiculous Snow White costume. It was directed at the private arrangement Derrick had turned into a public performance. A woman near the staircase gave Savannah a small, almost sympathetic smile. Savannah looked away.   It's Halloween, she told herself. Everybody's acting ridiculous.   She tried to relax.   Derrick opened a bathroom door. Savannah followed him inside. The room was large, with polished stone counters, dark wood cabinetry, and an enormous mirror stretching across one wall. A decorative chandelier hung above the vanity, while the distant music made the floor vibrate faintly beneath Savannah's red heels. Derrick closed the door. His cape settled behind him. He turned toward her with the same exaggerated smile he'd worn throughout the evening.   "All right, princess. Daddy's gonna get his wittle Snow White sorted out."   Savannah moved toward the wall. Much as Paul would do years later. She leaned against the cool tile   Derrick turned, cape settling, and looked her over with open satisfaction. The short yellow skirt had ridden higher from walking. The layers of white tulle framed the thick diaper completely now; the plastic shell sat high and rounded between her thighs, the front panel visibly darker and heavier than when they had left the apartment. He crouched without ceremony, one knee to the polished floor, and lifted the edge of the ruffled underskirt with two fingers so the full bulk was exposed under the chandelier light.   “Well, look at that,” he said, voice dropping into the soft, syrupy register he used when he wanted her small. “Daddy’s peepee princess made her diapee all soggy. All that juice and punch for baby, and now look how full and heavy it is. Poor wittle thing. Standing around with a soaked diaper under that pretty skirt like a good girl who didn’t want to interrupt the party.”   Savannah’s face burned. She stared past his shoulder at the mirror. The red bow, the black bob, the blue bodice with its red ribbon, the way the short skirt and ruffles did nothing to hide the thick white padding between her legs. She could see the darkening at the front, the way the elastic had crept slightly down one thigh. Humiliation flooded her chest, sharp and hot. Under it, thinner and more confusing, a thread of the old thrill still lived—the part of her that liked when Derrick took charge, when the thick diaper made the world feel smaller and safer. The two feelings twisted together until she couldn’t tell which one was louder.   “Derrick,” she said, quieter. “Can we just finish?”   He didn’t look up. His palm settled warm and broad over the front of the saturated diaper, pressing gently so the padding squished under his hand. The sound was soft and unmistakable in the quiet bathroom.   “Finish what, baby? Daddy’s already checking his wittle Snow White. This diapee is so full. All wet and heavy for Daddy. You were such a good girl holding it out there with everybody watching. Did you feel it getting warmer? Feel it getting thicker between those long legs?”   Savannah’s breath caught. Shame crawled up the back of her neck. She wanted to step away. She also wanted, for one stupid second, to lean into the hand that knew exactly how to press. The isolation of it settled over her like the cape still draped across his shoulders—everyone else at the party laughing and dancing, and her standing here with the short skirt pushed up, the thick wet diaper on full display, Derrick talking to her as if the girlfriend who had walked in beside him had already disappeared.   “Daddy’s gonna take care of it,” he murmured, still in that slow Southern cadence. “Gonna get his peepee princess all clean and happy. But first Daddy wants to see how soaked his baby really is.”   He eased the front of the diaper lower with careful fingers, just enough for the cool air to touch the damp padding. Savannah made a small, involuntary sound. Her hands found the edge of the stone counter. The red heels felt unsteady. Derrick looked up at her then, eyes dark behind the mask, and the grin that crossed his face was no longer for the crowd.   “There she is,” he said softly. “Daddy’s good girl. All padded and wet and waiting. You want Daddy to make it better?”   Savannah’s throat worked. The yes and the no sat in the same place. She nodded once, small, because the alternative was standing there any longer with the saturated diaper on display and the party still loud beyond the door. Derrick didn’t ease up. He kept her pinned against the cool tile with one forearm braced beside her head, the other hand still working the last of the tapes free. The thick, saturated diaper sagged heavily as he peeled it down her thighs; the plastic shell dragged against damp skin before he folded it inward and let it drop into the open bag on the counter with a soft, wet sound.   “There we go,” he murmured, Southern voice low and syrupy and completely unhurried. “Daddy’s got that soggy, heavy diapee off his wittle Snow White. Look how full it was, baby. All that juice and punch you drank out there while everybody was watching. You were holding it so good for Daddy, weren’t you? Standing around in your pretty short skirt with a soaked diaper getting warmer and thicker between those long legs.”   Savannah’s face burned. She pushed at his shoulder with both hands this time, harder than before. “Derrick, stop. I don’t want to do this right now. I want to be your big girl tonight. Not… not like this. Not with the party still going outside.” He didn’t move back. The hand on her hip settled heavier, keeping her in place while he reached for the wipes. The first one was cold against her. He dragged it slowly, thoroughly, between her thighs, the baby talk rolling out thick and constant.   “Aww, look at Daddy’s pretty little princess trying so hard to be all grown up,” he said, almost gentle. “Standing there with her diaper just coming off and still talking about being a big girl. Daddy knows what his baby needs. You’re always Daddy’s wittle Snow White. Always. Even when you get that stubborn face and try to push Daddy away.”   The wipe moved again, deliberate. Savannah’s hips jerked; she tried to close her thighs and he simply held them open with easy strength.   “Derrick—” Her voice cracked. “I said stop talking like that. I don’t want to be your baby right now. I want—”   “You want to be Daddy’s big girl?” He looked up at her, mask still on, eyes dark and steady. The wipe dragged once more, slow and thorough, right where she was most sensitive. “Big girls don’t get their diapers checked in the hallway. Big girls don’t get wiped clean by Daddy against the wall while the music’s still loud outside. Big girls don’t get Daddy on his knees taking care of them after they’ve been such a good, soggy princess all night. Daddy’s baby does. And you’re Daddy’s baby. Always. You know that.”   She made a small, frustrated sound, half protest, half the heat that still flickered low no matter how much she wanted it gone. The short yellow skirt and ruffles were bunched high around her waist; the blue bodice and oversized red bow felt ridiculous under the chandelier light. She could see herself in the mirror over his shoulder—black bob, theatrical makeup, thighs still damp where he’d wiped her, the discarded diaper already out of sight.   “I don’t want this,” she said, quieter, the words coming out thinner than she meant them to. She pushed at his wrist again. “Derrick, please. Just… let me be big for a little while.”   Derrick’s mouth curved. He set the wipe aside and rose just enough to press closer, one palm flat against the wall beside her head, the other still firm on her hip. The cape brushed her bare arm. His voice dropped lower, still sweet but edged now.   “Too bad, princess,” he said. “Daddy decides. And Daddy says his wittle Snow White is getting special attention whether she asks for it or not. Because good babies who soak their diapers at parties get Daddy on his knees. They get Daddy’s mouth. They get reminded exactly who they belong to.”   Savannah’s breath stuttered. She tried to turn her face away; his hand came up and gently but firmly guided her chin back toward him.   “Eyes on Daddy,” he murmured. “There’s my pretty peepee princess. All clean and soft and still trying to act big. Daddy’s gonna take care of that right now.”   He sank back down. His hands spread her thighs wider against the tile. Savannah’s fingers curled hard against the wall. She felt the heat of his breath first, then the slow, wet drag of his tongue right where she was most sensitive. A sharp, involuntary sound left her throat. Her hips jerked; he held her still, easy and unyielding.   “That’s it,” he said against her, the words muffled and thick with baby talk even now. “Daddy’s good girl. Let it out for Daddy. Let Daddy hear how much his wittle baby likes it when he takes care of her. Such a sweet, soggy princess. Daddy’s gonna make you feel so good.”   Savannah’s head tipped back. The chandelier swam. Shame burned hot under her skin, tangled with the sudden, helpless pleasure of his mouth. She tried to say his name—tried to push, to protest, to claw back the version of herself that had walked into the party on his arm—but another low moan tore out of her instead, broken and shaky. Derrick made a quiet, approving sound and kept going, slow and thorough, one hand still pinning her hip while the other stroked the inside of her thigh.   “Good baby,” he murmured between strokes, voice soft and relentless. “Daddy’s wittle Snow White. Just let go. Daddy’s got you. Daddy’s gonna take such good care of his pretty peepee princess.”   Outside, the party music thudded on. Inside the bathroom, Savannah’s moans grew louder, thinner, more helpless with every careful stroke of his tongue. She pressed one palm flat to the cool stone, eyes squeezed shut, caught between the resistance still flickering in her chest and the way her body kept answering him anyway. Derrick didn’t stop. He just kept talking to her in that soft, relentless Southern cadence—calling her his wittle Snow White, his soggy princess, his good baby—while she shook against the wall and the sounds kept spilling out of her, raw and unwilling and impossible to hold back.   Then the darkness gave way to daylight.     The low, breathless sounds dissolved into a different voice altogether, a young man's frustrated groan rising beneath the soft rustle of fabric and the familiar, soothing cadence of a woman who had learned that patience was sometimes the most important thing she could offer.   “Paul, honey would you please stop being such a wiggle worm?”   Lilly's voice carried an affectionate smile, tempered by just enough maternal authority to make it clear that she was not entirely joking.   “Mommy needs you to hold still for another minute, sweetheart. We're gonna get you all nice and clean, into your dry diapee, and then you can go meet Andy and Auntie Sam with Daddy and me. How's that sound?”   The morning light revealed itself gradually. Lilly stood next to the improvised changing table, her attention fixed on the young man making a surprisingly determined effort to look anywhere but directly at her. His dark hair was still slightly tousled from the morning, and the sunlight caught the faint pinkness spreading across his cheeks. His healing ribs had improved considerably, although Lilly remained mindful of them whenever she helped him change position. His legs shifted again. Lilly raised an eyebrow.   “Paul.”   He stopped. For approximately three seconds. Then his knee moved. Lilly sighed theatrically.   “Mom!”   She smiled, continuing the practical routine with the calm familiarity that had gradually become part of their mornings.   “Now, one more minute. I know you're excited.”   Excited. That was certainly one word for it.   Paul stared toward the ceiling. His mind hadn't been still since he'd opened his eyes that morning. He'd tried thinking about breakfast. He'd tried thinking about the hockey games scheduled for later in the week. He'd even attempted to work out whether his father had remembered the conversation they'd had about replacing one of the older snowboards.   But every thought seemed to return to the same place.   Andy & Sam.   The meeting Lilly had arranged several days earlier was finally happening. And for reasons Paul couldn't entirely explain, the prospect frightened him almost as much as it excited him. He'd spent so much of his life believing that his problems made him fundamentally different from everyone else. Even after receiving a diagnosis, even after meeting medical professionals who could explain the neurological reasons behind his symptoms, he'd continued feeling as though he were navigating an experience nobody else could truly understand. Now there was Andy.   Someone who might know what it felt like. Someone who might understand the exhaustion of managing a body that didn't always cooperate, the humiliation of needing protection, and the strange conflict between wanting independence and occasionally needing reassurance that felt much younger than his age.   Paul wanted to meet him. Desperately.   But beneath that desire lived another question.   What if I see my future?   He swallowed.   What if Andy had already traveled the road Paul was only beginning to understand? What if the meeting confirmed that the life he'd imagined before everything happened was gone for good?   College. Acting. Relationships. Travel.   The freedom to walk into a restaurant without wondering whether he'd need somewhere private halfway through dinner. Paul shifted again. Lilly noticed immediately. This time she didn't scold him. She paused and placed a reassuring hand against his shoulder.   “Hey.”   He looked toward her.   “What's going on in that busy head of yours?”   Paul hesitated.   “Nothing.”   Lilly smiled knowingly.   “Oh, sweetheart. I've known you long enough to recognize when that brain of yours is running about fifteen different conversations at once.”   Paul gave a reluctant little grin.   “Only fifteen?”   “On a quiet day.”   He laughed. But the laughter faded sooner than either of them expected. Lilly watched his expression carefully. There were times when his movements meant he was physically uncomfortable. Other times, his nervous system seemed unable to settle, turning even ordinary moments into exercises in managing tension. And sometimes, like this morning, the restlessness came from something neither medicine nor reassurance could immediately resolve. Uncertainty.   She brushed a loose strand of hair away from his forehead.   “Are you nervous about today?”   Paul looked away. Then nodded.   “A little.”   Lilly's expression softened.   “That's okay.”   He swallowed.   “What if it's weird?”   She considered the question.   “Then it'll be a little weird. Lots of first meetings are.”   “Mom.”   “What?”   “I'm serious.”   “So am I.”   She smiled gently.   “You're not being examined today, Paul. You're meeting somebody. That's all.”   He stared at her.   “But what if Andy's like… what I'm going to become?”   Lilly grew quiet. The question settled between them with considerably more weight than Paul's tone had suggested. She understood what he meant. He wasn't afraid of Andy. He was afraid of discovering that his future had already been decided. Lilly rested one hand gently against his shoulder.   “Andy isn't a prediction of your future, sweetheart.”   Paul looked toward her.   “He's Andy. You're Paul. You may have some things in common, and there may be things you experience very differently.”   She paused.   “And if you become friends, wouldn't that be wonderful?”   Paul considered that.   “Yeah.”   “Then let's start there.”   He nodded slowly. Lilly reached toward the small tray beside the changing station and picked up his familiar safari pacifier.   “Would this help you settle for a minute?”   Paul glanced at it. The old embarrassment flickered across his face, but there was little resistance behind it now. He nodded.   “Please.”   Lilly offered it to him, and Paul accepted it, settling the silicone nipple between his lips. Almost immediately, his jaw began moving in the familiar, rhythmic pattern that helped him regulate when his thoughts became too difficult to quiet. Lilly watched the tension in his shoulders begin to ease.   “There you go,” she murmured. “Just relax, honey. We're almost finished.”   Paul's eyes drifted toward the window. Outside, the sun struck the snow with such brightness that the branches of the evergreens appeared almost silver. He could hear movement elsewhere in the house. A distant door closing. The low murmur of Bryan speaking to someone. A brief burst of laughter from downstairs. Ordinary sounds.   And slowly, his thoughts wandered somewhere considerably more pleasant. The Remington. The magnificent Christmas tree glowing beside the fireplace. The live band performing beneath deep burgundy curtains. And Savannah standing before him in that extraordinary midnight-blue gown, her sapphire jewelry sparkling when she smiled.   Paul felt his cheeks warming. Even now, more than a day later, he could hardly believe the evening had happened. He remembered the feel of her hand in his. Her laughter as they danced. The way she'd followed his lead through a turn, then surprised him by breaking into her own playful choreography.   And the kiss. Especially the kiss. His smile grew around the pacifier.   Lilly noticed.   “Oh?”   Paul looked toward her. She raised an eyebrow.   “Now that's a different expression.”   He shook his head.   “Mmm-mm.”   Lilly chuckled.   “Uh-huh. And I suppose that smile has absolutely nothing to do with a certain beautiful brunette who took you dancing?”   Paul's cheeks flushed.   “Mooom.”   The word emerged soft and rounded around the pacifier.   Lilly laughed.   “I'm just saying.”   She finished arranging the fresh protection comfortably and helped him get ready to dress, keeping the routine efficient and respectful.   “Your dad told me you two had a wonderful time. Even IF you came back thirty minutes past curfew”   Paul blushed. His smile remained. For a moment, Lilly simply watched him. She leaned down and kissed his forehead.   “I'm glad you had fun, sweetheart.”   Paul looked at her. Then nodded. His eyes were bright. Lilly smiled.   “And I'm glad she makes you happy.”   Lilly helped him sit up carefully, giving him time to adjust before moving away from the changing station.   “There we go. Much better.”   Paul nodded around his pacifier. She smiled.   “Now let's get you dressed, mister.”   Lilly turned toward the dresser, where she'd already laid out comfortable clothes appropriate for the morning. But as she reached for them, Paul spoke again.   “Mom?”   She looked back.   “Yes, honey?”   He removed the pacifier briefly.   “Do you think Andy's going to like me?”   The question was so quiet that Lilly almost missed it. She turned fully toward him. Paul looked younger in that moment. Not because of fresh and quit thick and poofy diaper he was now tapped into. Not because of the nursery. Because the question carried the same uncertainty people could feel at any age when they were about to meet someone whose opinion might matter. Lilly crossed back toward him.   “I think Andy's going to be very happy to meet you.”   “You really think so?”   “I do.”   She smiled.   “And I think you might be surprised by how much you two have to talk about.”   Paul looked down at the pacifier resting in his hand.   “What if I don't know what to say?”   “Then you can listen.”   She brushed his hair back gently.   “And if you want to ask him something, ask. If something makes you uncomfortable, you don't have to talk about it.”   He nodded.   “You're allowed to just be Paul.”   He slipped the pacifier back into his mouth and nodded. Lilly smiled.   “That's my baby.”   From somewhere beyond the nursery door came Bryan's voice.   “Hey, you two! Everything okay in there?”   Lilly laughed.   “Just about finished!”   Paul’s gaze traveled once more toward the bright window. And beneath the excitement, beneath the nervousness, beneath the lingering fear of what he might discover, Paul felt something unfamiliar beginning to rise.   Curiosity.   Perhaps Andy would understand him. Perhaps they would laugh about something ordinary. Perhaps they'd discover they liked the same movies, the same sports, or the same ridiculous jokes.   Or perhaps Paul would finally meet someone who could answer a question that had been following him since the first time he woke up with wet pants.   Can I really have a normal life again?   He thought of Savannah. Of dancing. Of kissing her. Of the happiness he'd experienced without pretending his condition didn't exist.   Then he thought of Andy.   And the possibility that this meeting might not reveal the end of his future. It might reveal another beginning. Lilly gathered the last of his clothes and smiled.   “Ready, sweetheart?”   Paul looked toward her.   His heart was beating a little faster now. He nodded.   “Mmm-hmm.”   Paul drew one slow breath.   Am I about to meet a friend?   His fingers tightened lightly around the edge of Lilly’s.   Or am I about to meet my future?   Then for the first time, another possibility occurred to him.   What if it's both?  

send the same message indiscriminately to (a large number of internet users). AT WHAT POINT DO YOU THINK I'M SPAMMING ? MY STORIES ARE PLACED ON A FORUM FOR ANYONE WHO WISHES TO READ THEM VOLUNTARILY  IE.  IN OTHER WORD YOU DON'T HAVE TO READ THEM .KEYBOARD WARRIORS AND  STUPID IGNORORANT  PEOPLE REALLY LET THIS SITE DOWN AND THE MAJORITY OF THOSE DON'T EVEN PRODUCE ANYTHING WORTHWHILE .   EDITS The word edit (or plural edits) means to make changes, corrections, or improvements to written, digital, audio, or visual content   "  All your edits are the same!  Not sure how they let you do this! "   YOU HAVE USED THE WRONG CONTEXT - IN OTHER WORDS NO AMENDEMENTS IMPROVEMENTS OR CORRECTIONS WERE MADE AND FURTHERMORE I  WRITE THE SORT OF FICTION I LIKE ,ITS QUITE SIMPLE .UNLESS YOU HAVE SOMETHING CONSTRUCTIVE OR  INTELLIGENT TO ADD WHICH I DOUBT KEEP IT TO YOURSELF THERES A GOOD GAL!                       Feedback   Wikipedia https://en.wikipedia.org › wiki › Spamming Spamming - Wikipedia   Spamming is the use of messaging systems to send multiple unsolicited messages (spam) to large numbers of recipients for the purpose of commercial advertising, non-commercial proselytizing, or any prohibited purpose (especially phishing).  Nicely made point lannny sometimes its difficult to make your point with uneducated folk who hide behind their keyboards in their sad little grief holes they call home  .I expect these people are very unhappy, feel worthless because of the way they look ,low self esteem  may work in crappy jobs and just wish to project their missery onto others .I think there's some good clinics in switzerland ( euthanasia) that may be able to help them out haha 

This is my own work not a completed story -dont read if you dont like, moron and Keep your crappy unwanted comments to yourself I will write about what I like !