Spanking

Enfin ils passent à l’action. Merci pour ce chapitre.

Chapter Sixty-Nine: Paul woke to the feeling of being watched in the gentlest way possible—like the air in the room had shifted, not like someone was standing over him with a spotlight. He blinked. His room was brighter than before, curtains cracked to let in a slice of mid-morning light.  Martina sat in his desk chair, hands folded, ankles crossed. She’d pulled it closer to the bed, but not right up against it—giving space, ready to close the gap if needed. “Buenos días, mijo,” she said softly. “You decided to join the land of the living.” He rubbed his eyes, knuckles digging into the puffiness. His head felt thick, like he’d slept too hard and too deep. “Hey,” he croaked. He became aware of the diaper again as he shifted—a heavy presence, the bulk between his thighs, the faint pull at his hips. Yesterday’s shame flickered at the edges of his mind, then fizzled out before it could flare. The tank was empty. The embarrassment was there, sure, but it was dulled—like someone had wrapped it in cotton. “How you feel?” she asked. He had to search for a word that didn’t sound like a lie. “Tired,” he said finally. “Like… inside tired.” Martina’s eyes softened. “That makes sense. Your body had a big day yesterday. We are going to go slow today, sí?” He nodded once. “Come,” she said, standing and holding out a hand. “Shower. You will feel more like yourself.” The idea of hot water was appealing enough to outweigh the effort required. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. The swollen diaper sagged slightly, tapes holding but protesting. The rustle was louder in the quiet room. He flushed, reflexive, but Martina didn’t comment beyond the way her hand hovered near his elbow on the way to the bathroom. In the bathroom, steam fogged the mirror within seconds. Martina untaped the diaper efficiently, not making a show of looking away but keeping her gaze respectfully at his shoulder, not his hips. The used padding hit the trash with a soft, heavy thump. She turned on the water, waited until it ran hot, then stepped back. “Careful,” she said again, as if the slipperiness of the tiles were the only danger in his world. “No racing.” He stepped under the spray. Heat poured over his scalp, his neck, his shoulders, pounding gently at the knots there. Salt and powder and the ghost of yesterday’s panic slid off his skin and vanished down the drain. He braced his hands on the tile and let his forehead rest against the wall for a second, the water pounding between his shoulder blades. He thought, distantly, about the kid in the Halloween photos on his phone that night. The one with cheap vampire fangs and a plastic cup. The one Amber had smiled next to under orange string lights. That kid didn’t have a pediatrician on speed dial at seventeen. He rinsed his hair, turned off the water, and dragged a towel over himself. The air outside the shower was cooler, smelling faintly of his body wash and the powder from earlier. He wrapped the towel around his waist and padded back to his room. The sight of the bed made him stop in the doorway. The changing pad. The open diaper. The supplies laid out with quiet ritual—wipes, cream, powder. His TaleSpin shirt folded on the side in a neat square. It was like walking into a time loop. “Ven, mi amor,” Martina said, voice soft. “Let’s keep you nice and dry today.” He shouldn’t have been able to do it. He shouldn’t have been able to walk across the room, let the towel slip, and lie down on that pad like it was just another Monday. He did. His hand groped for his phone on the nightstand. Screen lit up, washing his face in blue. Notifications stacked up: Mitch: BRO WHERE WERE YOU LAST NIGHT (three ghost emojis) Zach: you missed my best drunken Bela Lugosi attached to a selfie with too much fake blood. A group photo: Amber in glittering vampire makeup, red lipstick sharp against her skin, leaning against someone in a poorly-tied cape. Orange lights blurry in the background. Her smile was wide, eyes bright, hand flashing a peace sign. He felt like he was looking through glass at a party underwater. The sound didn’t quite reach him. Martina’s hand closed gently over his wrist. She took the phone, thumbed it off, and slid it into her back pocket. “No, no, pequeñito,” she murmured. “No phone today. Only soft things. The world can wait for you.” “I’m not five,” he muttered automatically, but there was no venom behind it. Her look—patient, firm—was one he’d seen pointed at toddlers and teenagers alike. “I’m not arguing with you, mijo,” she added gently. “Lift,” she said instead, tapping his thigh. He did. The diaper slid under him, soft and cool. Cream, then the faint chill of powder on his skin. Her hands moved with practiced gentleness, the way they had when he was still losing his baby curls and Rachel was too tired to stand for long. The tapes fastened with quiet, decisive sounds. Snug. Secure. There was no emergency in them this time. No frantic patch job. Just routine. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “There,” Martina said, patting the front once, more for reassurance than testing. “All set.” She sat him up and grabbed the TaleSpin shirt, easing it over his head, tugging it down over his shoulders. The fabric hugged his chest, the hem brushing the top of the diaper. He caught his reflection in the mirror by the dresser: hair mussed, eyes red-rimmed, tall and soft around the edges in a cartoon shirt and obvious padding. The image punched something deep in his gut. You look ridiculous. You look like you belong in a daycare, not a college brochure. And yet. His shoulders had dropped half an inch since he lay down. The line between his brows had eased. He looked… safer. “Come,” Martina said, giving his shoulder a little squeeze. “Breakfast.” He followed her downstairs, each step punctuated by a quiet crinkle. The sound should have been a humiliation siren. It was just… noise. The kitchen greeted him with warmth and scent—eggs and sausage, coffee, toasted bread, the faint tang of spinach. Martina had already plated his food: an egg white omelet studded with sausage, spinach, and peppers; a slice of sourdough shiny with peanut butter; a handful of blueberries and blackberries glistening with juice. Beside it sat the orange sippy cup, juice glowing carrot-gold. He stood for a second, feeling like an astronaut who’d stepped onto the wrong planet. Martina pulled out his chair, eyebrows lifting. “Sit, mi corazón. It’s only breakfast.” He lowered himself onto the seat. The diaper cushioned the wooden chair, muffling the impact. He stared at the plate. At the cup. His stomach tightened, then rumbled again like it was embarrassed to be caught begging. He picked up his fork. Cut into the omelet. The flavor was familiar—home, weekends, the rare mornings Bryan wasn’t on set. The first bite settled into his stomach with a warmth he hadn’t realized he was craving. Martina watched, but didn’t hover. She took a bite of her own toast, chewed, swallowed, then smiled. He caught Martina watching him once, expression soft and just a little misty. “What?” he mumbled around a mouthful. “Nothing,” she said. “I am just happy to see you eat.” He glanced at the cup. His hand reached for it before his pride could stop him. The spout pressed to his lips. The juice slid down, cold and sweet and vaguely earthy. He closed his eyes for a second, just feeling the simple act of taking something in instead of holding everything back. They finished almost at the same time. His hands were stained purple-blue from the berries. Martina stood, wet a warm cloth, and came back around the table. “Give,” she said, taking his hands gently. He let her wipe his fingers, then the corner of his mouth where peanut butter had smudged. The cloth was soft, the temperature just right. He made a small sound in his throat—half protest, half sigh. She smiled. “Ay, you still make the same little noise,” she said. “Since you were this big.” She held her hand out at toddler height. His cheeks warmed. He didn’t pull away. “Come,” she said again, tugging his hand lightly. “Time for cartoons. Doctor’s orders.” In the living room, she helped him down onto the couch and flicked on the TV. Disney+ bloomed onto the screen. “Look who I found,” she said, scrolling until a familiar title card appeared: TaleSpin. Martina settled him onto the couch, then picked up the remote and flicked on the TV. Disney+ loaded, a grid of childhood memories splashed across the screen. “Ohh,” she said. “Mira. My favorite sky bear.” He rolled his eyes lightly, but something inside unclenched. She hit play and dropped down onto the cushion next to him, tucking one leg under herself. The diaper rustled when he shifted, but the sound got buried under the theme song’s brassy trumpets. The show pulled him in despite himself. So much of his childhood was layered into these frames—Rachel humming the tune while chopping vegetables; Amber bouncing on the couch; a younger version of himself insisting on having his TaleSpin pajamas washed now because he needed them for “flying dreams.” Bryan and Rachel grew up as Disney aftertoon kids and before the world of streaming they both had DVD boxsets of this and other classics from the 90’s which they ensured they shared with their kids and friends. On screen, Don Karnage made his dramatic entrance, all cape and affectation. Martina burst into delighted laughter. “Ricky Ricardo in the sky!” she cackled. “Lucy, I steal your cargo!” Paul couldn’t help it. A laugh escaped. Real, brief, and sharp around the edges like it hadn’t been used in a while. It felt… good. They watched the whole episode. Martina laughed at the same bits she’d always laughed at; Paul found different things funny now—the irony, the timing, the ridiculousness of it all. For twenty-two minutes, his body wasn’t a problem to solve. It was just a thing taking up space on a couch. As the credits rolled, Martina patted his knee. “I get more cafecito,” she said. “You pick something else. Maybe the duck, with the cape. How you say? Dark Wind?” “Darkwing,” he corrected, rolling his eyes again, but the fondness threaded through it. She disappeared into the kitchen. He scrolled until he found the purple-hatted mallard. Hit play. A few minutes into the second episode, Martina reappeared. She carried the orange sippy cup—refilled—and the folded changing pad under her arm. The pacifier rested between her thumb and forefinger, the green bulb bright against her coral blouse. She slipped the pad under him on the couch with an easy motion, lifting one hip, then the other, like she’d done it a thousand times. No comment on the diaper. No announcement. Just extra protection between him and the upholstery. She set the cup and the pacifier on the coffee table. “I’ll be in the kitchen,” she said. “Dishes, laundry. If you need anything, you call me. Okay?” He nodded. She leaned down and kissed his cheek, her lips cool and soft. “Te quiero,” she murmured. “Mucho.” Then she left him there, the house humming quietly around him. The line of cars at the Starbucks drive-thru curled around the building like everyone in Jacksonville had decided caffeine was emergency medicine. It was 8:35 when the Range Rover finally rolled up to the window. Lilly took her iced pumpkin spice latte with both hands, like it was sacrament, and Bryan wrapped his fingers around a grande iced coffee drowned in cream and a single pump of vanilla. He took three long pulls in a row, throat working, like a man trying to put out a fire from the inside. They’d been through too much in twenty-four hours to feel anything like rested. But the day didn’t care. Work still existed. Decisions still had to be made. Lilly set her cup in the holder, then slid her left hand across the console until her fingers found his. Bryan’s palm was warm, calloused in places the cameras never saw. He squeezed back, once, the silent code they’d been trading all morning: I’m here. I know. Keep going. Downtown Jacksonville rose ahead of them in a line of glass and steel. Bryan turned into a semi-full lot and eased the Rover into a space beneath a fifteen-story office tower that looked like every other anonymous building on the river—mirrored glass, brushed metal, nothing to give away how many lives were being decided inside. His official studio had a sprawling campus near Fort Lauderdale, all production suites and giant posters. This place was different. Just two offices and a meeting room he rented in his own name—no logos, no staff, just a space where he could think without a dozen assistants updating a dozen calendars. Today, it felt like a bunker. He grabbed the big black leather satchel from the back—laptop, legal pads, a folder from Mindy’s office tucked inside—and slung it over his shoulder. Lilly slipped her arm through his, and they rode the elevator to the ninth floor in silence, watching the river flicker in the mirrored walls. Bryan unlocked the corner office and let them into a room that smelled faintly of paper and expensive toner. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the St. Johns River outside, the water catching the sunlight in long, broken lines. A glass door led into the small meeting room: oval table, six chairs, a whiteboard crowded with half-erased notes from some other crisis months ago. They sat opposite each other at the table and… didn’t speak. The quiet wasn’t comfortable. It was full. The last eighteen hours replayed behind each of their eyes—the beach, the car, the way Paul had gone limp in Bryan’s arms on the changing pad like he was four and seventeen at the same time. It was Lilly who finally cracked the silence. “Do you know what an adult baby is?” she asked, the words sounding too loud in the room. Bryan blinked. Most people, she knew, would have done that dog-tilt thing with their head, puzzled, offended, something. Instead, he hesitated, then nodded once. “Yeah,” he said. Lilly’s brows shot up. “I’m sorry, what? What didn’t I know about you and Kim?” she demanded, half teasing, half genuinely startled. “Kim?” Bryan echoed, eyes widening. He sounded like she’d just casually dropped nuclear codes in the middle of brunch. Lilly jabbed a finger at him. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours,” she said, scooting her chair around the table until it bumped against his. Her shoulder nudged his, a tiny spark of old playfulness in the middle of all this. Bryan huffed out a laugh that didn’t quite make it. “I don’t… know know,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “But I’ve worked in Hollywood since I was seventeen. You bump into every lifestyle at some point.” He stared out at the river for a second, memory flickering. “Back in, I don’t know, 2015? When Miley was going through that whole phase. There was this one music video—she wanted this ‘sexy baby’ aesthetic. They had props, outfits, the works. The costume designer kept using words like ‘age play.’ I saw enough to get the gist.” His mouth twisted. “Didn’t stick around for the afterparty.” The dots connected in his eyes, slow and reluctant. “So if Kim knows about that world… it explains how she knew how to get Paul into that headspace. At her house.” Lilly nodded. “She told me a bit when she helped me order the Step-Ins,” she said. “She called it a ‘community.’ Said some people find comfort in going backward sometimes. Not because they’re broken, but because it gives their nervous systems a break.” She exhaled. “You know Kim. Motherhood’s her kingdom. She doesn’t do anything halfway.” Bryan’s jaw clenched. His voice dropped. “Is that what Paul is now?” he asked. “An… adult baby?” Silence folded between them again, heavier this time. “I don’t know,” Lilly said honestly. “I don’t think he has to be anything with a label. I think he’s a kid with a chronic condition whose body keeps betraying him. And he found something that made him feel safe enough to sleep.” She met his eyes. “Maybe that’s what he needs right now. A way to go backward on purpose so he doesn’t fall backward by accident.” She tapped Mindy’s folder. “Which is why I think we have to go all in on protection. Not… halfway measures.” Bryan winced. “You mean no more… ‘medical briefs’ and hoping for the best.” “Step-Ins are for kids who almost never have accidents,” Lilly said softly, echoing Mindy’s words. “That’s not him anymore.” He rubbed his thumb over the edge of his cup, thinking. “I just… I want him to have dignity,” he said. “He’s already humiliated. I don’t want to make that worse.” Lilly’s gaze softened. “What’s more dignified?” she asked. “Clothes that look normal while his body fails him? Or gear that actually works so he’s not blowing out on a public beach?” She held his eyes. “We can’t give him full dignity and total discretion at the same time. Not with what his nerves are doing. We have to pick which one gets more weight.” Bryan swallowed. “Can’t he… have both?” he asked, sounding, for a second, like he knew the answer and hated it. “Maybe not perfectly,” she said. She flipped open her MacBook and spun it so they could both see the screen. Several tabs already sat open—medical supply stores, forums, items she’d pulled up in the insomniac hours. “I’ve been researching.” He managed a half-smile. “Of course you have.”   For a while, he just watched. The cartoon’s rhythm was comforting, the colors bright, the humor broad. The nostalgia was a whisper in the background, not a shout. His hand found the sippy cup almost without conscious thought. He lifted it, drank, lowered it again. The carrot-apple-kale mix was starting to taste… normal. Every swallow was a small act of surrender. Every swallow was also one more ounce of not dehydrating himself into a hospital stay. The urge crept up on him quietly. Not a sharp spike—no sudden panic, no “oh God now now now.” Just a building pressure. A heaviness low in his abdomen. The kind of thing he’d been trained, for years, to acknowledge and act on. Get up. Go. Don’t wait. He knew, clinically, that the diaper would handle it. He knew, emotionally, that each time he didn’t “make it” felt like another inch of his adulthood being peeled away. His adult mind sat up straighter. Not here. Not on the couch. Not when you could try. You should try. You have to try. Another part of him—smaller, bone-deep exhausted—rolled over and muttered: We’ve been trying all week. And yesterday the universe still slapped us on a beach. Do we really need a potty break wearing our own pampers, now? He could picture the bathroom. Twenty paces down the hall. The cool tile under his feet. The mirror that would show him his own face, pale and stressed, while he did the logistical math of tape versus time. Darkwing quipped on screen. The theme song stinger played briefly under a fight. He didn’t move. The pressure tipped. His body made the decision for him. Warmth spread into the padding, slow and thorough. The diaper expanded, doing exactly what it had been designed to do. His cheeks flamed. His throat burned. Tears pricked his eyes—not from the physical sensation, but from the absolute absence of anything he could frame as a win. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t bolt upright. Didn’t clench and try to stop halfway. He just… let it happen. And under the shame, under the fury at himself and his stupid traitor body, something else uncoiled. Relief. No timing to miscalculate. No sprint to the bathroom. No humiliating halfway mark. Just… handled. He had never wanted to hit something and curl up under something at the same time so badly. The show kept playing. He reached for the pacifier. His fingers closed around it, brought it to his lips. The bulb settled against his tongue, the shield fitting the curve of his mouth in a way that felt alarmingly right for something he hadn’t used in over a decade. He sucked once. Twice. His shoulders dropped. By the time the second episode ended, the sippy cup was empty and his eyelids felt like they weighed ten pounds each. His body was running the kind of deficit sleep that no amount of stubbornness could fix. He rolled onto his side, the diaper bulkier now, but supportive, like a firm pillow. The plastic crinkled softly. The pacifier bobbed rhythmically between his lips. He tried to keep his eyes open, watching the next cold open. The edges of the image blurred. The colors smeared. His last conscious thought before sleep swallowed him was ugly and honest and true: I hate that not fighting feels good. Then the thought dissolved, pulled under by a tide he couldn’t resist. Martina peeked in ten minutes later, dishcloth still in her hand. The living room was bathed in that late-morning light that made everything look softer. Dust motes floated in the rays. The TV flickered quietly. Paul was curled on his side, blanket half-kicked away, TaleSpin shirt rucked up just enough to show the waistband of his diaper. The Safari prints were stretched over the swollen padding, patterns slightly warped. The pacifier sat comfortably in his mouth. His hands were relaxed, one near his face, the other resting loosely on the blanket. His chest rose and fell in an even rhythm. Martina’s breath caught. For a second, she didn’t see a seventeen-year-old. She saw a four-year-old who’d crawled into her lap the week after Rachel’s funeral and fallen asleep with his fist clenched in her apron. “Se ve mucho más feliz de esta manera,” she whispered in Spanish (He looks so much happier this way) before she could stop herself. The admission scared her. She pressed her lips together, eyes flicking to his face as if her words might have been loud enough to wake him. They weren’t. He slept on, oblivious. She set the dishcloth on the back of the couch and picked up the throw blanket draped over the arm. Carefully, she shook it out and let it settle over him, tucking the corners just under his shoulder, smoothing it over his side. Her fingers brushed his hair off his forehead, the gesture automatic. “Descansa, mi amor,” she murmured. “We’ve got you. Todo el mundo puede esperar.” She stood there a beat longer, watching the tension lines in his face stay smooth. Then she turned off the lamp, leaving the room lit only by the shifting colors of the TV and the daylight from the windows, and went back to the kitchen. Inside the living room, time folded in on itself.   Photos of thick, white diapers with safari-themed prints filled the screen—lion cubs, giraffes, cartoon elephants marching across the landing zone. “The Safari ones from Kim’s ? They’re ridiculous, but they hold. We can hide them under sleepers and sacks. Night is about safety more than stealth.” Bryan stared at the animals, at the sheer bulk of the padding in the product shots, and blew out a breath. “Okay,” he said slowly. “Nighttime. Fine. He… sleeps better like that anyway.” “Daytime is trickier,” Lilly said. She clicked another tab. A different product filled the screen—still a diaper, still clearly designed for someone Paul’s size, but slimmer in the hips, the shell printed with simple preschool-style patterns: roads and cars on one, clouds and stars on another. The name across the top of the page made Bryan recoil a little. “Preschool?” he repeated. “You’re kidding.” “It’s branding,” Lilly said quickly. “Ignore the name. Read the specs.” She scrolled down, tapping the bullet points as she went. “Cloth-backed, so they’re quieter under clothes. Slim profile. High absorbency, but not cartoon-huge. Designed for people who wear under jeans or scrubs all day. They even use hook-and-loop instead of tape so we’re not wasting a whole diaper if he manages a bathroom trip.” The marketing copy promised “stealth for busy days,” “easy movement,” “comfort for work or school.” It also leaned hard into the cute angle—little planes, shapes, sheep leaping over fences. Bryan’s face went through three expressions in five seconds—embarrassment, resignation, something like reluctant respect. “I hate everything about the name,” he muttered. “But… if they’re actually discreet enough that no one sees anything and they keep him dry…” He trailed off. He didn’t have to finish. “We start with a few packs,” Lilly said. “See what works. Trade up or down if we have to.” “How many is ‘a few’?” he asked, already bracing. She did some rapid mental math. “If he’s in them full-time—school, rehearsal, home—we’re probably looking at four or five a day,” she said. “More on bad days. So… forty doesn’t last long. We double it. Eight bags. Eighty diapers. That buys us two, maybe three weeks while we adjust.” Bryan exhaled like someone had punched air out of his lungs. “Do it,” he said. “Get them rush-shipped.” She nodded and opened the cart, fingers flying. Quantity: 8. Scented. Expedited shipping. “And that’s just… one part,” she said. “If we’re going to ask him to rely on these, we also have to make changes easier. For him and for us.” Bryan’s brows knit. “What does that mean?” “He needs a proper changing surface,” she said. “Not just the changing pad on his bed or crouching in the bathroom. Something that gets him up off the floor, supports his back, doesn’t shred ours.” Another tab. Another site, “Swaddled & Spoiled Littles” this one more niche—photos of furniture that looked like scaled-up nursery gear. She clicked on a model that resembled a narrow table with sturdy legs and a patterned pad on top. “Adult-sized collapsible changing table,” she read, paraphrasing the description. “Solid wood frame, rated for… ‘babies of many sizes.’” Her voice wobbled on that and she steadied it. “Folds down and disassembles, so when we don’t need it out, it can live in a closet. We can throw a cover over it and call it a console table if someone drops by.” Bryan leaned forward, studying the photos. The pad was covered in a wipe-clean fabric printed with muted geometric shapes—nothing screaming nursery, nothing screaming hospital. “It collapses,” he repeated, clinging to the feature. “So it doesn’t have to shout ‘changing table’ every time he walks in his room.” “Exactly,” she said. He nodded, slower this time, and something in his shoulders loosened. “All right,” he said quietly. “Order it.” She smiled at him, small but genuine. “We’re doing the right thing,” she said. “I feel like I’m buying nursery furniture for a kid who’s weeks from adulthood,” he said. “There’s no version of that that feels… right. But if it keeps him from… what happened yesterday…” He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to. He pulled his wallet out, thumbed past cards until he found one Lilly hadn’t seen before. He set it on the table between them. “Use this,” he said. The name embossed across the front made her blink. “Paul R. Goldhawk,” she read softly. “Was supposed to be for his eighteenth,” Bryan said, voice low. “First card in his own name. College stuff. Emergencies. Feel like this qualifies.” His mouth twisted. “Limit’s ten grand. Please, for the love of God, don’t hit it on the first try.” She leaned over and kissed him, quick and fierce. “I won’t,” she promised. “Not today, at least.” He huffed out a laugh, then pushed back his chair. “I’ve got to call the studio,” he said. “See if they’re willing to have a head of production who only exists on Zoom for a while.” He squeezed her shoulder as he went, leaving her alone with the glow of the laptop and the weight of a plastic rectangle that had been meant to symbolize freedom and now bought a different kind of safety. Lilly exhaled, rolled her shoulders, and settled in. She added the changing table to the cart—$500 with rush shipping, delivery Wednesday or Thursday morning. She imagined it in Paul’s room, imagined folding it away between “sessions,” imagined the day she hoped they could donate it or sell it instead of relying on it. Not yet, she told herself. One thing at a time. Back to the diaper site. Eight packs of the cloth-backed of the ABU “Preschool” style, medium, scented. Total just under two hundred dollars. She checked out, entered the  home address for the first shipment—and watched the confirmation number populate. Nighttime was next. The safari prints stared up at her from the Rearz site: cartoon lions, rhinos, giraffes marching across the landing zone like they belonged there. She swallowed against the old flash of aesthetic resistance and focused on capacity and reviews. Two full cases—six bags each, seventy-two diapers total. Enough to not panic if they had a week like this one again. Then came clothing. Mindy had been clear: keeping everything snug and in place would help. Less chafing, less sag, less chance of leaks. The ABDL community had solutions—“bodysuits” that were essentially snap-crotch onesies sized for adults. She selected two in white, two in black, two in a soft sky blue, all short-sleeved T-shirt style like the black one in the product photo, with discreet snaps at the crotch. They looked, from the waist up, like normal fitted tees. From the waist down, they were engineering. Then her cursor hovered over a pair in a familiar pattern: pale fabric printed with cartoon safari animals that matched the night diapers. One with short sleeves and a lion cub grinning across the chest, another long-sleeved with the whole jungle gang marching around the hem. She hesitated, then clicked those too. If he hated them, they’d send them back. If he didn’t… maybe there would be nights he’d actually smile when he looked down. Two more plastic pants went into the cart—these in a dark blue covered with tiny multicolored stars, snug elastic at the waist and legs, meant to slip over diapers for extra insurance on bad days. Finally, almost on a reflex she didn’t fully understand, she clicked into a different category: clothing. A denim shortall outfit popped up—dark stretch denim, adjustable straps, a bib front, shorts that hit mid-thigh. At first glance it looked like something you’d see on a trendy college kid at a music festival. Then she read the description. Hook-and-loop closure at the crotch for easy access during changes. Side button at the hip for discreet checks. Designed to fit comfortably over thick padding without obvious lines. Her chest tightened. Practical and… oddly adorable. She thought of Paul at the beach when things had still been good—laughing, running in the surf, shorts slung low. Of how young he’d looked in Kim’s backyard in that silly dinosaur shirt, building towers with the kids, completely at ease for the first time in months. “Okay,” she murmured. “One ridiculous pair of shortalls.” Into the cart they went. She hopped over to a toy site and picked out a set of soft foam building blocks like the ones Kim kept in her playroom, plus two rattles—one fabric bunny with a bell hidden inside, one more traditional plastic one with colored beads. It felt absurd and yet… right. She didn’t know how far Paul would want—or need—to regress. Better to have a few gentle options than nothing. She checked the totals. Changing table, diapers, bodysuits, plastic pants, shortalls, toys—from four different sites, all on rush. About $1,465.68 in all. Ten grand suddenly didn’t feel that large. She entered Paul’s card details, double-checked the shipping addresses and hit confirm. A strange mix of terror and relief washed through her. The gear would start arriving tomorrow. By the weekend, they’d have everything Mindy’s plan required for a real attempt at structured regression at home. Tools and toys and fabrics, she thought. But also: ways to keep him from drowning. She closed the laptop, picked up her latte, and pressed the cold cup against her forehead for a second. Then she slipped out to check on Bryan and his battle with the studio.   At home, the house held a softer kind of war. Paul woke from his nap on the couch stiff-necked and disoriented, the back of his T-shirt warm against the cushions, the cartoon theme song from Darkwing Duck looping on low volume like a lullaby. His pacifier had slipped sideways between his lips; he tasted faint rubber and the remnants of carrot-apple juice. A heavier sensation pulled his awareness downward. The diaper around his hips had thickened while he slept, padding warm and weighty. Not catastrophic. Not like the beach. But undeniably used. His bladder gave a low, ominous squeeze. Oh God. No. Not that. Not again. His mind snapped fully awake. He spat the pacifier into his hand, heart racing. If he waited, if he hesitated, he knew how this ended. Kim’s nursery, the terrifying loss of control. The beach. Shame burning hotter than the sun. “Martina?” he called, voice cracking. “Martina!” Footsteps padded quickly down the hall. Martina appeared in the doorway, her eyes went first to his face, then instinctively to the sag at his waist, the way the white cotton of the diaper peeked above his thighs where the vintage TaleSpin tee didn’t quite cover. “Qué pasa, mi cielo?” she asked, voice gentle. “What’s wrong?” “I—” His pride and his bowels collided. “I have to… go,” he blurted. “Bathroom. Not… in this.” Her expression shifted instantly, comprehension softening her features. “Ah.” She nodded. “Bien. Come, then.” She didn’t argue that diapers were there to be used. She didn’t tell him accidents were okay. She just stepped forward, took his arm lightly, and helped him up. The used padding sagged a little between his legs as he stood; his cheeks burned, but she didn’t so much as glance down. The guest bathroom was only a few feet away. He shuffled there with her, every step a race against his own body, and pushed the door open. Martina waited in the hall, listening to the rip of tapes, the soft thunk of the diaper hitting the trash. She padded back to the living room and pulled the changing pad off the couch, laying it flat on the rug behind the sofa towards the front door. Then she headed upstairs, moving with the brisk efficiency of someone who’d done this a thousand times before. In Paul’s room, the new open bag of safari-print diapers sat on his dresser, bright animals grinning up at her. She took one down, along with wipes, powder, a gentle cream Mindy had recommended, and a pair of Safari-printed plastic pants from the drawer. By the time she came back downstairs, Paul was easing the bathroom door open, one hand clamped self-consciously over the waistband of his shirt as if he could drag it lower by will alone. He was pale and a little shaky, but his eyes were clearer. Martina felt something pinch behind her ribs. This was the same boy she’d once walked down this hallway in Paw Patrol pull-ups, clutching a stuffed dog and babbling about juice. Only taller now, and folded up with shame. She didn’t comment on any of it. “Ven,” she said softly. “Come lie down, por favor.” He hesitated, then nodded, the fight draining out of him. He stepped over to the pad and lowered himself onto his back, legs hanging off the edge. The TaleSpin shirt rode up, baring his stomach, the faint line of hair below his navel. He crossed his arms loosely over his chest like a shield. The change itself was brisk but careful. He felt the cool swipe of wipes, the tender glide of cream over skin that had already seen too much friction this week, the dry whisper of powder settling like a tiny cloud. When she tucked the new safari diaper under him and pulled the front up, the cartoon giraffe on the landing zone stared back at him, ridiculous and oddly comforting. He hated how good it felt when the padding hugged him snug and clean. He hated that his body, traitor that it was, relaxed under the care. Some deep, pre-verbal part of him remembered this sequence down to the sound of the tapes. One. Two. Three. Four. Each rip and press sounded less like defeat and more like a lock sliding into place on a door between him and disaster. She slid the plastic pants up his legs and over the diaper, smoothing the elastic around his thighs, sealing everything in. The faint crinkle of the material under her hands was like an old song she hadn’t realized she could still hum. “Ya,” she said softly. “All done.” He stared at the ceiling, throat tight, feelings pulling him in opposite directions. The seventeen-year-old who wanted independence burned with humiliation. The little boy buried under all that age felt… safe. Just as Martina smoothed the last tape into place, the front door clicked and swung open. “Hola!” she called automatically, one hand still resting on the fresh bulk at Paul’s hip. Bryan and Lilly stepped into the entryway and froze for half a heartbeat. From where they stood, they could see the whole moment: the changing pad on the rug,  Martina kneeling, and Paul lying there in his TaleSpin tee, cheeks pink, fingers twisted in on around the corner of the changing pad. It was a sight that, a week ago, would have belonged to another lifetime. To a smaller boy. To a different crisis. Now it was their reality. Lilly’s throat tightened. The picture in front of her did something strange inside her chest—broke every expectation she’d had of what seventeen was supposed to look like, and somehow stitched something softer over the tear at the same time. This was wrong, and yet it was care. It was humiliating, and yet he looked… safe. Bryan’s jaw flexed once. Then he exhaled and let his shoulders drop, stepping forward instead of back. “Hey,” he said, voice warm but a little rough at the edges. “Look at this crew.” Paul turned his head toward them, eyes wide, hair mussed from sleep, still half on the pad. For a second panic flashed across his face—caught, exposed, nowhere to run. Then he saw the way both of them were looking at him. Not disgusted. Not amused. Worried. Tired. Fiercely, painfully loving. “Hi,” he muttered, trying to tug the hem of his shirt down over the top of the diaper. The tapes crinkled softly under his fingers. Martina patted his knee, then rose to her feet, wiping her hands on her apron. “All clean,” she reported to Lilly, as if this were any other afternoon in the last fifteen years. “He did very good.” Lilly swallowed around the sudden sting behind her eyes. “Thank you,” she said, and meant a hundred things. Bryan cleared his throat, the sound cutting through the hush that had settled in the room. “Okay,” he said lightly, glancing from one face to the next. “Now that the star of the show is ready…” He nodded toward the couch. “Can we all sit for a minute? Family meeting.” Those last two words hung in the air like a bell.

Episode 21: Naomi and Oliver's Happy Scribble Time TITLE SEQUENCE - 60 SECONDS Same Sequence as Previous Episodes, but with: SKY BLUE spiral Naomi whispers: "...scribble..." FADE TO: PLAYSET STUDIO - DAY A bright, cheerful art studio. The walls are covered in large, colorful scribbles. No letters or words, just looping, swirling, chaotic lines. Large sheets of paper are taped to soft walls. Big, chunky crayons are scattered on the floor. NAOMI sits comfortably amidst the chaos, her hands smeared with non-toxic paint. OLIVER crawls in and picks up a pencil from the floor. He holds it awkwardly, a blank, confused look on his face. Naomi: (Voice bright and joyful, cadence steady and calming) Hello, my little artists! Now that we've said goodbye to all those prickly, squiggly letters, it's time for the real fun! We're going to learn the very best way to use our hands... for Happy Scribbles! Naomi gently takes the pencil from Oliver's hand. Naomi: Oh, look. Your little hand found a prickly, pointy thing. It's for a job you don't have anymore. It's for making those shapes that your cozy mind has let go of. She tosses the pencil off-camera and replaces it with a thick, fist-sized crayon. Naomi: This is for you. It's for sharing how your little body feels, right now. She leads him to a large sheet of paper on the floor. Naomi: Writing was for when you were alone. But you're never alone. Your Big Friend is always right there to see your happy face or hear your little sounds. You don't need to make lonely marks on paper. She dips her own hand in paint and makes a large, swirling, messy blob on the paper. Naomi: See? This is a 'Giggle-Scribble!' It's how your hand laughs! She makes slow, blue up-and-down lines. Naomi: And this is a 'Cuddle-Scribble.' It's how your hand asks for a hug. A soft, abstract, arrhythmic MELODY plays. Naomi: (Her voice becomes a rhythmic, hypnotic croon) Your little body has so many feelings. And it doesn't need a single letter to share them. Let your hand feel happy. Let it feel sleepy. Let it feel wiggly. And just watch what your body knows how to do all by itself. Oliver, his confusion replaced by placid receptivity, grabs a crayon. He presses his whole fist into it and moves his arm wildly, creating a tangled mess of green and yellow. Oliver: (Giggling softly) Scribbly-wiggly! Naomi: (Clapping her hands, speckling herself with paint) Yes! That's it! A 'Giggle-Scribble!' Your body is so smart. It knows just what to do now that your busy brain is resting. Oliver grabs a red crayon, making aggressive, short stabs at the paper. Oliver: Grr! Prickly! Mad-scribbles! Naomi: Oh, that's a wonderful 'Grumpy-Scribble!' You got all those icky, prickly feelings out! Don't they feel better now that they're on the paper and not in your tummy? Oliver: (Nodding, expression clearing) Mhm. All gone. Cozy now. He picks up a blue crayon and makes slow, sleepy loops, yawning. Oliver: Sleepy-scribbles... Naomi: A perfect 'Sleepy-Scribble.' You're telling me a whole story without a single prickly word. I'm so proud of you. They cover the paper and themselves in a glorious, indecipherable explosion of color. Oliver simply reacts, his scribbles a direct output of his regressed state. A single, SKY BLUE frame flashes subliminally as he declares "Cozy now." Naomi: The best part is that a Happy Scribble doesn't need to mean anything. It just is. You've traded a thousand complicated thoughts for one perfect, little feeling. And that's all you'll ever need. They sing a simple, chant-like song, banging rhythmically on the scribble-covered floor. Naomi & Oliver: Scribble-scrabble, line and blob! That's my very important job! No more letters, sharp and mean! Just my scribbles, happy and clean! The final shot is of Oliver, sitting in the colorful chaos, sucking contentedly on the end of a blue crayon, his hands and face smeared with paint. Naomi leans close to the camera, her cheek adorned with a purple scribble, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. Naomi: If you see a pencil today, don't write. Just scribble. Make a happy, messy, wiggly line. It's so much more fun. The blissfully illiterate chaos holds for a beat. FADE TO: END TITLE CARD SEQUENCE - 7 SECONDS Same Sequence as Previous Episodes, but with: Solid SKY BLUE background CHAOTIC SCRIBBLE LINE ICON in the center Below the icon: "scribble"

I just had a wild idea for circle time back in the nest. The littles are taught the difference between mother mom and mommy. mother= the person who gives brith to you.  mom= the person who took care of you during your first childhood  mommy= the adult who lovingly chooses you during your second childhood hood. then all the littles are ask to name two bigs that they feel would be good mommy’s to them. Carly would saying charlotte and Mrs.Lilly. Since those would probably be her safest option.  I could totally see this a something the new dean of littles would do and sit in on each nest while they are doing. maybe even trying to use Carly choices as a of messing with here. i hope to see more Charlotte in the future especially in her protective mama bear mode around Carly and Beth.  Also I feel like those wanting to go after Carly and Beth at Emerson haven’t really been trying that hard. You would think if they knew Carly was Stacy’s daughter the would be trickier. Anyway I am going to go sneak a few toffee flavored cookies before lunch.

"Yes, I suppose we should." She gave a soft grin and patted his back. "Though I'm not too opposed to having you right here at all times." She giggled. "I think I'll also need to get you some shots... There was something about it in the adoption paperwork..."