Trading Post

,,The weather at nights is so lovely’’ said a girl walking in the park late night alone.  ,, but it’s getting cold here and I didn’t take my cardigan with me’’ the girl hugging oneself around the shoulders in an attempt to warm up. ,,Maybe I should go back home before it gets too cold’’

A little shorter transitional chapter. My rough outline should have a few more main chapters. I'll probably slow down a little with writing over the next few days, but I started with a sense of where the story would go.   Part Five: A New Normal Over the next few weeks, things settled into a rhythm for Jacob and his family. Some nights he woke up needing to pee and just went in his diaper, while other days he woke up dry. Regardless, he would do his first morning pee in his diaper. He experimented with different positions, sometimes just laying in bed and letting go, other times watching his diaper as it filled with pee. He also really liked to pee while he was walking down the stairs – something about peeing on the go made him feel little. Once he was downstairs, normally in just a diaper and a t-shirt, he would grab changing supplies from the downstairs bathroom and find his mom for a change. Some days his mom would have chores for him, while other days he was left to his own devices. While he was pretty good about asking for a change when his diaper was really soaked, he also found that he really liked it when his mom checked his diaper. He usually put shorts on to play outside now, and invariably when he came in or his mom went outside to check on him, she would either pull back his waistband to look in the back of his diaper or feel just inside the front to see how wet it was and say something like, “seems like someone needs a new diaper!” This made Jacob feel incredibly little. He loved it, which Maria seemed to pick up on. If they were doing anything out of the house, Maria would just tell Jacob to put on underwear. Jacob was in charge of taking off his diaper and cleaning up in these circumstances, as if transitioning from baby to mature boy. If he wasn’t going to someone’s house, he put on older cartoon underwear that would still fit. On the few days he went to the park with friends or over to one of their houses, he would wear very mature boxer briefs. If he was at home, however, he was in a diaper. He also got used to peeing as soon as he felt an urge; in his diaper, he liked the feeling of always letting little trickles go rather than holding it like he would if he was wearing underwear. Most days, Jacob tried to avoid pooping his diaper. He knew he didn’t want to clean himself up after pooping, and he took Maria’s words to heart that she would do it on occasion. Normally, he would take off his diaper himself to go to the bathroom and then, if it wasn’t too used and the tapes would work, put it back on himself or grab a new one. The few days he pooped himself were normally if he was in the middle of something. One such day happened while playing with his brother. Gavin had very quickly become used to Jacob’s diapers and really didn’t question it much. He did change his routine a little, though. Whereas he had always found Maria when he woke up in the morning to get out of his night diaper, with his new pullups, he could do this part himself. On some days, however, if he heard Jacob in the playroom he would come downstairs in just his pullup and a t-shirt and play with Jacob for a bit. Sometimes he would even pee a little in his pullup while playing. Maria would usually let them play for a while then come in and ask who needed a diaper change – in spite of her concerns about Jacob, she found the boys crawling around the playroom with their trains and trucks in their diapers kind of cute. One such morning Jacob was playing a video game on the Switch. Jacob was just finishing a level in his game and had already decided he was going to the bathroom to poop when Gavin walked in. Gavin sat down to watch the last few moments of Jacob clearing a level and then asked if they could play Super Smash Brothers. Jacob decided he could wait a few minutes before heading to the bathroom and, besides, his diaper wasn’t even really wet yet. When playing video games, Jacob normally sat in a little rocking gaming chair or directly on the floor. If things got too exciting, he would sometimes stand up. This morning, he and Gavin were sitting on the floor together. Jacob sat on his knees, resting his butt on his feet. Jacob decided that he would wait to go to the bathroom until his mom came in to ask who needed a change. This morning, however, his mother let them play a little longer than normal. At one point, Gavin giggled and said, “I peed my diaper just like my big brother.” This caused Jacob to laugh, at which point he realized just how bad he needed to poop. If he didn’t go to the bathroom soon, he was going in his diaper whether he wanted to or not. He hadn’t pooped a diaper in a few days, and he’d never done it while playing video games, so he decided to just see what happened. If his mom came in before he pooped, he would go to the bathroom. If she didn’t, though… well, he was just a big baby. Jacob didn’t really try to poop his diaper, but he did stop trying to hold it in. It wasn’t long before he felt his poop just start to come out. He reflexively clenched for a moment, then relaxed again. He didn’t really mean to, but he gave a little push which was all that was needed to get started. He felt the first log of poop hit the back of his diaper and drop down. Over the next few minutes, he filled his diaper. He occasionally gave a small push to help things along, but mainly he just let his tummy do its thing. Something about pooping in this position made him feel really small. This was as close to an accidental pooping as he had had since messing his pants that day on the way home from school. Gavin caught a whiff and said, “I won’t poop my diaper like my brother though,” and started laughing. They kept playing until Maria came in a few minutes later and said her usual, “who needs a diaper change?” Gavin said, “I do – I peed a little more!” Jacob, for some reason decided to lean into baby behavior for a moment and just shook his head no. Gavin saw this and said, “yes he does! He’s poopy!” Jacob, for the first time really, put on a slight baby voice and said, “no I’m not! I want to keep playing.” Maria, catching Jacob’s playful mood said, “I don’t know, it sure smells like someone went poopy,” and walked over and pulled out the back of Jacob’s diaper. “And it sure looks like someone went poopy.” Jacob said, “but I want to keep playing!” Maria decided to play along a little more. “Gavin, can you help me out by going and getting the changing mat from the living room while I get your brother a new diaper?” Gavin jumped up and ran to living room – Maria was amused to see his pullup swaying a little as he headed out. She went to the downstairs bathroom to grab the rest of the diaper supplies, all while Jacob kept playing the game, relishing the small feeling. At this moment, he was even enjoying that his brother was helping his mom get ready to change his diaper. When Gavin got back with the mat, Maria laid it out on the ground and said, “ok, let’s get my big baby out of that messy diaper!” Whereas Jacob was normally a little hesitant to get changed in front of Gavin, this time he was grinning and laid down on the changing mat, relaxing his legs to ease the diaper change. Gavin sat next to his mom to watch – he didn’t know why he was fascinated this time. And, for the first time since he was three, Jacob brought his thumb to his mouth. Maria noticed this and thought about how Jacob had clearly been looking at the pacifiers anytime they were at the store. Maybe she would get him one just for diaper changes. Every other time that Jacob had pooped his diaper, Maria had cleaned him up and then asked him to go shower to finish washing up. This time, however, she decided to just go all in on babying Jacob. She narrated every moment of the change just like she did when Jacob was small, telling him he was such a good boy to make poopies, saying “upsy daisies” to get him to lift his butt to slide the old diaper out and replace it with a new one. She even used extra powder. Gavin was giggling throughout, but not maliciously. Jacob was all smiles around his thumb. When she finished taping up his diaper, Maria blew a raspberry on Jacob’s tummy, causing him to giggle. She then said, “ok baby, why don’t you stay here a minute while I put everything up and get Gavin dressed.” With that, she gathered the supplies, threw away the dirty diaper, and took Gavin to his room to get ready. When she came back down, Jacob had gotten up, folded up the changing mat and was in the kitchen getting down his and Gavin’s sippy cups for the morning snack. She guessed the baby moment was over.   Jacob was only seven, and he didn’t have the words to really explain what he was going through. But he knew the moment he started pooping his diaper that morning, he felt like a baby. Something about his brother acknowledging his diapers – and his poopy accident – made him feel so small. Pretend lying to his mother and having her check his diaper, then talk to him like he was a baby while she changed him was amazing. But once she left the room, his seven-year-old brain returned and he decided it was time to help keep the day going. He wasn’t in any way embarrassed by what had just happened, but it was like his brain switched it on and off.   Maria was thinking along the same lines as Jacob. She had noticed the dichotomy in her son. He was relishing many of the baby aspects of wearing diapers, but he was also exhibiting incredible maturity. Since he had started wearing diapers, he was actually way more helpful and less argumentative. Not only was he doing the chores he was assigned, but he was also proactively helping with Gavin, cleaning up after himself, and doing things like setting the table without being asked. Before the school year ended, he had been a little more defiant when he didn’t get his way, even throwing the occasional mini tantrum. Now, however, he seemed to be an incredibly helpful, mature child. It just so happened that this incredibly helpful, mature child was wearing diapers.

Chapter five Miss Angela keeps playing with my private parts until my back arches and a strangled cry escapes my throat. I think I had my first orgasm. "There we go," she says. Her voice soft. "Good girl." She folds the towel, tosses it in the bin. Then she leans over me, takes my chin between her fingers, forces me to look at her. There's no cruelty in her voice. Surprise, perhaps. Satisfaction. She picks up the clean diaper, unfolds it. "I still need to finish dressing you. Then we go out." A pause. "Unless you'd like to tell me something else." I don't answer. I have nothing to say. Or maybe I have too much and don't know where to begin. I let her put my panties back on, still warm from the dryer. Then she moves on to the pants. Finally I let myself be lifted off the changing table like a child, her arm under my ass, my legs dangling around her hip. "Up!" she says tenderly. "Now we're going to the station."   Chapter six The police station is a big block of glass and reinforced concrete that the morning light cuts diagonally, drawing long shadows across the sidewalk. Angela parks in the reserved spot. Gets out. Opens the back door and lifts me into her arms before I can even think of getting out on my own. Her arm under my ass, my legs dangling against her hip, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Bridget walks beside us with the document bag tucked under her arm. "I'll put you down before we go in," Angela says in a low voice, leaning toward my ear. "Inside, you walk on your own two feet." I don't know why, but that detail — that small gesture of attention — tightens my stomach more than everything else. She sets me down in front of the sliding door. Straightens my shirt with two fingers, a light tug on the fabric. Then the door opens and the cold of the air-conditioning washes over us. Inside, the lobby is a gray-and-white open space, with a reception desk manned by an officer in uniform who looks up at Angela, then at Bridget, then at me. She lingers a second too long. Then she goes back to her screens. "Room two," Bridget says. "It's free." We cross a corridor lit by fluorescent lights. The lights hum softly, that thin hum that gets under your skin. Angela walks beside me, her pace slowed to match mine. Bridget stays a few meters ahead. Room two is small. A metal table. Four chairs. A camera in the corner, off. Bridget points to a chair. "Sit." I do. The chair is cold. Angela stays standing by the door, arms crossed. She doesn't leave. Bridget sits across from me. Sets the bag on the table. Pulls out a notebook. A pen. A small recorder she places between us. "This is an informational interview," she says. "You're not under arrest. You're not accused of anything. You're a witness. A victim who's cooperating. You have the right to a lawyer at any time. Do you understand?" I nod. "Out loud, please. For the recorder." "Yes. I understand." Bridget presses a button. A little red light comes on. "So. Tell me everything. From the beginning." And I do. I tell her about Sophie. About the insults in the hallways, when no one was looking. About the "jokes" that weren't jokes — books knocked to the ground, shoves against the lockers, anonymous notes slipped into my backpack with words I don't want to repeat. I tell her about the rumors she spread about me, lies so well constructed that even the few classmates who still talked to me stopped. I tell her about the money. The threats. The messages. "Messages?" Bridget looks up from her notebook. "On my phone. I saved everything." "Can I see it?" I hand it over. She takes it with two fingers, as if it were fragile, as if it contained something explosive. Scrolls. Reads. Her expression doesn't change — a professional mask that lets nothing through — but her fingers tighten on the phone's frame. "Fifteen messages in four days," she says. "Including voice messages. Explicit threats." She sets the phone on the table. She doesn't give it back. "You did the right thing keeping them. They're evidence." Then she asks about the teachers. If they knew. If they did anything. "I don't know," I say. And the truth is I really don't know. Sophie was good. She struck when no one was watching. And I never said anything to anyone. Out of fear. Out of shame. Out of that thin, unconfessable conviction that somehow it was my fault. Bridget asks me more questions. About other students. About other episodes. And that's when I tell her about Liam Jordan. "Liam Jordan," Bridget repeats, writing the name. She underlines it. Twice. "Personal injuries. Sophie broke two of his teeth to take his wallet?" "Yes." "And no one reported it?" "No one." Bridget sets down the pen. Looks at me. There's something in her gaze I hadn't seen before — a hardness that isn't aimed at me. "Sophie is a Middle. Her mother works in the Karales school administration. Did you know that?" No. I didn't know that. And suddenly everything makes sense. Why Sophie felt untouchable. Why no teacher intervened. Why my complaints — those few times I'd tried to hint at something — were brushed off with vague phrases and embarrassed looks. "If the mother covered up the episodes," Bridget says, "the case goes beyond bullying. It becomes an investigation for complicity and abuse of office." Then she tells me about Mrs. Esposito. A teacher who resigned last year. Who filed a complaint alleging that Sophie targeted littles and that her mother buried everything. "There's no one left," I say. My voice comes out more fragile than I'd like. "Except me." "And you're here," Bridget says. "That's what matters." We stay silent for a moment. The fluorescent light hums. The recorder's red light pulses. "If there's a chance to put an end to this story, yes," I say. "I want to testify." Bridget nods. Once. Curt. "Then there are three of us." Then she explains the plan. Sophie doesn't know anything yet. And that's an advantage. When they move, they want the first thing Sophie receives to be an official notification. Not rumors. Not warnings. A warrant. "But there's one thing," Bridget says, and her tone changes. It softens. Grows more careful. "Someone has to know you're here. You can't stay at the station without anyone knowing. Is there someone you can call?" The question hits me straight in the stomach. Stephanie. My sister. The activist. The one who fights for littles' rights. The one who knows nothing about me. About Sophie. About any of it. The name escapes my lips like a confession. "Stephanie?" Bridget raises an eyebrow. "Your sister is Stephanie? The activist?" "Yes." "I met her two years ago. At a conference on littles' rights and forced adoptions." Bridget leans back in her chair. Crosses her arms. A small smile crosses her face. "Your sister is one of the most respected activists in this city. Do you know what that means?" I shake my head. "It means that when she gets my call, the first thing she'll think won't be: my sister's in trouble. The first thing she'll think will be: finally someone's doing something. And the second thing will be: where's my sister, I want to see her right away. Because that's how it works with big sisters." My breath catches in my throat. Stephanie doesn't know anything. She doesn't know about the money. She doesn't know about the thefts. She doesn't know that I snuck into an Amazon's house to steal. She doesn't know that they caught me. That they put a diaper on me. That I... "I haven't told her anything yet," I say. "I know. Do you want to do it? Or would you rather I call her?" "I'd rather you called her." Bridget takes her phone from her back pocket. Holds it between her fingers, without dialing. "So. Do you want to stay here while I call? Or would you rather wait outside with Angela?" I look at Angela. She returns my gaze. Her arms are still crossed, but her posture has shifted, more open, more welcoming. Or maybe I'm the one seeing her differently. "I... I think I'd rather wait with Angela." Bridget stands. Opens the door to the corridor. Angela pulls away from the wall. Our two Amazons exchange a quick glance — a silent dialogue made of eyebrows and micro-movements — then Bridget turns toward me. "I have to make a call. Your sister will be here within half an hour. Maybe less, knowing her. Angela, take her to the coffee lounge. It's more comfortable." "Come on, kitten," Angela says. The coffee lounge is smaller than the interrogation room but infinitely more human. There's a brown faux-leather couch, a coffee machine that gurgles, a window looking onto the inner courtyard. The morning light comes in slanted and dusty. Angela points to the couch. I sit. She takes a plastic cup, fills it with water, sets it on the small table in front of me. Then she sits down next to me. Not across — next to me. I take the cup. It's cold between my fingers. I take a sip. The water goes down into my stomach and reminds me that I haven't eaten anything since last night. "Do you know why I told you that?" Angela asks, and I don't have to ask what she's referring to. I know. I look at her. "Because your sister is an activist," she continues. "And when she walks through that door, the first thing she'll look for will be you. Not the documents. Not the evidence. You." She leans slightly toward me. The couch cushion gives under her weight. "And she'll need to see you whole. Not in pieces. Do you understand what I'm telling you?" I nod. I don't know if I really understand. But I nod. We stay silent for a stretch of time that's hard to measure. The gurgle of the coffee machine. The hum of the refrigerator. My thoughts going in circles around a single fixed point: Stephanie is coming. Then, after about an hour — or maybe less, or maybe more, time in the lounge has a strange texture — I see a figure through the glass door. Stephanie. She crosses the lobby with quick steps, her shoulder bag slapping against her hip. She speaks with the officer at reception, who points her toward the corridor. Bridget's office. But before she can reach it, Angela stands. "Your sister is here," she says, as if it were a simple thing. As if it weren't about to change everything. She stands. The chair scrapes on the linoleum. "I'll go get her. You stay here. Drink your water." She crosses the lounge, opens the glass door, closes it softly behind her. Through the glass I see Angela stop in front of Stephanie. She says something I can't hear — only the movement of her lips, a calm gesture of her hand. Stephanie listens. Then nods. Once. Twice. Angela points to the lounge. Stephanie turns. And looks for me. She doesn't smile. Doesn't wave. She looks at me for a second that lasts too long — that suspended instant when recognition and worry and love and fear merge into a single expression I can't decipher. Angela leads her toward the lounge. The door opens. She comes in. The smell of coffee. The hum of the vending machine. Our breaths occupying the same space for the first time in weeks. "Anna." My voice betrays me. It comes out smaller than I'd like. Her name breaks in my mouth, a syllable that trembles, that begs, that doesn't know whether to ask for forgiveness or help. Stephanie says nothing at first. She stops two steps from me. Her eyes travel over me as if searching for visible wounds — a bruise, a cut, something she could touch and treat. But my wounds aren't the kind you can see. Then she lowers herself. Bends her knees. Brings herself down to my height. "Look at me." I do. Her eyes are the same as mine. The same brown, the same shape, the same reflection of the morning light. I've known those eyes forever. And that's what breaks me. "What did they do to you?" The question is calm. Too calm. The calm of someone holding back something much bigger — anger, fear, the need to pick me up and take me away. Angela stays by the door. She doesn't intervene. But her presence is there — solid, silent, like a guarantee. As if she wanted to tell me: whatever you say now, whatever happens, I stay.

I've since figured out it was due to the content settings of my isp, it will produce better work on mobile/cell data. I've gotten a bit bored of it tbh, I've gotten a few good stories out of it but trying to get a defined character ark is difficult.

Morning win!