Baby Talk

Kayla stood there looking at the cribs.. Are they really going to make me pick out a crib.. I bet Annie would love to turn my room into a nursey! She thinks to herself as she shifts her weight hearing her diaper crinkle.. “Um of course I don’t want any of this crap!” She hisses 

She led her to the playroom full of toys “Now play nice while Grandma works around the house 

When I first got high-speed internet back in maybe 2002, I was actually sitting in a wet diaper and idly looked up "adult diapers," expecting to find stuff mainly about handicapped or elderly people, and discovered the AB/DL world; realized I was not the only person who had the urge to wear and use diapers. I don't remember what the sites were then. I remember [That site], pretty sketchy stuff there.

Chapter Three — The Kitchen  The watch on her wrist reads 0:47:12 when Aisha finishes arranging the last pillowcase. Mrs. Smith hasn't called her for a second check. The timer ticks on. The office is quiet when she passes it, the door closed. Aisha doesn't knock. Not yet. The kitchen is her refuge. She arrives with her hands still trembling a little, the memory of Mrs. Smith's fingers under the elastic of her diaper burning on her skin like a brand. But the kitchen is different. The kitchen is hers. The knife on the shelf, the wooden cutting board, the gas stove. Things she knows. Things that don't judge her. She opens the refrigerator. Ground meat. Canned tomatoes. Carrots, celery, onion. Eggs. Cream. A piece of parmesan wrapped in wax paper. The pantry offers spaghetti, flour, sugar, olive oil in a dark green bottle. She closes her eyes for a second. Five years of culinary school. Her fingers remember the movements even when her head is elsewhere. She lights the gas. The knife sinks into the onion. The blade divides the flesh into thin strips, then cubes, the juice stinging her eyes but she doesn't cry. Never again. The celery follows the same fate, then the carrot, the three colors piling up in a white ceramic bowl. The soffritto sizzles when the oil meets the pan. The smell rises. Aisha breathes. The world, for a moment, makes sense. The ground meat browns, the wooden spoon breaking it apart, separating it, turning it brown and crispy at the edges. White wine — she finds an already opened bottle on the counter — evaporates in a cloud of steam. She crushes the canned tomatoes directly with her hands, the juice running between her fingers, the bright color staining her skin. The sound of the spoon stirring. The slow gurgle of the sauce cooking. "That smells good." The voice comes from behind her. Aisha starts. Turns. Mrs. Smith stands in the kitchen doorway. She's taken off her jacket. In a white blouse, sleeves rolled to her elbows, she looks smaller, almost human. "Ma'am," Aisha says. Her voice is a thread. "I didn't hear you coming." "I was working. Then I smelled this." Mrs. Smith gestures at the pot with a nod of her chin. "What is it?" "Ragù, ma'am. For spaghetti." A moment of silence. Mrs. Smith watches her. Aisha's hair has escaped her pigtails, a strand falling across her cheek. The apron is already stained with flour and tomato. "How long?" "An hour, ma'am. Maybe less. The sauce needs to thicken." "Then in an hour we eat together." It isn't a question. It's an instruction. But her voice, when she says it, doesn't have the edge it had before. Aisha nods. Her heart pounds. She returns to the stove, the spoon stirring slow, the scent thickening along with the sauce. * An hour later, the table is set. Mrs. Smith sits down, the chair sliding under her without a sound, the fabric of her blouse pulling for an instant across her shoulders before she settles. Aisha brings the plates. Two. Sets them down. Stands, hands clasped behind her back. "Sit." Aisha hesitates. Mrs. Smith looks up. "I said sit." Aisha sits. The chair is lower than hers, or maybe it's just the perspective. The plate before her is steaming. Spaghetti, ragù, a dusting of parmesan. Mrs. Smith spears the first bite. Chews. Slowly. Swallows. "Good," she says. She doesn't add anything else. She doesn't need to. Aisha feels something rise from her chest. A knot. A warmth. Her throat tightening. She tries to hold it back, but she can't. A tear falls. Then another. Then she's crying, silently, in front of her plate. "...Aisha." Mrs. Smith has stopped chewing. Her fork is suspended halfway between plate and mouth. "Little by little." Her voice isn't angry. It isn't even impatient. She sets down her fork. Takes the napkin. Holds it out to her. "Here. Dry your eyes." She doesn't drop it on the table. She holds it out, between thumb and forefinger, like an offering. "And stop being a silly girl right now, you haven't done anything wrong. It's good. I said so. Crying won't help." But her voice is lower than it was a moment ago. "Eat with me," she says. "Pull up a chair." She gestures at the place to her right. Aisha hesitates a moment. Then she stands, goes to the kitchen, comes back with a plate for herself, a fork, a glass. She sits. They eat. Slow forks. The sound of wine flowing into glasses. The silence isn't heavy. It's the kind of silence that can be filled. "Ma'am," Aisha says, after a while. "Do you have any hobbies?" Mrs. Smith raises an eyebrow. Chews. Swallows. Sets down her fork. "Hobbies?" She repeats the word as if it were in a foreign language. Takes her glass, swirls it, watches the wine slide along the crystal. "I don't have hobbies. I have work. I have a husband. I have a villa to manage." A sip. "Sometimes I read. Sentences, mostly. Reports. Medical certificates." She sets down the glass. "Why? What are yours?" Aisha lowers her gaze to her plate. "I like cooking," she says. "But you already know that." Mrs. Smith nods. Takes another bite. "And you cook well." She chews. Swallows. Then, almost as an afterthought: "Have you ever been to a real restaurant? As a customer, I mean." "No, ma'am." Aisha looks at her plate. Her fingers grip the fork, but she doesn't move it. "Unfortunately, sterile men can't usually afford it." Mrs. Smith stops chewing. "Sterile men," she repeats. There's no anger in her voice. No pity. Just that slowness. That pause. She sets down her glass. "Listen, Aisha. You're not a sterile man anymore." A pause. "I know it cost you. I know you went into debt. I know the transition was hard." She says transition, not operation. She says hard, not difficult. "But you're here now. And at this table, you eat with me." She takes another sip. Deliberate. "It's not a restaurant. But it's better than nothing, isn't it?" Aisha smiles. A real, wide smile. "Does that mean I can watch Paranormal Detectives?" she asks, her voice rising, almost childish. Mrs. Smith pauses. The question catches her off guard. "I didn't expect you to like that kind of show," she says. Mrs. Smith's smile is small, but it's there. A barely visible movement at the corner of her mouth. "Paranormal Detectives," she repeats. She tastes the words. "I would have bet on something more... romantic." She takes another sip of wine. "But yes, you can watch it. In the evening, after your chores are done. The living room is at your disposal." She sets down her glass. "Just one thing." She leans forward slightly, elbows on the table. "Don't fall asleep on the couch. If you fall asleep, I'll wake you up. And it won't be gentle." Her voice is flat, but there's a glint in her eyes. Almost a shadow of complicity. She picks up her fork. * They finish eating. Aisha clears the table, stacks the plates, carries them to the kitchen. Water runs in the sink. The soap smells of lemon. "It's incredible," she murmurs to herself, her voice barely above a breath over the sound of the water. "I've only worked for her since this morning and I already adore her." She runs her finger along the edge of a plate. The water slides off. "Maybe I could even start to love her." She smiles. Alone, in the kitchen, in front of a sink full of dirty dishes, she smiles. She sets the plate in the dish rack. Takes another. Beyond the kitchen window, the afternoon stretches on. The villa is silent.   Chapter Four — The Evening Living Room The living room, in the evening, is a place Aisha hasn't learned to read yet. The light is warm, soft. A lamp in one corner, the fireplace dark but ready, logs stacked. The furniture is dark, heavy, the couch cushions so plush you sink into them like a cloud. Footsteps from the hallway. Light. Measured. The doorknob turns. Mrs. Smith enters. She's taken off her jacket. The white blouse falls softly over her shoulders, the first two buttons undone, her throat bare. She looks smaller like this. More human. Aisha stands up from the couch. "Mrs. Smith, please, make yourself comfortable. Would you like to watch Paranormal Detectives with me?" Mrs. Smith stops. Arms crossed, head tilted slightly. "Paranormal Detectives?" she repeats. "Never heard of it." She steps into the room. The door closes behind her, the frame meeting the jamb with a soft click. "I usually work late," she says, almost to herself. "I don't watch television." She walks toward the couch. Doesn't sit right away. Stops in front of the dark screen, arms still crossed. Then she turns. "Well. Show us this show." Aisha grabs the remote. Her finger trembles slightly as she presses the power button. The television comes on. A cold blue floods the room, then the image stabilizes. A gray building. Thick walls, barred windows, a faded sign above the entrance: BELLARIA DISTRICT PRISON. "A prison," Mrs. Smith says. Not a question. She sits. Not close. One cushion between them. On screen, the team is introduced. A woman, two diapered girls. The camera frames Maggie, one of them: short hair, confident gaze, the uniform worn like she was born in it. "Diapered girls," Mrs. Smith murmurs. Her voice is neutral, but her gaze is fixed. Maggie bends down, runs her hand along a wall. "There's an energy here. Something cold. Something waiting." The camera follows Maggie through a corridor. The tiles are chipped, the plaster crumbling. A nearly worn-away scrawl on the wall reads WOMEN'S SECTION. Maggie stops in front of a door. "This was the inmate intake area. They say there's a presence here — a particularly sadistic prison guard. She was killed during a riot." She looks around. The flashlight cuts through the dark. "Back then there was no formal distinction between sterile men and diapered girls. We were in the same facility, separate sections. But this one — Susan, her name was — she liked targeting the diapered girls especially." Maggie enters an office. The desk is still there, chipped, the chair overturned in a corner. Maggie rights it. Turns on the recorder. "You know, Susan?" she says. Her voice is calm, almost friendly. "They say you had it out for the diapered girls. And now there's one in your office." She sits in the chair. Slowly. Plants her feet on the desk. "A diapered girl who just sat down in your nice chair and put her feet on your nice desk. How does that make you feel? Does it bother you? Does it piss you off?" Silence. Only the hiss of the tape. "Why don't you come here and tell me to my face? Actually, better yet — why don't you come here and tell the little red light?" Aisha shifts on the couch. Closer to Mrs. Smith. "You know, ma'am," she says quietly. "Sometimes I wonder if that diapered girl really had the operation." Mrs. Smith turns. Slowly. "Why do you say that?" she asks. Her voice is low, curious. "What makes you think Maggie didn't transition?" She holds Aisha's gaze. Without challenge. Just that slowness she uses when she truly wants to hear the answer. Aisha hesitates. The words find themselves. "She has that attitude, ma'am. That confidence. Like she never had doubts about who she is. The diapered girls I know... we had to rebuild ourselves from pieces. Not her. She was always whole." Mrs. Smith watches her. Then, slowly, a smile touches her lips. "Maybe that's true," she says. "But I understand what you mean." She turns back to the screen. "It's not the operation that makes the difference. It's the attitude." On screen, Maggie's recorder picks up a sound. A laugh. Low. Unpleasant. Then a voice: "You'll pay for this." A dull thud. Behind Maggie, in the shadow of the corridor, something moves. Maggie spins around. The flashlight cuts through the darkness, the cone of light dancing across the decrepit walls. Nothing. Just the dark. Just the silence returning to fill the space. "Okay," Maggie says, her voice a thread tighter. "Okay, Susan. Maybe you're here. Maybe not. But I'm not moving." And she stays there, sitting in a dead guard's chair, feet on the desk, waiting. On the couch, Mrs. Smith stiffens. Barely. A movement only someone sitting beside her would notice. The camera follows Maggie as she leaves the office. The corridor is dark. Every step echoes on the tiles. The flashlight carves through the dark. "Do you like this show?" Mrs. Smith asks. Aisha nods. "I like it because you never know what's real and what isn't. The mystery stays. Even when the episode ends." Mrs. Smith nods slowly. "It's like my work," she says. Then she falls quiet. On screen, Maggie stops. Something creaks in the dark. "It reminds me of someone." She doesn't say it looking at Aisha. She says it looking at the screen. But her elbow brushes Aisha's, on the couch, and doesn't pull away. They watch the rest of the episode in silence. Maggie finishes her session. A voice in the shadows, a shadow that moves, nothing definitive. The show closes with the host inviting viewers to visit the website and share their own experiences. The television returns to the main menu. The blue of the screen fills the room. Aisha takes the remote, turns it off. The silence of the living room is full, dense, like the air after a storm. "Did you like it?" Aisha asks. Her voice comes out smaller than she wanted. "What do you think?" Mrs. Smith doesn't answer right away. She stays still, her gaze lost toward the dark screen. Her thumb traces an arc on her knee. An absent gesture. "Susan," she says at last. Pause. "That guard. In the prison." "M-ma'am?" Mrs. Smith turns toward her. "You understood the show, didn't you? It's not about ghosts. It's about power. Who has it and who doesn't. How the masks fall, sooner or later." A silence. "That Maggie," she continues. "Knew exactly what she was doing. She invaded Susan's territory. Sat in her chair. Put her feet on her desk. Challenged the ghost of a woman who tormented diapered girls. And she didn't move." She stands. The fabric of her skirt slides against the couch. "Power is just a mask," she says. "And masks fall." She takes a step toward the door. Then stops. "Thank you for the company, Aisha." Mrs. Smith turns, hand on the handle. "Tomorrow you cook breakfast. I want to see what else you can do." Aisha nods. Her heart pounds, but her voice comes out steady. "Yes, ma'am." Mrs. Smith opens the door. Then stops again. "Ah. Tomorrow." She turns. "Tomorrow my husband should be back from hunting with his colleagues. Philip." The name falls into the air of the room. Aisha feels her stomach tighten. The memory of Mrs. Smith's words in the office — Philip will be very pleased about this — echoes back to her. "I understand, ma'am." Mrs. Smith watches her another moment. Then walks back toward her. Her steps are slow, measured. She stops in front of Aisha. "Stand up." Aisha obeys. Mrs. Smith's hands lift Aisha's skirt, fold it over her back. Her fingers touch the elastic of the diaper, check. "Still dry. Good girl." She straightens the skirt. Her fingers brush Aisha's cheek, a light touch, almost maternal. "Sleep well, Aisha." She turns. Leaves the living room. Her footsteps fade down the hallway, vanish into the silence of the villa. Aisha stands alone in the middle of the living room. The television off. The cushion beside her still warm. Her cheek still warm, where Mrs. Smith's fingers touched it. Tomorrow. Tomorrow Philip comes. She went to her room — she hadn't had a chance to see it yet — and it struck her. The walls were painted lilac and pink, the bed very childish. Against the wall opposite the bed stood a changing table, large enough to hold her, low enough for her to climb onto easily. She liked it. She brought in her suitcase, opened it, and pulled out her one-piece cotton pajamas. Pink. Bunny ears on the hood, a puffball tail on the backside. A row of snap buttons ran from the crotch to the ankle, giving access to the diaper. She took her toothbrush — a teddy bear at the end of the handle — and went to the bathroom to brush her teeth. And that was when the mistress of the house saw her. "Oh my God. I never thought I'd see something so adorable."