Baby Talk

Hi! How’s your Friday?! It’s my first day here ☺️  Which brand do you use??

144. My Biggest Fear We were sitting in front of the TV when I saw lights sweep across the blinds, and heard an engine outside. “That must be Adam,” Ffrances said. “And the kids. I hope they’ve had a good time.” “Yeah, I’d better check on them. Wouldn’t want them to–” Ffrances’s finger tapped me in the centre of the forehead, and I dropped to my knees again and averted my eyes. I needed to check on Tess, I knew that. She would be dropping into littlespace as soon as she got home, thanks to the suggestions I had given her earlier. She needed me to be there, to make sure that boy didn’t try to take advantage of her. Tonight was a very important night, a major event in the social calendar of their school, and I knew that even if he was a good boy, he would find it hard to be on his best behaviour tonight. That was why I’d done my best to make sure I could stop them before they did anything improper. But… with Mistress touching me like that, it was impossible for me to move. I could only hope that she would let me go. “Not so fast,” she said with an evil grin. “I think if they’ve had a good time, they’ll have spent the whole day trying to be sociable. They’ve earned a little private time to decompress, and they don’t need to have us barging in. I’m sure they’ll call if there’s something they want.” I didn’t agree with her assessment. Even if those two wanted to be alone, that was precisely when a responsible adult would make sure it didn’t happen. But Ffrances was the one in charge, and I knew that the submissive parts of my mind wouldn’t allow me to fight her after the evening we’d just had. “I think…” we heard Tess’s voice faintly from the hallway. “I had an accident. I’d better be the little one tonight.” I could tell just from her voice that she was already mentally regressed, so I wasn’t surprised to hear that her diaper was wet. She was just following instructions. The hard part would be coming up with an explanation for what had happened when she asked. Was there something at the party that might have led to her paying a little less attention to her bladder? Or would she think that she was just playing along, for the sake of a young thug who wanted to be her Daddy? “Okay, sweetie. Let’s get you changed.” I couldn’t help grinning when I heard that; it almost guaranteed that Tess would blame him for her accident, if she thought about it at all. And if she could accept him treating her like a baby, it would make it easier for her to accept babying going forward. “Maybe they’ll want to be sociable?” I suggested to Ffrances, who seemed pretty surprised that Tess had wet herself without even waiting to get inside the house. “Okay,” she answered. “But it’s their choice. If they want privacy, they get it. And I–” “Welcome back!” I greeted Tess as I swept out into the hall. “How did it go?” “It was great,” Tess said with a huge grin. But I barely caught the rest of what she said, as I noticed that the fancy new dress that we’d spent so much time picking out was slightly torn at the shoulder, and there were visible grass stains all down one side. Surely if Ffrances saw that, she would agree that we shouldn’t have let them out without a chaperone. I looked up and down Spike as well; his suit looked pretty formal, and he was drawing himself to his full height as if he really wanted to make a good impression. But there was grass on his knee as well, and his smart shoes were scuffed in a way that didn’t look like they’d only been used in a ballroom. What had those two gotten up to, while they were out of our sight for an evening? I wanted to grab that boy and demand answers from him. I wanted to know that he hadn’t hurt my little angel, and I wanted to punish him. But as they started to go upstairs, I turned around to see Ffrances’s hand on my arm. And I knew that if I moved without her permission, she could grip tightly enough to cause me pain. I waited until they were out of sight before I could ask her what she thought they were going to get up to. “You can’t let them be together after that,” I said. “She said it was a date, and you wouldn’t trust any teen being allowed into a girl’s room. I mean… what happened to her dress? There must have been something–” “Gabby,” she said. “I thought I made myself clear. I can see that I have a clearer idea of what’s going on than you do. So how about you leave them alone for now.” “But they could–” “Gabby, even I can see that Tess is starting to regress. I don’t know why she’s made that choice, but I’m sure that you really wanted her to be little more often. And you keep on telling me that it will be healthier and happier for her. So how about you let her enjoy it?” “But she’s…” I started. And stopped. I didn’t want that kid to take advantage of her, but I was also sure that she would only be angry if he tried to do something while she was in her littlespace. It would be a lot of stress for me; but if he was dumb enough to try something like that, I was sure that Tess would freak out. And then he wouldn’t be under my feet anymore; Ffrances in protective mode could be terrifying. “Yeah, I guess we should trust her a little more. She won’t let that kid try anything while she’s too little to understand, will she? I think times like this, she might need protecting more than ever.” “Trust me,” she said. “I’ll check on them.” I nodded slowly, and tried to bottle up all my worries as we returned to the lounge. But a few minutes later I saw Ffrances smile, glancing down at her phone. I couldn’t read what she’d typed, but I could recognise the weird cartoon bunny-like object that Spike seemed to use for his profile picture in the corner of the screen. She was checking on him, making sure that she wouldn’t have to kick him out of our house. And that made me smile as well… the realisation that it was our house, not just mine. Actually, if I thought about it seriously, it was Ffrances’s house. She’d always been the natural domme; everything ran more smoothly when she made the decisions. And the savings she was putting towards clearing the mortgage were about double what I’d managed to put towards it over the last couple of years. Still… it was wonderful to think that my life was in her hands now; and that she owned me in a legal and financial sense, as well as owning my heart. We put Captain Kairo on the TV, knowing that we had both seen enough of the show now that we wouldn’t need to give it our full attention. And Ffrances showed that she could still drive me wild without needing any erogenous zones. Just stroking my hands, and twisting my fingers around between hers, was all it took to take my breath away. I wanted to trust Tess, I really did. But I also wanted to make sure that she was safe. And so when I eventually got up to go to the bathroom, I went to listen at the nursery door on the way. And my worries were relieved in an instant, when I realised that I could hear two regressed voices. Two little girls; nothing for me to worry about. I was just about to turn around when I heard someone opening the door. “Hey girls!” I said with a smile. “I was just coming to see if you want to join us for cartoons. We’ve been doing grown-up stuff, but I think we’re going to watch Captain Kairo now if you want to join us.” “Yay!” Tess giggled, and I felt so proud of her. She was so happy when she didn’t have all the adult worries to disturb her. She was adorable like that, and I just wanted her to have fun. She turned to Spike, and shared a little giggle before informing me “We’re six now!” like it was the most exciting fact ever to be shared. I told them both that they were adorable, and shepherded them downstairs. We carried on watching Kairo, but after a little while I wondered if Spike was starting to get bored. She hadn’t seen as many of the early episodes, so it might be taking her a while to understand what was going on. I offered her the remote after a while, to see if she could find something more to her taste. The cartoons someone might pick when in littlespace might tell me an awful lot about what kind of person she was. This time, it was my turn not to understand the plot. But that didn’t seem to matter, as we watched a couple of animated penguins trying to form a band, and selecting cultural instruments from all over the world. Whether it was a sitar, bagpipes, or a shamisen (which Tess claimed she had taken lessons in once), the little penguins wanted to try everything. The show even included live-action segments, with real kids showing off the culture of their countries to the animated cast. I noticed that every group of kids included at least one black and one white, regardless of what country they came from. I was sure that made some kind of point about inclusion, although I wasn’t sure if it was a good one or not, and I didn’t think any of the show’s intended audience would even notice. On the other hand, Spike quickly learned all the penguins’ names, while I couldn’t tell them apart even after half a dozen episodes. So maybe little kids were more observant than I would have given them credit for. We’d changed again, and were watching Ffrances’s choice of Deer Detective, when Tess spoke up again. This time she had something serious to say, but she’d managed to fit it into words and thoughts that would fit into a child-sized mind. She asked if we could watch a special DVD tomorrow; the naughty one. I got the impression that something had happened, and she wanted to do something special to keep her from thinking about it so much. But the fact that she was snuggling up with Spike in a pillow fort at my feet told me that whatever had happened, it wasn’t Spike’s fault. That was something different, as well. A couple of months ago, I would have assigned blame automatically, and wouldn’t have even tried to think the situation through in any more detail. But now, I couldn’t stop trying to imagine what could have happened. Had Tess been a little more mature than she needed to at the ball and hooked up with some other guy? Was her current clinginess towards Spike a sign that she regretted cheating on her; or an attempt to keep her from suspecting? I really didn’t want to believe that. “A naughty DVD?” Ffrances said, eyebrow raised, as she joined me in bed after giving the little ones their evening diaper changes. “Kind of,” I said. “I should probably ask you about that, as well. I’d like it to be a little surprise. But how would you feel about watching something that we’re not actually supposed to have. Like… if an industry contact in the media offered me a pre-release copy, and we’d have to keep very quiet. Like, you couldn’t tell anybody that you’ve even seen it. Could you keep a secret? And would you want to?” “What, like you’ve got an early copy of Redux season four, or something?” she joked. “I mean, sure. I’d love to watch anything with you, especially if it’s something that you love. And I can keep my mouth shut. But I don’t want you to get in any trouble, so it’s just up to you.” “I think it’s worth it,” I said. I was so glad that she hadn’t made the right guess, because I did want to surprise her, and I didn’t think I would have been able to keep my face straight at that moment. “And I’m pretty sure the girls will enjoy it too. Think we can trust them?” “I’m sure we can. And I want to say thank you again. For accepting Spike. It seems that your whole attitude changes, when you’re seeing another little girl in the house.” “Yeah,” I said, wondering if this might be the opening I needed. “I was going to ask, actually. Do you think you could persuade her to be little a bit more? I mean, I’ve really started to notice that all my instincts are different. When she’s a girl, I can actually think about what she’s saying, and not have this irrational suspicion in the back of my mind. I know it’s a lot to ask for, but if we could persuade her to be the little girl whenever she’s at home, I think that would make me so much more comfortable.” “You know, that’s a pretty selfish thing to ask for?” Ffrances said with a smile. “But you know, I think she’d actually go for it? Spike will do whatever it takes to earn your acceptance. The hard part would be how you’re going to tell Tess. Somehow, I think she might not take losing her boyfriend so well. But I’m sure you can find some way to broach the idea. Can’t you?” I just nodded, and snuggled up closer. I knew that I could find a way to regress Spike. And once Tess was little full time, her objection wasn’t likely to be important. It was hard to believe that I only needed to wait until tomorrow. My plan was coming together perfectly now, and once Ffrances agreed that those two weren’t responsible enough to grow up, I would be able to do whatever was necessary to make sure that we were a wholesome, happy family.

SHIT! There are LOADS of westerns...including some DAMN GOOD ONES that are modern...last one I watched was Billy the Kid 20-25 years later, as a Father, married on a small farm when 3 outlaws kill his wife and try to take over. WELL written, executed even better! GREAT movie...jus wish I could remember the name of it....it is 6 years old, I THINK and I never heard of it but was in bed, not able to do anything and looking for something to watch when I stumbled across it and WOW! I watched 2 other movies that day that were OK, bt I don't recall much about them...but Billy the Kid YEARS later???  IF I can find the name, I'll post it...if into action or westerns, 100% worth watching..best "new" movie I had seen in at least a decade...since "Drive Angry" (Nicholas Cage movies are always good to great!) but THAT MOVIE? The CARS make the movie....the chick he picks up is as good as the cars and GOD....what I would do to be younger and be with her! LOL. That is 2 movies worth watching although with how often movies come and go on Netflix, Prime etc...no clue.. I also know on PRIME, there's REACHER, Tulsa King (equally as good, perhaps better!) and 100% worth a binge watching session! Tu;sa King is the greatest Mafia show since the Godfather and Casino, and one the nae of which just popped out of memory but was great too! I have to admit, there are a LOT of INCREDIBLE "serieses available" the past few years! Best time since deadwood, Hell On Wheels, and before that, Breaking Bad, the Wire, Oz (HBO on the last 2, which I no longer pay for so can't see by streamig but have the DVD collections, bought used for 7-$10 on eBay! Getting a series with 20 discs )Oz) for $7 or 8 dollars? WOW! Now, on topic? THE ONLY Christmas movies I want to watch? Christmas Vacation (Love when Uncle Eddie is emptying the shitter from the RV!) and Emmet Otter's Jug Band Christmas, which I imagine I watched 150, 200x as a kid LOL. HONESTLY can not think of another Christmas movie I want see!

Hello and welcome:-) I'm also Somerset, well, northern end --- moved into the area from London a while back actually.

Chapter 4: A Wet Bed The wetness came first. A cold, spreading sensation against his hip that pulled Ryan from sleep with the sudden violence of a dropped glass. He jolted awake, his heart hammering, and stared down at the dark patch blooming across the pale sheets beneath him. Kimberly lay beside him, still asleep, her back turned, her breathing soft and even. The wetness extended from his side of the bed, a Rorschach blot of shame that had soaked through the fitted sheet and into the mattress protector. His own doing. His own failure. He lay frozen, staring at it, his mouth dry. The smell hit him then—ammonia and sleep-sweat, the pathetic odor of his own body betraying him. Again. Always. "Kimberly." His voice came out a whisper, barely audible. She didn't stir. He reached out, his hand trembling, and touched her shoulder. "Kimberly. Wake up." She shifted, murmured something, then rolled toward him. Her eyes opened, unfocused, then sharpened as they took in his face, his expression, the damp sheets between them. She sat up. Looked down. The disgust that crossed her features was swift and complete, like a door slamming shut. "You wet the bed." The words were flat, almost wondering, as if she couldn't quite believe she had to say them out loud. "Ryan. You actually wet the bed." "I—I don't know what happened," he stammered, his hands pulling the duvet up as if he could somehow hide the evidence. "I was dreaming. I didn't feel it. I didn't—" "Stop." She held up her hand, cutting him off. She swung her legs out of bed, standing carefully to avoid the wet patch. "Just... take care of it. Strip the bed, put everything in the wash. And for God's sake, take a shower. You smell like a nursery." She didn't look at him as she walked to the closet. Ryan sat there in the damp sheets, his face burning, her words echoing in his head. You smell like a nursery. He moved mechanically, stripping the bed with hands that still shook. The wet fabric clung to his fingers, cold and humiliating. He gathered the sheets, the mattress protector, his soaked pajama pants, and carried them to the laundry room. The washing machine started its churning cycle, and he stood there for a moment, listening to it, as if the sound could wash him clean too. The shower. He needed the shower. He climbed the stairs, his legs heavy, and locked himself in the bathroom. The mirror showed him a pale, pinched face, eyes too wide, mouth tight. He turned on the water as hot as he could stand and stepped under the spray. He scrubbed. He scrubbed until his skin turned pink, until the smell of urine was replaced by the chemical bite of body wash. But the shame stayed, lodged deep in his chest, a weight he couldn't rinse away. He thought about the bed upstairs, stripped bare, the damp mattress protector the only barrier between the stain and the mattress itself. He thought about Kimberly downstairs, her disgust, her words. He thought about the day stretching before him, empty and heavy. The doorbell rang. Ryan froze, the water sluicing over his shoulders. He turned off the spray, straining to hear. The bell rang again, insistent. "Kimberly!" he called, his voice cracking. But she was already at the door—he could hear her footsteps, the creak of the front door opening, the low rumble of a male voice. Darnell. Ryan's stomach dropped. He was naked, wet, his hair dripping, his body still flushed from the hot water. He grabbed a towel, fumbling with it, his fingers clumsy. He dried himself roughly, his skin stinging, and pulled on his clothes with shaking hands—fresh tighty whities, jeans, a polo shirt that suddenly felt too tight, too childish. He heard them downstairs, Kimberly's voice higher than usual, Darnell's deep baritone responding. The sound of boots on tile, moving toward the kitchen. Ryan ran a comb through his wet hair, his reflection showing him a man who looked like he'd been caught doing something wrong. Which, in a way, he had. He descended the stairs slowly, each step a descent into deeper humiliation. They were in the kitchen—Kimberly in her yoga pants and tank top, Darnell in his work clothes, crouched by the open cabinet beneath the sink. The sight of him there, in Ryan's house, assessing Ryan's failure with such competent ease, made Ryan's chest tighten. "There's our man," Darnell said, turning his head. The words were casual, friendly, but something in his tone made Ryan's face flush. "Thought we might have lost you up there." "I was just... getting cleaned up," Ryan mumbled, his voice coming out higher than he intended. "Sure, sure," Darnell said, standing in one fluid motion. He turned to face Ryan, his dark eyes direct, assessing. "Your wife was just showing me the situation. Nine months, she says. That's a long time to go without a working kitchen." "I've been busy," Ryan mumbled, though the excuse sounded hollow even to him. "With work, and—" "Easy to let things slide," Darnell said, not unkindly. "Lot on your plate, I'm sure." His gaze swept over Ryan, taking in his wet hair, his flushed face, his too-casual clothes. Something flickered in his expression—assessment, maybe, or a certain patient understanding. "Tell you what. I'll run to the hardware store, grab what we need. Then I can walk you through the fix. Show you how it's done." Ryan opened his mouth to protest, to say he couldn't possibly impose, but Kimberly spoke first. "That would be wonderful," she said, and Ryan heard the warmth in her voice again, the appreciation. "We've been living with this for so long." Darnell smiled, slow and genuine. "Back in twenty," he said, and was gone, his boots thudding on the front steps, his truck starting with a confident rumble. The silence he left behind felt heavy, charged. Ryan stood in the middle of his gutted kitchen, his wet hair dripping onto his collar, his hands shoved in his pockets. "You didn't tell me he was..." Kimberly started, then trailed off. She didn't finish the thought. She didn't need to. "I didn't know," Ryan mumbled. "He's new. Just started this week." "He seems capable." "Yeah." Ryan's voice was flat. "He seems capable." They waited in tense silence. Ryan busied himself with straightening the already-straight items on the plywood counter, his movements jerky and over-cautious. When Darnell's truck rumbled back into the driveway, Ryan actually flinched. Darnell returned with two heavy bags from the hardware store, the plastic stretching under the weight. He moved with the same easy confidence, unpacking his purchases on the plywood counter: copper fittings, thread sealant tape, a new P-trap, heavy-duty supply lines. His hands moved over the materials with familiarity, like a surgeon with his instruments. "Alright," he said, turning to Ryan. "First lesson. Come here, get down where you can see." Ryan approached the cabinet slowly, his movements hesitant. He crouched down, his knees popping audibly, and peered into the dark space beneath the sink. Darnell squeezed in beside him, his larger frame somehow fitting with practiced ease. Ryan could feel the heat radiating from his body, smell that clean cotton scent mixed with something musky and male. "First thing," Darnell said, his voice patient, almost gentle, "you want to make sure the water's off. Main valve's under here, see?" He pointed to a brass handle. "Turn that clockwise until it's tight. Good. Now, when you're working with old pipes, you gotta be gentle but firm. Too soft, you won't get a seal. Too hard, you'll crack something." He demonstrated, wrapping the thread sealant tape around a fitting with deft, economical movements. His hands were sure, unhurried. Ryan watched, his own hands hovering uselessly. "Your turn," Darnell said, handing him the fitting. "Wrap it just like I showed you. Three, four turns, nice and tight." Ryan fumbled with the tape. It stuck to his fingers, tangled, tore. He managed a few messy wraps, the tape bunched and uneven. "That's... okay," Darnell said, his voice patient, forgiving. "Let's get it threaded. Hand me the wrench." Ryan reached for the pipe wrench on the counter behind him. His hand shook slightly as he gripped the handle. He positioned it on the fitting, began to turn. "Other way," Darnell said, not unkindly. "Counter-clockwise to loosen, clockwise to tighten. Remember?" Ryan flushed, reversed direction. He pulled on the wrench. Nothing happened. He pulled harder, his shoulder straining. The fitting turned a fraction, then stuck. "Put your back into it," Darnell said, his voice encouraging, like a teacher with a struggling student. "It's not gonna break. You gotta commit." Ryan pulled with all his strength. The wrench slipped, his hand flying free, and he stumbled backward, his shoulder hitting the cabinet frame. He heard a sharp crack, a hiss, and then water was spraying everywhere, a cold jet hitting his chest, his face, soaking his jeans in seconds. "Easy now," Darnell said, his voice calm, almost soothing. He was already moving, reaching past Ryan to the main valve, his hand finding it unerringly in the spray. The water died to a trickle, then stopped. Ryan sat on the floor, drenched, his polo shirt plastered to his chest, his jeans dark and heavy with water. He could feel the cold spreading through the fabric, soaking into his tighty whities beneath, the familiar sensation of wetness against his skin. The smell of iron and old pipe filled the small space. Darnell looked down at him, his expression unreadable. Then he glanced up, toward where Kimberly stood in the kitchen doorway, her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide. "These old valves," Darnell said, his voice easy, explanatory. "They get brittle. Not your fault, boss. Happens to the best of us." But Ryan saw the way Kimberly was looking at Darnell—not at him, at Darnell—with something that might have been admiration, might have been relief. The competent man who'd stopped the flood. The man who hadn't panicked, hadn't failed, hadn't ended up soaked and pathetic on his own kitchen floor. "Ryan," she said, her voice strange, tight. "Go change. You're soaked." He stood on wooden legs, water dripping from his clothes onto the tile, leaving a trail as he walked toward the stairs. Behind him, he heard Darnell moving again, the clink of tools, the low murmur of his voice explaining something to Kimberly. Ryan didn't turn around. He couldn't bear to see them together, the competent man and the disappointed wife, united in his failure. Upstairs, he stripped off his wet clothes, his fingers numb. The tighty whities clung to him, transparent and childish, and he pulled them off with a violence that surprised him. He stood naked in the bedroom, shivering, staring at the stripped bed, the damp mattress protector, the evidence of all his failures laid bare. He caught sight of himself in the mirror—pale, soft, his small cock shriveled against his thigh, barely an inch of pink flesh nestled in sparse hair. It looked even smaller now, wet and cold, a ridiculous nub that seemed to mock everything he wasn't. He thought of Darnell downstairs, the easy confidence of his movements, the way his clothes fit his solid frame. The way Kimberly had looked at him. He thought of his own body, the way it failed him. The bedwetting. The premature ejaculations. The micropenis that had never satisfied anyone, least of all himself. He wasn't a man. He was something else, something lesser, a creature of damp sheets and failed repairs and pathetic spurts that ended before they began. He dressed again—dry tighty whities, fresh jeans, a shirt that hadn't been sprayed with pipe water. He took his time, delaying the return downstairs, the continuation of his humiliation. But eventually, he had to go back. Darnell had the leak stopped, the new fitting in place, the supply lines reconnected. He was tightening the final connection when Ryan entered the kitchen, his movements slow and careful, as if he were handling something precious. Kimberly stood nearby, watching, a cup of coffee in her hands that Ryan hadn't seen her make. "All set," Darnell said, standing. He turned the valve, and water flowed—quietly, cleanly, no spray, no leak. "Good as new. Better, probably." "Thank you so much," Kimberly said, and Ryan heard the warmth in her voice again, the appreciation. "I don't know what we would have done without you." "Happy to help," Darnell said. He didn't pack his tools right away. Instead, he turned slowly, taking in the full scope of the gutted kitchen—the pile of cabinet boxes, the disconnected appliances, the plywood counters, the exposed wiring. His gaze was assessing, calculating. "You know, I was looking at this while you were upstairs, Ryan. This is a bigger job than just the sink. You've got electrical that needs finishing, cabinets to hang, countertops to install. Flooring, probably, once the cabinets are in." Ryan felt his stomach clench. "I know. I've been... I've been meaning to get to it." "Sure," Darnell said, not unkindly. "But here's the thing. You try to tackle this piece by piece, weekends when you can squeeze it in, it's gonna drag on for another year. Maybe more." He paused, his dark eyes meeting Ryan's. "What if we did it different? What if we made a real plan? I could come by tomorrow, bring more supplies. We could start mapping out the electrical, figure out what you need for the cabinets. Get this thing moving." The offer hung in the air. Tomorrow. Not next week, not someday, but tomorrow. Ryan felt Kimberly's eyes on him, waiting. He thought about saying no, about claiming he could handle it, about protecting some shred of dignity. But the thought of Darnell leaving, of returning to the endless limbo of their half-finished house, of facing Kimberly's contempt day after day—it was too much. "That would be... that would be great," Ryan mumbled, looking at the floor. "If you really don't mind." "Don't mind at all," Darnell said, and Ryan heard the satisfaction in his voice, quiet and sure. "I'll bring my truck, load it up with what we need. We'll get you sorted, boss. Step by step, until this place starts looking like a real kitchen again." He smiled, slow and genuine. "Eight o'clock tomorrow?" "We'll be here," Kimberly said, and Ryan heard something in her voice that made his chest tighten—not resignation, but anticipation. Darnell nodded, satisfied, and packed his tools. At the door, he paused, looking back at them both. "See you tomorrow then. Bright and early." He was gone, his truck rumbling away into the afternoon, leaving Ryan standing in his kitchen with his dry clothes and his wet shame. Kimberly set down her coffee cup with a deliberate click and turned to him. Her face was flushed, her eyes bright in a way he hadn't seen in months. "That was embarrassing," she said, but her voice wasn't angry. It was something else, something heated and strange. "You, soaked like that. Unable to handle a simple wrench." "I know," Ryan mumbled, looking at the floor. "I'm sorry. I'll learn. He said he'd teach me—" "Stop talking." She moved toward him, her movements quick and purposeful. She was close now, close enough that he could smell her shampoo, her skin, the faint trace of coffee on her breath. "I don't want to hear you apologize. I don't want to hear you explain." She kissed him, hard and sudden, her hands coming up to grip his shirt. It wasn't tender. It was desperate, hungry, like she was trying to consume something through him. He stumbled back, surprised, his hands finding her waist. "Kimberly—" "Shut up." She was pulling at his belt, her fingers clumsy with urgency. "Just... just be quiet. Don't talk." She pushed him against the plywood counter, her mouth on his neck, her hands yanking at his jeans. He was hard already, his body responding to her urgency even as his mind reeled. She got his jeans down, his tighty whities with them, and her hand closed around his small, straining cock. It was too much. The feel of her hand, the heat of her body, the lingering adrenaline of his humiliation. He gasped, his hips bucking, and then he was coming, spilling over her fingers in weak, pathetic spurts, his knees buckling, his breath coming in ragged hitches. She froze. Her hand stayed where it was, wrapped around his softening flesh, the evidence of his failure dripping down her wrist. She pulled back, slowly, and looked at him. Really looked at him. "Already?" The word was barely a whisper, but it cut deeper than any shout. "That was... that was seconds. Seconds, Ryan." "I—I'm sorry," he stammered, his face burning, his eyes stinging with tears he wouldn't let fall. "I couldn't—it's been so long, and you were so—" "Don't." She stepped back, wiping her hand on her yoga pants with a grimace of disgust. "Just... don't." She turned away, her shoulders stiff, her movements jerky. "Pull up your pants. I'm going upstairs." She was gone before he could respond, her footsteps heavy on the stairs, the bedroom door closing with a sound that felt final. Ryan stood in the kitchen, his jeans around his thighs, his small cock already shriveling against his damp tighty whities, the smell of his own premature ejaculation mixing with the iron scent of the pipes. The new fitting gleamed under the sink, Darnell's handiwork, perfect and complete. The water ran quietly, cleanly, a testament to competence he would never possess. Tomorrow. Eight o'clock. Darnell's words echoed in his head. Bright and early, with more supplies, more lessons, more opportunities for Ryan to fail while Kimberly watched. He pulled up his pants with shaking hands. He buttoned them, buckled his belt, the metal cold against his sweating fingers. The kitchen was quiet around him, the afternoon light slanting through the windows, illuminating the dust motes in the air. He thought about the morning to come. Darnell in his house again, in his kitchen, competent and capable while Ryan fumbled and failed. Kimberly watching. Learning exactly what her husband was not. The weight of the day settled on him, heavy and familiar. He was a small pipe, trying to carry too much volume. Everything got wet. Everything failed. He stood in his gutted kitchen, alone with his shame, and waited for tomorrow to come.