Baby Talk

As I’ve said before, waking wet with no memory is the ultimate high for me.  My day is good.  On the other hand, waking dry I’m irritable and short-tempered.  Thankfully waking dry has become a rarity.  Love it!

The cabin smelled like sage and rosemary, heat radiating off the long wooden table where the food was stacked high and chaos was humming under the surface. “Who put marshmallows on the sweet potatoes again?” Miles groaned, nudging the dish away like it had personally offended him. “Tradition,” Harper said, already scooping a mountain of it onto her plate. “Some of us aren’t emotionally dead inside.” Brady reached across her with a practiced lack of shame, grabbing the last roll. “Some of us just have tastebuds that don’t want to be waterboarded with sugar.” “Excuse me,” Helena said sharply, pulling the wine bottle from Victor’s grip and filling her own glass first. “The only thing worse than that take is your stuffing. What is that? Celery and despair?” Victor smirked. “It’s gluten-free.” “Then it should also be flavor-free, and yet, here we are,” she said, toasting herself and sipping with satisfaction. Evan leaned back, watching the exchange unfold like a man hosting his favorite reality show. The fire crackled and from the far side of the room, a faint whimper broke through. No one acknowledged it. Across the table, Miles was already halfway through a story no one had asked him to tell. “—and then I open the trunk, and she’s just sitting there with this look on her face like I’m the crazy one.” “Oh my God,” Brady groaned. “Every year with this trunk story.” “You don’t have to listen.” Victor slowly sliced the turkey, precise as ever, offering perfectly cooked pieces to each of the plates held in front of him. He didn’t even glance at the thing strapped beside him. “You know,” Helena said, inspecting the skin on her turkey like it was a contract clause, “I remember when this dinner used to have standards.” “And fewer carbs,” Victor said, topping off her wine before she could ask. “We’ve softened.” “Alright, alright,” Evan said finally, raising his glass. “Let’s get to it.” That quiet hush fell, not because he demanded it, but because they each respected the rhythm of tradition. “Now let’s see what everybody’s brought to dinner.” Nine heads turned toward the highchairs lined against the far wall. Each occupied. Each restrained. Each girl blinking in confusion, fury, or numb silence. Helena grinned. “I’ll go first.” She stood, adjusting the collar of her cranberry silk blouse like she was about to give a TED Talk and not casually introduce the kidnapped woman strapped into the highchair beside her. “This is Madeline,” she began, lifting her wine glass in mock toast. “She’s thirty-three, was a marketing VP at some luxury skincare brand, and once told a whole room of interns that ‘regret is for people with weak branding.’” A soft hiccup came from the highchair. The woman blinked slowly, her mascara smudged and her lips shiny with drool. Her arms were strapped to the tray. Her hair, probably once sleek and blown out for product launches, was now done up in two pitiful pigtails with pink bows that didn’t match her oversized onesie full of cartoon cucumbers and smiling aloe leaves, an adorable mockery of her company’s logo. “She was such a little nightmare the first two days,” Helena went on, as if recalling a difficult dinner reservation. “Spat in my face. Bit me. Tried to jump out a second-story window wearing nothing but a very full diaper” Victor chuckled. “Classy.” “Oh, she’s very brand-consistent,” Helena said brightly. “But once I introduced the rewards chart and a few—well—motivational enemas, our little princess started to pivot. Now she says ‘thank you’ after every wipe.” A low laugh rippled around the table. “She’s on solids again, thank God. Sweet potatoes and puréed turkey this evening. I almost brought the video of her first blowout, but I figured we’d all be eating.” Madeline let out a quiet sob. Helena smiled fondly at her. “She’s still a little fussy, but that’s just because she hasn’t accepted it yet. She will. They always do.” She took her seat again with the calm satisfaction of someone who had nailed her presentation. “Alright, who’s next?” Brady leaned back, arms folded, like the smug bastard he was and jabbed a thumb over his shoulder at the girl in the pink bunny bib, slumped in her highchair with mashed peas clinging to her cheek and her knees spread wide by the thick bulk of her diaper. “Alright, alright,” he said, clearing his throat like a theater kid who aged into adult mediocrity. There was a collective eyebrow raise around the table. Victor leaned in slightly. Not dramatically. Just enough. “Mine’s name was Nova,” he said, grabbing another roll like he wasn’t actively introducing a human being. “Used to be my barista. Real mouth on her. One time I asked if she had almond milk and she deadassed told me, ‘I have regular milk, oat milk, and the unique ability to not laugh at a grown-ass man asking for almond milk.’” A few snorts around the table.   Helena made a face. “Almond milk?” Brady paused to take a bite of turkey, chewing before he continued. “Okay, well, some of us care about our digestion,” Brady shot back, then grinned and jerked a thumb toward the highchair behind him. “Anyway... She used to glare at me like I was poisoning her every time I ordered. Black lipstick, nose ring, full sleeve. She wore the same ripped tights every shift, and the boots were steel-toed. Like she was worried the espresso machine might square up.” Evan narrowed his eyes. “Wait… did she work mornings at that lil place on 4th and Elm? Holy shit. That was her?” The girl in the highchair squirmed. Her eyeliner was gone. So were the piercings. What was left was soft and pink and very, very quiet. Her hair, once dyed black and spiked like a warning sign, had been washed to its natural brown and gathered in messy pigtails. Her arms were bare, trembling slightly, a bunny-print bib covering the front of her footie pajamas. She blinked once, then twice, like she was trying not to cry. Or maybe trying to remember how. Brady lifted a spoonful of mashed sweet potatoes into her mouth and booped Nova gently on the nose as she swallowed. She glared at him, but knew better than to disobey. “Fiery lil thing, but we tamed her. She drinks whole milk now,” he said. “Warmed. With honey. In a bottle. And I haven’t heard her insult my manhood in at least two days. I think we’re growing.” Helena raised her glass. “To almond milk emasculation.” “To growth,” Brady said, smug as hell.  And then, from across the table, someone muttered, “Jesus. She was really hot.” Everyone turned. Miles shrugged. “What? I just said what we were all thinking.” A spoon clattered to the floor. Everyone turned. From the third highchair—two down from Nova—came the sound of a quiet, deliberate sniff. Then another. The girl seated there stared straight ahead, jaw clenched, lips trembling with effort. Her padded mittens were still clipped to the tray, but her chest was rising and falling faster than before. Her eyes burned. She didn’t cry. She didn’t speak. But she spit. Right into the mashed peas on her tray. A silence fell over the table like someone had just dropped a live grenade. Victor didn’t look up from carving. “That one yours, Rowan?” Rowan didn’t answer Victor’s question. She didn’t have to. She sighed like a tired mom who couldn’t get one goddamn moment of peace and stood slowly, as if the weight of what she was about to do required control, not speed.  The shift in energy hit like static and the highchair bound blonde flinched, every muscle locking up. She tried to twist away, but the tray pinned her in place. Her eyes locked onto Rowan like she was trying to bargain with a hurricane. The other captors watched. No one interrupted. Rowan’s boots creaked over the floorboards. No theatrical timing. No pomp. Just cold intent, like a girl who’d rehearsed this moment for thirteen years—because she had. Rowan pulled a small remote from her hoodie pocket and flicked the center dial with her thumb, like someone turning down the bass on a bad song. The LED blinked pink and the girl’s eyes went huge—actual panic, the kind you can’t script, and a soft, humiliating whimper escaped before she could stop it. Rowan smiled like it tasted sweet. She walked past the table, pausing only to pluck up the discarded pacifier from where it lay on the edge of the highchair tray. A streak of sweet potato clung to the silicone bulb and on the tray was a crime scene of puréed peas, turkey slop, and her own spit. Green mash smeared the plastic tray like hostile finger paint. Rowan crouched beside her first, snagged the discarded pacifier, and swirled it around the abandoned mush until it looked like the world's grossest cake pop. She held it inches from the diapered woman’s trembling lips and watched as she shook her head violently, cuff straps squeaking, but the pacifier hovered and lingered. Rowan tapped the button once and the plug buzzed low, the woman jerked forward like someone had hit her with an electrical debuff. Her face contorted. A strangled, pleading sound clawed out of her throat again. She leaned forward despite herself, pursed her lips, and met Rowan halfway, disgusting mush smearing across the glossy silicone and her own bottom lip. Her head dropped, eyes fluttering with shame. Rowan didn’t push it in. She held the filthy pacifier steady, letting the scent hit first. Letting Tinsley squirm. Letting the room taste it with her. Rowan thumbed the lowest setting. “You be a good girl for Mommy and I’ll keep it down here on the lower setting,” she said. “But one twitch and I crank it to ‘boot camp Pilates.’” The woman leaned forward and opened her mouth. She had no choice. The mush smeared against her lips as the bulb slid between them; slow, deliberate, and awful. Her face twisted around it, every instinct screaming. She didn’t cry, not yet, but the gag reflex danced behind her eyes. Rowan stood back and admired her work, then turned to the table, lifted her glass, and spoke. “Meet Tinsley Monroe, Delta Sigma Chi, Class of 2012. President. Legacy. Voted Most Likely to Succeed, four years running.” Rowan smiled faintly. “I bet she never thought it meant succeeding at testing the capacity of the thickest overnight diapers I could find.” A few chuckles. Tinsley whimpered behind the pacifier, cheeks blotchy, mush still clinging to the corners of her lips. Rowan ignored it. “Little Miss Tinsley was the kind of girl who could tell you to kill yourself and make it sound like career advice. The kind who hazed in whispers. Who made you feel like the abuse was your fault, because maybe if you were stronger, you’d get the joke.” She let the silence settle. “I wasn’t strong enough, apparently.” A few captors leaned in now, curious. Rowan continued, even and cool. “She and her little court of backstabbers pushed me out sophomore year. Doctored my psych file. Slipped laxatives in my protein shakes. Wrote anonymous notes to my RA saying I was a danger to the house. And every time I tried to fight back, she just smiled and told me to stop being so sensitive.” Rowan turned back toward the highchair. Tinsley wouldn’t look at her. “She’s the third one I’ve found. There were eight total. I’ve got time.” Rowan reached forward and brushed a single finger down Tinsley’s cheek, wiping a trail through the mash now leaking from the corner of Tinsley’s mouth. “She was resistant at first. Lots of kicking and yelling. I had to swaddle her the first night just to keep her from making a break for it.” Rowan ran her thumb over the remote’s dial. “But now she’s Mommy’s good little girl. Mostly.” She let that hang. “I also introduced her to her new favorite friend—her Buzzy Bum-Bum toy,” Rowan added with a small, smug smile. “She pretends she hates it, but we both know better.” Rowan tapped the remote once and Tinsley flinched. “She’s very well-behaved now.” The room settled after Rowan’s turn, like a storm had passed. Forks lifted again. Glasses clinked. For a minute, it was just... Thanksgiving. Steam curled up from Victor’s second round of turkey, Helena scooped an extra dollop of cranberry sauce like she hadn't just given a TED Talk on enemas, and Brady pretended to help Nova wipe her chin, only to smear mashed peas further into her cheek. Across the table, someone let out a single hiccup. No one looked. “Stuffing’s dry,” Helena muttered. “You’re dry,” Brady shot back. Evan raised his glass. “To institutional failure and found family.” “To trauma bonding,” Victor added, deadpan. Miles cleared his throat and stood. A little too proud. A little too comfortable. His plate was half-finished, and mashed sweet potatoes clung to his knuckles where he'd scooped too aggressively. He wiped them on a napkin and didn’t look at either of the girls flanking him. “Right,” he said. “So this here’s Claire.” His hand gestured lazily toward the highchair on his right. “She’s my stepdaughter. Was, anyway.” A beat of silence stretched. No one touched it. No jokes. No clever follow-ups. Even Brady kept his mouth shut. “She was twenty when I married her mom. Hated me from the jump,” Miles went on, like he’d been rehearsing it for years. Claire blinked, slow and heavy. Her cheeks were flushed, bib soaked. The pacifier hung from its clip, unused but threatening. Her pale pink onesie was stretched slightly at the middle, sagging where the diaper bulged underneath. Her face was blank, but her fists, mittened and strapped to the tray, were trembling nonstop. “She made sure I knew I was old, creepy, pathetic. Called me ‘the lurker.’ Her and her friend Olivia used to whisper behind my back like I couldn’t hear.” He turned then, finally, just a glance at the highchair next to Claire. “She’s here too.” Olivia stared forward, jaw tight, her foot tapping under the tray like she could tap-dance her way out of it. Her long brown hair had been braided in sloppy pigtails, bows tied badly at the ends. She wore a powder-blue onesie and a frown. A lull settled, mostly awkward chewing sounds and the grand fireplace doing its lil crackle ASMR thing. Miles stood, smug in his own pervy villain origin story energy. He jabbed a thumb toward the girls instead of writing a screenplay about them. “They thought this was some sort of weird joke at first. ‘I’d rather die than call you Daddy,’ right? Both of ‘em said that. Olivia backed her up.” He walked over to the first highchair where Claire sat stiff, onesie mismatched to her former vibe. Miles leaned down until they were face to face. Nobody at the table said a word. Helena sipped her wine like it might erase the last thirty seconds. Brady shifted, clearly uncomfortable, but didn’t dare comment. “Finally got my hands on that cute little ass. And once I did?” he said, tapping the tray on the highchair. “...turns out they do listen.” Miles pulled the pacifier out of Claire’s mouth, slow and gentle, wiping a smear of carrot mush off her chin with his thumb. She didn’t look at him. Her eyes were locked on the table. “Look at me when I’m speaking to you.” She blinked fast. Fury trying to spark. But she flopped, eyes stinging puppy-wet, knees still spread by the diaper bulk like a pathetic chalk outline of her former ego. Claire sucked in a breath and whispered, “Yes… Daddy.” He held her gaze for a moment and then did the worst dad move known to womankind: pinched her nose once, playful, before popping her pacifier back in to let her cook on low. Miles moved to the second highchair. Olivia watched Claire first, then him. Same pigtail‑bib embodiment, silent treatment since entrée #2. He flicked the back of her pacifier ribbon like a metronome, then tugged the pacifier with a slow, deliberate tension-filled drag, and Olivia leaned away uselessly, eyes darting toward the group like, come on, someone clock him for this, right? Nope. “Isn’t that right, Livi?” He grabbed her chin until she was forced to meet his eyes.  “Tell them.” Olivia swallowed hard around nothing, shame washing over her like a lukewarm bath scene, “Yes, Daddy.” Miles smirked. “Claire used to sneak out at night. Drove her mom crazy. Now they like it when I sleep between them for naps. Keeps the monsters away.” He let it sit for a beat. Helena shifted. Victor didn’t look up from his plate. “Oh, don’t you fuckers start getting soft on me,” he said, sliding into his chair and reaching for the green beans. “That’s how Marjorie ended up in a highchair.” The table had quieted. Not in a heavy way, just… expectant. Like the air was holding its breath. Danica took her time straightening her silverware. Brushed a wrinkle from her napkin. And then looked toward the end of the table—toward her. Marjorie hadn't touched her food. Not that she could. The woman in the highchair was unrecognizable, and yet so familiar it made the air feel wrong. Her onesie was a soft lilac, embroidered in pink with the words “Bad Girl” across the chest. A bib was clipped under her chin—silk, not plastic. Personalized and tasteful. Like a gift from someone who cared enough to humiliate her beautifully. Danica didn’t raise her voice. “This is Marjorie,” she said. “You all know her. This is her cabin.” Brady stopped chewing. There was no smirking. No spoon jokes. No clever toasts. Just quiet. Not reverent—uneasy. Because they knew what was coming. “She started this tradition,” Danica continued. “Fifteen years ago. Handwritten invitations. The first rule was hers: ‘No one is above the rules.’” Victor leaned back in his chair. He reached for his wine and then thought better and put his hands in his lap.  “She trained us,” Danica said. “She taught us how to break them. How to remake them. She’s the reason we’re all sitting here.” Marjorie didn’t look up. Her face was flushed. Her pacifier bobbed slowly between her lips as she tried to breathe through the shame. She didn’t flinch when Danica brushed a curl of hair from her face. Didn’t protest when the pacifier was gently pulled from her lips. She even smiled. Just faintly. Like someone who understood humiliation was temporary. “She broke the rules last year. She got attached. She saw her girl again. That’s the rule she wrote, and the one she broke.” Marjorie nodded once. Not defiantly. Just owning it. “She accepted her punishment,” Danica continued. “She’s been diapered. Fed. Bathed. Changed in front of the others.” Danica paused. “She hasn’t complained once.” Helena glanced over. Brady looked away. Claire’s lip curled into something small and confused around her pacifier. “She’s been shaved. Restrained. She’s had her plug checks. Her pacifier privileges. Everything she taught us to do.” Danica turned to her, softly. “You’ve done well.” Marjorie smiled again. A little tighter now. “And like the rest,” Danica said to the table, “she’ll stay here with us for the weekend. We’ll have our fun. The girls will go home Sunday night. Their memories will blur. They’ll forget names, details, faces—just like always.” She looked back to Marjorie. “But you won’t.” A pause. Marjorie’s smile faltered, but Danica’s voice was calm. Even. “You’ll stay in rotation until next Thanksgiving. We’ve already scheduled it. You’ll spend a month in each of our homes. You’ll be fed, changed, and kept in the cycle. No contact with the outside. No phone. No name.” Marjorie blinked. Once. Twice. “…No,” she said, too soft to be heard. Danica leaned in. “You have to learn. You didn’t put yourself at risk, Marjorie. You put all of us at risk. And we can’t let that happen.” Marjorie’s eyes widened. “No,” louder this time. “No, that’s not—” Brady stood up. Silently. So did Silas. Then Rowan. Victor. Even Helena. The table rose, one by one, slow and wordless. Marjorie struggled. The highchair rocked and her cuffs snapped taut. “You can’t,” she said, voice cracking now. “This isn’t—this isn’t how it works. I made the rules—” Danica gently placed the pacifier back into her mouth and used the straps to keep her silent. Marjorie screamed into it. It came out muffled and wet. Claire flinched. Olivia turned her head. Danica crouched beside the highchair, hand resting on the tray. She looked up at her then—really looked at her—and said, with the kind of quiet that ends things: “Then you should’ve followed them.” Marjorie bucked once. Then again. Her face contorted—not rage anymore. Not pride. Fear. Because now she understood. She wasn’t playing this year. She was the game. --------------------------------------- Was feeling festive and an idea popped in my head combining Dinner for Schmucks and Forced Regression. Yeah...it gets real weird in my head. Read more here: SubStar | Ream | Amazon

It very much depends on circumstances. There are a couple of factors that help me with this; the first is that I work from home quite a bit. I assure you that when I'm on the road, my burn rate is notably higher - I probably use four a day, versus two, because I'm wearing lighter products for at least half the day, generally, and I also will not walk anywhere near as close to the edge of failure, while I'm in my car, or the office, as I will when I'm at home, close to laundry facilities, and wearing something sacrificial, if I'm wearing anything, overtop of my diaper. Also, I don't partake of nature's calling #2, in diapers, casually - it very rarely happens. And when I'm visiting the big boy potty for #2, some of my daily output in the #1 department inevitably does not see SAP and stuffing. So, if I'm able to fit in at least one extended shift in a super diaper - something such as a BeDry Night or Mega Inspire+ - then it is likely that two diapers will get me through the day. If I'm travelling or visiting or having people over, then it will be at least three, possibly four. I'd say more than four would be pretty rare, other than when I'm, say, sequestered in a hotel or a boardroom for days on end, followed by dinners out, with no opportunity to get back to my room, and I have to wear light-duty products for extended periods. At one point, I had a couple of suits that could actually be worn over a BeDry or similar weight product, but then I got fatter, and now the suits aren't oversized, and a big puffy diaper won't disappear under them anymore, or not sufficiently for me to be comfortable enough to forget I'm wearing it.  Just when I think I'm scraping the bottom of the barrel, regarding topics or experiences related to "this", the Universe hands me another. My last post reflected having a very busy but entirely normal week, wearing nappies and going about my business. I appreciate that it was well-received, despite not really saying much.  This, I guess, will be the next installment in the Sherri Lets Down His Guard series, although not deliberately, in this case. I had an appointment to get blood drawn, this morning - I made it nice and early, because I have too much to do this week to take much time off work. Even as I type this, I'm waiting for a report to get churned out from the bowels of my laptop, so that I can divine in it, like entrails or tea leaves.  So, public-facing, I can wear jeans, and I need my arms to be accessible, in theory - zip-up sweater over a t-shirt, medium-duty nappy, and go. The top I selected was of the onesie variety, looking like a tucked-in black t-shirt, but offering security against nappy peekaboo's around the waistband. I could easily have gone with a printed diaper, but, serendipitously, I'd reached into the white side of my drawer, and withdrawn a BeDry "day". I drove to the lab, noted the lineup outside, sighed, was glad I'd gotten there early, and doom-scrolled on my phone for a bit, until I was invited to submit the lab requisition, and my health card. Most of what I was getting falls under "insured services" - standard bloodwork. There was a box ticked for one test, the PSA, which is only covered after you're 60 (I think), but my doc wanted to see it, and it was reasonable, costing about as much as a typical lunch in a restaurant, if you didn't have wine or beer.  I was invited to wait again. There was a generalized air of chaos in the lab, and a strict gatekeeper informed all newcomers that there was a stop sign in the hall for a reason, and they had no business entering the confines of the lab designated to serve them, until called upon to do so, even though you felt, as I did when I first got there, that standing at the stop sign without signaling you were out there, might result in them finding your skeletal remains, years later in the hall. But, no, they know, like they know that the sun will rise and set, that there's always an someone standing at the sign down the hall, and eventually, when they've run out of non-patient-facing administrative tasks to perform, they are forced to admit a "customer", in order to create more administrative tasks that will allow them to not deal with patients again.   After watching this for a while, I began thinking idly that if I were in charge, I'd immediately blow up the whole process, which seemed like a much-enjoyed artifact from the worst days of the pandemic, preserved because it was an acid bath for efficiency and accountability, dissolving them completely. Then, I was called into one of the many antechambers, for my interview with the clinical vampire. A very nice, older lady of Asian descent came into the room, and we started chatting, while she walked back and forth putting stickers on vials. She told me that she actually taught phlebotomy, as well as practicing it, which was reassuring - I've been turned into a pin cushion enough times to appreciate the quick, clean stab that comes from a seasoned hand. But then, she looked at the req, and said, "Oh, we should be in room number six...", which confused me - the room we were in seemed like a fine place to draw blood, and my sweater was already hanging on the door, and I was in the chair. Would room three not do? I decided, however, not to mount an argument - who am I to question the Kaizen Gods that conceived this labyrinth?  I packed up my stuff, and dutifully followed her through the MASH-like zigzagging of harried clinicians and confused-looking patients, to anther room. This one had an examination table, and a workstation, in it.  "Take off your shirt..." she said, over her shoulder, while repositioning all the stuff she'd carried over with her.  "I've got short sleeves on - plenty of venous access points, surly...?", I queried, in my most polite, "good patient" voice.  "Ha! You're funny!", she said, then added, "Your doctor wants blood, urine, and an ECG - he didn't tell you that?" He hadn't told me that, and I hadn't bothered to decipher the acronyms all over the form he'd sent me home with, months earlier. Usually, these occasions involved a few vials of lifeblood, a cotton ball, and nothing more. There was no point protesting - it had taken me ages to find the time to deal with this, and if I said I didn't want to do it now, I'd be wasting her time, and mine, in service to my strange penchant for wearing baby's underpants. Plus, I probably wouldn't get around to it again, until next Christmas.  But how the hell was I going to take off my shirt? It was snapped tight, down between my legs. The pleasant, but now also intimidating presence of the lady, precluded any privacy. I suppose I could have asked her to please give me a moment, but I suspected I would then lose her to the machine we were both trapped in, for 45 minutes. And also, being a male of the species, why exactly did I require privacy, to take off my shirt, in order to then lay before her, absent the shirt, for the next 15 minutes or whatever? F**k.  I was given the briefest of interludes, when she turned to log into the terminal. My hand dove into my jeans like I was reaching for the eject lever in a fighter jet, grasped the cotton onesie, and gave all five snaps a desperate yank, causing them, mercifully, to come apart in concert. Now, I just had to get the thing up over my head, and then rolled into a ball, before she looked over, so that she wouldn't see the tuxedo tail or snaps of the oversized diaper shirt. Pulling it up over my face, I had no idea if I'd already run out of time or not - I was tugging at it like it was on fire, while turning to face away from the lady, and then when I had it in front of me, I balled it up, then jammed it into my laptop bag, which was on a chair.  I cast what I hoped was an "inexpert", rather than "guilty" glance towards her, and she smiled at me, and tilted her head, while extracting leads from a hanger on the side of the workstation.  "Pull your pants.... something something something...." is what I heard her say. "Huh...," I managed to choke out, thinking that, Jesus Christ, she'd just said I had to take my pants off.  "Roll your pants up to your knees - I have to attach leads to your legs," she repeated, and I'm sure that I visibly exhaled. "Then you can lie down on the table."  "Right, gotcha... haven't had one of these in a long time." I bent over to to roll up the legs of my trousers. And paused. Then realized my pause was conspicuous. Took a breath. Said, "When you play silly games, you get silly prizes...", somewhere in my head. Rolled up my pantlegs. And then, as casually as possible, I worked on tugging up my jeans and tucking the top inch or so of visible white plastic, into them, before lying down on the table.  Lying down reproportioned the jeans-to-body-mass ratio disadvantageously. It hid whatever was going on out back, but it brought white plastic into the light, up front. At least the paper cover on the table crinkled furiously, providing some auditory camouflage. The lady began sticking lead receivers to my chest, while I smiled, and tried not to obstruct her, while pulling the front of my jeans up, with my right hand, and doing slow but desperately urgent tucking of diaper material, with my left, but I was getting in the way of her sticking things to the left side of my chest.  I said, "Uh, sorry, just getting sorted...", and I paused my activities so she could complete her task. She probably noted that my cheeks were rouging furiously, because I definitely felt that they were.  "I don't care about that," she said gently, and motioned with the button thing in her hand, towards my midsection. "We see all kind of things!", she added, brightly. "You not surprising me."  I blew air out through my cheeks, and said, "Still getting used to this..." "You don't worry about it!" Very friendly.  She stuck the things to my legs, and then she clipped the leads, and then she looked at the monitor, and told me to relax, and take deep breaths. It was a little hard to relax, but I tried to do my best. I pictured drinking beer from my taps, and cleaning my pool, doing my taxes... NO! Bad thought. Breath. I thought about diapers. They usually relax me. Could I find relaxation in them, even here, even now? I thought about falling asleep, warm and comfy in my bed, wearing a snugly, well-qualified diaper, the world drifting away, nothing to worry about... "We done!" she said, blowing the fog of my internal meditations away.  She unclipped leads, while asking me if I have any kids, which got me talking about things I like to talk about, and then she invited me over to get poked in the arm, and I wondered if she was going to tell me to put my t-shirt back on, which would have involved trying to nonchalantly get back into a onesie, with an audience, but I guess experience has taught her that it's easier to find veins, and draw blood, from shirtless people, and we'd already crashed through the "I'm partially nude and we're hanging out" barrier, so let's just keep the train rolling.  Blood drawn, cotton ball taped over pinprick wound (I told her it was done painlessly - she deserved the compliment), she then handed me a squat plastic jar with an orange cover, smiled again, and said, "You gonna be okay for urine sample?" I guess she wondered how I'd manage it, if I could summon wee at will, or if it had all been draining into my underpants.  "Yup, no problem, I can do it," I said quickly, and she told me to go use the washroom in the lobby, and then to put the jar in a fridge out there, when I was done, and then she left the room, pulling the door mostly closed behind her. I closed it the rest of the way, and put my onesie and sweater on, while blocking the door bodily, in case someone else tried to come in, before finding the bathroom, and producing and leaving the sample in the fridge, as instructed.   

Do they rustle at all? how do they feel? is it nylon, pul, vinyl etc? would they work well with cloth diapers as a cover? 

I am sure it was extremely frustrating, resulting in a momentary lapse of “reason” or caution…..  2 things are likely to come of this… 1. She repairs the diapers and you never see or hear from them again. 2. she does a great job, is discrete and you build a customer relationship with them.     I expect it will be the first.