Baby Talk

Chapter 53: Interrogation Bound – LittleFallenPrincess ------------------------------- Chloe     “So… Chloe, is it?” Beatrice confirmed, once we had both sat down and Sam had brought over her coffee and my book, the one I hadn’t even paid for yet. “Uh huh…” I replied, nervously, as I sat at a table across from Sam’s little sister, who looked just like her… but younger, obviously. “What do you do? Not that I actually care if it’s something my Gran would deem ‘not important’, just making that clear. Gran was… difficult.” “Sounds like it. Sorry. Umm… I work in an office. Basic admin stuff.” “Sounds boring,” she replied, rolling her eyes. “It is.” This made Beatrice laugh, which eased my anxiety a little bit, and I could feel the tension lift from my shoulders, albeit barely. Because I want to get on with her, even if it’s just for Sam’s sake. But then Beatrice seems nice, maybe it’d be good to be friendly with her. She seems to have the same sort of sense of humour as Sam, which I guess would be normal given that they were raised the same way. “What are you studying at university?” I asked, trying to be friendly and keep up my side of the conversation. “Engineering. I know, yawn. But it comes easy to me.” “Engineering is boring? I wouldn’t think so!” Beatrice’s face lit up. “Okay, I like you,” she said, smiling. “Lucy told me I would, and I hate that she’s never wrong.” “Wait… Lucy? As in…” “The one dating Rebecca? Yeah. She told me all about you, said you were adorable. I’m glad you’re back with my sister now.” Mental note… ask how she knows Lucy and how she’s connected to all this. For now… I need to ask the question at the forefront of my mind. “Why?” “Because she’s the happiest I’ve ever seen her. Like… ever.” “Really? How can you tell?” “The way she looks at you, for one. She has never looked at anyone like that, at least from what I’ve experienced. She cares about you more than anyone. Plus the really obvious thing…” “Which is…” I asked, raising my eyebrow. “She said she loves you.” “When?” “When I asked if you were as sappy as she was. She said she loved you for it.” “And that’s a big deal?” “She’s never told anyone she loves them. Well, no one but family, anyway.” “Did she never say it to Cass?” “She never loved that girl. She never loved anyone the way she clearly loves you. So that makes you special. I just hope you don’t break her heart again.” “Oh… so you heard…” I sighed, looking down at the table. “Bits and pieces. It’s why I was a bit skeptical about you at first, but I can see why it broke her so much. You’re special, Chloe. So you better not go breaking her heart again, you hear me?” “I don’t plan on doing so…” “Good. I know she’s a handful sometimes. Keeps problems to herself. Puts the weight of the world on her shoulders and refuses to ask for help. But having finally seen this shop, how much it’s improved since the last time I visited… now that it’s actually got customers… it’s clear something changed within her. Something pushed her to finally accept help from others. And I think losing you caused that.” “She’s open and honest with me now. There’s no reason to break her heart again.” “Good,” she said, sipping her coffee, her face scrunching up at the disgust of instant coffee. “That, however… is not good.” I laughed along with her, and felt a lot more at ease now. Knowing that she’s accepting me, accepting Sam and I being together… It meant a lot, as I’m pretty sure Sam needs that for us to be okay. But now there is another important question. “So… how do you know Lucy?” I asked, nervously. “We go to the same uni. We’re friends. She’s my bestie, kinda like what Becks is to Sam.” “Oh…” “I’m the one who introduced her to Becks, actually. Though honestly I don’t know what those two bond over, they’ve not got too much in common. Maybe it’s because Becks is super hot in that badass dominatrix-kinda-way.” I didn’t say a word. Mostly because I don’t know how much Beatrice is in the know about all this kink stuff or Lucy’s… interests. I’m guessing she doesn’t know. Because Sam and Becks are an exception, most people wouldn’t know their best friend’s kinks. At least vanilla people anyway. Or is Beatrice not vanilla? Does she know her sister is kinky? As I was going down the rabbit hole, wondering how far this goes, Beatrice interrupted my chaotic thought process by speaking up. “You’re cute when you zone out.” “Ooops, sorry!” I mumbled, feeling bad for zoning out like that whilst she’s trying to have a conversation with me. “No need to apologise. You remind me a lot of Lucy, actually.” “I do?” “Yeah. She does the same. She’s a very anxious girl, though she doesn’t always show it. It’s why I’m her friend, to be the loud, obnoxious one in the friendship, to do all the talking for her.” “We do need someone like that in our lives…” I joked. “That’s why you’ve got my Sam. Though she’s just as anxious, she’s a pro at suppressing it. Especially for other people.” Okay… now I feel a little bad. Was she suppressing her own anxiety the whole time she’s known me, just so she can appear dominant? “So are you a nerd like she is too?” Beatrice asked. “Umm… yeah… guilty as charged.” “Good. So am I. So now we can veto Dad at Christmas when he wants to watch boring old movies. He always said, ever since we were kids, that we needed 75% of the votes to beat him, which is clearly unfair with there only being three of us. Now with you and Oliver… we’ll get something good on TV whilst we eat Christmas dinner!” Christmas… that’s like… forever away. And here is her sister, treating me like family already. Why? I didn’t do anything yet! She’s even expecting me to be my sister’s ‘plus one’ at her wedding next year! This was all a bit too much, especially considering Sam and I have only been dating for like a week now. But at the same time… it was nice… thinking about that… thinking about the future… about spending my life with her… “Sorry if I’m jumping the gun here,” Beatrice apologised. “I just have these gut feelings. I’m usually correct about these things… and it’s telling me you’re going to be stuck with my sister for a long, long time.” “I hope so.” That’s when she smiled sweetly at me. “You really love her too, don’t you?” I… I think I do. But I couldn’t find the courage to say it right now, so I just smiled and nodded, my cheeks starting to warm up. “Thought so. Don’t worry, no more interrogation. So… what book did you buy? Or should I say, what book did my sister get you?” “No, I…” Wait no… I didn’t pay for it. She just scanned it in… then gave it to me. I haven’t paid for it yet. “She won’t ask for the money. That’s clearly a gift. Hey, if you move in eventually, you’ll be able to read whatever you like for free!” “Move… in…” “There goes me jumping ahead again. Ignore me. So what book did you pick?” “I… umm… one about a woman who summons a demon and falls in love with her. It’s umm… very…” I replied, still in a state of shock. “Gay?”  “How did you know?” I asked, confused. “The two hot women looking at each other longingly on the front cover…” she giggled. “Oh… right… yeah…” It looked very gay, very up my alley… and nerdy as hell. So of course I picked it. I’m a sucker for anything sapphic and nerdy. Plus I’ve read this author’s work before. “Well I hope you enjoy it. I better get going, meeting Dad soon to tell him the news…” “Congratulations, by the way. I don’t think I said that. Do you think he’ll be happy about it?” “Thanks! And I hope so. I’m guessing so, anyway. He’s very protective of me, and he’ll probably be a bit suspicious at first, given that I’m still in my early twenties and I’m getting married… but then he met Mum around the same age, so it’s not like he can have a go at me. Have you met him yet?” “No, Sam has met my parents, but I haven’t met your Dad yet. Well… except for a week ago, just before Sam and I got together, though I was way too shy to talk and ended up going upstairs straight away to dry off after getting soaked in the rain. So I didn’t really get to speak to him. I hope I do sometime, he seems really lovely.” “He is. He’s going to love you.” “Is he going to love your fiance?” “Yeah, though he won’t show it at first. He’ll pretend to be the intimidating Dad that judges the boyfriend… then he’ll treat him like his own son.” “Both your Dad and your fiance sound pretty special.” “Look who's talking… the woman who stole my sister's heart… finally,” she said, making me blush, before downing the rest of her cheap coffee. “Next time I’ll try the tea. It was lovely meeting you, Chloe. Like I said before, I really hope you can come with Sam to my wedding next year. Maybe I’ll make you a bridesmaid too!” She may look like Sam, but she’s a lot more outspoken and confident than her sister. And what’s this about me being a bridesmaid? I barely know her! Maybe she’s expecting to get to know me over the year, especially as she won’t be busy with university soon, as I think she graduates in a few months. “I don’t know about that…” I mumbled to myself. But she had clearly picked up on that as she rested her hand on mine after standing up, and looked me in the eyes. “Nah, I do. I’m good at reading people. And you, Chloe, are special. Thank you for making my sister so happy.” I didn’t know what to say to that. I mean what can you say? ‘You’re welcome’ sounds pretentious. So I just smiled and nodded slightly as Beatrice let go of my hand and waved goodbye, before she quickly left, yelling goodbye to her sister, who was busy serving people still. I had nowhere to be now, so I relaxed in my seat, grabbed my new book, and began reading, waiting for my girlfriend’s time to free up a little.   “You okay, poppet? Need a drink?” “Umm… that’d be nice…” I replied, looking up at my beautiful girlfriend. “Was Trixie nice to you?” she asked. “She was lovely. I think she may have even asked me to be her bridesmaid…” This shocked even Sam, who shook her head in disbelief. “That girl. Well you don’t have to worry about that, hun. You can if you want to, but there’s no pressure. She’ll understand. I think she’s just happy that she got to meet you.” “It’s next year, so there’s plenty of time to decide, right?” “Exactly. Oh, how’s the book?” “Good!” I replied, having only barely scratched the surface of it. “Isn’t it just? It’s so cute! And I swear the author wanted to write them as an MDLG couple, but couldn’t. The way the two interact…” “So you’ve read it?” “Yup! I’ve had a lot of time to read a lot of the books here, so of course I’m going to read all the sapphic ones first!” she grinned. “Oh, and if you didn’t know, that book is on me.” There it was. Beatrice was right. “But…” “No ‘but’s. Except yours, upstairs, as soon as I close up.” “Eeek!” I squeaked, hiding my blushing cheeks behind the pages. “Oh, and there’s an event on Saturday. You up for it?” “Event? At the club?” “Yeah. You are allowed to say no, we can do fun, kinky things at home instead, if you’re not in the mood to go.” “I… umm…” Do I want to go? I’m a little nervous, as I haven’t seen Lydia since we broke up, and she runs the damn thing! But that was an amicable breakup, and like Sam has reminded me of in the past… we get our own private room there. Plus I’d like to try mixing a bit of ageplay with a bit more BDSM… so maybe this is the perfect opportunity… “I wanna go!” I blurted out. “You sure?” she asked. “Uh huh! I’d like to try being more subby… whilst also… small…” “I think we can try that. Gives us a few days of experimenting with both sides… if you’re interested?” “YES!” I blurted out, maybe a little too loudly. But the giggle and the smile on Sam’s face was worth making a fool out of myself in front of her customers. I’ll just have to deal with the glowing red cheeks for a little while.           ===================================================== Don't forget I'm on Subscribestar! Subscribers get 2 weeks early access to chapters, and exclusive short stories (Nessa's Tale is currently the only available one). The next four chapters of my stories are posted on my Subscribestar! ======================================================== I hope everyone enjoys this chapter! Please leave likes and comments and all that fun stuff, I love reading them! If you want to read the next 4 chapters, thanks to two weeks early access to my main story and also soon-to-be exclusive access to short stories, why don't you check out my SubscribeStar!  Thank you to all my subscribers for their support over the past few years! Seriously, your support means the world to me. New chapters of my latest story every Wednesday/Sunday!  Also just a quick note: I don't mind people saving this story for personal reading. But I'd appreciate it if people didn't post it elsewhere, even if you're just suggesting it to other people. If you want to show others, please send them a link to the first page of this post. And it goes without saying, my story is not to be used in any way to create AI work. Thanks!   

Let Me Explain “You okay, Princess?” Dan asked, as Imogen’s mind raced with anxiety. She was just frozen in place. She had never planned for it turning out like this, it wasn’t something she had intended, and that was all the more stressful because she had enjoyed the whole experience so much. “I’m sorry!” she squeaked again, glancing back towards the door as if the guy who had brought the room service trolley might reappear at any moment. “I didn’t mean… I…” “It’s okay,” he said. “Relax. And when you feel comfortable talking about whatever bothered you, we can be sure not to include that again. Was it having somebody else here?” “No, it’s… I… I couldn’t help it. I really couldn’t, it wasn’t make believe anymore.” “That’s okay. You can’t help it. You’re only little, aren’t you?” “No!” Imogen answered suddenly, knowing that she needed to get this one point across if she wanted to be worthy of his trust. “I mean… I like being little, but I’m not now. I need to… I have to think properly, and put myself together so I can explain what happened. Now that I can.” “Okay,” he said. “Would a hug help? Or would it be easier for you to recover your headspace if we’re a little farther apart?” She couldn’t bring herself to say anything yet, but she was equally glad and disappointed that he made no move to touch her further before she managed to respond. “I’ve known people before,” Dan said, before the silence could become awkward. “People who regress involuntarily. A behaviour from some past trauma, perhaps. If that’s the case, maybe we should talk a little more to make sure…” “No,” Imogen said again. “I mean, no, thank you. It’s nothing like that. It’s just… I tried this hypnosis thing, I thought it was just like a fantasy thing, something we could play along with, and then you said the trigger words and I couldn’t help playing along and I just… I never expected it to be so intense. I mean, I didn’t expect any of it, the odds of you choosing those exact words… but even if you did, I thought I could just choose not to play along with it. Apparently it’s real, for me at least.” It was probably the longest coherent explanation she’d given since she met him, and by the time she reached the end Imogen was already slowing down, nervous to see how Dan would respond. Although they’d talked about regression, she hadn’t said anything about this, and she couldn’t imagine what he would be thinking now. But as much as she wanted to hear his response, there were still things she had missed out. “I’m sorry,” she tried. “I really didn’t mean that to happen. And it’s okay if you don’t want to do that again, it’s kind of a… a… I guess when I listened to those files, I could imagine that I was being turned into a baby even if I didn’t have a daddy to play with. You know? So it’s not something that’s super important to me now you’re here. But… but I like it. I just should have made sure to warn you before I couldn’t act like an adult anymore.” “It’s okay,” he said. “I think I know you well enough to be sure that you wouldn’t have planned something like this. It was… Look, can you tell me what I said? I don’t want to risk saying it again until we had time to talk properly.” “Oh, yeah…” Imogen mumbled, and then patted her pockets as if she seriously expected to find something there. Of course, most of the pockets on her outfit were purely decorative and not large enough to hold a piece of paper, and when she realised that she quickly turned to her bag and opened that instead. “I wrote a note about it… I thought maybe you’d be interested in that, and I wanted to have something I could give you to explain. I mean, I didn’t know if you’d be interested in any of this. And even if you’re in the community, I’d have no way of knowing if you’re into the hypnosis fantasy, or kinky DDLG stuff, or wholesome nurturing Daddy roleplay, or what… and it all kind of presses different buttons for me, so I hoped I could be ready for whatever angle you’re into.” Finally, she managed to stop her hands trembling enough to lift out the notebook. The last draft of her note was still in there; though she couldn’t quite remember how much detail she’d gone into. Before she could hesitate again she pulled it out and offered it to him, with a ragged strip of paper hanging off where the page hadn’t torn smoothly. She hesitated for a second, and then put the book back into her bag. Dan was reading the note now, and she couldn’t make anything out of his expression. She imagined him saying the words again right there; losing control and being his baby again, and her pulse started to race again. She’d been aroused, she realised. Feeling so helpless had turned her on, but she’d felt compelled to act like a child so she’d pushed all of those thoughts to the back of her mind. Now she was an adult in body and mind, there was nothing to keep her from understanding how much she wanted him to touch her right now. How much she wanted to belong to him, completely helpless. “Okay,” he said eventually, and raised his eyes from the note. “I was kind of trying out different pet names, wondering which ones you might like. I guess that one is pretty unusual, so there was no reason for you to suspect I might say it. The issue now, I think, is that I’d taken away your ability to consent. So it might take a little while before you can trust me again, right? I’ll back away from the more intense stuff until you feel more comfortable, and then if you feel up to it we can try to rebuild that bond. Now, would you–” His hands were starting to move towards the trolley with their food on, offering an emotionally-neutral form of companionship so they could calm down. But Imogen had already sent the interruption to her lips, and it was too late to stop now “No!” she said, and then froze for a second before continuing. And this time, with the fear of driving a wedge between them pushing her on instead of inhibiting her, the words poured out easily: “No, I mean, I still trust you. I trusted you before this, and that hasn’t changed. Before I knew about the whole ABDL thing, I had vague half-formed fantasies about you taking control and making decisions for me. And I’m sorry if that’s weird. And before the hypnosis, before I even really knew you, I’d feel so happy when we chatted, and I didn’t know why. That has to mean something, right? I’m sorry if it’s weird, but that weird experience hasn’t given me any doubts. It’s like… the adult thoughts in my mind were still there, but as long as I knew I was safe on some subconscious level they couldn’t reach the surface. You could have complete control over me, and I loved that even more than I imagined I might. Partly because of the feelings, the fantasy, and partly because it’s you. And I don’t know where to draw the line. I can completely understand if you feel awkward about… well, anything. You didn’t know what you were getting into. But if you’re worried about me, I want you to know that I loved it. The only negative on my side is the guilt about putting you through something like that without warning. I suspect that after our conversation, you might not have expected all the stresses of looking after a real toddler in public.” “I’ve done things like this before,” Dan said, after a little pause. “Not the hypnosis, I’ve heard it mentioned in the community but didn’t really know what it was like. But I’ve known someone who could slip into a similar kind of mindset for a different reason, and I think those instincts are still there. It was unexpected, but not unwelcome. So if you still want to be…” “Your baby doll?” she asked. “Yes. Please. Any time you’re ready. This is me offering consent, freely and without expectations, because I know I can trust you. You can say those words whenever you want. At least while there’s nobody I know around who might judge me. And if I can’t act on my grown-up thoughts, you’re free to make all the decisions for me. Anything you want, I promise I’m okay with that. And if you’re not in the mood… well, I love spending time with you. Whatever we’re doing, and I’ll try my best not to be pushy until you offer. But if you got any more questions, I think my answers will all be ‘yes’.” “Okay,” he said with a smile. “I would like to build on this, very much. It almost feels too good to be true. But I think the only questions left now are about dinner and diaper changes. The practical things. Oh, and if there’s anything else you feel you should tell me.” “No,” she answered. “That’s one question I can say ‘no’ to. I think I’m an open book now…” and then a long pause as she thought again. “Actually, yes. Maybe. I think I should tell you, so I’m not… I don’t want to be hiding things from you. So I’ll say that being that helpless made me horny. Like, a lot. So if you want me I’m yours, and I promise I’m not going to change my mind about that. I don’t really know how to do the whole… seduction thing, I always kind of assumed it would come naturally when the situation arose, but I figure… it’s safer if I just come out and say it, right? So… I’m interested. Whether I’m adult or regressed. If you want to… you know… just let me know. I don’t want to be demanding, but I want you to know I’m enthusiastic, with no possibility of miscommunication. And in future, if you’re in the mood when I’m regressed, I can be confident that’s something I’m okay with even if I can’t express it in that state.” “I think we’re both in a heightened emotional state right now,” he said. “And there’s been a lot of ups and downs today, so we shouldn’t go too far on a first date. But I thank you for being honest. And I can confirm, saying it clearly to avoid any chance of miscommunication, that I do find you attractive. So it seems we might be a lucky match in more ways than one.” There was only a brief pause, while Imogen tried to take in how lucky she felt right now. But then Dan was speaking again; practical and caring, though Imogen wanted to imagine that she wasn’t the only one finding it hard to keep a lid on her desire right now. Was he putting in real effort to appear calm as he spoke, or was that just wishful thinking? “Now, I think we should eat before our dinner gets cold. Do you want to order something different now you’re grown up? And would you like to get changed first?” Simple questions, and ones that should have been so easy to answer. Imogen was sure, now, that everything about this day would be perfect.

Chapter 3 - The departure The kitchen smells like Sunday morning, with butter, maple syrup, and fresh coffee filling the air. Mom stands at the stove, humming softly as she flips her perfectly golden pancakes with that practiced wrist flip that I've never been able to pull off. I hover in the doorway, my toes curling into my socks. She'll know. The thought is irrational but persistent. She'll see it in how I'm standing and how I breathe. I can't hide it. She'll know. But then she turns, and her smile is nothing but easy, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "Morning, sunshine," she says warmly. "Sit, they're just about ready." No knowing looks. No awkward questions. Just Mom being Mom. I feel my shoulders relax. "It smells incredible," I mumble, sliding into my seat. The table is set as it's always been, my plate on the left, hers on the right, the syrup pitcher already warmed. Because 'cold syrup makes pancakes cold,' I'd said when I was seven. She still does it. "Here we go." Mom sets down a tower of pancakes, butter pooling between the layers. Steam rises, blurring my vision for a second. "Thanks," I whisper, my voice catching slightly. "For... for breakfast." And for everything else, I don't add. "Of course, sweetheart." She sits across from me, her eyes flickering to mine, just for a second, before focusing on pouring syrup. The spoon clinks once, twice. Then silence again. She doesn't ask. She waits. Syrup drips from the pitcher, thick and slow. I count the drops like a ticking clock. One. Two. Three— "I... It....They worked." I choke out, heat crawling up my neck. "The... the bed is dry. But I—" My voice cracks. My knuckles whiten around my fork. Say it. Just say it. Yes, I needed them. Yes, I used them. Yes, I failed. Again. A beat. Too quiet. "Ambre—" "No, you don't get it!" The dam breaks. "It worked because I wore one. Because I need one." My breath comes in jagged pieces. "I'm eighteen. I should be—" "Should be what?" Mom's syrup-sticky hand engulfs mine. "Flawless? Immune to stress?" Her thumb rubs over my quaking knuckles. "Who sold you that lie?" "Everyone else manages. Leane's backpacking through Europe. Marissa has a job. And I'm—" I gesture at the ceiling, "here. Needing....." Mom's grip tightens. "You're comparing your behind-the-scenes to everyone's highlight." "But I should be better!" The chair legs screech as I jerk back. "Eighteen-year-olds don't need... don't have..." The words curdle in my throat. "You shouldn't have to deal with this!" "Ambre." Her voice cracks through the kitchen like a whip. Suddenly, she's right next to me, her hands framing my face. "Look at me." I don't. Can't. The pancake stack blurs into golden smears. "Look. At. Me." When I finally meet her eyes, they're not pitying. They're burning. "Thank you." I blink. "W-what?" "For coming downstairs. For sitting at this table instead of hiding. For telling me. That's not nothing. That's courage." "But—" "No. Let me finish." She thumbs away a tear I didn't realize had fallen. "You think I give one damn about sheets? About laundry?" Her hands slide down to clutch mine again. "I care that my daughter is fighting a battle no one sees. And that she still gets up every damn morning and fights." Her arms open. I hesitate. Pride prickles, but the ache in my chest wins. I lean forward just enough for her to pull me in, my cheek resting against her collarbone. Her embrace swallows me whole. She smells like vanilla and coffee grounds, like every scraped-knee and broken-heart hug she's ever given me. Normal. Safe. "You're not a burden," she murmurs. "You're my daughter. This?" She makes a small dismissive gesture with one hand. "Just laundry." The word hangs between us, blunt and simple. A lifetime of Mom reducing mountains to molehills. Laundry. Such a small word for something that feels like so much more. "Thanks," I finally whisper. "For... you know. The—" "Pull-ups," she says firmly, no hesitation. A shocked laugh escapes me. "Mom!" "They're underwear, Ambre. Tools." She shrugs, swiping at a syrup stain on her sleeve. "Not Voldemort." "It's humiliating," I whisper. Mom gently takes my hand, her thumb brushing over the edge of my chewed nail. "I know. But you're doing the hardest part, showing up. Let me handle the logistics." I sink deeper into her hug, surprised at how much I still need this. For a moment, I'm not eighteen with college applications and adult problems. I'm just Mom's daughter, hiding in her arms because the world is too much. We stay like that until my breathing finds its rhythm again, until the pancake steam disappears completely. The kitchen is quiet except for the soft tick of the wall clock and our breathing. Then, a phone buzzes violently on the counter, dancing toward the edge like it's possessed. Mom catches it one-handed without letting go of me. "Speaking of logistics..." She glances at the screen, and her expression shifts to amused exasperation. "Chloe has officially threatened to declare nuclear war if you miss that train." She turns the phone toward me with a theatrical sigh. – – – – – – CHLOE (5:04 AM): Aunt Jeeeean, don't let Ambre snooze on her alarm!! YOU KNOW HOW SHE SLEEPS THROUGH EARTHQUAKES! CHLOE (5:07 AM): (sent a photo of neon green paint swatches) IF SHE MISSES THE TRAIN, I'M PAINTING THE GUEST ROOM NEON GREEN. CHLOE (5:12 AM): WAIT NEON PINK. GREEN IS TOO "SUBTL" FOR THIS CRIME. CHLOE (5:15 AM): SCRATCH THAT. BOTH. DIAGONAL STRIPES 🌈✨. AND I'LL STENCIL DUCKS WEARING TOP HATS. 🔫🦆🎩. I'LL DO IT. DON'T TEST ME. CHLOE (6:03 AM): Aunt JEAN, SWEAR TO ME you'll drag Ambre out of bed by her ankles if you have to! CHLOE (7:03 AM): I HAVE A GLITTER BOMB AND A DREAM – – – – – – "She wouldn't," I mutter, shaking my head at Chloe's threats. Mom raises an eyebrow, her lips twitching. "Do I need to remind you how Chloe glued googly eyes all over your textbooks?" "Oh god." I groan. "Two hundred and seventeen of them, to be exact," Mom says, counting on her syrup-sticky fingers. "Glued to every single one of your textbooks because—" "They looked too serious," I mumble, remembering how I'd opened my calculus book to find thirty pairs of plastic eyes wobbling back at me from complex equations. "My math teacher almost had a stroke." The memory blooms in my chest, Chloe's proud grin when she presented the "improved" textbook, how I'd tried to scowl but ended up laughing until my stomach hurt at the ridiculous googly-eyed books. "And yet," Mom continues, her voice light but knowing, "you somehow managed to get an A in that class anyway." "I think it scared Mr. Reynolds into giving me extra points." Mom's laugh fills the kitchen, and I feel something tight in my chest loosen. She brushes my hair back from my face, her thumb lingering at my temple, then she slides her phone across to me. "Tell her you're up so she can stand down from DEFCON 1." I type quickly, a smile tugging at my lips: Calm down, Picasso. I'm up! No need for nuclear retaliation. The response is almost immediate: – – – – – – CHLOE (7:32 AM): SHE LIVES!!!!! 🎉🎉🎉 don't think this means I'm putting away the paint and glitter you still need to get that train! But seriously I sooo want to see you! Hurry UP already 💗 – – – – – – I show Mom the screen, and for a heartbeat, her mask slips, the tremble in her chin, the way her throat moves like she's swallowing a stone. Then she hands the phone back, brisk and bright. "Better hurry then," she says, but her fingers linger on mine a second too long. A silent I'm here. A silent I know. Back in my room, I give my suitcase one final inspection. Clothes, toiletries, phone charger, everything is there and neatly organized. A soft knock on the door makes me look up. "Come in," I call, zipping the suitcase closed again. "Sorry to barge in," Mom slips into the room, holding something behind her back, her expression a little hesitant. "I, um, found this in the bathroom cabinet," she says, bringing her hand forward to reveal the open package of pull-ups. The pull-ups. Last night, I shoved them to the back of the bathroom cabinet, half-deliberately, half-hoping they'd disappear into the abyss of spare toiletries. Now, Mom holds them out like a peace offering, the pastel packaging glaring under my bedroom lights. Idiot. You knew you'd need these. Should've packed them first. "I wasn't sure if you were planning to take them or... But you said it worked, and I thought you might want them," Mom says, setting them on the bed. Not 'need'. 'Want.' A tiny grace. "Thanks," I mumble, burying it under my sweaters. Stupid. How could you forget. Should've remembered. Shouldn't need Mom to— "Honey, there's something else I've been thinking about," she says, her voice careful. "The train ride is pretty long." I freeze mid-zipper. "And you know how you fall asleep during trips," she continues. Her eyes are gentle but serious. "I was wondering if maybe..." she hesitates, "if it might be a good idea to wear one of these for the journey? Just as a precaution?" "What?" The word comes out harsher than I intend. "On the train? With people everywhere? Mom, that's—" I feel my face heat up even more, my voice rising. "I can't... I'm not going to—" The anger flares hot and bright, words rising in my throat like fire, how can she even suggest something so humiliating, so childish, so... But then I remember yesterday and how I snapped at her. The anger drains away as quickly as it came. I can't do that again. It's not her fault. It's mine. I wrap my arms around myself, not meeting her eyes. "I just... I don't want to wear them during the day. Like it means I'm—" "Going through a tough time and making smart choices to protect yourself," Mom finishes for me. I shake my head, still not convinced. "Maybe nothing would happen." she says gently. "But honey, if you do fall asleep and something were to happen..." She doesn't finish the sentence. She doesn't have to. She's right, and I hate that she's right. I hate that we're even having this conversation. "It would be horrible," I whisper. "It would be much harder to deal with than at home," she agrees. I sink onto the edge of my bed, staring at my hands. "I hate this," I say, my voice cracking. "I hate that I have to even think about this stuff." Mom sits beside me, the mattress dipping slightly. "I know you do. And I wish I could fix it for you." "It's not fair," I continue. "I'm eighteen. I shouldn't need... these." "I know. But life isn't always fair," she says gently. "We deal with what comes our way. And right now, this is one of those things." "But what if someone notices? What if it makes noise or shows through my clothes or..." "You'll be sitting down most of the time," Mom points out. "Wearing loose clothes. No one will see anything." I gnaw my lower lip, my thoughts racing in circles. The idea of wearing a pull-up in public makes my skin crawl. But waking up on a crowded train to wet clothes, strangers staring, meeting Aunt Claire after, the whole nightmare scenario, that would be a thousand times worse. "Think of it like motion sickness pills. Horrible taste? Yes. Better than puking on a stranger's shoes? Also, yes." A reluctant smile tugs at my mouth. "Gross analogy." "Accurate, though." She bumps my shoulder with hers. "Your call." I take a deep breath, weighing my options. But there's only one, really. I can't take the risk. "Fine," I say finally, my voice barely above a whisper. "I'll wear one." Mom's relief is visible, her shoulders relaxing slightly. "I think that's a wise choice, sweetheart." "I don't think I can... change in the station bathroom," I admit, my voice barely audible. "Everyone would hear and... I just can't." Mom's eyes soften with understanding. "You could put it on here, before we leave," she suggests cautiously. "That would be more private." I swallow hard. She's right. It means wearing it longer than absolutely necessary, but at least home is safe and private. No strangers, no echoing public restrooms, no risk of someone recognizing me. "Okay," I whisper, the word feeling like surrender. "I'll... do it now." Mom nods, squeezing my hand before standing up. "I'll give you some privacy. Just come down when you're ready. No rush."   When the door clicks shut behind her, I sit frozen on the edge of my bed, the package of pull-ups staring up at me. Part of me wants to scream, to throw them across the room, to insist I'm fine without them. But the practical part of my brain, the part that remembers this morning, knows better. I lock my bedroom door, even though Mom won't come in. There's a strange comfort in the definitive click of the lock, a tiny bit of control in a situation where I feel like I have none. I shimmy out of my sweatpants and underwear, step into the pull-up, and tug it up in one fluid motion, not letting myself overthink. It settles against my skin, the gentle elastic hugging my waist and thighs, feeling both strange and oddly familiar after last night. I pull my pants over it, then face the mirror, my heart pounding. I check from every angle, front, sides, back, twisting my body to see any bulge or outline. I smooth my hands over my hips, tugging at my jeans, making sure nothing shows. Nothing does. You can't tell it's there. Just like Mom said. A weird mix of emotions washes over me, embarrassment tangled with relief, frustration with a tiny thread of pride. I'm handling this. It's not pretty or fun, but I'm dealing with it. I gather the rest of the pull-ups and carefully pack them in my suitcase, hidden under my clothes. Then I take a deep breath and head downstairs. Mom is in the living room, checking her purse for the ticket and keys. Her eyes meet mine briefly, a silent question in them. I give a slight nod, not quite meeting her gaze. "All set?" she asks, keeping her voice light. "Yeah," I murmur. "Ready when you are." She crosses the room and pulls me into another hug, this one quick but fierce. "You're handling this like a champion, you know that?" I don't feel like a champion. I feel like an eighteen-year-old wearing a pull-up because I can't trust my own body. But her words help, just a little. "Let's go," I say, managing a small smile. "Don't want to miss our train."   ------- Gare de Lyon thrums with its usual symphony, suitcase wheels clattering, muffled announcements, purposeful strides. Normally I'd find poetry in it. Today it's just noise. Too much noise. No one knows. No one sees. I adjust my backpack straps until they bite my shoulders. Just a girl. Normal girl. "Track 17," announces Mom. Her voice wavers at the number. I freeze. She's nervous. Mom is nervous. The woman who once chased a raccoon out of our kitchen with a broom and a raised eyebrow. Now her knuckles whiten around her purse strap, her gaze darting to the platform like it's a ticking bomb. "You okay?" The question slips out before I can stop it. She blinks, then laughs, too bright, too quick. "Shouldn't I be asking you that?" "You're a terrible liar." Her smile softens. "Guilty." She tugs her purse strap tighter. "But if you miss this train, Chloe's glitter bomb becomes our shared trauma." "Since when do her threats work on you? You survived the Great Birthday Party Glitter Massacre. You know how to handle her." Mom snorts. "Survived, yes. Enjoyed?" her eyebrow arches. "I merely redirect the chaos. It doesn't mean I can stop it." She checks her watch again, and her tone shifts to mock solemnity. "And if you miss this train? Even I can't stop the neon-pink duckpocalypse." "It's okay. We've got plenty of time," I say, nudging her shoulder. "Famous last words," she mutters. We stare at each other, her with her frazzled hair, me with my death-grip on the suitcase handle. Her eyebrow creeps up. Mom snorts first, a tiny hiccup of laughter, and then we're both bent double, clutching our stomachs as travelers sidestep us. For ten glorious seconds, we're just two goofballs gasping for breath in a train station. Then the boarding bell murders the moment.   ------- Platform 17 seethes, shrieking toddlers, rolling suitcases, the train hissing like an overworked teakettle. Mom's hands flutter near my shoulders, unsure. Like she wants to pull me in but isn't sure I'll let her. I don't give her the choice. I crash into her, wrapping my arms around her, burying my face in her shoulder. "Be safe," she mumbles into my hair. "Call if you need anything. Even to rant about Chloe's interior design terrorism." I huff a laugh against her collarbone. "Deal." She pulls back, cupping my face in her hands. Her thumbs swipe under my eyes, when did I start crying, and she smiles, watery but fierce. "I love you." A whistle pierces the air. "Love you more." The words crack. Then the whistle shrieks again, urgent. "Go." She releases me, smile trembling. "And Ambre?" I pause, one foot on the train. "You've always been brave." The doors hiss shut, sealing her waving hand behind smudged glass. I watch her dissolve into the swarm of strangers until she's just another fleck of color. The compartment is half-empty, thank God. A businessman tapping at his laptop in the back. A toddler babbling to his mother across the aisle. I can deal with that. No one glances my way. No one cares. I collapse into my seat, fumbling for my headphones. Music erupts, a screaming guitar riff and drums pounding like a panicked heartbeat. I crank the volume until it drowns out everything, the murmur of passengers, the rhythmic clatter of the tracks, and the anxious buzz in my skull. My phone vibrates: – – – – – – MOM (8:17 AM): Forgot to tell you—I hid a bag of those lemon cookies you like in your backpack. Emergency rations. Don't let Chloe find them. – – – – – – A smile breaks through. ME (8:18 AM): Sneaky! I approve. I'll guard them with my life. Thanks ❤️ – – – – – – The train lurches forward. Paris blurs into green fields. My knee won't stop bouncing.   Just stay awake. Stay sharp. Do. Not. Sleep.

Hi everyone, First of all, um... sorry? I know it's been a while since I posted here. What an understatement, right?  So, I feel I owe you an explanation.  As I mentioned earlier, this isn't the first version of the story that I wrote. It's actually a rewrite of the first few chapters.  This is my first story, and I've improved a lot between the first and last chapters. In fact, I've improved so much that it was getting kind of hard for me to reread the first chapter without cringing at my earlier writing.  Thus, I decided it needed to be rewritten, so I started working on it. At first, it seemed simple enough: Take the story and write it better. Then, I had to decide  where to stop. But, the more I wrote, the more I realized I'd have to rewrite at least half of the story to get to a chapter I'd be happy with. It made me realize that I was burning the candle by its two ends. You see, the story isn't over yet, and I still want to continue writing the later chapters.  So, when writer's block hit me in the middle of chapter four, I spent a week writing and rewriting the scene with Ambre and her aunt, but I wasn't satisfied. So, I decided to continue the later chapters, and ... a year!  Yeah, I know, just like that. A full blown year writing on the later chapters, totally forgetting (or rather not wanting to think about) this "little project." You will then ask me why I didn't post the original story here on the forum. And I would reply that ... the first chapters aren't good enough. Yeah ... I know, it's an ouroboros thing!  The fact is, the first chapters are kinda bad, like bad, bad. But right now, I feel more like writing the new ones.  Thus, I have 3 options: - I post the rewritten chapter here, then keep on with the non rewritten.  - I post the rest of the rewritten chapter here, and create a new post for the old story. - I post the rest of the rewritten chapter here, and keep you waiting until I take time to rewrite the rest.  For now, I haven't decided what I will do. But I can at least give you what I've written so far! Chapter 2 - Waking up dry ? I drift slowly, caught in that hazy space between dreams and waking. Everything feels soft-edged and peaceful, my thoughts fuzzy, my body heavy. Something tugs at my consciousness... the chirping of birds outside? The coffee aroma filtering up from downstairs? I'm not sure. The only thing I know for certain is that my bed feels perfect, like my blankets have somehow transformed into the most comfortable cocoon ever. And that I just want to sink back into my pillow and pretend morning can totally wait for five more minutes. And I probably would have if my body hadn't started doing its new morning thing. My hands slide under the covers, fingers moving across the sheets, checking. But this time, something feels different. My fingers trace the sheets, back and forth, my foggy brain struggling to process what I'm feeling. Or rather, what I'm not. The sheets are... dry? I check again, barely daring to hope. But... they are dry! Completely, amazingly dry! No cold spots, no clamminess, just nice, crisp, clean sheets. "It's dry," I whisper, the words slipping out before I can stop them. I know it's silly to say it out loud, that I probably shouldn't feel this happy right now. But after so many mornings waking up to wet sheets, this feels like a miracle, and I can't help but feel a tiny spark of hope flicker in my chest. Maybe this is it. Maybe my body has finally figured things out. Maybe things are finally getting better and I don't need to wear... And just like that, yesterday crashes back into my mind, making the world tilt sideways. Mom's gentle voice suggesting "extra protection." The package, the butterflies. My trembling fingers as I... My victory crumbles to ash in my mouth. Of course, the sheets are dry, I'm wearing a... a... I feel my hand move on its own again, sliding under the covers to freeze at my pajama waistband. For one more breath, one more precious heartbeat, I can still believe in the miracle, that I woke up dry, that everything is back to normal. But deep down, I know I have to face this. I can't just run away. I need to check. My fingertips brush the edge of the padding, and the world shrinks down to just this moment, this touch. It's warm. Too warm. The crisp, fresh padding from last night, now heavier, softer. My throat tightens as I press harder, testing, hoping, praying that I'm wrong. The padding responds with a squish, and suddenly my entire body feels like it's on fire, heat racing up my neck, burning across my cheeks as something between a gasp and a whimper escapes my lips. I actually used it. No more pretending. No more hoping. The pull-up is completely soaked. My hand jerks away as waves of thoughts crash through my head. I'm eighteen. Eighteen years old and lying in my bed in a wet pull-up. A pull-up I needed, because I couldn't stay dry. A pull-up I had to put on because I kept wetting the bed like a little baby. Because I can't even control my own body. The reality of it hits me over and over. I shouldn't need this. I shouldn't be here, squirming in soaked padding, fighting back tears. I should be stronger than this. Better. I should... But at least it worked. The thought sneaks in between the chaos. My sheets are dry. No evidence, no gross wet feeling, no sheets for Mom to quietly strip away. Mom. She knew exactly how lost I'd feel waking up like this. She knew I'd need space. That's why she made me try it here first, in my own bed, instead of... Aunt Claire's guest room flashes through my mind, waking up there in soaked sheets, desperately trying to hide everything. Chloe knocking on the door, worried why I'm taking so long. My stomach twists at the thought. Maybe this is better? The practical part of my brain fights to be heard through the storm. Mom found a solution. One that works. No wet sheets. No disasters. Something simple. Easy to hide. But why can't I just be normal? The question burns in my throat, bringing threatening tears I refuse to let fall. This shouldn't be happening! Not at eighteen. Not ever! But it is. The proof is right here, heavy against my skin, impossible to ignore. I close my eyes, breathing deeply, trying to calm the swirl of thoughts and emotions inside me. I focus on the sounds drifting up from downstairs, Mom humming softly to herself, the faint clink of dishes as she moves about the kitchen, the quiet murmur of the radio turned low. I can almost see her, standing at the counter, pouring steaming coffee into her favorite mug, the silly ceramic one covered in uneven, wobbly cats. I smile faintly, remembering how proud I'd felt giving it to her at five years old, convinced it was the greatest masterpiece ever created. Now the colors are faded, the handle chipped, after years of careful use, yet Mom refuses to throw it away. She always insists it's perfect the way it is. The comforting aroma of fresh coffee now mixes with something sweet and buttery, pancakes. Mom is making her special "rough morning" breakfast, the one she makes when I need extra comfort. Another wave crashes over me, gratitude and frustration tangling together. She's trying so hard to help, to make this easier, and here I am hiding in my bed, too overwhelmed to even face breakfast. I need to move. Lying here won't solve anything. I can't stay like that. A shower. A nice, hot shower. That's what I need. With a small sigh, I throw the covers off in one quick motion and push myself up. The moment I stand, I feel it shift against my skin, heavy and bulky between my thighs. Every little movement makes me feel even more what happened, what I needed and why I needed it. My cheeks flush hot again, but I force myself to keep moving. I can't stop. I can't focus on that. I have to get ready. I head for my closet and grab my robe, wrapping it tightly around me. I know it's silly that there's no one here to see me, but somehow it helps. Shaking the thought away, I gather some clean clothes. Most of my things are already packed for Aunt Claire's house, but I quickly find what I'm looking for. Some baggy sweatpants, a fresh pair of cotton panties, and my oversized gray sweater. It's not exactly the height of fashion, but fashion is the last thing on my mind right now. I need softness and comfort. Clutching the soft bundle of clothes against my chest, I press my ear against my door, listening carefully for any sounds, any movement. But all I hear is Mom's gentle humming downstairs and the quiet clink of dishes. Slowly, cautiously, I ease open my bedroom door, peeking nervously into the hallway. Empty. Good. I know Mom probably isn't lurking around. And I know she wouldn't say anything anyway. But I can't face her, not now, not like this. The thought of her eyes meeting mine, full of understanding while I'm still wearing... it's just too much. I can't. I take a deep breath and step into the hallway, careful to close my bedroom door without making a sound. Each step toward the bathroom feels like walking through a spotlight, my heart thudding in my chest, the padding shifting beneath my robe. I feel ridiculous tip-toeing across my own hallway, and yet I can't shake the feeling that any second someone might appear and somehow just know what happened, what I'm wearing. But the house stays calm and normal, so ordinary while my heart is racing. Just a few more steps... I quickly slip inside the bathroom, closing and locking the door behind me with a gentle click. Safe. Alone in this tiny space where no one can see. The shower stands there in the corner, promising a chance to wash away this whole morning. But first, I need to deal with... this. Taking another steadying breath, I carefully untie the robe, feeling the soft fabric slip from my shoulders and pool quietly around my feet. My heartbeat picks up slightly, my fingers trembling just a little as I pause, standing there in just my pajamas, suddenly hesitant. This moment feels heavier than it should, it's just taking off my clothes, something I've done thousands of times without a second thought. But this is the moment I've been avoiding since I woke up. It's silly, but part of me doesn't want to do it. I know what I'm wearing, I know what happened, but I also know that seeing it will only make all this even more real. But I have to. Gathering my courage, I slowly hook my thumbs into the waistband of my pajama pants. Inch by inch, I ease them down, my skin tingling slightly as the cool air brushes my legs. The pants slide down, pooling softly around my ankles, and I straighten up, eyes slowly drifting downward. The pull-up is there. I swallow hard, embarrassment washing over me in persistent waves. My cheeks flush even hotter as I see the butterflies clearly for the first time since last night. I'm eighteen, standing in my bathroom, staring down at a soaked pull-up, at my soaked pull-up. The butterflies stare silently back at me, faded reminders of how I felt putting it on last night, nervous, embarrassed, hoping I wouldn't actually use it. Yet here I am. My fingers twitch softly at my sides, hesitant. I close my eyes briefly, trying to gather myself again. "Just get it over with," I whisper softly, my voice shaky. I hook my thumbs carefully inside the waistband, and pause again, my pulse fluttering nervously beneath my skin. Cool air rushes against my damp skin as the pull-up slips lower, careful inch by careful inch, raising goosebumps and sending shivers across my skin. I keep my eyes down, watching silently as the padding slips past my thighs and knees, to settle around my ankles. I step out carefully, quickly folding the pull-up onto itself. For a moment, I just hold it there, feeling the weight of it. Of what I needed, of what I still need. No! I can't go that way! Not again. Pushing the wave of thoughts away, I quickly ball up the pull-up and bury it deep in the trash bin. Out of sight, out of mind. Or at least that's what I'm hoping for. I turn the shower knob until steam rises, then step in, letting out a small gasp as the hot water hits my skin. The shock quickly melts into relief as the heat seeps into places I didn't even realize were tense. My shoulders slump. My breathing slows. I close my eyes and tilt my face into the spray, letting the water wash over me completely. I stay like that for minutes, maybe longer, hidden behind the curtain, water drumming against my skin. The steady rhythm of the droplets hitting the tub drowns out the chaos in my head. My thoughts quiet down, replaced by simple sensations, heat against my shoulders, water running down my back, the gentle swirl around my ankles as it disappears down the drain. In this pocket of steam, nothing matters but the next breath, the next heartbeat. No expectations. No pull-ups. No embarrassment. When I finally reach for the soap, something inside me has shifted. My movements are more natural, more relaxed. I run the bar over my skin in slow, deliberate strokes, watching the suds spiral down my legs, taking the last traces of the night with them. I stay until the water runs lukewarm, reluctant to step back into reality. But eventually I shut it off, the sudden silence bringing me fully back to myself. As I dry off and dress, I feel different, not fixed, not completely okay, but steadier. More grounded. I can think about what happened without that immediate flush of shame burning through me. Maybe I can handle this. I managed it this morning. I can keep it hidden. No one will ever know. I'll just be careful, like with anything else. Responsible people prepare for situations, right? That's all this is, being prepared, being smart. And now that I know what to expect, maybe tomorrow won't feel so strange. I take a deep breath, watching my reflection do the same. Mom's waiting downstairs. She'll probably look at me and just know everything that happened, read it all over my face. My heart beats a little faster at the thought, but oddly, it doesn't terrify me as much as it did. Maybe because part of me wants her to know that I'm okay, that her solution worked, that I'm handling this. I gather my damp hair into a messy knot, glance one last time at the foggy mirror, and open the door. Cool air rushes in as the pancake scent wafts up from downstairs, stronger now, practically calling my name. One step at a time. Starting with pancakes.  

I have a strategic mess in my diaper after I get up well before my wife in the solitude of the early morning and this morning is no different as I sip hot coffee, listening to updates on Iran, while I enjoy the warm, poopie squishie in my MegaMax USA diapie. I'll change and get nice and clean and baby fresh before my wife is out of bed. She knows I go potty in my diaper but we have a boundary that I don't mess my diaper and subject her or anyone for that matter to stinkies emanating from my soiled diaper. I would like to live like I have no control and mess my diaper as the need arises, but like I said, no stinkies around other people. I really don't smell much right now, but often we don't notice our own odor when others do. Courtesy and poopie discretion prevails around others. I do, however, wet my diaper wherever, whenever, and with whoever and I can be in a wet diaper for as long as 12 hours, but usually it is 6-8 hours before I change. I am also considerate and sensitive to not expose others to a pee pee stinkie diaper, so to avoid this I use 3-4 drops of baby powder scent concentrated scented oil in my diaper. There are many brands and companies as well as many different scents, just search for "concentrated scented oil" or specific "baby powder scented concentrated scented oil." I have actually had people comment on how pleasant I smell even when wet for many hours.