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I am wondering when Alfie swag will be available? Great chapters, seems like Sloane has a satellite phone, will she spill the beans on The Cradle or will Mother’s powers overwhelm her?

I'm also wearing a onesie tonight - an ODU "Year of the Tiger". And inside that a Lunar Cub (again).

Or the roommates' dog. 🙄 This happened one winter - I got home and saw the trash all over the back yard, including the diapers I had put in the bag before taking it outside. I was lucky nobody else was home at the time so I had to go out and pick everything up before someone saw what was actually in there.

Oh joy. I've got a crawl space as well - and that's where those AC lines run through. But it's between 3-4ft under there. Been probably 20 years since I was under there though - it's pretty much sealed up.

Sounds like soooo much fun, I may suggest a larger plastic like and old used shower curtain, and when I do pee play anything close to the amazing fun you had, I will use a well protected bed, or if planning ahead I take a smaller inflatable pool and softly inflated, lay in it and let go, and the pee will go into my face all over, but I learned to have towels in reach to soak it up and dry off a Little.. But I could imagine all that you said happening to me, too bad you didn't have a pee person to share with..

"Yes I am okay with nursing her, I know it's strange she is 16 but like you said she looks like a toddler and besides it's not like something I'm going to do when we're outside, she'll just get a bottle or maybe it sippy cup," Evelyn told Maggie before pulling Valeria off her breast and getting her to latch on to the other one. "And I'll admit I never got to do this when she was a real baby, so technically we're making up for lost times." Evelyn said when she looked at her baby and gently padded her bottom and bounced her just slightly.

Any P.A. players around here? https://ascension.gg/en It's an free and active World of Warcraft private server where you can learn any spells you want, no choosing a class. It's fun, and I play daily, and would welcome friends

I'm asexual, but submissive, so in the past (its been years) when pleasing a guy, I of course swallowed like a good boy.

Same here, definitely feels like Grace could have more going on that we don't know about with her own previous bedwetting issues, she seemed all to understanding and not grossed out of Maddy hanging out in a wet pull-up before. In a bit of a twisted way I was a little disappointed with Grace being busy at work, hoping that she would be around again to possibly notice Maddy once again in her pull-up, if not Maddy wetting herself at the table without even voicing her need to go to the bathroom. Out of everyone it definitely seems like Grace with her own probable diaper use and how observant she has shown herself to be, that she would be the one to figure out something more is going on with Maddy's "bedwetting", dare I saw something she can relate too?

I feel like the biggest winner 🏆

The only thing that breaks up the monotony of our days is when the new government permits journalists and filmmakers to tour their revolutionary new supermax, the crown jewel in their war on gangs. They proudly display their trophies- us gangsters they’ve captured, the defeated and diapered. The Warden gives the tours personally. He’s the only one brave enough to show his face. The only time we get news of the outside world is when the journalists talk to their cameramen and viewers, or when the Warden brags to the foreign journalists about how other nearby countries are emulating their revolutionary padded prison blueprint and tough crackdown on crime. The diapers are his favorite thing to point out. Before a tour begins, he often makes us take our shirts off to show off our gang tattoos. He has us line up at the front of our cells, our bulging, wet and messy baby diapers on full display. One of his favorite lines is “Our country is now the safest in the solar system. Children can safely play outside and go to school and our vendors can sell their goods in peace. Our streets are clean. Now the only thing these criminals dirty are their diapers.” He always laughs at his own lame joke. Today’s tour begins like any other. While the Warden escorts the journalists and film crew through intake- where they will be thoroughly searched as a matter of protocol to prevent smuggling in of any contraband- us prisoners are ordered by the Deputy Warden to take off our shirts and line up facing the cell front in just our soiled diapers, socks, and crocs. Only a few well-vetted journalists from across the globe and the space colonies get the privilege of being international propaganda. I know all this because I hear the journalists comment into their microphones how rigorous and thorough the screening process is. I sit on my bunk bed- my little space on the long metal slab bolted into the cement wall. From my reputation out on the streets and my tattoos that bear witness to my gang rank, I’ve earned the privilege of the bottom bunk. Another inmate and I stare wordlessly at each other, both our faces blank. Out on the streets, we would be rivals and kill each other on site. In here, all we can do is shut ourselves down, sit, stare, and helplessly fill our diapers. I have no affection for him, and he has none for me. But we do have mutual respect for each other as fellow victims of a ruthless regime. Suddenly the guards snap to attention as if sensing an incoming inspection. They’re always paying attention, the guards in front of the cells and the guards above the cells. Sometimes their stances may relax when their shift was almost over, but their eyes are always upon us. I’ve often wondered how they don’t get bored watching diapered jailbirds do nothing all day. How do they keep their minds from wandering and attention from wavering? Their eyes- those the only thing of their masked faces we can see- tell me. The guards fear and hate us in equal measure, and the flames of that hatred have yet to burn out. When it does, the guards will probably quit or transfer to a lower security prison and someone with a shiny new axe to grind will take their place. And here comes the Deputy Warden. Something is off. He’s sweating profusely and looks harried and nervous, not proud and excited like he usually is. He bellows orders, tone short and clipped and unsure. He keeps changing his mind on what inmates he wants up front. He points at one, shakes his head, then points at another. He bangs his baton on the iron bars when the inmates don’t crinkle fast enough for his liking. It would be so, so easy to grab that baton and bash him on the head. No one dares try. Maybe they’ve broken us more than we’d care to admit. The guards are statues, silent sentinels the Deputy Warden ignores as he prowls up and down both lines of cells. He gets near mine. With a resigned sigh, I stand up. My partially wet diaper with the teddy bear ballerinas on it crinkles then sags, the weight of a full, heavy bowel movement pulling it down. Due to my numerous tattoos, I’m usually selected to be up front. My face, head, back, and arms are covered in symbols of the respect and power I once carried. It’s my chest that draws the most interest. My entire abdomen from pelvic area to collar bones features a large hand in the devil horns pose. But the pointer and pinky fingers are the same length. Instead of human nails, these nails are sharp and pointed- claws instead of nails. A demon hand. It represents rebellion against societal norms and inner strength. The journalists are always fascinated by it and always ask the Warden what it means. The Warden loves to point my tattoo out then points out my diaper, especially if I’m visibly wet and messy. Once I helplessly crapped myself in full view of a camera. It was awful. My bruised pride remembers it so well, the first time I messed myself in front of journalists. The Warden and some nameless, faceless journalist stood on either side of my cell, just outside the damn yellow lines. Just one more step and I could’ve reached through the bars and choked both of them, a hand for each obnoxious throat. The journalist rambled on, spewing the propaganda lies he’d been fed, proclaiming how our forced diaper dependence was good and wholesome, how it supposedly shifted criminal thinking and it was a revolutionary new technique in the rehabilitation of hardened criminals. The Warden smugly nodded along. Like that fucker understood the foreign language the journalist spoke. I did. That language is my second tongue. I knew better than to reply or act like I understood, so I just stared dead-eyed and defiant at the hovering camera drone. Suddenly, no warning at all all, not even a tummy twinge, my butt trumpeted out a long, loud, and wet sounding fart. The microphone picked up every sound, every toot and squirt and squelch. The back of my thick diaper visibly ballooned out as I deposited my noisy, massive load. The cameraman operating the drone’s remote controls zoomed in on my defecation act. Then my diaper sagged with the weight of my shit. The Warden looked even more smug than usual. He explained in great detail the cutting edge technology behind our diapers. He even made me turn around so the camera had a better view of my visibly poopy diaper. This time, just like every time, I am chosen to be up front. I take my spot in front of the bars next to the other chosen sacrificial lambs while the rest of our numerous cellmates line up behind us. A few lucky ones get to stay in their bunks at the back of the cells because there is not enough room up front. We all pay attention because it’s the only thing to do in this gods-forsaken hellhole. Even a religious book would be a relief. The main door opens with a loud metallic echo. We hear the heavy stomps of the Warden’s boots before we see him. The Deputy Warden rushes to his side, stiff at attention. The guards all tense as if eager for a prison revolt or riot to put down. Three cameramen and their floating camera drones with multiple lenses to capture everything from every angle follow. Something is off with the Warden. His chest isn’t puffed out and he’s not strutting around like he usually does. He’s nervous instead of eager to show off. More guards in different uniforms come in. I stiffen at the sight. I know those uniforms. Everyone knows those uniforms. The personal bodyguards of the president. I barely repress a sneer. So the big dictator himself couldn’t resist a chance to gloat on intergalactic social media no doubt. I feel the tension in my fellow inmates, anger, pride, and defiance bubbling up. Unless the tyrant has come to personally announce the reinstatement of the death penalty, there is nothing more that man can do to us. He’s already taken away everything. I do not fear him. Hell, death would be an improvement, a release from the decades upon decades in this hell. Like we didn’t have enough guards already. It’s all a shitshow to impress the sheeple. My country’s elected dictator is followed by high ranking sycophants and toadies. His ministers and cabinet leaders, and decorated military leaders in crisp uniforms dripping with medals. The president is talking to the cameras, addressing the world and the space colonies. The Warden’s normal bluster is gone. He’s subdued, submissive to these men of higher rank and social status. My contempt for all of them only deepens. I don’t pay any attention. My eyes glaze over. I stare across the vast room to the opposite cell. It’s empty, awaiting the next load of victims condemned to diapers. The president is still yapping. I tune him out. No doubt his flapping gums are praising himself and his revolutionary new diaper rehabilitation program. He’s probably going to make some new announcement about it-maybe he’s building another prison or some big, powerful country has asked for help in implementing it. Whatever it is, his ego will not allow anyone else to make such a grand proclamation. What better place to announce any breaking news than the torture dungeon that started it all? While he blathers on, some of his entourage break off and look around at the various cells and the prized trophies on display. I keep my gaze straight ahead, my chin up in defiance and my shoulders squared in pride. My tattooed face is a hard mask, unreadable and intimidating. Despite the big baby diaper sagging with my piss and shit, I’m still a terrifying force to behold. We all are. In the past, I’ve made journalists cringe and stay far back from my cell with just my fierce demeanor. I will not give anyone here to gawk the satisfaction of engaging with them, of acknowledging they exist. I never do. Two of the flunkies manage to catch my attention. Hatred flares hot in my gut, rumbling like an impending bowel movement. How didn’t I notice those miserable bastards as soon as they walked in? I loathe those special operation soldiers more than I do any rival gangster. They wiped out the entire set of my gang. They’re the reason I’m in here. I also know a dirty little secret about those experimental freaks. I tried to tell it but no one would believe me. After the atrocities those two committed, they should be locked away in a cell with us. They deserved to be shaved and forever diapered like us. Instead those bastards are celebrated as heroes. It’s just more fascist propaganda. My gaze focuses on them, bitter revulsion smoldering. They don’t notice me. New medals shine on their uniforms. What makes those government lapdogs such monsters? Glad you asked. Nanites. Tiny robots so small you need a microscope to see them. They’re new, first used in medicine about the same time the moon colony was established. They manipulate organic tissue at the cellular level. I read an article in my smart watch about them once when a drug drop off was late. They’re mostly used in surgery to repair damaged tissue and organs. Cut out a tumor and the nanites will construct healthy tissue. It’s revolutionary and saving lives. Spinal cord injuries that would’ve left someone paralyzed a century ago are now nearly fully treatable with recovery just a matter of time. Some causes of blindness can be treatable. Nanites make the lame walk and the blind see, cancer cured. Friggin miracles. Like many new things, the use of nanites first started off only for the wealthy upper classes in rich, privileged countries then slowly trickled down and spread over the rest of the world to the poor and downtrodden and eventually became a new standard of healthcare. Emergency responders carry injectable vials of them. What happens when they’re used to manipulate and fuck with healthy cells? A top secret government and military experiment, that’s what. Super soldier freaks like Thing One and Thing Two walking down the rows of cells. Enhanced speed, endurance, and strength. And fucking night vision. I found that last one out too little, too late. I’ve heard whispered rumors there’s more of the fuckers, but I don’t really know. Then again, I brushed rumors of nanite experimentation off as conspiracy theories and fake news until I saw it with my own eyes. Many civilians say the tattoos turn gang members into monsters. I know the truth. I’m just a human dealt an unfair hand in life who did what he had to to do survive in a cold, hard, cruel world that wanted him to die. Thing One and Thing Two? They’re the real monsters. My gaze locks onto Thing One. He looks like any young man in his late teens or early twenties. Fit, muscled, a perfect soldier boy. His short cropped hair is dyed cherry red. To symbolize his desire to spill blood? His perfect white teeth flash in a radiant smile I remember so well. Even in the midst of a shootout deep in the jungle he smiled. He smiled as he killed my gang brothers. That red hair. Soldiers, government boot lickers, are not normally allowed such self-expression. I guess the monsters get special privileges for being good little guinea pigs. On his hip he carries a slip of a boy, a little waif around fourteen years of age. The boy is a soft, effeminate version of him with porcelain skin and hair dyed cherry red in imitation of his big brother. No denying their relationship. The boy’s head lay on his big brother’s shoulder. He is a delicate doll. He would’ve fetched a high price on the black market. Rich pedophiles would pay anything for such fine, tender flesh. It’s why I ordered my men to kidnap him in the first place. That was my crucial mistake. He is a pampered, spoiled brat born to wealth and power. I never should have taken him. But he was so beautiful, his flesh worth so much. I was blinded by greed and couldn’t resist. Rich or not, I’d have him spirited away so far and so fast his family would never see him again. I didn’t know at the time about his big brother. I never understood Thing One. How could someone born to such a posh, privileged life end up a military guinea pig? Did his father, a well known and decorated general, volunteer his eldest son to prove his loyalty to the new regime? Did Thing One volunteer willingly out of love and loyalty for his country, his people and stupid idealism? Did he martyr himself for the greater good? Fucking dumbass. The baby brother is quiet and still, clinging to his big brother and obviously terrified of all the diapered monsters in their cages. No double reliving painful memories. I hope the little shit got PTSD. It would serve him right. He sucks a petite thumb, drooling. A white terrycloth bib trimmed in red is tied around his neck to catch his drool. Only one of his big brown eyes moves around. The other is unfocused, vacant. Blind. He breathes through a tracheostomy hole and tube in his neck. A feeding tube is heavily taped to one cheek and goes up one nostril and down his throat. The boy’s pants balloon out in an unmistakable diaper bulge. A perfect circle scar of angry pink and white right between his eyes mars the perfection of his complexion. A memento of when I shot him point blank. He should’ve died. I thought he was dead.

I do have a cat. She was scared of the possum and hid in the kitchen on high shelves. Still in the kitchen unsure that Paulie is really gone.

Crawl space, too short for me to move around in.

I was having an issue with mice for a while. I think I finally figured out where they were getting in - through the gap where the AC lines pass through the outside wall. I bought some expanding foam that's specifically for pest control (guess it's got some kind of repellent in it) and filled it in solid. So far so good. What about outside?

I thought he had a cat (or is it two?).

Read this a while back and had to revisit it. I sure hope Samantha and Holly’s adventures continue - they both seem to have enjoyed themselves too much to leave it where you did. Maybe Holly could use Samantha’s help to fulfill a well-paying client’s fantasy of not being an only child for once? Keep it up - the dynamic between these two is great.

Yes please as i take your hand i also start to pee myself

There is nothing better than to hear a guy say he's going to cum. Feeling his balls contract and his cock pulse as he fills my mouth with his warm creamy sperm to swallow is such a wonderful experience

Mom: i finish with your sisters diaper and come and get you for your diaper change

Thanks Do you want to help

Twenty-Seven: A Baby…Like the Rest of Them I have no memory of ever being bathed by someone else before. I’m sure it happened–I doubt that my mother or father just hosed me off in the backyard in my early years. It’s just something that remains outside of my memory. I do have memories of taking baths, though. Memories of my mother filling a tub with water and soap before leaving me to my own devices. “Let me know when you’re done so that I can dry you off,” she’d say–a lesson she learned early on when I’d tromp through the house while still mostly naked and soaking wet. This, too, is a story my sister always likes to tell–especially when there’s someone around who’s never heard it before. I don’t know, baths aren’t things that kids talk about with each other. We don’t go to school and compare notes about the kind of shampoo we use, or our preferred method for using a washcloth. TV shows, and the mutterings from adults I’ve known throughout my life, would suggest that there’s plenty of kids who don’t enjoy baths. And, sure, I guess baths could occasionally be seen as interruptions in my busy schedule of garbage TV shows and playing with toys, but I always liked baths. I liked submerging my head in the bathtub. I’d become a fish. A shark, maybe. Sometimes a submarine. And the game was always fun–at least until the water got too much soap or shampoo in it and I’d have to surface to wipe my bleary eyes dry with a towel. Somewhere in the back of Daycare, Freya and I are in a small semi-private area with a rather large bathtub and a small changing area. It’s not a room–it’s more like a stall. I think there’s a few of these little bathing stations in a row. From further down the hall, I can hear the sound of a feminine voice gently cooing at someone as water splashes. Someone else is getting a bath too. Maybe it’s Gwen. “Do you like these tubs?” Freya asks. I shrug. “I dunno. Never been in one like this before. I guess we’ll find out.” She laughs and shakes her head. “What’s funny about that?” “Sweetie, you’ve been in these tubs before. You’ve been in this particular tub a few times.” “What? When?” But then it dawns on me–it was probably when I was staying in Daycare for a while. When I was consumed by the milk and out of it. “You were here for a few days, remember. And babies need baths.” I shrug. I’m currently sitting in the tub on my ass, my knees pulled up in front of me so they’re level with my chest. For now–while I wait for the water level to completely conceal my body–my arms are wrapped around my legs so that I don’t feel quite as vulnerable. The hot water feels good as it slowly climbs my body. I can already see the dirt and grime floating away from my skin as it mingles with the liberal amount of soap that’s been added. “You were so cute,” Freya coos. “I’d give you a bath, and you’d dunk your head under the water without me asking you too. You were like a little fish in there.” I feel myself blushing. I guess some bathtime habits never really go away. Was I a fish? A shark? Freya has a large yellow sponge in her hand, and she dips it into the warm water a few times, squeezing it when she pulls it out to push out the excess water. When she presses it against my skin, I find that it feels a little more rigid than what I was expecting. “I often prefer a softer one,” she says, assumedly talking about the sponge. “But when you want someone to be clean–especially clean–a little exfoliating is in order.” “Is it going to hurt?” I ask. I have a general idea of what is meant by ‘exfoliating,’ but some folks seem willing to sacrifice a lot of comfort when it comes to cleanliness and beauty. “Does this hurt?” she asks, slowly moving the well-lathered sponge in circular patterns on my upper back. “N-no.” It feels very good, in fact. “There you go.” “What were you like?” I ask. The words just kind of spill out–barely formed and thought through. “Hm?” “I mean…before you were here,” I say. She smiles. “I’m still the same person, believe it or not.” “That’s…” “I know that’s not what you meant, silly.” She playfully squeezes her sponge above my head, causing warm water to cascade down my face. I kind of love that feeling. “Would it surprise you to learn that I was a teacher?” “A little,” I say. “What age did you teach? Because if you were my teacher when I was a teenager, I’d have been thinking about you a lot.” My cheeks blush as I say this–maybe I’m being a little too candid. But she has the sort of personality that makes me feel comfortable with opening myself a little more than I might normally. Mirabelle has a similar quality. So did Maxine. “Just little boys and girls,” she smiles. “If I was in their fantasies, it was probably them hoping I’d skip a lesson and putting a movie on instead.” “And what brought you…here?” I also want to ask if I’m asking too many personal questions, but maybe I should just keep that one to myself and, instead, keep my mouth shut after this. “Love,” she says simply. “But it was a different kind of love that brought me here than the love that keeps me here now.” Well, how can I not ask a follow-up question to that? “How so?” “When I first came here, I didn’t come alone. I came with my husband. In fact, I came for my husband. This was what he wanted, and I was just along for the ride.” “Married?” I say. It is a question, but I don’t actually mean to ask it so much as I just puzzle over it aloud. “He’s not here, if that’s what you’re asking. He’s gone back home. And we aren’t married any longer either.” “Oh. I’m…really sorry to hear that.” She laughs and rubs the top of my head–messing up my wet hair with her fingers. “Don’t be sorry. It wasn’t a bad thing. Sometimes things just don’t work out like you think they will. That was true for both him and I. We’re happier now, I think. In our own ways.” I can’t be entirely sure–the water in the tub is pretty warm–but I think I’m peeing a little. I finally release my grip on my legs, allowing them to extend out in front of me. I feel a little more exposed and vulnerable, despite being submerged, but I find that I don’t mind this feeling. “I… Maybe I know how that is,” I say. “Is that so?” “Well it’s not the same thing,” I shrug. “I wasn’t married or anything. But I did kind of, uh, part ways with someone special in my life when I decided to come back.” “Does that make you sad?” she asks. “Sometimes. It’s not that I think I made the wrong decision or anything like that. I think I just…miss her.” “Oh sure,” she nods. “I know that feeling.” “You miss him?” I ask. “Do you wish he was here?” I’m asking more questions, but I think I get a pass–we’re engaged in a conversation now. “I miss him, sure. He was my best friend. But I don’t wish that he was here, no. He didn’t think this place was for him, and that’s why he’s not.” I wonder–and it’s not the first time I’ve considered this–if Maxine would like it here. It’s possible, but I also don’t think this place is for her. “When you’re not babbling like a baby, you’re very inquisitive,” she says, running the sponge down my chest and belly. “Sorry…I keep telling myself to stop asking you things.” She chuckles. “I don’t mind. And, truth be told, I rarely ever talk about myself anymore.” “Really?” “A lot of the babies I care for aren’t asking questions about me,” she says. “They’re easier not asking anything at all–because they can’t–or they’re asking about what’s in store for them next.” “Babies can be selfish,” I say. “Oh, but we don’t hold that against them,” she says. “We expect that. We cater to that. That’s the joy of The Cradle, isn’t it? You’re here because you want to be cared for.” “True.” Under the water, her hand guides the sponge down between my thighs, slowly dragging it across my skin as she approaches my cock. It’s like a switch has been flipped in my brain, and I suddenly remember the position I’m in–nude and in a bathtub, being cleaned by one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever met. This realization, in turn, causes my cock to stiffen almost immediately–just in time for her sponge to find it. “What is it that always excites you when you’re around me?” she asks. “Is it me? Or is it that you just love being treated this way?” “Can’t it be both?” “You wouldn’t get hard like this for anyone else?” she asks with a wry grin. “Well…” I’d probably sound like a fool if I was to say ‘no.’ And it’s not like I can say that she somehow makes my cock harder than anyone else. “I’m teasing,” she says, her sponge rubbing against the head of my shaft. “T-tease me more,” I say softly–the words, again, slipping out of my mouth before I can stop them. “All you little boys are the same,” she says. “You can’t help yourselves.” I kind of want to take a little offense to this–I don’t want to be like the other boys. I want to be a unique snowflake. But, I mean, of course she’s right. What boy wouldn’t get a little stiff when being given a nice bath–with extra attention paid to said stiffness. “I think it’s your fault,” I say. She giggles at this, gently splashing me with one of her hands. “You think?” I keep my mouth locked shut, afraid I’ll continue to say more than I actually want to. “Boys do seem to have trouble with stiff little things like this,” she muses–almost to herself–as her hand pulls at my cock under the water. “Maybe it is me.” “It…it’s not a bad thing,” I mutter. “Oh, I know that,” she smiles. Her hand slowly glides up my cock again. It’s a strange sensation–being stroked like this underwater. Stranger yet might be that we’re not exactly concealed–anyone could walk by and see this–but because nobody is walking past, most of what I’m thinking about is the thrill of her hand on my submerged shaft. “It probably won’t surprise you,” she says softly, her other hand again casually flipping some hair over her shoulder as she tilts her head and smiles at me. There’s a real sense of intimacy in the moment that I find myself almost completely lost in. There’s nothing else of importance on this planet–it’s just me and her. “But I’m very fond of pleasuring the little boys who come here.” “I…uh…” I’d like to say something about how I expected as much, but it’s hard to say anything at all now. She presses her finger against my lips, reminding me that I don’t actually have to speak. “And, normally, I’d love nothing more than to keep rubbing you like…this.” Her hand slowly slides to my head again and pauses. “And then…like this…” And her hand slides back down the shaft to my balls. “Over and over and over again until you finally lose control.” I’d say something about how that’s a very good idea, but her finger remains pressed against my lips. Instead, I just moan a little–eager for her to continue with that ‘over and over and over again’ it kind of sounds like she’s offering. No. Instead, she stops abruptly. I think–I hope–that she’s just pausing for a moment and she’ll be resuming soon. But then her hand pulls away altogether. “W-wait…” I say, forcing my lips open despite her finger still being there. “Oh, it pains me to stop too, baby boy,” she sighs–though there’s certainly a playfulness in that exhalation. “But I might just be doing you a favor.” “How so?” I pout. She smirks, tousling my hair again. “Because now you’re all riled up. Now you want that sweet release oh-so-badly, don’t you?” “Yes…” How this was doing me a favor, I still didn’t understand. “Good. Now take that energy and go into the Rebirth Festival with it,” she says. “And then you can thank me later.” I’m thinking: I doubt it. But I don’t say it aloud, instead just grumbling a little. “Now, then, let’s get you nice and clean and into a fresh diaper. Doesn’t that sound nice?” No matter how frustrated I might be, I can’t deny that she’s at least right about that. “It does,” I nod. === After being toweled off–and, let it be known, Freya is remarkably efficient when it comes to drying someone off with a towel–I’m escorted back to one of the changing tables, where I find myself in the familiar position of being on my back. A new diaper is slid beneath me, and I’m hit with a few heavy shakes of baby powder before I’m sealed into the warm and cozy padding. “You’ll need something new to wear,” Freya says. “That onesie you were in will need a good washing.” I never really think much about clothing around here. We all have the things we brought from home, and maybe some people do own their own onesies and infantile dresses and what-not that they like to wear. But I didn’t bring anything like that. It’s never been an issue, either. There are always clothes around. Onesies and sweatsuits and shirts and skirts and dresses and overalls and bonnets and bibs and… There’s an abundance of clothes, it seems. And they’re all, more or less, communal. You’ll go and get your diaper changed and you’ll never know what you’re going to walk away from the changing table wearing. She holds up a pastel pink onesie–so light that it’s almost white, but still distinctly pink–with an embroidered flower on the front of it. “I don’t have much in your size at the moment. Not here, at least. Blame all the visitors.” I grimace a little, but I don’t actually care all that much. Pink has never bothered me before, and it’s especially unconcerning in a place as open-minded as The Cradle. “That’s fine,” I say, sitting up so that she can slide it over my head and extended arms. “Are you excited?” she asks. “Uh, well…” My cock isn’t throbbing and hard at the moment, but it’s not completely soft either. Just thinking about her hand on my shaft again gets me a little firmer, though. “Just a little.” She rolls her eyes and giggles. “I don’t mean if you’re pee-pee is excited. I meant, are you excited? About the Rebirth Festival?” “Oh,” I say, my cheeks reddening again. “Maybe. I mean, everyone assures me it’s going to be a good time. But I still don’t really know what it is. I can’t tell if everyone is acting cagey about the details for it, or if I’m just not asking the right questions.” “What do you want to know?” she asks. “Ask me the right question, then.” Yeah, I dunno. I think back to a conversation I had with Mirabelle not that long ago. I had jokingly asked if it was actually a giant orgy–which she hadn’t exactly confirmed or denied. Maybe that would be a fun thing to keep as a surprise. And, well, is that the sort of thing that Freya would want me ‘riled up’ for? I have to laugh. The fantasy of an orgy–especially one drenched in milk–sounds pretty amazing in theory. But I can already sense my body seizing up just thinking about it. An actual orgy? With naked strangers? I could never perform in an environment like that. I’d have eight consecutive panic attacks. I have no questions, for now. === I’ve slipped my feet into a pair of sandals that Freya has provided–I have no idea what happened to my old ones–and she sends me on my way with a tight hug and a playful swat to the bottom. The rain has stopped, for now, but dark clouds remain poised above The Cradle. The ground is still saturated, with plenty of mud and puddles of water to avoid. The childish temptation remains to stomp my way through them all again, but that seems a little rude after all the effort Freya put into cleaning me up. I kind of want to find Sloane again, but who knows where she is by this point. I figure I’ll walk back to the dining hall and start my search there. I have no sense of what time it is. I look up into the sky again, disappointed that I can’t see where the sun is. This makes me laugh, though. I’m not some boy scout–I don’t know how much seeing the sun would actually help me. Maybe if I had my phone… But, I’ve stopped carrying my phone around with me. Seeing as how The Cradle has no reception, there just doesn’t seem to be much of a point in carrying around what is essentially a clock–and occasional camera. Besides, where is a baby even supposed to put a phone? All the onesies I’ve worn don’t have any pockets, and I’m certainly not going to store it in my diaper. It’s better this way. Having distance from my phone keeps me at a further distance from the rest of the world. I wonder if I have any messages. Maxine? Sam? Nikki… I really miss Nikki. Which would probably annoy her if I was to tell her this. She’d snort and say: “Why?” She’d roll her eyes so hard if she could see me now. The baby stuff. The splashing around in mud. The attention from lovely ladies–and that one handsome guy–changing my diapers. She’d be having such a good time right now if she was here–not because she’d be enjoying the same things I was, but because she’d enjoy making fun of me for enjoying them so much. “Alfie!” a voice calls out as the dining hall comes into view. I look up to see Tommy trotting towards me–a little bit of an awkward waddle in his stride. Everyone has a waddle around here, which seems obvious when you consider our underpants of choice. But I find that I’m getting better at detecting the types of waddles. There’s the ‘I’m not used to wearing diapers all the time yet,’ waddle–one that I’ve probably only gotten away from recently. There’s the ‘I’ve pissed my body’s weight into this diaper’ waddle. And the ‘I’ve been wearing this diaper for way too long and now my thighs are starting to chafe’ waddle. And who could forget the classic ‘I’ve dropped a massive load into the back of my diaper’ waddle–which is exactly the one that I think Tommy is sporting. This seems to be confirmed as he draws closer, and a new stink is added to the air. “Hey, Tommy.” I’m tempted to comment on the diaper he’s packing, but I can’t imagine I’d be saying anything he doesn’t already know. “That girl you were hanging with earlier was looking for you.” “Sloane?” He nods. “Where is she now? Still over there?” I point towards the dining hall. “Dunno,” he says. “That was a while ago. I think she left.” “Hrm.” I scratch my head. If she’s not here, I’m not really sure what to do with myself next. “Hey,” he says. “Did I see you outside earlier when all those people were playing in the mud?” “Oh yeah,” I laugh, nodding. I kind of want to brag that the whole mud thing was my idea, but I keep that to myself. “Did I see, uh, Gwendolyn O’Neil out there with you?” “Yeah…” “Shit, man. She actually looked like she was having a good time, too.” “You sound surprised,” I say. “Man, I tried so hard to have a good conversation with her when I was bringing her back from town the other day, but she just wasn’t biting. It felt like I was pulling teeth just to make small talk. You don’t think it’s me do you? Do people just not like talking to me?” “I don’t think that’s it,” I shrug. But…that might be it. It’s not that he’s a repulsive guy–I think he can be a pretty nice guy–I just think he tries too hard. It’s the sort of thing that probably rubs some people the wrong way when they first meet him. Maybe, if I knew him a little better, I could say something about that. For now, I’m going to try and dodge that conversation. “Then what is it?” he asks. “Well, uh, I’ll tell you this,” I say. “You’re not smelling all that fresh. Maybe that’s the problem.” He laughs at this. “Yeah…I guess I am a little ripe.” “Go get yourself changed,” I say, as if this was somehow the cure for whatever ails him. “Yeah, yeah…” He begins to waddle past me, only to stop and glance back at me. “Oh, did you hear about the opening ceremony tonight for the festival?” I shake my head, expecting to hear some gossip about what the plan would be. “The field in front of the farmhouse,” he says. “That’s what I heard, at least. You haven’t heard anything about it?” I laugh. “What would I know about that?” He shrugs. “I just assumed you might’ve heard something. Seems like you and Mirabelle get along well.” I make a mental recording of that and immediately play it back, scanning it for traces of resentment or passive aggressiveness. Results: inconclusive. I’m going to give him the benefit of the doubt and assume that he’s not actually bitter that I’ve somehow forged a friendship with Mirabelle in my short time here. Because, honestly, I’m not sure how that happened either. “I, uh, haven’t heard anything,” I say. And I’m happy that’s the truth–I worry he’d give me, at the very least, some disapproving frown if I had inside information that he didn’t. “I’ll see you later?” he asks. “Of course,” I nod. “Look for me at the festival-thing tonight.” “Sounds good,” he says, a more genuine smile on his face now. And with that, he waddles off–his ‘I’ve dropped a massive load into the back of my diaper’ waddle even more pronounced than it was before. === I realize that I need a little structure in my life. I’m not ever going to be one of those people who plan out every part of their day–but I just need a general sense of where I’m supposed to be at some point. What I should be doing. How long I should be doing it for. Work, like school–and I have an equal amount of disdain for both–is actually kind of good for this. Even if I don’t enjoy working, it gives me something to do and something to plan my day around. I actually fear retirement, as I worry that I’ll have nothing to do with all my time. Maybe I’ll have a hobby by then, I tell myself. Something like…building model boats inside of bottles, or golf, or whatever it is old men do when they reach a certain age. The Cradle, for all its great qualities, has me feeling that fear a little. There are things to do, but a lot of those roles and responsibilities either seem like you have to be given them by someone else (like Tim’s involvement with the crops, I assume) or you have to just make your own mark on this place (like Holden’s library). I lack the motivation to do my own thing, and I worry I haven’t displaced any desirable skills to get me assigned to anything beyond sorting candies in bags–which I wasn’t even all that good at. All this to say, that I get uncomfortable when I have time to kill here on my own. I think about this as I enter the dining hall again, scanning the area for Sloane. I like Sloane–I think she’s cool–but I don’t actually know her all that well. I’m looking for because it’s easier to kill time with someone else, and I always get the feeling that she’s looking for someone to help her do the same thing. So maybe I’m not just looking for Sloane–I’m looking for anyone that I know. For this reason, I kind of wish Anders was here. He’d take me under his babified wing automatically, and we’d probably have all sorts of fun together. Oh, or maybe if Maxine was here? We’d sneak off into the woods and rub our diapers against each other all day. Hell, I wouldn’t even mind if Nikki was here. She’d probably put her foot down on wearing diapers herself, but she’d sure as hell love making fun of the other babies while following me around. Maybe I’m just homesick? Sloane had mentioned being homesick herself the other day. Yet another reason to want to find her–maybe we could commiserate for a few minutes. “Everything alright?” a friendly voice says as a body appears at my side and a hand is placed on my back. I don’t personally know this guy, but he’s someone I’ve seen around plenty. Liam, maybe? Sure, he’s dressed the part of a baby, with his footed pajamas–the feet of which are crammed into a pair of sneakers–but he still kind of looks out of place here. His tall stature, silky blonde hair, and chiseled jawline remind me of someone hanging out at an expensive bar in the city. The kind of guy who does ‘something’ with the stock market–whatever it is one does with that. “Oh, uh…” I realize that I was probably just standing in one spot, gawking at the crowd with a dumb look on my face, for longer than I meant to. “Looking for someone?” “Sloane?” I ask without thinking. “Yeah, I think I know her,” he says, nodding his head. I don’t trust the smile on his face–I’ve seen it before. Not on him, but a lot of guys have a smile like that. It’s the smug kind of smile that says “Yeah, I’ve seen her–and I like what I saw.” “Have you, uh, seen her around here?” He shakes his head. “I did see her, but it wasn’t here.” There’s an awkward pause in the conversation–as this is the part where I just assume he’s going to tell me where he spotted her. But then I realize he’s waiting for me to ask the question, which makes me want to roll my eyes pretty badly. “So, uh, where’d you see her?” I finally ask. “Well…” He turns and looks back at the door–maybe trying to retrace the steps he took to get here? He scratches his head. “Somewhere between Cabin 6 and here.” That makes sense. Assuming Cabin 6 is close to Cabin 5, and Cabin 5 is where Sloane lives–that probably would’ve been my next destination anyway. Heading back outside again, I’m still thinking about how I’m only really looking for Sloane because I don’t know what else to do with myself. But, really, I’d take any distraction right now. === My diaper is wet again. It’s funny how that happens. I’ll not be thinking about my diaper for a while, and then I’ll suddenly realize that walking feels different–only to discover that it's because my diaper has swollen between my thighs. Of course, it’s almost always a good surprise. I have a general sense of how to get to Cabin 5 from here, and so I lazily waddle down the wet trail–happy that the rain continues to hold off. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a flash of light coming from a small grove of trees about 20 feet away. Maybe it’s not the kind of thing I’d have noticed any other day, but the clouds overhead have made the areas beneath the trees especially dark. Something suddenly lighting up–an artificial bluish-white light–will get your attention. I recognize it immediately as the screen of a cell phone. But the phone illuminates a face and–I think–it’s Sloane’s face. Without thinking about it, I change course a little, walking in that direction to see if it’s her or not. She’s talking to someone, I can hear her as I draw closer. But it doesn’t seem like anyone’s responding, so maybe she’s just talking on the phone. Out here, though? I’ve walked through this area with my phone countless times and I’ve never had good reception. I’d love to know what company she has a phone through. Without even realizing it, at first, I slow my pace a little. If she’s on the phone, I don’t want to disturb her. I figure I’ll hang back a little bit, wait until she’s done, and then go say hi. But it seems I’m a little too close by the time I realize this. I can hear her pretty well. And now I’m nervous that if I turn and walk away, she’ll see or hear me. So I just freeze in the darkness of a grove of trees–praying that she doesn’t spot me and assume that I’m a creepy stalker. “...it’s harder than you think,” she says to whoever is on the phone. I really don’t want to eavesdrop. I try to distract myself with some daydreaming instead. For a few moments, the thought of Freya pressing a sponge against my cock does the trick nicely, but it’s also kind of hard not to hear what Sloane is saying. “...and these people are nice,” she says. “All of them. Just the nicest people. I know you want to make fun of them for having this weird little ‘diaper club,’ or whatever, but they know they’re weird. They embrace it. It’s refreshing, honestly.” I’m missing context, of course, so I really don’t want to assume anything–but if she’s talking about The Cradle, and the people in it, it’s strange to me that she talks about it like she’s not a part of it herself. After a beat, she says: “I dunno. I just… I’ve been here for a while, you know? They trust me.” My eyes narrow a little. Am I in a fucking spy movie all of a sudden? What is she talking about? Another moment or two pass–presumably while the person on the other end of the line is talking. Then: “I can tell you right now, it’s real. This, uh, milk…it works. I promise you that it works.” A pause. “Uh, do you want to know how I know?” she asks, a harsher tone to her voice now. “Because I’m wearing a fucking diaper right now. I have to wear a diaper right now because otherwise I’d be honest-to-god shitting my pants like an infant. So, yeah, I think it fucking works.” Another pause. Maybe I’m wrong? Maybe this isn’t Sloane? As best as I can tell, it looks like Sloane, and it sounds like her voice. But these don’t sound like the sorts of things that Sloane would say. But, again, maybe I just don’t know Sloane that well at all. “Look, I have to get going,” she says. A brief pause and then: “I know. I know. Look, I’m ready whenever you are. I’m here. I know what my plan is. I just need to know that when the time comes, you’ll be ready too.” Sloane looks right at me. Or, at least, she’s looking in my direction. But she doesn’t seem to notice me. It’s her, though–now I’m certain of that. “Yeah, well you figure that out, then,” she sighs. “Let me know when you do. I guess, in the meantime, I’ll just…be a fucking baby like the rest of them. Do you still want me to call you tomorrow?” Pause. “Okay. Bye.” And then she walks back towards the trail, walking right past where I’m lurking in the shadows–my breath held and my body as still as I can make it. It seems to work, as she doesn’t seem to notice me. It looks like she’s walking towards her cabin. I could, I suppose, wait a few minutes and go knock on the door and act like I was just looking for her. But after hearing that conversation–or parts of it–I’m not so sure I want to do that. Who is Sloane? Twenty-Eight: We Are One I still don’t know what time it is, but it’s getting darker out. Somewhere, on the other side of the canopy of clouds extending across our part of California, the sun is setting. “May I have your attention,” a tinny, slightly staticked, voice says. I look for the source of the voice, before realizing that there’s a speaker mounted to a pole nearby. I assume there must be some all over The Cradle. I’m not sure how I never noticed this before. Maybe because they’ve never been used while I’ve been here. “At this time, we’d like to direct everyone to the Farmhouse, where we’ll be commencing with the opening ceremonies for this year’s Rebirth Festival shortly.” From off in the distance–beyond where I can see, at least–I hear a boisterous “Woo hoo!” Closer to where I’m walking, I see a pack of babies heading in the opposite direction suddenly stop, pivot, and walk right back in the direction they just came from. Sure, I’m excited. I’ve wanted to see what this was all about since I was first told that there was even such a thing as a “Rebirth Festival.” Honestly, I kind of want to let out a little ‘woo hoo’ myself, but my excitement feels slightly tampered at the moment. I’m still reeling from the conversation I overheard Sloane having. I know I’m missing the context. I don’t know anything at all about the position she’s in, or who she was talking to. But what I did hear gave me some shady vibes. Even if I don’t know the whole story, I feel like I know enough to be concerned. Someone, I think, is asking her to smuggle milk out of The Cradle. And Sloane might not actually be staying here because she wants to be a baby like the rest of us. “I’ll just…be a fucking baby like the rest of them,” she had said. This might’ve been the most damning moment–the part where she revealed that she doesn’t actually see herself as one of us. I’m tempted to take this information right to Mirabelle. But what then? Would I be adding stress to Mirabelle’s plate when it’s probably overflowing with tasks related to the festival? And it’s not like I have any definitive proof to show for my suspicions. If Mirabelle heeded my warning and asked Sloane what was going on, all Sloane would need to say is “That conversation never happened,” and that would be that. But I know. And I’m an investigator. Well, okay, I’m not. But I have the opportunity to finally be one now. I can be the investigative reporter I’ve always wanted to be. The journalist as opposed to the ‘guy who writes shitty fluff pieces that nobody reads.’ Alfie–Baby Detective. Put that on a fucking t-shirt. First thing’s first, I need to find Sloane again. I’m not going to confront her about what I know, but I want to be able to keep an eye on her. I haven’t decided yet if I’m just going to follow her from the shadows–as if I had the stealth skills for that–or if I’m just going to meet up with her and pretend that everything is fine and dandy. I guess I’ll just see what makes the most sense when I find her. The babies are headed towards the farmhouse in droves. It’d be easy enough to just follow them all, but I reckon that I’m close enough to Sloan’s cabin that I’ll probably see her as she makes her way over there herself. And so I wait and observe. Wait, I think. What if she’s not going to the festival? What if she’s going to take this opportunity to pull off some sort of heist or…caper? What if… “Alfie?” I spin around to find that Sloane is behind me. I’m already questioning my prowess as a ‘baby detective.’ “Oh, hey. I was just looking for you,” I say. “Here I am,” she smiles. I scan her body for tells that she’s being less than genuine. Not only do I not know what I’m looking for, but she seems as ‘normal’ as she’s always seemed. If I hadn’t overheard that conversation, I certainly wouldn’t suspect anything was up while talking to her now. “Were you headed over to the farmhouse?” “Yeah,” I nod. “Are you?” She seems a little thrown off by my tone–maybe I sounded a little too accusatory (Note to self: tone that shit down), but she’s otherwise unshaken. “Well, yeah. I was actually going to look for you, so I’m glad I ran into you.” “Cool,” I say. “Wanna walk over there together?” “Absolutely,” she says. I still detect no fakeness in her tone. I’m torn. I truly want to enjoy both the festival and Sloane’s company. I still like Sloane, and I want to give her the benefit of the doubt that she’s not up to anything screwy–that I just totally misheard or misconstrued the conversation snippets I was accidentally privy to. “I lost you this morning,” she says. “Back at the dining hall.” “Oh, right. I, uh, met this woman and we got to talking and…” I’m realizing how ridiculous this is going to sound as I’m saying it. “...we ended up going outside to jump around in the mud.” She laughs. “That was you? I saw a bunch of people outside in the rain, but I didn’t think you were a part of that.” Not only was I a part of that, but I had helped instigate the whole thing–though I choose to keep this to myself. We’re walking again, headed in the direction of the farmhouse. For a moment, I thought I was following her, but now I think she’s following me. She seems…normal. She seems excited and in good spirits. She sounds like the person I thought she was. If this is all an act, she’s doing a hell of a job. “You should’ve joined us,” I say. She shrugs. “At the time, I was thinking that I never really liked playing in the mud and getting dirty.” “Well, sure,” I shrug. “We all thought that. That was the whole point–to get out there and do something we don’t ever do as adults.” “It was such a mess though…” “You’ve probably had worse messes in your diaper this week.” Her cheeks immediately turn pink and she looks away from me. “Get outta here…” Everything still feels natural with her. She talks and acts like she wants to be here. Like she belongs here. I must’ve misunderstood something–that’s the only explanation. Still, I have to poke the hornet’s nest a little more. I’m not satisfied yet. “Hey, can I ask you something?” “Sure,” she says, the extra pink in her cheeks fading a little. “What brought you to The Cradle? Like, how did you find out about this place?” This, I feel, is going to be where I’ll see right through a bullshit answer. “Friend of a friend,” she says quickly. Too quickly? I’m not sure, but my gut is uncomfortable with the speed of that reply. Or…maybe I just have to poop? “I assume your friend–or, uh, this friend’s friend–must’ve known this place would be the kind of thing you’d be into?” “Uh huh,” she nods. “Her and I–and, uh, the mutual friend we have–we were all part of the same, like, local-ish scene together?” She suddenly sounds nervous and awkward. Is it that she’s spinning lies, or is it just weird to talk about the local scene of diaper-lovers that she came from? “Oh yeah?” I say. “Did your friend come here too?” “N-no,” she says. “He wanted to, but…uh, he just couldn’t commit to it. Married with kids and all that.” I raise an eyebrow. “Married? But he was, uh, playing around with the other adult babies?” She smirks. “Are you just assuming that he was cheating on his wife?” Maybe I am. Or, maybe I’m just reminded of how I’m still annoyed at Anders for keeping my sister so far out of the loop. I guess, in a way, I have his indiscretions to thank for my being here–but that doesn’t mean that he’s automatically forgiven. “Ah, sorry,” I say. “I shouldn’t assume.” “His wife was his ‘mommy’ for a while,” she says. “Well, until she became a literal mommy, you know? They had three kids. She was fine with him having playmates from time to time, though.” “And you were one of those playmates?” I ask. I shouldn’t do this–a professional investigator would probably slap me across the face for putting words in her mouth. “Uh huh,” she nods. The next minute or two are spent mostly in silence. I feel like I fumbled my chance at questioning her. I can try again, but it’ll have to be later–I don’t want her to feel like I’m interrogating her. I replay as many of our conversations as I can remember, looking for moments I might have missed the first time around–statements that might be seen in a different light now. At first, nothing seems suspicious or out of place. But then I recall the conversation we had the other day–the one where she mentioned the possible ban on cellphones. I had made a comment–a joke, if anything, about how government scientists would be eager to get their hands on the milk here. Sloane had said: “That’s interesting.” It wasn’t what she said–it was how she said it. Right? I don’t know if I trust my memory enough to hold anything against her. Maybe I’m just remembering what I want to remember. Besides, with traces of the milk running through my system still, I find it hard to trust anything in my perceived reality. And, on that note, my diapered bottom emits a long bass note–a signal that something worse is coming sooner than later. It’s wet too. I don’t think I’ve full-on messed myself, but I’m willing to bet I just made a brown streak in my padding. I glance over to Sloane–my cheeks already starting to glow–to see if she noticed. I don’t think she has–or if she did, she doesn’t care. The smile is gone from her face. She’s staring down at the ground as she walks. She looks a little…sad. “Hey,” I say. “Is everything alright?” She opens her mouth, taking in a deep breath as if she’s getting ready to say something she’s apprehensive about. A pause. And then nothing–she closes her mouth and blows all the air out from her nose. “S-sorry,” she says finally. “I was just thinking about something else. Just, you know…homesickness. It pops up every once in a while. Usually when you least expect it.” Again, she might just be a fantastic actress. Or, she could be just as genuine as she sounds. I hate that I’m doubting her right now. I mean, what she’s saying is very relatable. There’s a number of people I miss too right now, and everytime I think about them, that longing gets a little stronger. “You, uh, want to talk about it?” I ask. She shakes her head. “Hell no. I want to get distracted from it. I want this festival-thing, whatever it is, to make me blissfully delirious.” “Yeah,” I say, giving her a very enthusiastic nod. I need that too. And you know what? I’m willing to just set aside everything else for now. Whatever’s going with Sloane–whoever she really is–maybe I can just worry about that later. For now, let’s just go and be stupid babies who have fun at a festival made for stupid babies. “Wait,” she suddenly says. “Did you just…poop?” “N-no,” I say, the color coming back to my cheeks. “Are you sure?” I sniff at the air myself. Maybe there’s a lingering trace of noxious gas that’s following me around–I do smell something. “I didn’t mess myself,” I say. “Not yet.” She smirks and skips ahead of me. I cautiously pick up my pace a little–nervous I’ll shake a mess right out of me–to try and catch up. I’ve already forgotten that I have my doubts about her. === The sun is at the horizon now, still tucked beyond the expanse of trees that surrounds us, and the mountains in the far distance, but not so far hidden that the brilliant pink and orange hues of the sky around it aren’t still visible. Still, it’s dark enough that the lit torches–mounted around the perimeter of the field in front of the old farmhouse–create a warm light that washes over everything. No bonfire tonight, it would seem, but there’s still a palpable energy in the air as the babies converge that I doubt it’s necessary. The Maternal Council’s members corral us into the grass, and we slowly but surely begin to fill the space. In the center of the field, a wooden platform has been erected. It’s not very large, maybe only three feet off the ground and maybe eight or ten square feet itself, but a big enough space for someone to comfortably stand atop it, I imagine. Two strands of rope are connected to the side of the stage facing the house, leading up to the building and clearing a path. I imagine that Mirabelle–perhaps Mother herself–will come walking down that pathway at some point before stepping onto the stage. Others have likely deduced the same thing, and they line up at the ropes in the same way that the paparazzi–or perhaps adoring fans–would wait on the other side of velvet ropes in front of a movie premiere or after a pop concert. I can’t help but feel that pull myself–and I wonder if I need to scramble up closer to the stage. Still, I hang back. I think we’ll be able to see and hear whoever is on the stage from anywhere in this field, and I don’t want to just see the presenters–I want to see the whole show. I want to see the crowds react to whatever happens next. I want to take in this entire scene. “Don’t you want to get closer?” Sloane asks, pulling at my arm. “I was thinking I might stand back here,” I shrug. “I kind of like this vantage point.” “I think I want to get a little closer,” she says. “You don’t mind if I head up there without you, right?” I laugh and shake my head. It’s a little flattering that she’s asked me this–that she cares about how I might feel about it. “No, of course not. Get on up there. See if you can get someone’s autograph for me.” She giggles gleefully before her hand slips down my arm, briefly clutching my hand and then releasing it as she trots off. Again, it’s hard to watch that show of seemingly genuine excitement and then think that she has ulterior motives. She seems invested–invested in a way that would be unnecessary if she were trying to fool me. She could show half as much enthusiasm and I’d still believe that she wanted to be here. I was wrong. I misheard her. I’m sure of that now. I let out a sigh of relief, feeling like I can put that worry behind me and fully embrace whatever is coming next. Bring it on. More and more people arrive. I see some familiar faces, and some new ones. In the flickering light of the torches, it’s hard to see everyone’s face though–and so as more arrive to fill in the spaces around me, everyone becomes a little more anonymous. They aren’t anyone in particular, and neither am I. But at the same time, I feel close to them. We’re all here together. Sharing whatever this experience is. We are one. A hand is on my shoulder. I turn to see who it is, but it’s gone just as quickly as it landed on me. It could’ve been anyone. Maybe it wasn’t even someone I know. Is that how things are when we’re huddled together like this? I stick my hand out in front of me, letting my fingers brush against the back of whoever is standing in front of me–someone with long dark hair. They turn a little–just enough so that I can see the corner of their smiling mouth before looking away again. I hear bits and pieces of different conversations around me. I close my eyes, as if restricting one of my senses somehow enhances my others, and try to just take in the sounds. “...and he bet me that I’d need to be changed twice today, but here I am–I haven’t even gotten a single change yet.” “I want her to be here, you know? Like, really, really badly.” “...before it gets too late…” “Stinky? N-no, that’s not me. Uh…I don’t think that’s me.” “I think you’ve proven your point, okay? Please, for the love of god, go get yourself changed.” “...a beautiful night, right?” “I guess they’re not doing the bonfire this year? Is that because…” “...and he told me that he saw a clown. And I was, like, ‘You’re being ridiculous!’” “No, seriously, I’m about to pass out. Go! Get your diaper changed. I’ll save a place for you here next to me. Go!” “...think that’s the one who waved at me the other day. Cute, right?” There’s the sound of throats being cleared. Laughter and giggles. Little moans. So much crinkling. It’s a messy, chaotic sound. But it’s a joyous one. The sound of a community blooming. I can’t remember the last time I’ve been anywhere that feels like this. Not even being in the crowd at a concert feels like this–there, we’re all just ticket-holders who paid to be entertained. We’d share a space, but we’re not necessarily there for the comradery. But it’s different here. We are one. I scan the crowd for Sloane. For Tommy. Holden, Drew, or Tim. Gwen. Birdie Dowell. Anyone I might know well enough to approach. But I can barely tell who someone is ten feet away from me, let alone fifty feet. “It’s good weather we’re having, isn’t it?” It takes me a moment to realize that someone is talking to me. I turn to face them. Green hair. Piercings. The warm light catches the sparkles in her makeup. His makeup? Their makeup? I’m not entirely sure. “The ground’s a little wet,” I say. “What isn’t around here?” There’s some sass in their voice. I like it. “Yeah,” I say, looking up at the stars in the sky as I answer their original question. “I’m glad the rain finally gave us a little break.” “I heard it’s going to start again tomorrow,” they say, crossing their arms in front of them as their lips shift into an exaggerated frown. “Kinda funny, right? Like the weather somehow knew it needed to hold off tonight?” “You believe that?” I ask. I don’t mean to make them feel silly, It’s an honest question. “Since coming here, I’ve seen things that I wouldn’t have previously thought were possible. So…I think I’m willing to believe just about anything now.” I look up at the sky again, noting how vibrant and defined each star seems. No light pollution from the cities and suburbs. Just an increasingly darkening sky and a smattering of brilliant white specks. “Same,” I finally offer. “Saturn,” they say. I look around in the sky above me, wondering if it’s somehow obvious which of these white dots is actually the ringed planet. “Really? Where?” They let out a girlish giggle that seems to betray their baritone-leaning voice. “No, sorry. My name is Saturn.” “Oh…” I feel my cheeks blush. “Alfie. And that’s my name. So far as I know, there isn’t a planet called ‘Alfie.’” They laugh. “I bet, somewhere out there, there’s a Planet Alfie.” “I can think of a few people who’d want to avoid that place at all costs.” Saturn smiles, moving in a little closer as the crowd around us gets denser. “You’re funny.” “I like you already. I don’t know that I’ve seen you before. And, uh…” I give them a once-over again. The vibrant green hair, hanging down the left side of their face and reaching their shoulder, feels like the kind of thing I would’ve noticed before. “This is my home,” Saturn says with a nod. “But I’ve been away for a few weeks. The festival seemed like the right time to return.” “Welcome home.” “And you? Just visiting?” “That’s what I told myself when I came here. But I’ve got a cabin now. And friends.” I shrug. “I dunno. Maybe I’ll stay a while.” “Welcome home as well, then,” Saturn says, smiling. That feels good to hear. === Time gets away from us as we all converge in the same space. I talk to Saturn. I talk to some of the strangers around me. We laugh. We share some stories and experiences. The world around the torch-lit clearing gets darker and darker. “...and I’m thinking, you know, it’s just mud. It’ll wash right off–just like anything else, right? Why not stomp around in it?” I’m regaling Saturn with the tale of meeting Gwen and taking her out into the rain. I don’t mean to sound braggadocious, but Saturn’s asked all the right questions to get me chatting. “And so I managed to convince her to come outside with me and…” There’s some commotion in the crowd closest to the farmhouse. It’s a ways away so it takes me a moment to focus on what’s going on, but then I spot the source of the excitement–Mirabelle is making her way down the cleared pathway towards the stage. She’s smiling and waving. Shaking hands. She’s being treated like a celebrity. Like she’s the president of the United States. Goddamn, I wish she was the president. Some wooden steps have been carried to the side of the stage, and she carefully trots up then and onto the platform. Everyone is cheering and clapping. The excitement level is off the chart right now. It’s hard to be sure, but it almost looks like Mirabelle’s cheeks have some red in them. It’s adorable that she’s humbled by the commotion. As strange as it may sound, I love how human she always seems. She’s saying something, but I can’t hear her over the clamouring. It’s hard to tell if she wants to be heard by everyone, or if she’s talking to someone closer. She motions for something from the farmhouse, and someone rushes down the pathway with a wireless microphone in their hand, tossing it up to her. There’s a small burst of feedback as it’s turned on. The sound comes from closer to the farmhouse, though I’m not sure where the speaker is located. “Hey everyone,” Mirabelle says, her voice crisp and loud as it emits from the PA system. This is met with raucous applause and cheering. “How’s everybody doing tonight? Are we, uh, keeping dry?” There’s some laughter, and an entire chorus of different responses. Yeses and nos, both. She slowly pivots on the stage, as if trying to make eye contact with every person in the crowd. When the commotion settles a little, she continues. “You’re all very good boys and girls for being patient with us while we changed our plans for tonight. The drought. The rain. We’ve had a few obstacles. But, well, look around you. Look straight up. The rain’s stopped, right? The clouds are gone. You might call that coincidence, but…” I look over at Saturn, and they’re looking back at me with a big smile. We are all one. “...what if it’s something a little more than just chance?” Mirabelle continues from the stage. “Once you’ve witnessed magic–any amount of it will do–you’re forced to consider the possibility that anything is possible, right?” Heads are bobbing, and affirmative responses are shouted. “I’ve witnessed magic,” Mirabelle says. “Haven’t you?” She points to someone standing in the crowd on the other side of the platform from where I am. The crowd falls silent as they listen for a response. Whatever is said, I can’t hear it, but that part of the audience cheers. “She said that she’s witnessed magic,” Mirabelle says into the microphone. “And you,” she says, pointing to someone on my side of the platform. “Have you witnessed magic?” This person screams: “I drink the magic!” “She drinks the magic,” Mirabelle repeats into the microphone. “Yes. Yes, I would agree with that. Wouldn’t you?” The audience shouts and applauds. Mirabelle has presence, I’ll give her that. She’s not like a politician–or even a pastor at a church. She doesn’t have the air of a well-rehearsed professional. She’s not even the head cheerleader at a high school pep rally. She’s our mom, psyching us up on vacation. She’s our best friend, making a lap around the room to make sure everyone gets a high-five. “In the past, the Rebirth Festival was, well…kind of an excuse for a big party,” she says into the mic. “And, really, that’s all it ever has to be, right? We work hard to build our community. To care for each other. To improve The Cradle just a little bit each and every day. Don’t we, then, deserve a day where we can all get a little, uhm…silly?” The crowd goes ballistic. Screaming. Hands pumping in the air. Someone standing directly behind me is seemingly shrieking right into my ear. “But this year’s a little different. We’ve reached a threshold–a number of residents, guests, and friends that exceeds the limit of what I thought we’d be able to support when I first moved us all here. Yeah–we have more than 120 members of our community with us here tonight. We barely have places to put them all–though, don’t worry, we’re doing our best to accommodate everyone. I looked at the numbers. I did the math. We keep this trajectory up, we might be twice as large next year.” Cheering. Whistling. Shrieking right into my goddamn ear. “We have momentum. We have size,” Mirabelle says. In the orange glow, I can see her smile from where I stand. I swear it’s like she’s looking right at me. Maybe she is. “We are no longer just a bunch of babies isolating ourselves from the world. We’re a movement. Mother has blessed us with her milk and that milk is unlike anything else. That means something. We have been reborn, my friends and we hold the key to wonders never before seen by the rest of the world.” You know what? Fuck it. I’m screaming too. I want to contribute to this joyous noise. “Better living through rebirth,” Mirabelle says. It’s hard to believe that she could pick my face out of the crowd, but it still feels like she’s staring right at me. Someone starts a chant: “Better-living-through-rebirth! Better-living-through-rebirth!” It catches on, and spreads across the crowd. “Better-living-through-rebirth!” “Better-living-through-rebirth!” “Better-living-through-rebirth!” “Maybe it’s time we have an official name,” Mirabelle says, her voice silencing the chant. Everyone is screaming and cheering. Yes. We want that. “I asked Mother what we should be called. And, uh,” Mirabelle laughs and shrugs, “the answer she gave me was so obvious that I almost felt silly for even asking in the first place. It’s been here the whole time.” Silence washes over everyone. We’re waiting with baited breath. “My friends. My siblings. My babies. Together we are The Children of the Cradle.” Nothing is actually different. We’re the same group that was here a few seconds ago. But there’s something about having a name–an official banner for all of us to unite beneath–that seems to change everything. The Children of the Cradle: better living through rebirth. The enthusiasm amongst everyone is unmatched. The same electric current runs among us all. We are happy. We are hungry. “Alright, I think that’s enough from me,” Mirabelle says, brushing her hair back behind her ear. “I think I know who you’d like to hear from now.” The person behind me shrieks into my ear again. But I don’t mind. I’m screaming too. === A cluster of figures emerge from the farmhouse. The first four, walking in a single-file line down the cleared passageway towards the platform, wear white robes. Dresses? I’m not entirely sure what the garments are. But contrasted against the orange torchlight and the night sky, they practically glow. One of them has Freya’s fiery hair. Another has Marta’s perfect posture. The other two are less obvious to me, but I assume they’re also associated with the Maternal Council. And then, a final figure begins to make her way down the same corridor. She’s draped in a similar garment as the others, though it’s black with gold accents. It’s hard to say for sure from this distance, but the fabric seems shimmering, or perhaps sheer. Mother is here. The people closest to the cleared passageway reach out to her, trying to just touch her or grab onto her. I half expect someone to push them back or warn them to keep their distance, but no such effort is made. Mother herself seems to embrace it, pausing at each person who reaches out to her so that she can touch them back. She clutches their hands in hers. She leans forward–I think she’s kissing someone else on their cheek. She embraces another. I can’t even imagine how those people must feel right now. The way that her touch, or even her glance, must liberate their soul from their bodies. I imagine feeling her lips on my face myself, and I can just picture my bowels and bladder immediately surrendering–emptying into my diaper. Hell, I’m not even close to her and I feel like it could happen. Just her presence alone is intoxicating. I groan a little as I feel a sudden rush of warm wetness seeping into my diaper. “This is for you,” I want to scream out. “I’m all yours.” It takes Mother a while to get to the platform, but I have all the patience in the world. We all do. We all wish we thought ahead to be standing near where she’s walking. We want to be touched by her too. I wonder if Sloane is up there. Is she reaching out towards Mother too? Has mother touched her skin? Kissed her cheek? Run a hand through her hair? Was the excitement so intense that Sloane lost control of her remaining adult faculties? Because I think I am. The weight of the wet diaper between my thighs. The warmth of the bodies around me, encircling me like I was in a womb. The darkness of the encroaching night, making it easier and easier to disconnect from anything beyond what's in front of me. I feel myself getting smaller. Needier. And I’m not the only one. Myself and everyone around me, we’re all babies now. Crying out for Mommy’s love and protection. We need her. We need her more than we’ve ever needed anything before. Tears stream down my eyes. I’m bawling. I release another stream of warm pee into my diaper. The scent of someone’s fresh mess hits my nose–someone around me has loaded their diaper. Hell, it might even be me–I’m not sure anymore. I lose myself for a few moments. I close my eyes, and when I reopen them I sense that time has moved forward without me. Mother is closer to the platform now, and Mirabelle has extended a hand to her to help her up onto it. The sound around me is unreal. Sobbing. Crying. None of it feels anguished though. We’re just crying out for her attention. We’re letting her know that we’re here and that we need her. Mother takes the microphone. For a few moments, she says nothing at all. She looks around, surveying everyone who is staring up at her. She looks in my direction. She looks at me, I’m sure of it. “My babies,” she finally says, ending the tension that's been building in her silence. “Do you have need of your Mother?” This wave of ecstasy washes over me. It’s a familiar feeling, but it takes me a moment to realize what it is. An orgasm. I’m cumming in my diaper. I’m suddenly just spurting into my soggy padding. Was I touching myself without realizing it? Rubbing the front of my diaper as I cried out for her? Or was it just her voice–her presence–that caused this to happen? “Mommy,” I mutter into the noisy air. “Mommy…”

It looks like they are currently only at Walmart, although oddly not all Walmarts. My local one doesn't show up on their store finder, but the ones in the bigger city 15 miles away does.

Now the french prices :

Sounds like an amazing experience. Theres nothing better than a full bladder bedwetting in the morning. BTW I always keep a mattress protector on the bed. It makes the cleanup easier whether the bed gets soaked by accident or on purpose.