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    • Amen 🙏 one day I'm sure I'll be bedwetting full-time
    • Kayla didn’t know what was going on as she began moving around not sure if the feeling was good or bad.  
    • POST MORTEM Sarah was seething, although she was hiding it well. At lunch time, the hospital cafeteria was generally busy, but on this, the last Thursday in November, it was a madhouse. Vickie's decision to pin the photograph of Ian's wife and baby girl to the bulletin board, and to frame it with hand written cards referencing murder and massacre, had triggered an emotional firestorm among the assembled doctors and nurses, hitting those who had served in the military especially hard. How will poor Bian react when she learns about this? And did we really need Reiko to dive off the deep end on one of her samurai rants? The image of Reiko Matsumura leaping to her feet and screaming “samurai” when Ian suddenly appeared on a live news feed from the Zeta Alpha Pi sorority house was seared into her consciousness, along with the image of her fiance turning thumbs down to a reporter's suggestion that he was disabled and entitled to a pension. No, Ian won't play that game although his car is buried under a snowbank because he can't afford a new alternator. A hero doth have his pride. Doctors had cheered when he sarcastically noted that he packed Immodium AD when venturing abroad, not a Walther PPK or one of Q's exploding alarm clocks. And the whole hospital had stomped its collective feet and roared its collective approval when he proudly proclaimed that he was en route to a drinking contest against a quartet of off duty cops, with Amos Waring tagging along, cast as his very own Sancho Panza. And then the piece de resistance: Vickie jumping up to announce to the world that she would also be on the team that Ian was leading into ritual combat, a seedy Nordeast bar now suddenly transformed into a gladiatorial arena pitting the hospital against the cops. And the staff loved it. Men and women, doctors and nurses … an uproar climbing the scale to full on pandemonium, the hospital against the world. And no doubt that obnoxious Emmett Bailey will tag along to broadcast live, treating us to a blow by blow description as our mighty athletes finally consume one alcoholic beverage too many, and rendered unconscious, slowly sink to the floor … Whose diaper will be the first to fail? Will Amos even condescend to wearing a diaper? So many questions … … and now, a word from our sponsers! But stay tuned, sports fans, 'cause we'll be right back! Sarah glanced at Rita, but her expression was inscrutable, offering neither encouragement nor rebuke. Did I miss the staff meeting where it was determined that Ian isn't an alcoholic after all? Did the memo consigning his bottle fed breast milk to the trash heap never cross my desk? Is there an escape clause in our D/s agreement that I overlooked? Something that allows him to stay out all night, sleep wherever he wants and with whomever he wants? Seething, Sarah decided that the time had come for the two of them to have it out, so when his heart to heart with Rita was finished, she would summon him to her office to find out what the Hell was going on, and to lay down the law. She would tell him bluntly that she no longer trusted him, and she wanted his goodies safely and securely locked away inside a chastity cage. There would be no discussion, none whatsoever. It was time for him to honor an agreement that he had entered into of his own free will. . . . . Exiting the elevator, Ian, Priscilla and Chief Mischof were immediately assaulted with loud but off-key chanting: HEY, HEY … HO, HO … BABY KILLER'S GOT TO GO … HEY, HEY … HO, HO … BABY KILLER'S GOT TO GO … “Not terribly original,” Ian observed. “Definitely out of date,” the Chief agreed. “Disappointing turnout,” Priscilla added as she caught sight of the demonstrators. Rounding the corner, Ian quickly surveyed the corridor. The protesters were occupying the space between the two doors to his classroom. They obviously thought that they controlled both entrances, but there were no cameras covering the protest, no third party to protect them. They were relying on the forbearance of the handful of campus police officers to their front and rear. They were a dozen strong, and from his point of view, what they occupied was the killing ground. With more than two dozen strikes at his disposal, not counting the damage that he could do with his forehead and elbows, his knees and feet, in such crowded quarters it would take him less than forty seconds to dispose of them all. Taking the lead, he strolled up to the protesters, some of whom were holding up hand made signs with hastily scrawled slogans. He had seen it all before, and was neither impressed nor intimidated. He waited patiently for the bell to ring, and then spoke for the first time. “Excuse me.” Ian picked out someone in the front of the pack more or less at random. “I'm Professor Grady, and I need to get through; please move aside.” “The baby killer speaks!” The young man, who sported long, dirty hair and an equally unkempt beard to complement the holes in his jeans and the grime on his sweatshirt, was looking at a girl to his left. She had a serious case of acne, and her hair was so stringy that he thought it would be great fun to tie it up in knots. “I have killed a lot of people,” Ian nodded, “in fact, well over two thousand. But they were all about your age or a bit older … no babies in the lot. Sorry to disappoint you.” “You work for the CIA,” the girl hissed; “you're a fascist tool.” “Well, I did vote for Nixon; that's true enough.” Ian smiled at her pleasantly. He would use a heart punch to kill the boy, and a carotid strike to put the girl out of her misery. Four seconds, tops. “And I do have a license to kill, in the sense that I can kill you in the presence of witnesses and still get away with it. It only takes one phone call to summon a disposal team to collect your corpse and toss it into a nearby incinerator, while a second group systematically erases all evidence of your existence from the relevant data bases. Typically, it takes about forty-five minutes. Afterwards, if your parents stubbornly insist that they had a son or daughter who's gone missing, they'll be institutionalized in a facility for the criminally insane. We generally use one in Colorado that gets mighty cold in the dead of winter.” Ian continued to smile pleasantly, but the smile did not reach his eyes. The girl shivered, and it was not because she was cold. “In the presence of all these pigs,” the boy bravely hooted. “I don't think so.” “We have orders from on high,” the Chief fibbed: “observe, but do not interfere. We just keep the curious away until the disposal team takes over. Cuts down on the paperwork big time.” Walt's tone was friendly, but transparently insincere. He was staring hard at Ian's right hand, which was out of the protester's line of sight. “You'll be dead before you hit the floor,” he added without looking up. “Should take about six seconds. Alternatively, you can take your demonstration outside … camp out on the Quad for all we care. Just don't disrupt classes or harass faculty in their offices. We no longer tolerate that sort of thing.” “Chaz, the Quad will give us a lot more room.” The girl was tugging on his sleeve. “And, we'll get press coverage. It will work in our favor.” “Yeah,” the scrawny kid agreed; “if we play our cards right, the front page. All right, everybody,” he said as he whirled around, “we're done here. Let's head for the Quad, and make some noise!” Ian was less than two minutes late for his lecture on communal bathing in a Japanese ryokan or onsen. There were a few places in Kyoto that he was keen for his students to try. . . . . Waiting until the ruckus died down, Sarah nudged Vickie to get her attention, then nodded at an empty table in a distant corner of the room. Picking up her tray with her lunch still only half eaten, she walked off without saying a word to anybody, leaving Vickie awkwardly to follow in her wake. For her part, Rita delayed only long enough to whisper instructions to Marge, who began intently watching the bulletin board. The photo and the captions that Vickie had posted were still getting a lot of attention, and Marge, Becky, Candy and Reiko had to be prepared to intervene if something went seriously wrong. “How's your diaper holding up,” Sarah asked when Vickie sat down opposite her. “A bit wet, but not messy. These new diapers actually seem to be pretty good.” Vickie was referring to the supplies that Sarah had purchased for her at the maternity shop the previous afternoon. “Good,” Sarah spat out as Rita sat down with her own half eaten lunch. “And how's your diaper rash?” “Itchy,” Vickie admitted. “And I still hurt from my spankie.” “Good,” Sarah repeated; “and if you don't have a good explanation for disobeying all my rules with this absurd drinking contest, your next spanking will make the last one seem like a walk in the park. Now, what's going on?” “Ian and I both thought that Priscilla and Amos would make a cute couple, so we put our heads together and came up with the drinking contest. Since Amos has made it abundantly clear that he wants to go out drinking with Ian, it really didn't take much imagination on our part. What we missed, of course, is that Priscilla was keen to come along because she's madly in love, but not with Amos!” “Ah, the best laid plans,” Rita giggled. There was something about Vickie and Ian playing matchmaker for Amos that was infinitely amusing. “And you couldn't shut this cockamamie scheme down when you discovered the truth because that would hurt Amos' feelings.” “And Priscilla wants us to keep going,” Vickie laughed, “because her father thinks that Ian is bad news; he wants Secret Agent Man to get out of his little girl's life, and never mind the fact that his little girl is an experienced police officer who's fallen head over heels in love. So, the current plan is for Ian and Herb to do a little male bonding over tequila shots. If they can stay upright and somehow stagger out of the bar arm in arm, Pris reckons that all will be forgiven.” “And did any of you ever pause … ever ask whether you should pitch any of this by me? Vickie, what in Hell is the matter with you? And you, Rita! The three of us agree that Ian is an alcoholic, specifically a binge drinker, and yet both of you seem to think that encouraging him to get tanked in a drinking contest is all fine and dandy! God!” “That's funny, Sarah,” Rita said as she raised both arms high overhead, the gesture signaling her disgust at how the conversation was proceeding. “Yes, Ian is an alcoholic; we all know it. BUT HE DENIES IT. And we can't treat him as long as he is in denial-- you know that perfectly well.” Dropping her arms, Rita leaned forward, invading Sarah's personal space. “Damn it! I want that man to give me a baby! Do you think that I want alcohol coursing through his system when I get pregnant … his, or mine? Don't be ridiculous! I want him to sober up, which means that I want him to admit that he's an alcoholic! So, I've given him an ultimatum: after they win this ridiculous frat boy drinking contest, the three of them are going to end up back at the sorority, which is where I'll be waiting for them. Bernice and I are then going to conduct a trial by fire. They'll be more tequila waiting … a chance for them to toast their triumph one more time. Only, I'll ask Ian to prove that he's not an alcoholic by turning it down. If he does, I'll unlock all three diaper covers, retire gracefully, and leave them to spend the rest of the night making love, in any manner they see fit. But if he takes that drink, they stay locked up, and you will then have my full support in getting him into that chastity cage of yours. I do not want him getting anybody pregnant until we get the alcohol out of his system. I'm fine with the breast milk diet, Sarah ...” “And so is Priscilla,” Vickie hastily interjected. “But give him a half dozen condoms on your way out the door, and plead with him to use them.” “A half dozen? Isn't that overkill?” “Yep, but here's a tip from a pro: always give a man twice as many condoms as he could possibly use. It inflates his ego, and makes him feel like King Kong atop the Empire State Building.” All three women burst out laughing, each of them pondering the fragility of the male ego, and the hard work that a woman had to invest in turning her guy into a competent lover. “But we have to get real, here,” Rita continued when the laughter died down. “Unless you plan to keep him locked in a crib forever, a 24/7 baby, you have to make allowance for the fact that he's an adult, with a fully functioning brain. He needs adult stimulation, both intellectually and physically, or he'll disintegrate right before your eyes. So, take away the booze, but in return reward him with his much beloved steaks and baked potatoes. Reward him, Sarah … don't just rely on punishing him. This is where you're getting it all wrong.” “Carrots and sticks,” Vickie murmured; “carrots and sticks. And remember, I'm going to be your baby forever!” Vickie's eyes were bright with excitement. “I'm the one who belongs in a crib,” she crowed. “Me! Not Ian!” . . . . “We must be living in an alternate universe,” Priscilla observed; “I'm thinking Lovecraft.” “At the Mountains of Madness,” Ian asked. They were walking back to his office after his Japanese lecture had come to an uneventful end. A campus police officer was in the lead, and a second bringing up the rear. Walt Mischof was taking no chances. “Were you serious … I mean, about killing them all and getting away with it?” “Yes,” Ian saw no need to elaborate. “Close quarters combat,” Priscilla mused; “would they have posed much of a challenge?” “No,” he shrugged. “Penned up in that hallway the way they were? Less than a minute. You'll learn the tricks of the trade at Quantico.” “And yet, in a few minutes I'll be changing your diaper, then cradling you in my arms to nurse on bottles of breast milk. I love babying you, Ian, and you are so docile. It feels so real, and yet ...” “And yet, I'm capable of killing a dozen people in less than sixty seconds?” “Exactly. You make me feel so whole-- a lover and a baby, all rolled into one. And yet you are capable of killing so casually. It takes some getting used to.” “Having second thoughts?” “No. I saw you tense, and I knew that you were getting ready to strike. The Chief knew it, too … I could hear it in his voice. But do you know what I felt? Relief!” Ian said nothing, simply waited for her to continue. “I kept thinking that, if anyone ever came for our children, you would make a mess of their day. You wouldn't turn into a weeping Willie, begging the bad guys not to hurt us. No, you wouldn't hesitate for a second. You'd go on a killing spree, then pick up the phone and call a disposal team to come take out the garbage. And when it was all over, one of us would have to change your dirty diaper. At the Mountains of Madness indeed.” “And here we are,” Ian mused as the four of them exited the elevator and went round the corner to his office. “And not a headhunter in sight.” The corridor was awash in coeds, some of whom he recognized from office visits over the last couple of days. The sororities were still shielding him, but now there were a fair number of clean-cut young men awaiting him as well. “Excuse me, Professor,” a tall, blonde young man said with a radiant smile. “We're fraternity brothers, and ROTC. If you can spare the time, we'd all like to hear more about how to get the max out of an R&R.” “Happy to oblige,” Ian grinned. “Just give me a few minutes to scarf down some lunch, and we'll start office hours early.” . . . . “So, the bottom line: now that we've heard the worst of it, are we still going ahead with our plan, modified only to include Priscilla?” Sarah already knew the answer, but she wanted both Rita and Vickie to say it out loud. “Vickie?” “Absolutely. And I can speak for Priscilla as well. If you bail, Sarah, she will marry Ian.” Rita and Sarah exchanged puzzled looks. “And how did you arrive at that decision … and does Ian know?” “Not yet. But it's logical. Children need grandparents, and neither my parents nor Rita's are up to the task. But Pris says that her parents are getting impatient … like, 'would you please get on with it because we're not getting any younger' … that kind of impatience.” “Like my grandmother,” Sarah smiled; “she's made her wishes in this department altogether too clear.” “And Rita, from what you said earlier, it's obvious that you haven't changed your mind.” Rita nodded. “I don't mind admitting that I've had doubts, because there was a part of me that thought none of this makes any sense. So, why was I doing this? Why? And then I watched him with Janis … all that love and caring … the gentleness. And I thought about all the pain that washes across his features when he thinks about his daughter … how much he loves her. And suddenly, I understood. I've spent my whole adult life searching for Ian, and I never even knew that I was looking. I want to have children, but not with a man who's so obsessed with his career that his children are just an afterthought. Ian's greatest strength is his sense of balance … having his priorities in the right order. He doesn't care about money; he cares about people. We've all seen it … we all recognize it, but I never credited what I was seeing until he got down on his knees to comfort Janis. And then it clicked into place. This is the man I want to father my children, because he will always be there for them.” “What about you, Sarah,” Rita asked in turn. “Are you still in, or are you bailing?” “Truthfully? “Ian and I have a broad outline, but we're still filling in the details. We're a work in progress, and I'm willing to put a great deal of effort into making our relationship succeed. Frankly, what worries me more at the moment is the two of you. If today was a trial run for our household, the outcome was disastrous. Both of you had some idea of what was coming in that conference room, yet you left me to lead with my chin. Why? And this drinking contest. That's the sort of thing that you're supposed to bring to me. You lay out the facts and give me your recommendation … we discuss the pros and cons, and then I make the call. Whether you agree or disagree in private, we present a united front to Ian when it's his well-being that we're considering.” “You're right, Sarah,” Rita apologized; “we didn't think it through, which is just another way of saying that our new relationship is also a work in progress because it's so different from our long-standing friendship. But let me repeat: it's obvious to the rest of us that you and Ian have hit a rough patch because you are trying to micromanage the relationship instead of managing it. He's all but begging you to be the decision-maker, but that doesn't mean that you have to decide whether he's eating egg salad or tuna salad for lunch. You need to step back, and concentrate on the essentials. By all means, treat him like a baby … Ian and Vickie both, because at the therapeutic level it's to their benefit. But don't make the mistake of thinking of two functioning adults as babies. They're not, and they never will be-- they both have jobs, and they both do them well.” “It's hard,” Sarah countered with a resigned sigh. “He asks me to make decisions, and when I do, he debates whether or not to follow my lead. But when I try and engage him … make it a team decision? He retreats into a shell. He's holding so much back ...” “Pris and I were just talking about this,” Vickie observed. “We want him to speak up, but he's secretive by nature, and he has trust issues.” “Keep trying,” Sarah urged. “Go after the little things: does he like his peanut butter creamy or chunky?” “It's a good strategy,” Rita concurred. “Get him in the habit of talking. Make him feel safe … make him feel that he can talk to any of us about anything that concerns him.” “So, we're in agreement, then. We all know the cost, but we're all going to pay it. We build a home for the five of us, for our children, for Ian's daughter, for the other survivors. We accept the limitations on our freedom of movement that go with living in a high risk environment.” Sarah spread her arms across the table, palms up. Rita and Vickie both reached out to renew the friendship and community that Sarah was offering. They had absorbed a heavy blow, but long years of deep friendship sustained them, and with it their hopes for the future.
    • And all that editing and such is why physical media is best! Once you have it, it's that way forever.
    • Kayla was happy to get the pacifier and not a spanking..  “Wo Pwese Wo baby shower why we wood!” She cried about no baby shower and she’ll be good.. She wasn’t sure how much was being understood behind her pacifier.. ”Wed time Wo Wo wot wired!” She cried acting just like a toddler who wants to stay up later or have one more cookie.. Kayla laid on her changing table so mad how her life has gone backwards!   
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