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Chapter 3: Less Pleasant Rituals The three of us- Tracy, Mrs. Beouf, and I- walked up to the school’s front office. Amazon, and even Tweener steps are longer and therefore faster than Little footsteps, but we’d all long since gotten into a kind of groove. Mrs. Beouf took a medium to slow pace; leisurely walking to work but not dilly dallying. Tracy walked briskly. I was power walking. Any faster and I’d have to at least jog. I’d long ago mastered the art of conversing while at a near run. I wasn’t winded and I wouldn’t be, not in anyway that would show. “Warm weather’s back,” I said. More small talk. “Feels good, doesn’t it?” Tracy grinned. “You know what that means, right?” “SPRING BREAK!’ we all said in unison. “What are you going to do, Mr. Gibson?” Tracy asked me. I smiled. “Maybe read a book,” I replied. “Other than that, hopefully nothing and love it.” That may or may not have been true. I did love just lazing around the house, but it was just as possible Cassie would take the opportunity for us to get out of the neighborhood and visit one of our friends. “You?” “New laser tag place opening up. I’m probably going to get lost there,” Tracy said. “Mrs. Beouf?” “Drinking,” Mrs. Beouf said. “A lot.” That’s another reason I liked Beouf. Amazons tended to not talk about things like drinking or going to a lewd rock concert in front of me. It was much the same way an adult might not curse in front of children. As far as the giants wanted Littles to be concerned, all Amazons were the picture of adult responsibility. Beouf talked to me and Tracy the same way I’d eavesdropped on other Amazons talking to each other: like people. “I just found out that my daughter is pregnant. I’m going to be a grandmother” “Congratulations.” “Thank you,” she said. “But her and her husband are moving back in before the baby is born. So I’m going to enjoy my house while it’s still my house.” Going up with the two of them was a matter of safety. Keeping up with Beouf was practically my morning exercise, and Amazons had some kind of unwritten rule, maybe instinctual, about snatching up each other’s captives. By being so closely associated with Beouf, most of my coworkers at least subconsciously registered me as “her Little”. Walking beside one of the giants had additional benefits. If I walked by myself I might be “mistaken” for “getting “lost” or “dawdling” if I was too slow. On the other hand, I might be “hiding something” or “about to have an accident”, if I was going too fast. Don’t get me started on how many justifications I’ve heard involving an Amazon quite literally wanting to give me a lift. Typical Amazons. Never once had either of my two companions ever even offered to carry me. Mrs. Zoge had brought it up once, and only once. Mrs. Beouf had said she’d talk with her assistant about it in private and I considered the matter settled. I never got an apology, but that was years ago and the offer had never been made again. Fair enough. Other teachers, all Amazons, thought I was being a Helper; cozying up to my future “Mommy” so she’d take it easy on me. Some even thought I was purposefully hoping to get “adopted” and that’s why I’d taken the job teaching Pre-K in the first place. How did I know all this? Amazons, though incredibly intelligent, didn’t give the shorter peoples enough credit. They were smart enough to clam up around me but never caught onto who might be wandering around and listening to the office gossip first thing in the morning, or during lunch in the teacher’s lounge. With a friend like Tracy, I knew who my enemies were. I can’t objectively say if any of my precautions actually worked or if it was just my own paranoia justifying itself; but nothing an Amazon did to a Little was objectively justified. Fair was fair. So was unfair. Mrs. Beouf grabbed the door and ushered us inside the front office. Oakshire Elementary was an open campus, with each grade level sectioned off in separate buildings on either side of a row of communal buildings: the Library, the Cafeteria, and of course, the Front Office. It was there that we went each morning to sign in, just as the sun was starting to crest over the hills, and then wait for the buses up front. “Mr. Gibson. Tracy,” a coworker, a Tweener, acknowledged us as she passed. “Mrs. Beouf.” “Good morning,” I said, trying to sound cheery. Another familiar ritual. “Mrs. Beouf. Tracy. Mr. Gibson.” “Mrs. Springfield. Mr. Renner. Ms. Grange.” Basic stuff. Thoughtless stuff. If not for Mrs. Beouf’s coffee I could still do this in my sleep. I got the rare pleasure of thoughtless un-anticipation as I punched my employee number into the sign-in terminal just behind the receptionists’ desk. The terminal didn’t have a stool to reach, but after so long, I could do it all by feel. “CLAAAAAARK!” An all too familiar voice called out to me. Great. Time for another ritual. I wasn’t comfortable around Mrs. Zoge, or most Amazons, but at least Zoge was more or less professional in her own odd way. Miss Forrest, the school’s receptionist was a hungry cat looking for a mouse of its very own to play with. Second perhaps to only one other Amazon on campus, Miss Forrest was the person who most palpably wanted to see me out of a job and into a playpen. She was also proof that not all Amazons were brilliant. So as not to seem panicked, I turned around and smiled. Tracy shot me a look. It said: “Do you need help? I can make an excuse for us to walk away right now.” I smiled up at her. For real this time. She was able to read my confidence and started walking out front, leaving me to this game of cat and mouse. Not all rituals were pleasant, but they had to be done. Grudging respect was better than no respect. Failing that, frustration might at least cause hesitation. “Why hello, Miss Forrest,” I said. “How are you this fine morning?” The receptionist wasted no time, (or subtlety). “My my, Clark, you look so stressed this morning. Are you okay?” Of course I wasn’t okay. Amazons loved word traps and games of societal niceties. “Oh, you know,” I shrugged. “Just getting old. Nothing that I can’t handle. Though if you wanna talk stress, don’t get me started on those union negotiations, amiright?” A couple passerbys muttered agreement. “Like whose side are they on and where’s my money really going to?” More muttering. Office bitching. Another universal constant. “I’m not Union,” Forrest said. Yeah. I knew that. But Beouf was Oakshire’s Teachers’ Union representative. Just saying the U word around her caused her ears perk up. She craned her neck just before walking out to the bus loop. Yeah, I said I didn’t need Tracy’s help. Probably wouldn’t need Beoufs help, either. Better safe than sorry and alert them to what was going on. I gave Beouf a wink. She winked back. “Would you like some chocolate?” Forrest said, reaching into her purse. “I got it just for you.” We Littles must have some kind of superpower when it comes to not rolling our eyes. Just for me? Really? Could it be any more obvious? “I really should be on a diet,” I said. “But the thought is appreciated.” “I’m just offering you a gift,” Forrest said. “I thought it was something special that we could share.” I could practically see the venom dripping from her teeth. If I said one thing wrong, she’d try to twist my words around as me being “cranky” or “fussy” or “snippy”, and go from there. “Well if we’re sharing,” I said. I held out my hand. Even Amazons weren’t baby crazy enough to go kamikaze and poison themselves. She placed the “gift” in my hand: A round box of chocolates, tamper evident plastic wrapping removed. I opened the lid. The box was already missing a chocolate. A glance at the inside of the lid indicated that it was a “chili flake bonbon”. Amazons like spicy food. It might not be a fact based in biology, but it’s definitely present in their sociology. I felt a knot form in my stomach. This was training chocolate. I just knew it. Every Little with an internet connection and an ounce of self preservation instinct knew about training chocolate. Like a certain little blue pill it was designed with one clientele in mind but found success in a completely different market. It was originally marketed as a “gentle” and “subtle” laxative that tasted like candy to a toddler. The original commercials had said it would help in potty training because kids would need to use the toilet more often. Instead the stuff both irritated and numbed the bowels simultaneously. No Amazon parent bought this sort of thing for their potty training child, anymore. But there was a reason that they were still on the market and repackaged in fancy boxes made to look like gifts. I’d seen Halloween and Valentine variations too. Any holiday involving candy saw a spike in Little “accidents” and subsequent “adoptions”. If I ate this now, I’d be shitting my pants by lunch. Typical Amazon stuff. I looked into the empty slot in the middle of the box. It’s very possible that the chili flake was put in there as a red herring. A safe choice in a box full of poison. Either that, or she just chucked it in the garbage. “Have as many as you like,” the receptionist said. “No need to be shy.” I put the lid back on the box and moved to go. “Thank you,” I said. “I’ll enjoy them later.” I was half tempted to say that my students might enjoy them as well, there being so many, but that would be laying it on a bit too thick. Her hand shot out, blocking my chest as I made a move to walk around her desk. “Oh no, take one,” Miss Forrest said. “I insist.” My nostrils flared. “You insist?” “Yes sir,” she said. “I got them for you as a present. And it would be oh so rude of you to not let me see you enjoy at least one. Don’t you agree?” Oooooh, that was a good one. Calling me “sir” as if she really thought of us as equals. Forrest brought her “A” game today. Think Clark. Think. I hadn’t planned on this. The chili flake had to have been safe. That’s why she ate it: To get rid of my safe option and I couldn’t refuse without falling into a circular logic trap that would surely trigger every crazy Amazon brain to rallying behind her. LIGHT BULB! I smiled, sweetly. “Why Mo-...I mean Miss Forrest,” I said. The look on the giant’s face suddenly looked a bit hot and bothered. It was almost like I’d just talked dirty to her. “You’re absolutely right.” “I am?” “Please forgive me my lapse in etiquette, Ma’am. I was only following your example.” She was still dazed; not connecting dots. The “slip up” had thrown her off her game a bit. Good. “You were?” “You said you wanted to share these with me, but you ate the first one without me.” I presented the box again. “Please. Share one with me. Let’s both eat one. Together.” What I was suggesting was finally registering to her. “I couldn’t,” she said, inching away in her rolly chair. “Any more will go straight to my hips.” I was suddenly holding a poisonous snake. “I’m going on a diet too. But this is special,” I said. “A gift. To share. Between friends. Right?” I opened the lid again. “Right…” she said. “I’ll have one, if you show me how,” I pressed. “I’ve never had them. Do I just pop one in my mouth or bite in half?“ Forrest’s hands had retreated to her chest, like little claws. She reminded me of a T-Rex; a T-Rex that was suddenly deathly afraid of chocolates. These things were so strong that they’d work on an Amazon just as easily as me. Forrest would likely end up in diapers too if she had an accident. She probably wouldn’t be “adopted” out, but she might be forced to work wearing diapers “just in case”. And she definitely wouldn’t be allowed to take any Little as her own. Crazy cut both ways sometimes. I’m not going to lie: As scared as I was, sometimes moments like these made it all worth it. Some Littles took up skydiving. Others climbed mountains with no safety harnesses. Me? I became a teacher. Incidences like this one are another reason why I think Amazons are crazy. If one managed to figure out their particular quirks, you could play to them and they’d have no choice but to play along, no way to adapt. Miss Forrest hemmed and hawed. Stalling. Looking for a way out of the rules she’d set down and not finding any. “Um…uh….um.” I had her stumped. If I was going to eat one, she would have to too in order to keep up the farce she’d weaved. The gentle tones of the morning bell rang out over the intercom. Both of us breathed a sigh of relief. Her visibly. “Better get going. The buses will be unloading. Wouldn’t want you to be late for class.” I ignored the way she phrased that last sentence as a slight against me. I’d won. She wouldn’t admit it, but I think she knew it. “Quite right, Miss Forrest.” “Mr. Gibson,” a voice came up behind me. “I hope you’re not dawdling to avoid the responsibilities of your job, young man.” The hairs on the back of my neck stuck out. It hadn’t been thirty seconds, and already Mrs. Brollish, Oakshire Elementary’s Principal for the last five years was standing behind me. Raine Forrest was the second most likely Amazon to see me fired and padded up. If you’re reading this, you now know the first. I bit my tongue so hard it almost bled. Another lightbulb! Two in one morning. Not bad, Clark. Not bad. I replaced the lid and gave the box a slight rattle as I turned around. “Not at all, Mrs. Brollish,” I said, looking up. “Miss Forrest had just gifted me these wonderful chocolates.” I re-opened the lid. Perfect! The laxative bonbons were a little jolted around, but they still looked very presentable. Better yet, one of them had shifted positions and was now occupying the chili flake middle space. “Would you like one?” Damnit. I just couldn’t help myself! I held out the box, the lid open so that Brollish could see. Just as I’d hoped, a large, wrinkled, bony hand was making a beeline for the bonbon in the dead center. “NOOOOOO!” Miss Forrest was falling all over herself, tumbling to the floor to slap the box out of my grasp. The chocolates went scattering to the floor. “Oh no!” I yelled. “My present!” It was bullshit of course, but certain parts had to be played out. Forrest was on her hands and knees. Finally! I was just a little bit taller than her, if only by an inch or so. “Ooops,” she said, looking right past me and up to our boss. “Butterfingers...?” Mrs. Brollish was a wretched old beldam of an Amazon, but she was significantly quicker on the uptake than Miss Forrest. “Miss Forrest,” she said. “We’re going to have to talk...privately…” I felt her gaze shift to me. “Mr. Gibson,” she said curtly. “The buses?” “Right away Ma’am.” And I walked off, doing my best to hide my own smug expression and shit eating grin.

Scene #41 Like I needed an audience. Not that it was her fault. It was Mary’s fault. We have a clothes dryer that works just fine. Having to put up a clothesline in the backyard to dry those stupid, idiotic, asinine, craptastic, fuck-my-life cloth diapers Mary got a punishment diapers is just bullshit. It’s an extra chore for an extra punishment, and Miss Mary I’m-So-Great will deny it was also meant to embarrass me in the off chance someone saw but that’s exactly what she was hoping. Not that it was Nana’s fault. “Hi Daffy,” she said through the fence. She has ears like a bat. I mean, what, did she hear me opening a clothespin? And then she came through the fence. “Something wrong with your dryer? You can ... O.” “Hi Nana,” I said kinda flatly. “Dryer’s fine.” “Haven’t seen those in a very long time. Didn’t know they made them for ... sorry.” “It’s fine,” I said while blushing all the way to the top of my scalp. “Mary sure is, um, inventive.” “She’s a regular Jane Edison.” And that’s when things got really embarrassing, because ... “Um, could you grab the other end of the, um ...” “Bedsheet?” Stupid, assing, fuckwadding, LEAKING diapers! Arrrrgh! And there was a stain in my side of the mattress now. “This is ... (hfff).” “Wanna talk about it,” she asked me. “Maybe later. Can I come over later?” “Of course. I’ll be around.” And before she got more than a few feet, I stopped her. “Wait. I don’t ... I’m sorry. How are you?” Because not everything in the world is supposed to be about me and Mary, or me being in trouble or upset or needing a personified wailing wall to vent to. “I’m doing alright. I saw my grandbabies yesterday.” “You did?!?” “Mhmm.” She looked so happy. “Did they remember you?” “Ha. Yeah.” “Told ya they would.” We chatted for another minute. I really did want to, and I also wanted to so we could also have a normal friendship. Ya know, two adults talking about normal things, supporting each other in normal things. Partly because I want that normally, but also because I think I need to make a point of being a better friend and not always taking my emotional stuff and dumping it on their floor, especially Nana’s floor. I have a floor, and they’re welcome to dump on it too. Which are word choices I now regret. Anyway, with our sheets hanging up for the whole world to see along with those TNINGS, I decided I needed to have a little chat with Miss Big for Britches about her choice of britches for me. Now, in my memory, I went inside and changed into one of my work outfits (nice slacks, business-cute top, low heels) and made a PowerPoint any graphic designer would’ve been proud of laying out via charts, graph, flow charts, heat maps, scatterplots, and the kind of brief but insightful bullet points that expert communicators tell you will wow your audience and leave them thinking whatever you want them to think and do whatever you want them to do. I’d show it to you, but would you believe I lost the thumb drive? (I mean really, would you believe it? Please?) In Mary’s memory, I slammed the door and threw a massive tantrum and set the carpeting on fire. Or at least, that’s my memory of what Mary’s memory is. It would certainly explain some things. Anyhoo, I went inside and said, “Mary?” “In my office, Daffodil,” she called back. Which felt a little like she was rubbing it in my face that she had an increasingly successful career going on whereas I did laundry and dishes and put out carpet fires. “We need to talk,” I called back. “Can we talk after work? I’m in the middle of some things.” “No, it can’t wait.” I’m friggin ten times as important as whatever she was doing to keep the internet turned on or whatever. “I need to talk now.” And I heard her footsteps coming my way. It made me wish I’d spent another couple hours on my PowerPoint, awesome as it was. And I should’ve hand written my notes or something. “What’s up,” she asked all confident and like she was just gonna shut down whatever my deal was and go right on back to handing down fiats like she’s queen of every damn thing. I’m an American, dammit! I don’t cotton to monarchy. It’s a new world this side of the Atlantic, and … “Daphne?” “Mary.” Okay, this at this point in my presentation, I made a conscious effort to maintain open body language and a friendly tone of voice. Just because I was proposing to impose a constitution on the queen is not reason to cross my arms, give Mary a dirty look, and spit out, “When those fucking diapers are done drying, you can bring ‘em in yourself and throw ‘em in the damn trash.” Well, at least I got my audience’s attention, as evidenced by the saucer-sized eyes and the way Her Majesty’s head did a sort of a double take. She was coming up with her regal reply, or at least I think she was because her eyes got kinda narrow and she crossed her arms and suddenly we were in a weird lesbian/BDSM/domestic discipline/ageplay standoff. She took her phone out of her pocket and looked at something and then put it down on the counter. And there I was fumbling with the clicker to move on to slide two of my PowerPoint. I know when it’s time to regroup. We can always reschedule meetings. Better to get it right even if it takes two tries then to come away with the wrong next steps because we tried to rush things. “I’ll be at … Mae’s.” Now to waltz past her like a boss. Scoff – silly weakened queen doesn’t realize that’s my arm she’s grabbing. Well ow ow ow ow OW OW. “You, Daphne Ann…” “Ow! Stop! I OW!” “… can plant your butt in the corner and stay there until I say. Do you (swat!) hear (swat swat!) me (swat!) little (smack!) girl (smack! Smack! SPANK!)!?! You have no idea how much trouble you’re in.” What? Does being queen make your ears stop working? “I said I’m going to …” Well, I guess it sorta is the kinda job that gives you a lot of gym time, plus if you recall Mary is also a ninja. I didn’t catch much of what she said because I was too focused on how I came to be in the air with my bare butt hanging out, but the parts I did catch were, “Are you … damn mind … your bare … for a month!” And a whole lot of palm-smack-butt sounds. I said some stuff, too, and Mary could tell you what but there’s no reason to believe her because she didn’t bother to make a PowerPoint. Her mistake. And suddenly I was back on my feet. It’s like she did that magic trick where the waiter yanks the table cloths out from under the water glass, on in this case me, and spanks the crap outta the water glass and it all happens so fast the water glass couldn’t tell you exactly what happened. “Do you have anything else to say to me right now,” the snooty ninja queen waitress magician said. If I had that many titles I’d get a big head, too, I suppose. I didn’t cry at least. That came later. Instead I thought back to all the times my asshole former boss said I needed to spend more time revising my PowerPoints, and I did that in the corner on the kitchen with my butt on display and probably covered in handprint. I ventured to turn around and didn’t even see my shorts or panties. Guess The Incredible Spanking Magicianess made them vanish. I had plenty of time to wonder how she did that trick. Plenty of time. Like, enough time to think I solved that mystery and think about how maybe my PowerPointing skills could use some brushing up after not having made one for six months. Or maybe the slides themselves were fine and just needed one fewer F bombs. Or perhaps a more diplomatic approach to my attempt at dethroning. And I still had time to build a mental clock for what time it was based on the shadow I cast on the wall. It was half past Daphne when she came back. “Well, Seaman First Class Daphne Ann, who thinks she can swear at me like a sailor and tell me what for, I just canceled my entire afternoon to get the bare bottom of this.” She was sorta in my peripheral vision. There’s no seamen in our home, but I had the good sense to stand at attention like one and keep my eyes on the wall and turn around. “Do you have anything to say to me before your punishment?” “I’m …” Don’t cry, dammit! “… sor-sorry.” You know what doesn’t help with the not crying? When I’m upset and Mary is upset and she does that thing where she sighs and any hint that she’s angry with me disappears and she just seems so ready to hug me till candy comes out (which really happened once and we’re not sure how! really!) but is just too damn responsible to let misbehavior slide. “I know. And we’re going to have a long talk between punishments.” Ha! She loves me so much she forgot the singular form of … crap. “Upstairs. March.” Her and the military metaphors… I marched up the stairs while she totally screwed up the cadence with, “Straight to the bathroom.” I have no idea where the term soapbox originated for when people are making a speech, but in our house, the soapbox is a little plastic box from the travel section of the drug store that holds a bar of soap. It’s amazing how long a bar of soap will last if you don’t actually wash with it. I think we’ve had that one since we moved in together. “Arms up.” I did, and she took my shirt off me. “So quiet now,” she said. “Could that be because you realize just how badly you screwed up?” She got the soap out and a lather going while continuing her lecture. “I have no idea – no idea! – what possessed you to come into the house and – seriously! – swear at me like that. Open.” I was supposed to be working on revising my PowerPoint, so you can understand if I was a little tentative about getting pulled off that task to … eeewwwwwwwwww. O god it tastes like dead flowers and bitterness and astringent and regret. Maybe I’d get extra credit for not … eeeoooeeewwwugh it’s lathery enough without her a dammnit to not in my molars awww fudge potatoes. “I don’t care how old you are, Daphne Ann. You (smack!) do not (smack!) swear (smack!) at (SMACK!) me (SMACK!!!). Look at yourself in the mirror (smack!). Do you like what you see? Because I see a little girl who knows way better than to direct curse words at other people, especially her wife.” Welp, floodgates open. “(sniff) (sob) (sob again) (another sob) (that thing when you're diaphragm starts to spasm and) waaaah.” “Whatever you wanted to say to me you could’ve said maturely. We could’ve sat down at the table like two adults. You could’ve told me what was wrong, and we could’ve fixed it together. But instead you threw a tantrum like teenager throwing a tantrum like a toddler. So here we are. Open … ah ah ah. I’ll hold it.” And she held a cup of water to my lips and let me sip and spit and it’s never enough to get the taste out, not that I’ve had my mouth washed out that many times in my life. I’m not sure how many, but I know I have more fingers than that number. But I think only by one now. And to the bedroom we go. She sat down on the bed where she had already laid out the hairbrush. And a hand towel. I didn’t know what for and was afraid to find out. “Over.” I put myself over her knee, and if at this point you’re thinking to yourself that my anti-monarchy rebellion sure got defeated quick, fast, and in a hurry, well, I was thinking the same thing. If you’re also thinking that I caved like a surrender monkey and didn’t even try to put up a fight, I’ll admit strategic errors and tactical mistakes were made, but it wasn’t as outright and crippling a defeat as it appears just because I was completely nude and over her lap about to get spanked with the hairbrush while trying to mind-over-body the taste of soap out of my mouth after a two-hour timeout. I didn’t immediately and fully surrender even if it appears that way just because I hadn’t said more than two words since my opening salvo and those words were an apology. Nor does my allowing the appearance of these things to take hold suggest in any way that I knew I was sooooo in the wrong on, like, at least three levels. And not even really sure what had made me so angry to begin with. “Daphne,” she said to me while starting to rub my butt. “I really want to know what the hell that was all about, and you’re going to have a chance to tell me, but first you are getting your bottom spanked. Do you understand why?” “Because I swore at you.” “Yes. I don’t care if you swear, but you do not. Swear! At me!” I can’t say in good faith that she skipped the warm up because that would ignore the spanking I got in the kitchen and the swats I got in bathroom. I can say she didn’t do as good a job with the warm up as I would’ve preferred, but she’d just counter that with a reminder that it was a punishment spanking and warm ups for little girls who didn’t F bomb their wife. And I’m not a little girl; I’m just saying what Mary would’ve told me. Back to the matter at hand, it was a blur of a spanking. Literally, it was blurry because whatever composure I had managed to maintain (which, good on me for not, for once, going straight to a blubbering mess as soon as I had a moment to reconsider my choice of words two hours prior). She spared no portion of my butt. Which is a shame, because it was a nice butt. We’d been together thirty-plus years, and I didn’t relish the idea of butt shopping during a pandemic but I had no choice because she beat my butt and set in on fire. Fast, hard, and thorough. Which is exactly how I would’ve spanked me. And, btw, probably not a coincidence that the worst punishment back in the old country was reserved for treason. I should never have tried to dethrone the queen, even if all I wanted to do was impose a little control around the royal prerogative. And a failed rebellion is a seriously emotional thing even if you somehow escape the queen, so pardon me if I needed to lay there and wail a moment even after (I think) she stopped spanking me. Plus, for all her faults, my queen loves her subjects, and when she was done administering justice, she was kind enough to let me lay there and even (shuddery feelings) ran her fingers down back to the smoldering red ruins of my butt and back again until I had stopped carrying on). “Ready to sit up,” Her Majesty asked. What I meant to say was, “Not just yet, your Queenship,” but what came out was, “Mmarry.” “C’mon, baby, dry up those tears.” And she helped me to sit up, and I ignored how painful it is to sit on someone’s lap without a butt. “Shhh. C’mon. Dry up those tears.” Dammit, she may be queen of a buncha stuff, but she’s not queen of my tears. “Illstopryinweniwuntoo.” “What?” “I’ll stop crying when I want to.” “So you can use your words.” And she kissed my head. You’d think she’d figure out that if I’m already crying and she kisses my head that just makes me cry some more. “Shhh. You’re okay, Daffy. Whatever is wrong, you’re okay.” What’s wrong is my butt was beyond repair. I needed another minute. “Gotta headache,” she asked me. “Yes,” I said in my thick I’m-just-barely-not-crying voice. “Here.” She reached next to her and grabbed that towel and held it against my nose. “Honk.” And I did. “Can you sit up for me?” And I did that too. “You slimed my shirt,” she said as she pulled it off. She scooted herself to the top of the bed and patted her thigh. I followed, feeling my swollen once-was-a-butt ache with each step (is it a step if you’re crawling?). I put one leg over her one leg and one arm over her and one arm behind her and basically clung to her like I’d gone overboard and she was a harbor buoy and the tide was going out. “Are you ready to tell me what that was all about?” “I ... (sob) ... I didn’t mean to.” “What did you mean to say?” “That I hate those stupid diapers and don’t want that punishment anymore.” “And why didn’t you just say that?” “Because you didn’t listen to me when I said I didn’t like them.” “When was that?” “The very first time when you said they were for punishment. I said I didn’t like them.” “Daphne, you say that about a lot of things.” “Yeah...” What? Just because I say that about stuff I don’t really mean on a weekly basis I was supposed to somehow make it clear when I actually mean it? Why do I hafta do all the work to make myself understood? “Remember the last time you got upset because you felt things were moving too fast?” “Yeah...” “And what happened?” “I got angry and was mean to you.” “And you got your bare bottom spanked, and do you remember what I told you then?” “Not really.” “No surprise there.” Sarcasm alert! No fair! “I told you when you feel that way you need to tell me and do it maturely, and ever since then I’ve been very careful about asking you if you have anything to tell me and even directly asking you if you need to red light anything.” “And I said I didn’t like those.” Well, so I made a bad faith argument. “And that is not the same thing as a red light.” And she called me on my bad faith argument. “But ... eeeugh hmpf!” Dammit! What the fuck is wrong with me! I was fine, like, two hours ago! “Daffy, okay, seriously, what bee is up your bonnet today? Whatever is pissing you off, you just need to say it because now it’s pissing me off.” I sat up. Fine. She wanted it straight? Fine. I was still pissed even if I was a weepy, headachy mess and even if I didn’t know why and even if I did regret what I’d said to her, so I turned responsibility of exposing it over to the ancient lizard part of my brain in the hopes I’d just be able to say it if stopped trying to be all clinical about it. No surprisingly, it came out a little sharply when I said, “You made me into a bedwetter! Those diapers are thick and stupid and you made me wear ‘em and Nana saw and there’s a stain on my side of the bed and I slept in a wet spot and they’re babyish and I’m tired and I hate that punishment!” And then I started crying again. I’m not normally such a crybaby (stop laughing!) but I really didn’t sleep well, and it really did bother me that Nana saw our sheets hanging out there. Literally airing our dirty laundry. And did I mention my butt hurt? But I wasn’t done ranting. I just did I through tears. “And I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to say that. I was ...” “Rude, disrespectful, and a total bitch?” “Mhmm.” “You didn’t seem so upset when we got up this morning, honey. What happened?” “Nana saw. She knows I’m a bedwetter.” Mary scoffed at that. I was in no mood to be scoffed at. “You are not a bedwetter. Your diaper leaked. It happens.” “But Nana saw.” “Nana doesn’t care. She’s seen you waddling around with your diapered booty hanging out now, and she didn’t care then, did she?” “No.” “No, she didn’t. She thinks it’s cute. If she had her way, she’d be over here babysitting.” “Not anymore.” “Because she saw your wet sheets?” “Because she has her grandbabies back.” Aww, crap. Tell me I did not just say that. The stupid shit we say when we’ve been crying so hard our heads hurt and we’re going on being naked for two hours, by the way, which was starting to make me feel a little more vulnerable than I like. I didn’t mean that about Nana. That was my lizard brain talking, and lizards are not logical and I just forgot to tell it to shut up. Silence prevailed in the room for a good forty seconds. I was about to correct my lizard idiocy but Mary got there first. “Nana doesn’t ... You’re not a substitute for her grandkids. She liked you before all this, too.” “I didn’t mean that ... I just ...” “Please don’t start crying again, Daffy.” “I’m ... I don’t ... I just don’t like ... (throaty groan frustration).” “Can I try saying what I think you mean to say?” “Mhmm.” “I think what you’re trying to say is you don’t like that you like this so much. Is that it?” “(silence).” “Is that an answer?” “Yes.” “Yes, it’s an answer; or yes, it’s what you’re trying to say?” “Both.” “It’s okay to like these things if it’s what you like.” “But I’m ... this is too hard.” “What is?” “Talking about it. We never had this much trouble talking about this stuff when it was just discipline.” “Maybe that’s just part of it, you having trouble expressing yourself when ... You having trouble expressing yourself.” “When what?” “Nothing. Wrong train of thought.” Ugh. She’s usually a better fibber. “No, what?” “When you’re ... in your ... middle headspace.” “I’m not a middle!” Even if I have in the past admitted to being a middle, I’m not. “Little girl,” she said in a very sweet cut-the-bullshit way, “it’s okay. It’s okay.” “I’m not a little girl or a middle or a little or any of that.” Sure, just because I’d been acting like one ever since I stopped working, but pandemic. It made everything so weird. My whole world shrunk down to our house for months, and we just ... It just happened. The trajectory we were on with all this just accelerated. We went deeper. It ... It just happened. It’s not who we are. It’s not. It’s not who I am. “Daffy, look at me.” I tilted my head and she was smiling back down at me like she was oddly happy for someone whose wife had just told her to go fuck herself, essentially. “It’s okay to be a middle. Or a little.” “But I’m not. I’m just me.” “Of course you are.” “I’m just me.” “Okay. That’s all you need to be. I love you and your ‘me’ very much. Do you know that?” “I love you too.” “Can we keep talking?” “Of course we can.” Why couldn’t we? Yawwwwn. “If you hate the cloth diapers so much, they can be a just-in-case punishment.” “I don’t want them to be a punishment at all.” “Are you red lighting them? And I need you to be truthful.” “No...” She sighed. “Then, Daphne, I don’t understand what you want.” She sounded frustrated. Maybe I had been expecting her to read my mind mind a little (wayyy) too much. “I want ... not everything needs to be a punishment, ya know. Some things ... I do good things, too, ya know.” “What does ... sooo, you want them to be a reward?” “I didn’t say that!” “... Are you not not saying that?” “(silence) (crickets stridulating) (the noise a black hole makes)” “Okay ... okay. We can do that.” She traced her middle finger up my side from my hip to my ... o, that feels so good. “I’m sorry,” I said again. “That was awful of me to say.” “You apologized (kiss) and got spanked (kiss) and you’re forgiven (kiss).” “Am I gonna get a second punishment like you said?” “No. I don’t think we need that. Unless it’ll make you feel better.” “Uh uh.” “C’mon.” She sat up. “Back to the bathroom.” “What for?” She held my wrist and walked me back to the bathroom. “To clean you up, silly. You look like a wet rat.” She wet a face cloth and wiped away the tear streaks (and not streaks) from my face. God, I don’t think I’ve cried like that in ages. Really. “Hold still, wiggle bug,” she laughed. “I’m trying to see.” I twisted around trying to see the marks I’d so earnestly earned. Talk about who’s a bitch sometimes? Me. And the ass murdering I got for it... “What ...” “What what,” she asked. “Where’s the rest of it?” “Huh?” “It’s ... red.” “Of course your bottom is red, sweetie. You got a spanking,” she said like I had short term memory loss. She must really think I’m dense or crazy sometimes. “I mean ... It should be purple.” “You start trying to top from the bottom and you’ll get that second punishment.” “I mean ... I thought it would be worse.” I wouldn’t even have a bruise. “I didn’t spank you that hard, baby.” “Yes you did.” “You are just oppositional today, Ms. Sassback.” “But ... I cried.” “You blubbered. I think you just needed a good cry. So much so that I think I know what will make you feel better.” She reached over and turned on the tub faucet. “And you really didn’t sleep well, did you?” “No. I slept in a wet spot.” “Why didn’t you get up? I would’ve helped you change the sheets.” “Because then you’d know I wet the bed.” “In you go.” I stepped over the edge of the tub and sat down. It didn’t hurt. Sorta felt rough against my skin, but nothing ached. I must be developing rhino butt or something because no way would I cry and carry on like I did unless she paddled me but good. I think. Unless I was an emotional mess for twenty different reasons and a hairbrush tap was all it took to make it come rushing out. “Daffy, can we clarify terms for a second? When you say you wet the bed, were you awake for it?” “What?!? Of course I was! Don’t be mean.” “Just asking … would explain why you’re so upset about it ... you could’ve just gotten out of bed, though, and I’d have helped you change the sheets and gotten you into something dry.” “Bad enough as is.” “You’d rather sleep in a wet spot than just tell me you need changed? You silly goose.” “I’m not a silly goose. I just ... hmph.” “So you’re not a silly goose or a little girl or a silly little girl. Got it. Lay back.” “I’m not,” I said as I laid back. “And you didn’t throw a fit like a teenager who was having a meltdown like a toddler.” “So what if I did?” Me oppositional? Pshaw. “So, you need a nap, and I’ll take one with you, and then I think we should see if your Nana wants to come over.” “What for?” “To spend time with you. We can order in and rent a movie.” “Okay.” “Arms up.” And I lifted my arms and soap just tickles when you’re the one not holding it, but at least I didn’t squee. “Daffy?” “Mhmm?” “Are there any more big talks we need to have before nap time?” “Like what?” “Like anything else at all you want to change? I’m serious, because if there’s something you want to red light and you don’t tell me and throw a tantrum later, or any other emotional crises we need to resolve before they turn into other tantrums, you need to tell me. Because next time, it’s going to be a just-in-case punishment. I think we’ve had enough of you holding things in until they come gushing out all at once.” “No.” “Nothing at all?” “I don’t think so ... And you know I don’t mean to. It’s just ... “I know (kiss). So many big emotions for such a little girl.” “Ow! No fair pinching. I’m not a little girl.” But the emotions are definitely big. “I think we need to get back to fundamentals for a bit. Let’s put the zero strikes rule in place for a little bit. See if we can’t stay on top of the little things before they become big things.” “But ... for how long?” “We’ll see.” “That’s not an answer.” “I don’t know everything either, ya know.” “I know.” “We’ll just need to see. We need to leave a pitcher in here.” “What for?” “For when I wash that pretty red hair of yours.” “Are we gonna make a habit of you giving me baths now?” Because you don’t hafta be a little girl to enjoy that. “Maybe if you’re a good girl who makes good choices.” “Am I a good girl even when I make bad choices, like telling you to ... I really am sorry.” She put her hand under my chin and turned my head so I was looking her in the eye. “You’re always my good girl, Daphne Ann. Always ... No. You are not gonna start crying again after I just finished washing your pretty face.” But I was having feelings! I didn’t mean to! She let out a big sigh. “Fine. Go ahead if you want to.” “I’m just tired,” I said weepily. And hormonal. “I know, baby. We’ll get you all snuggled up for your nap.” “(sniff). Thank you for taking care of me.” “You’re very welcome.”

Hello there! Sorry for the slight delay. Quite a few things came up in RL, not the least of which being the heat wave that is still going on. Anyways, got some free time and was able to crank out another chapter! I certainly hope that you enjoy it! Tracey's Story (Chapter 7) by Panther Cub & Anonymous "Aunt Katherine, can we help change Tracey's diaper?" Tina excitedly asked as she and her twin followed them inside. Tracey, still on her mother's hip, was nursing her binky, whining a little. They passed through the living room and headed upstairs, down the hall to the bedroom that overlooked the lake that Tracey usually stayed in when they would visit. The room itself was a bit spartan, with some generic flower paintings hanging on the white walls, the queen-sized bed up at the far wall with its red comforter, and the light blue carpeting. But the large windows with the view of the lake and the afternoon sun just couldn't be beat. "Tracey doesn't wear diapers full-time girls. This was just for the long car ride," Katherine said with a chuckle, finding it adorable how already her nieces wanted to dote on her daughter, "and for bedtime." "Mommy!" Tracey whined with a blush as she saw her cousins snicker behind their paws. "Don't worry, kitten," Katherine said, stopping to shift Tracey into a cradled position and start rocking her, "we'll get you out of that icky diapee and into some big girl panties, yes we will." While a little miffed at how her mother had misunderstood her whining, the combination of the rocking and the pacifier, helped to make Tracey feel more at ease. The baby talk and the sudden nose boop, despite Tracey's reservations, made the teen tigress giggle. "Can we still help?" Lena asked, looking up at Katherine with wide and pleading eyes. "Me and Tina are almost old enough to babysit, so we want to get as much practice taking care of little kids and babies as possible." Lena said, referencing their upcoming thirteenth birthday. Tracey frowned and started to shake her head, which her mother missed entirely. "Of course. Why, maybe sometime on down the road, you two can help out with Tracey! I'm sure that she would just love to get to spend some more time with her older cousins." Tracey's eyes went wide at this sudden revelation of hearing her mother refer to the twins, who were still just twelve years old, as being older than the sixteen year old tigress. "Here's Tracey's diaper bag. How about you get out Tracey's changing mat, the wipes, and some underwear?" Katherine asked as she started to bounce Tracey, who was still too shocked from the earlier statement to notice what was being said or done at the moment. "Sure thing, Aunt Katherine!" the twins said in innocent unison, both excited and giggling. While Tina got out and unfolded the mat on the bed, Lena was quick to whip out the wipes, powder, and a pair of pink princess-themed training pants. Katherine was cooing at Tracey and bouncing her in her arms. The tigress was jolted out of her shocked state by the combination of wonderment at her mother's apparent strength, as well as the sensation of being bounced in her soggy padding, each bounce making her wince. She simply suckled her binky and pouted as she was laid down, just wanting this embarrassment to be over, and to get out of the diaper as soon as possible. "Oh, girls, I meant a pair of Tracey's big-girl panties, not her Paw-Ups," Katherine said with a chuckle. "But Aunt Katherine, there are no big-girl undies. Only diapers and Paw-Ups," Lena said, looking innocently. Tracey whined, but didn't think to remove her binky, especially when someone started to tickle her foot, making her giggle. The culprit of the sudden tickling was Tina, who was grinning as she did so. "What?! I could have sworn that I packed her at least six pairs, just in case," the mature tigress said as she started to search through all the different compartments of the diaper bag, to no avail. "Oh dear... well, I suppose that it can't be helped." "B-but, Mommy," Tracey finally managed to say, in between giggles as Tina doubled her efforts to tickle Tracey's foot, "I d-don't need Paw-Ups!" "I'm sorry kitten, but it's either them or your diapers. Besides, they're just like big-girl panties, only you don't need to worry if you have an accident," Katherine said as she, after shooing away Tina's tickling paw, got Tracey all centered on her changing mat, and set about untaping her diaper. "B-but, c-can't I just... uhm... go without?" Tracey asked, blushing beet red as she asked it. Katherine simply chuckled and shook her head. "Sweetie, good girls don't run around without their undies on. Now, be a good girl and settle down." With a pout, she crossed her arms and just laid back, nursing her binky, actively avoiding her cousins' eyes and their giggles as Katherine slowly went about the fine points on how to properly change a diaper. She even applied a generous amount of baby powder, before slipping the Paw-Ups up Tracey's legs, fitting them snugly around her daughter's waist. "And it's just a simple matter of making sure the tapes are even when putting the fresh diaper on," Katherine explained, patting Tracey's thigh so that she would roll over so that Katherine could take care of the tail hole. "And you can't forget to check the back. If a diaper, or in this case a pair of Paw-Ups, are not on nice and snug, the chances of leaks are great. Now, any questions?" Katherine patted Tracey's padded bottom, making the tigress wince and roll back over, sitting up so that she could pull the hemline of her dress down and cover her new training pants. "Can we help put Tracey in her bed-time diapers? Just so we understand how to put a diaper on properly," Lena asked, looking innocent. "I don't see why not," Katherine said, much to Tracey's mortification. "Now, why don't you two go and tell your mother that Tracey's all ready for her special surprise?" Katherine said, scooping Tracey into her arms and rocking her some more, a look of contentment on her face as she did so. "Okay!" they said in unison once more, giggling and running out of the room. "Please, mommy, I don't want them to put a diaper on me!" Tracey whined, taking her binky out. "Oh sweetie, please don't fret," Katherine said, popping the binky back in, "your cousins love you and don't mind one bit. Why, you saw how excited they were to help out." "Mommy, that's not what I--" Tracey was cut off by the sudden appearance of her aunt in the doorway. The towering lioness quickly intimidated Tracey, despite the warm and loving smile on her muzzle. She was wearing a pinstripe skirtsuit, and had two gold hoops dangling from her ears. "There's my little sugar-pie, all fresh as a daisy now?" Peggy asked, her sweet sugary southern accent dripping from her voice. "She sure is!" Katherine happily chimed in, giving Tracey a bounce in her arms. "Tracey, honey, say hi to your auntie Peggy." "H-hi Aunt Peggy," Tracey said, feeling nervous about the wrapped gift in her aunt's arms. It was a large box wrapped in bright pink wrapping paper, with little unicorns on it. Tracey's mom set her don on the bed, with a loving head pat, and Peggy set the present down in front of her niece, who had put the pacifier back in her own mouth and was sucking on it. She looked up at the two waiting females and then down at the gift, and quickly started to tear the paper off. "Awww, she is just so adorable. I'll bet she'll wanna play with the box once it's been opened!" Peggy cooed, making Tracey blush. In your dreams, lady, Tracey thought, biting down on her paci to bite back the retort. Once the top of the box was exposed, she ripped open the flaps... to reveal something grey and made of some kind of soft cloth. Reaching in, Tracey pulled out some kind of long grey t-shirt with a white belly... and a hood, with two long bunny-like ears on it. The back part of the shirt was longer than the front with some kind of snaps at the very end, and a large white puff-ball on the back, just above the tail hole. "A bunny onesie?! Oh my goodness, that's going to look absolutely precious on her!" Tracey's mom gushed while Tracey sat there, looking at the onesie, once more in shock. "Not just one, I got her a few more like it," Peggy said, reaching in and pulling out a russet-colored fox onesie, made so that apparently Tracey's tail could fit in the bushy fox tail part; a bright green one with butterfly wings on the back, and a purple wolf onesie, again with the bushy tail part made to allow her own tail to go in. "I just started with the bunny one and couldn't help myself, they were all so cute. I'm actually glad I was able to stop myself at four, actually." Tracey wasn't listening, as her mind had apparently shorted out a little at the sight of all the onesies she knew she was going to end up wearing. "I'm thinking that after her bath tonight, I'll dress her in the bunny one, I'm sure she'll just love it!" Katherine said, before scooping up Tracey, making her let out a surprised EEP, and settled her on her hip. "What do we say to Auntie Peggy for such a wonderful gift?" Katherine asked, making Tracey look up at her aunt and instantly feel on the spot. "F-fankies, awntew Peggew," Tracey's voice lisped even more around her binky than usual. "Awww, sugar-pie, you are welcome!" Peggy said, reaching out as a sign for Katherine to pass her to her arms, which she did much to Tracey's surprise, and cradled and cuddled and fussed over her the very moment she hugged Tracey close to herself. "Oh, Kathy, I've been meaning to ask, how has Tracey's MS been progressing? Has she gone back to bottles and diapers full-time yet?" Peggy asked, getting right to the point. Tracey looked worried. Why the 'yet'? Who says that it hasn't stopped here? Tracey wondered, and was just about to open her mouth to say as much when her mother answered. "No, not yet, but it might not be too long before we're re-pottytraining her," Katherine said, making Tracey wince. "Oh, have you switched her over to the Daycare section yet?" Peggy asked, making Tracey once more balk at the word 'yet', and its implication of inevitability. "Not yet, but she has taken upon herself to volunteer there. So I'm certain that if her MS progresses any further while she's at school, that she'll be right where she needs to be to get the help she needs," Katherine said, holding her own arms out and smiling brightly as she accepted her daughter back. "Aww, well, at least she's making friends for when it happens," Peggy said. "We are holding out hope that this is about as far as it goes, but just in case, we're prepared," Katherine said, giving her daughter a loving squeeze. Is this what Lyra goes through when people talk about her while she's right there, like she can't understand? If so, it is not very fun, Tracey mused, before the sudden appearance of her father surprised her. "Ladies," he said, as he carried in what Tracey immediately recognized as her bedrails. "Oh? But she sleeps in a crib?" Peggy asked, oblivious to the blush on Tracey's face. "Oh no, she was just having some trouble staying in bed while she slept, so we got her some rails to keep her from falling out and bumping her cute little head," Katherine said, suddenly switching to babytalk and nuzzling the top of Tracey's head. This calmed her, and she hugged Felicity closed and sucker her binky, resting her head on her mom's shoulder, out of some weird instinct. * * * Out at the curb, Tina and Lena were giggling as they approached the trash cans already at the curb. They had remembered that tomorrow morning was trash pickup, and offered to take out the kitchen trash, which had quickly filled up in the time that they and their mom had spent at the lakehouse. Once there, they both made sure that the coast was clear, and Tina, who was carrying the bag, opened it up to let Lena pull all of Tracey's underwear out of her pockets, and stuff them in the bottom of the bag. Tina then tied the bag good and tight, and the two stuffed it in the cans. They gave each other a high five as they put the lid on it, before hurrying back inside. "You sure that Tracey will really start needing diapers?" Tina asked, sounding a little skeptical. "You saw that she already needs them for bed and apparently long car rides. I heard mom say that the more you baby an MSer, the more that their bodies and psyches react to it, until they hit their limit. I say we keep going until we find Tracey's limit," Lena said with a smirk on her muzzle. "But what if her limit still leaves her potty trained enough to not need diapers when she's awake?" "Then we can always just make it look like she does need them. Aunt Katherine and Uncle Paul will probably go along with it if we can be convincing enough." * * * "Now, how about some lunch?" Paul asked, wiping his brow after finishing setting up the railing for Tracey's bed. Tracey rolled her eyes at this, finally allowed to walk on her own two feet, unaware of her suckling her binky. Still with Felicity in her arms, she turned to go, only to find her paw was being held by her mother. "Sounds good to us," she said, affectionately rubbing Tracey's head, and leading her daughter out of the room and down the stairs. Tracey was aware of a very light crinkle as she walked, each step making her blush. She thought about voicing an objective, but she just felt so thrown-off, being treated like a little girl, and not just by her parents. Tracey's stomach let out a growl, which her aunt Peggy found cute. "Aww, sounds like the little princess is demanding to be fed right now," she said. They three adults shared a chuckle before Peggy added in. "If she's still eating solids, I whipped up a big batch of springrolls earlier. If not, I brought my blender, which can puree fruits and veggies and even meat in a snap." Tracey had had enough, and stopped in her tracks and spun around to face her aunt. The angry tirade she had been prepared to unleash died on her lips, however, as she once more found herself easily intimidated by the much larger female feline, and instead eeked out, "I'm notta baby, auntie Peggy, I don't eat mush," in a nervous voice. That brought about another coo from her aunt who knelt down to hug her. "Cute and sassy," she said, not letting go of Tracey as she stood up, instead opting to shift Tracey into a cradled position, patting her lightly padded rear. "This little princess has got herself the whole package." The adults laughed again, and Tracey calmed down a little as she was rocked. She felt very weird. A minute ago, she had been very irritated, as well as intimidated. But as she was carried in her aunt's arms, being rocked and nuzzled, har body just started to relax, as if on its own. They all entered the kitchen, with its black and white tiled floors, and pristine formica counter, next to the stainless steel fridge that matched the stainless steel sink. "You know, someone as huggably adorable as Tracey would make a great model," Peggy said, taking a seat at the kitchen table with Tracey in her lap, her knee starting to bounce. "Peggy, Tracey is much too little to be a model," Katherine said as she took a seat next to them while Paul set about warming up the spring rolls, and the twins sat across the table from Tracey, grins on their faces that made Tracey a little nervous internally. What are they up to now? she wondered to herself. "Well, I was actually thinking more along those lines, Katherine. About her being so little now," Peggy continued. "What are you talking about, Peggles?" Paul asked, making his sister frown at him while her daughters and Tracey all couldn't resist laughing. They knew how much Paul liked to tease his big sister with that pet name. "I'm talking about a model for MS products," she said, which immediately silenced Tracey's laughter, thought not her cousins'. "Our company is always on the lookout for pretty and cute MSers to model our brand of adorable outfits and onesies, cribs, high chairs, playpens, diapers, and stuff like that. For commercials and other ads." "Tracey sounds perfect for the role!" Tina chimed in. "She's so cute and so pretty!" Lena added next. "I don't know," Katherine said, appearing to actually be considering it, much to Tracey's panic. "No way!" Tracey said. "I don't need diapers or any of that stuff! I'm not a baby!" For a moment, there was silence, before Tracey felt the fingers of her aunt's free paw start ticking her side. She tried to hold back the laughter, but it bubbled up regardless, and she couldn't stop. "So serious," Peggy said, smiling warmly, "we know that you're not a baby sugar-pie. You have a medical condition, that's all. But just because you do, that doesn't mean that you can't look your best, and show everyone how pretty you are." Tracey winced as she giggled, feeling like her aunt missed the point a bit. "I think we should wait and see how much further she progresses. Once she's good and comfortable, we'll see," Katherine said, with Paul nodding along as he set the steaming plate of springrolls down in the center of the table, discreetly bibbing Tracey, just before he set a sippi-cup of juice down. Tracey saw the cup, and noticed that the twins hadn't taken an interest in it yet, as they were sharing a look that seemed to pass for a silent conversation. They shared a wink, and smiled as innocently as possible while looking at Tracey. This is gunna be a long weekend, Tracey thought, not at all noticing that her aunt was feeding her a springroll, having let it cool first. Tracey accepted it with no fuss, still distracted by keeping an eye on her cousins. And there you are! I certainly hope that you enjoyed the new chapter! Please feel free to leave a comment or review, as that can really be a pick-me-up to authors or otherwise just make their day.

Agreed! A onesie with my shortalls is an amazing combination. I love wearing my onesies with my shortalls because it's an outfit that screams littlespace.

Part 3 The sun peeked in through a small gap in the curtain stirring me out of a deep sleep. The digital clock on the desk across the room read 9:04 in dim blue light. I rolled on my back and rubbed the sleep from my eyes, and nearly panicked as the memory of last night hit me full force. Part of me thought meeting with Steve had been a dream, or maybe somewhat of a nightmare depending on how I framed the memory. The new day had presented me with questions about my sexuality that the intoxication of Steve's companionship the previous night did not. Was I gay now? I sure seemed okay with that thought of being at least a little gay last night. The thought that my sexuality was not as concrete as I had thought caused a momentary panic, followed by regret. I wasn’t sure this was me... I wasn’t sure this was what I wanted. Yes, it was sort of exciting. Steve was giving me attention and the prospect of affection that I hadn’t felt in months. I knew I needed to understand that last night was a mistake, one that I wouldn’t discuss ever again and let that be the end of it. I rolled from bed and staggered across the tiny apartment to the restroom and had yet another moment of shame when I remembered that Steve had shown me the contents of his fantasies, and I was somewhat turned on by it at the time. I was humiliated at myself as I looked in the mirror while standing in front of the toilet. The icing on the cake being my entirely hairless body making me appear as if I were heading back to elementary school after my shower. I wondered what friends back home would say if they knew. I wonder what Sarah would say if she knew. I tried as hard as I could to shake the memories out and get ready for a Sunday of... well... nothing, I guess. I showered, had a breakfast bar, and settled into the chair across from the TV ready for another exciting day of binging whatever show caught my eye. Queer Eye... huh. It hit a little too close to home, but decided to watch it all the same. Roughly 20 minutes into the episode, I realized that I hadn’t grabbed my phone from the nightstand this morning, so I took the 10 steps or so required. Lifting the phone up, I noticed a few new texts. One from my Mom asking if I would be home for my sisters birthday in a few weeks — yes, I replied. I could use some family time even though I knew I'd come to regret that as well soon. Another text was from my bank showing a low balance in my checking account and encouragement to sign up for overdraft protection. The third was from Steve at 7:56am. I hesitated to open it, and thought about just deleting it without reading it since I had now decided that whatever happened last night wasn't really me. In the end, curiosity got the best of me thought. The familiar blue bubble popped up when I swiped on his message, it simply read “Check your email”. My laptop was on the floor next to the chair, I lifted to grab it and powered it on. Going to my spam collecting Yahoo account I see quite a few emails waiting, all were junk except for one. “Adam - Good morning. I hope you’re feeling alright as you’re reading this. Last night may be a lot for you to process. I know. I can remember being there. What happened last night was between two adults. Two adults that are taking a chance that there may be some chemistry between them. I know you were frightened last night, but you still showed up on-time, and followed all of the instructions I had provided for you. For that, I am proud. That took courage. I won’t take much time writing this as my only intent is to show you support during a frightening point in your life, and to selfishly hope that when you make the decision to turn toward or away from whatever made you respond to my posting, that the direction you turn will lead you back here. Affectionately, -Steve” I wanted to delete the email and just forget everything. But I also couldn’t believe how nice he seemed and thought it rude to just ghost him completely without at least an explanation. I deliberated about how to respond for a few minutes, but decided his genuine email deserved a genuine response. It was the least I could do, I guess. “Thank you for writing, Steve. I am trying to process what happened last night still and if the person you met was the real me or just the lonely me. I’m not sure meeting again would be the best idea, I don’t want to give you the wrong impression. I don't think I can be what you want me to be. It was nothing you did, I’m just unsure of where I go from here. Adam" I took a deep breath and hit send. The 'whoosh' I heard was the mark of finality on my homosexual exploration. I did enjoy myself last night. It was thrilling. I was scared, but I was also afraid of what would happen to me if I kept living life how I had been. I knew I was depressed. I was near my own personal rock bottom. I hadn’t turned to drugs or alcohol yet, but occasionally between episodes on Netflix, when the screen would go black, I would see the reflection of someone I didn’t know looking back. The gaunt little guy that stared back wasn’t who I wanted to be either. His sunken eyes were nearly dead, I couldn’t be him. I began to cry, thinking about how wrong everything had gone in my life. I was miserable and now I had just shut down the only person that had given me a glimpse of excitement in the past few months. I felt bad, I liked Steve. He was a really cool, successful guy. I just wasn’t the person he was looking for. I couldn’t dress up for him, I couldn’t be his girl. I wasn’t going to be a girl for anyone. I missed MY girl. But I still felt bad for leading him on, I guess. I pulled up the text from Steve and responded “Hey, can we talk?” and waited, hoping I didn’t cause a massive riff with my email. Maybe we could still be friends or something, or at least I could let him down gently and try and explain the why behind it, if I could even figure that out. Nearly and hour had passed with no response. I began to accept that I had destroyed any possible friendship I had with him, and rightfully so. I didn’t exactly respond in a great way. I jumped nearly out of my chair at the first knock on my apartment door. I wasn’t expecting a delivery, and I never had visitors. I sat deathly still in the chair as if my motion would tip off my presence. The second knock was louder. I crept to the door, staying as far from the window as possible and peeked into the peephole. It was Steve. He was standing at the door in a nice shirt and slacks. He had a box in his hand with a red bow encircling the silver paper. “Umm.. just a minute...” I stammered, mortified at the thought of him seeing my dingy basement apartment with no appreciable natural light. I scrambled to turn lamps on and threw a clean shirt on over my head and tried in vein to fix my bedhead. I rushed back over to the door and unlocked the deadbolt, hoping he had moved away from the door enough that I could exit and speak to him outside. “Adam, can I come in?” Steve said with a smile, moving past me before my official answer was delivered. “Uh, sure - sorry for the mess.” “Don’t be, I doubt you expected company.” he responded. He towered in my small apartment, his 6’6” frame seeming cramped under my 8’ ceilings. He moved over toward the chair and set the expertly wrapped box on the table. “I got you a little something... since I wasn’t here for your house-warming party...” he said with a grin. “Thanks, you really didn’t ha-” “I know I didn’t. I wanted too. Judging by your reaction I guess I'm full of surprises.” he said with a smirk and a wink at the end, emphasizing the good nature he intended from the comment. “Well, I appreciate it.” I said, moving toward the box. “Should I open it now, or...” “Yes, please do. I figured you could wear it to lunch today.” he said as he gestured toward the box. It wasn’t heavy, but had some heft to it. I pulled the red ribbon and placed it back on the table, then began to peel the paper slowly and carefully, trying not to rip the beautiful silver paper. “An Apple Watch!? Steve, these are like four hundred bucks! Way too much!” I exclaimed, in shock that he would think this was a casual gift. “I know that, baby. I didn’t pay full price, and I saw that you weren’t wearing a watch. I figured you’d enjoy having one.” I felt conflicted about his using the term “baby” again. It made me feel weird, guilty. Last night I was in a different frame of mind. I tried to push past it. “Steve, I’m not so sure I can accept-” he cut me off. “Listen, Adam...” he started “I saw your email. I get how weird last night seemed to you. I've been there before. I remember the nerves well. I remember trying to talk myself out of it, and I vividly remember trying to suppress who I was because I was afraid of what other people would think. I know it was scary, I don't take that for granted. I just want to thank you for even showing up. It was courageous of you to take a chance. I don't want to force you into anything, I just want you to be able talk freely and not be afraid. Let's get some lunch and talk about how you're feeling. Okay?” I reflected for a moment that Steve was really concerned for me. This didn’t seem like something he was doing to manipulate me into more. There couldn't be any harm in talking. “Okay, it’s a deal, I guess.” I said with a flash of a smile. “Perfect! Now get dressed in something nice, we’re going to Parkside Tavern for lunch. Our reservation is in 30 minutes.” He said lightly ushering me toward my open closet door. I quickly put on my only nice pair of slacks and a checkered blue and white button up shirt while Steve waited in the doorway. I pulled on some slip on brown Oxfords and I left my apartment with a lot of anxiety, but also relief in being able to talk with someone I felt I could trust. The ride to the Tavern was short since it was Sunday morning with only a few other cars on the road. We drove east toward the nice part of town that Steve lived in feeling much more relaxed than either of us was last night. Parkside was a fancy place situated between a prestigious country club golf course that routinely hosted PGA events, and the large lake backing up to Steve’s gated community. The restaurant was pretty empty, the golf season hadn’t started yet and they had only just begun serving lunch. We were seated at a table overlooking the water, and Steve had again slipped a $20 bill into the hand of the hostess to ensure we had our privacy until the last available moment that table nearest us be needed. “It’s pretty cute that even the small watch looks so large on your wrist.” Steve teasingly pointed out. I blushed and twisted the watch a bit to straighten it up, and refastened the Velcro to hold it a bit tighter. I fiddled around with the watch a bit more, looking out of the window at the shimmering water and waited for Steve to break the silence. I glanced back at him, my eyes diverting up to meet his gaze, still amazed at how he seems to tower even while sitting. “So, do you want to talk about last night at all... or...” he asked with a glimmer of a smirk. “Umm... I guess so.” I responded, nearly faint at the prospect of discussing anything like the previous night in public. We were well away from prying ears, so I took a deep breath and prepared myself for what I was sure was going to be an embarrassing conversation. I straightened in my booth and put both hands folded on the table. “Okay, good. I think its important that we do. First and foremost, what I showed you was some pretty advanced level stuff toward the end. I probably got a bit too overzealous by showing you all of that on what was probably your first time talking to a gay man one-on-one. I had you in my world without considering the fact that I probably needed to be in yours. I apologize for that. Do you understand?" he stated, less as a question and more as a confirmation I heard him. I shook my head yes, awkwardly avoiding his intense gaze "Even though I brought you to that level too quickly, do you have any questions about anything that was discussed, or that we saw last night?" he followed. "I mean, I don't think so." I meekly replied. The silence seemed to last an eternity. I could sense Steve's disappointment with my lack of conversation, I couldn't break past the awkwardness to say anything. I tried to steady my breathing as much as I could and find some way to engage the conversation. I built a wall between myself and last night and decided to just openly engage in the conversation like I was never involved. I took a deep breath and made eye contact. "How long have you liked dressing boys like girls?" I blurted out, immediately knowing I should have phrased that differently. Steve gave me a funny look and chuckled. "Alright, there we go." He began, overtly surprised at my question. "Well, when I was younger, maybe 6 or 7, I had a babysitter that seemed to really enjoy teasing me. One day, she made me put on a dress and wear it the entire day. She teased me the entire time. When I got older, I was asked to babysit a kid down the street for a few hours. I did the same thing to him. I found his sister's closet and made him wear her clothes. He cried, but I enjoyed teasing him. I think from there, it just developed into a fetish. I realized when I was older and started dating that it felt natural to be dominant at first with women, then with men. I got off on putting people in situations that were outside of their comfort zones. Dressing guys up as girls had a stark effect on the control of power. There was no denying who was in charge. I've enjoyed it since then." He said. I nodded my head as he spoke, fascinated with his story. It was funny how something so seemingly innocent from his youth seemed to alter his life. It also wasn't lost on me that he was probably enjoying my being out of my comfort zone right now. "So are you serious about all of this? Why'd you decide to write me?" He asked bluntly. "Well, I've never even really thought about being with a guy... well, I guess until I saw your post, at least. I was bored and looking for group meet ups or something on Craigslist, and I guess I just kept clicking around. Eventually that led me to your post and... and I guess it kind of turned me on. So I decided to write you back. I never really thought you would respond. I guess I was just bored and lonely." I answered, the heat now radiating from my face from embarrassment. I could see the slight smile on Steve's face. He was enjoying this, I could tell. I was afraid that deep down, I was too. The same feelings that I had last night were coming back to me. I felt his affection again. The taboo topics we were discussing were turning me on again, and it was overpowering the shame and guilt that I came into the conversation with. "So you said you've never thought about it until you read my post. What did you think about? What were you thinking last night when I was going through the bag and showing you the closet? You seemed to like it when you weren't mortified." He responded. "Well..." I started, again feeling my heart race. "I didn't really think of specifics. I just thought about what it would be like to be... desired, er... wanted? I don't know if that's the right word, but... you know. I guess my entire life, boys chase girls and give them attention and affection, but I've never really felt like anyone has treated me like that. I guess it was exciting to read it. It almost made me feel like I was the girl and a guy was trying to... seduce me? I don't know, that probably doesn't make sense." "No, no. It absolutely does." Steve interjected quickly. "It makes perfect sense. And you're right. That's exactly what it was like because that's what it was." He said exuding confidence, and a smirk on his face. It was funny how it hit me. I realized at that moment that Steve saw me like I saw Sarah. I saw her as a delicate, feminine, sexy person that drove me crazy. He saw me as a delicate, feminine, sexy person that drove him crazy. I think at that moment, for the first time, I realized that gender norms weren't applicable right now. Hitting that realization both relaxed me and excited me. I wanted affection and so did he. We were both looking for something that the other could provide, even if it wasn't what I would have normally considered it something I would do. I decided to let my guard down a bit, and at the very least have fun being chased by a tall, handsome guy. A brief silence with an exchange of smiles between us was interrupted by the waitress bringing rolls and butter, and inquiring about our lunch order. “He’ll have the steak medallions over rice pilaf with broccoli, water to drink. I’ll have the sea bass, sub out the potatoes for broccoli and a side salad with balsamic. Water to drink as well.” Steve said without missing a beat, or even glancing at me for a confirmation of my order. I sheepishly looked at the waitress and nodded as she looked at me, some confusion on her face. “Thank you, I’ll get this right in. Anything I can get you now?” she asked with a smile, and an awkward glance trying to process the dynamic of the relationship in front of her. “No, that’ll be it. Thanks.” Steve replied with a lovely smile. Steve looked at me, reading the surprise on my face. I hadn’t had someone order food for me since I learned to read. It was an odd feeling, to say the least. Our conversation over the rest of lunch seemed lighter than the prying we both did when we sat down. I was now determined to just ease in and have fun playing the game, and I think Steve could sense the shift in my guard. The steak was delicious, tender and perfectly cooked to a medium rare doneness. Steve inquired more about my family, my school life, and my job. I told him about my parents and our distant relationship, and how school hadn’t been all I thought it would be. I recounted what my normal shift was like, and he too was surprised that I was as isolated as I was during the night. We discussed my classes, and how I really haven’t found my calling yet, all of my classes were considered Gen Ed. We talked for a few minutes after our plates were cleared, then Steve paid the bill and we were on our way. “Thanks for lunch, I really appreciate it. It was nice being able to talk openly with you.” I said, walking next to him in the direction of the parking lot. “I loved having you with me as well.” He responded, reaching his right arm around my waste and pulling in for a side hug as we continued to the car. “Do you want to come back to my house?” Steve asked as we were approaching the main road from the restaurant. "No pressure. Maybe a movie or something?" “Umm... yeah, sure. I guess so.” I responded somewhat hesitantly. I had flashbacks of asking girls over to 'watch movies' in my past and I knew what that usually meant. “Alright, great.” He responded without emotion as he turned out onto the main road toward his street. The drive took only moments, his house being nearly visible from the restaurant hardly warranted a car ride at all if the weather wasn't so cool. We slowly drove through the gated community entrance with Steve's slight nod to the guard at the small shack. The guard barely took his eyes off of his book as the gate slowly whirled open. Steve parked in the circular driveway and we exited without speaking. It felt very casual at this point... just two friends hanging out for a little while. I tried to play it cool and keep my nerves in check. I tried to imagine my reaction in as many scenarios as possible. If he came on to me, what would I do? If he pinned me against the wall, how would I get away? I tried to shake the thoughts out of my mind. I didn't know him that well, but he didn't seem like a rapist, I guess. I wasn't naive, I knew his intentions were most likely different from mine. I knew I would just have to draw the line if it came to that. Steve unlocked and opened the large door and I was greeted with the warm embrace of the heated air in the large foyer. Steve closed the door behind me and slid his jacket off while motioning for me to do the same. I handed him my light jacket and slid my shoes off, again following his lead. We walked through the foyer, past the gourmet kitchen, and down a different hallway than the master bedroom had been down. He walked through an open door leading to a dark, cool room. He flicked the overhead lights, illuminating a well-equipped movie room decorated to resemble a theatre, complete with a matte black wall with a massive curved TV hanging, seemingly floating, and talking up a good portion of it. There were heavy curtains lining the side walls, and positioned toward the front was a large, plush looking couch. A few feet behind the couch were 4 plush recliners raised about 18 inches above the couch. It was an impressive design. “There are some movies in the closet behind the curtains over there. Pick anything you’d like to watch, I’m gonna go change.” Steve said, throwing his keys and wallet on the table near the door. “There are drinks in the refrigerator, grab me a Diet, grab yourself whatever, if you don't mind.” He said as he turned to exit. I walked over to the corner of the room and pulled the curtain to reveal a sliding door that hid all of the media equipment and physical copies of movies. I smiled slightly thinking that he could have saved himself a lot of money on movies if he had realized that streaming was going to be the next big wave. There had to have been hundreds of movies to choose from. I scanned through the mass of blue cases on the shelves lining the built in cabinet before finally selecting the first Harry Potter movie. Not knowing how to play movies on this system, I set the movie on the large couch and decided to go get the drinks and allow Steve to set it up. I grabbed two Diet Cokes from the refrigerator and placed them both on the table nearest the couch. Looking around, I noticed another closet near the one housing the selection I had just viewed. I pulled on the door but the lock clicked and the door resisted being open. “The movies in there may be a bit advanced for you right now...” Steve said, standing at the door with a grin on his face. I moved away from the door feeling like a kid who was caught with their hand in the cookie jar. Steve smirked, now dressed in athletic shorts and a v-neck tee shirt. I stepped over to the couch, my eyes not leaving his masculine body as he walked, and sat easily down on the left side of the couch, grabbing the movie and extending it out to him. “I wasn’t sure how to start it.” I said, still red from embarrassment of being caught at the door, now even more embarrassed that I couldn't take my eyes off of his body. I could feel something stir in me again, something that I felt at the pizza place as well. It was an odd feeling for me, it was almost like I had the need to be swooped up in his arms and protected. I felt the butterflies flutter in my stomach as he walked toward me. I felt small. Steve took the movie from me and inserted it into the player, then collected a few remotes. He turned the TV on with one, the player on with one, then using the third, turned all of the lights off leaving us enveloped in pitch blackness. The gentle light of the TV slightly illuminated the room, showing Steve’s silhouette moving toward me. I felt the couch sink in as he settled on a spot near me. “I’m sorry, we should have run by your place to get you some other clothes.” He said as the movie began to softly light the room. “Here...” he said as he pulled a blanket from the floor and tosses it over both of us. “Need to get comfortable... you picked Harry Potter and you can’t watch just one.” I pulled my shirt from my pants, attempting to get comfortable in the clothes I was wearing. “If you want a change of clothes, let me know... I’m sure I can put something together for you.” He said with a teasing laugh. “Okay, I’ll let you know...” I laughed awkwardly, knowing exactly what he was implying. The movie played for a little while as we sat motionless in the dark. I tried to take stock of every move he made, nearly jumping every time he would shift his body on the couch. I could feel my heart racing in my chest. I was waiting for the moment. It was a hard moment to describe, as I have never been on the receiving end of the moment. It was the moment where the guy had finally gained the courage to make his move on the girl. It was the 'chill' part of 'Netflix and chill'. I wasn't sure how I was going to react when he made the move, but I was going to make sure I wasn't caught off-guard. The moment didn't arrive as fast as I had anticipated it would, but it did arrive before the first half of the movie had elapsed. I felt the very slight movement of the blanket as Steve's right hand slowly made its way to rest gently on my left thigh. My heart started beating even more rapidly as I froze, acutely aware that he was very near my groin. I could feel my breathing tighten as I kept my gaze firmly locked on the screen, for some reason convinced that if I pretended like his hand wasn't there that he would remove it. His hand didn't move, but I was mortified as I could feel myself starting to grow hard near his hand. I knew that if I got an erection he would feel it due to the close proximity. I tried as hard as I could to think about something to cause it to go down, but my body had other ideas. I could feel Steve's hand shift very slightly as my erection tugged lightly at my pants, now fully grown. I was a bit surprised as he moved his hand further down my thigh, and I was ashamed in myself that I was slightly disappointed that he moved his hand away. I tried to focus on the movie, but found myself unable to focus on anything at all but the location and slight movements of his hand and the tightness of my pants as my cock was begging to be released. It felt like an eternity, but soon I could feel gentle, rhythmic movements as he began to lightly rub my thigh. He toyed with me as he moved closer and closer to my cock as he rubbed up and down. I was desperate for him to touch me, but conflicted because at the same time I didn't want him too. My horniness was beginning to take over my mind fully as I felt my hips gently lift when his hand was completing the upper-most portion of it's journey. This caused his hand to very lightly touch the tip of my cock, causing a near panic attack in my mind as his hand froze in place. I wanted to get up and run, but my body wouldn't allow it. His up-and-down motions now became light side to side movements from my inner to outer thigh, each time causing friction on the overly sensitive head of my cock. I could feel the wetness of precum on my underwear as he shifted toward and away. I wanted him to keep going so bad, but I wanted to hide my face in shame as he did so. I tried to focus on my breathing, slow my heart rate, and calm my nerves. It didn't help at all. I felt Steve tighten his grip lightly on my inner thigh and pull lightly, causing my legs to spread slightly farther apart. I could feel my erection slide up more, causing a much more obvious tenting in my pants. His movements continued as the now-damp fabric of my underwear caused increased friction on my sensitive head. I nearly jumped off of the couch when I felt Steve's bodyweight shift closer to me, his hand deliberately lifting off of my thigh, landing squarely on the tip of my erection with a very gentile tickle. It was nearly enough to set me over the edge at that moment, but he lightly pulled away. The leather of the couch announced his movement as he shifted from his position into one much closer to me. His left hand resumed the activity of his right, lightly grazing the tip of my now painful erection as his face moved close to me. I could feel the heat of his body as I looked ahead. His forehead met my temple, and with a firm nudge, exposed my neck to him. I could feel his lips lightly touch my skin, and fireworks began to shoot in my body. My horniness had completely won the battle, only a white flag of defeat remained in my mind. I drew in a sharp breath as his mouth opened and began to lightly suck on my neck. I was floating away into some erotic paradise when I heard his voice call me back. "Do you remember your first time making out with a girl?" He asked quietly, nearly a whisper, with his mouth only inches from my ear. I nodded lightly, careful not to restrict access to my neck. "I bet she felt just like you do right now." He continued. "Nervous, but so, so excited. I bet she felt just like you do now as you kissed her neck." He was speaking lightly as he continued to kiss softly. My mind flashed to Sarah laying on the couch in her den as I did just what Steve is doing our first time making out. She had been nervous as well, but didn't resist when I started on her neck. "You made her feel good, didn't you?" He said as he dipped his kiss from my neck to my collar bone. My breathing quickened into sharp inhalations as he gently nibbled. Sarah had also learned that this spot was my point of no return as well. Once my collar bone was kissed, it was on. His hands began to explore my belly and chest as his licking and kissing continued. In one quick motion pulled my shirt from my body and over my head, my arms offering little resistance. He kissed at the top of my chest as his hand moved up and sharply pinched my nipple. My head went back in the ecstasy of pleasure and pain. A cold sweat was beginning to form on my body causing me to shiver from the cool air, goosebumps now growing on my skin. "Did you suck on her nipples?" He murmured without waiting for a response before gently biting and sucking at my left nipple. I let out a moan as a mix of an answer to his question and an approving affirmation to his actions. I felt like I was melting into the couch, my body heavy, my mind riding high at the new sensations. I felt like I could cum at any moment just from the nipple stimulation alone. My right hand gripped hard on the arm of the couch as my left arm wrapped lightly around Steve's head as he nibbled and sucked on my nipples. I never wanted this feeling to stop. As Steve continued the special attention to my chest, his hand resumed its earlier activity of stroking at my still covered cock. His hand began to fumble with my belt buckle, then button and zipper as I felt much of the tightness release off of my cock. It was now only covered by my boxer briefs. Steve pulled firmly at my pants and without even thinking, I lifted my butt off of the couch to allow him to remove my pants the rest of the way. I felt my pants bunch at my feet, then felt the tug as he removed them the rest of the way. His hand returned to my groin with an aggressive rub over my underwear. I could feel that the wetness near the tip of my cock had spread even more, but it was temporary as I felt the forceful tug of my underwear being pulled from beneath me without any assistance whatsoever on my part. I was now naked on Steve's couch, except for socks. Not long before this, I had said nothing would happen physically between us. Now I was fully under his control and my body wouldn't stop it even if my mind objected. I opened my eyes slightly, enough to see Steve's lustful assessment of my nakedness. I was embarrassed by being naked in front of him but couldn't get myself to object in any way, my throbbing erection signaling my body's green flag to proceed with the race. I drew in another sharp breath as he encircled my cock with his hand and lightly pumped up and down. He began to kiss again at my neck and collar bone as I was again lost in ecstasy, the sensations flooding my brain with endorphins. His hands were twisting in a perfect symphony of sensations, the perfect amount of pressure and friction, but allowing his grip to loosen in the perfect spot to make me jump. He kept this up for only a few minutes before he felt my pelvis begin to rhythmically hump at his strong hands. "Do you want to cum, baby?" He asked quietly as he moved his face away from my neck. I moaned, but didn't respond to his question directly. I did want too, but I was conflicted. I was lost in the feelings I had and didn't want them to end, and in my mind I could justify what has happened as light experimentation, but that seemed to go out the window if I came from it. "Do you want to cum for me?" he again asked. I realized he was expecting an answer to the question, not just passive acceptance. I lifted my head slightly and opened my eyes, pleading with them for him to continue. "Baby, do you want to cum?" He asked with fire in his eyes. I nodded that I did. "I'm gonna give you a choice, baby. If you get to cum now, we get to visit the closet. Otherwise, you don't get too cum right now." He said as he continued to pump his hands, my precum now working as extra lubrication. I had trouble processing his ultimatum. My body was only focused on cumming, nothing else. I felt a moan escape my throat as he pierced me with his eyes. "What's your answer? Do you wanna cum, baby? Do you want to cum for daddy?" He added. I was nearly there already. I could feel my orgasm approaching and wasn't sure his stopping now would keep it from happening. I moaned again and nodded slightly. At this point, I would do nearly anything to cum. "Okay, I'll keep going" He replied. He spit again into the palm of his right hand and began quick, rhythmic strokes lightly twisting his wrist at the top of the stroke causing amazing pressure on my cock head. "You're going to be my little baby. I'm going to do what I want with you. I may even feed you your own cum, you little slut. I bet you'd lap it right from my hand, huh? You want that baby? You want me to feed you your cum? Huh?" He continued as he pumped. I could hear his words, but I was so lost in the moment that my mind wouldn't process what he was saying. I could only nod my head slightly in response to his voice, aware that I was probably agreeing to things I'd regret later. His left hand gently parted my legs more and began to tug and tickle at my scrotum. I could feel my orgasm approaching quickly, mere seconds away. I began to pant heavily and could feel my cock begin to throb in Steve's hands. I barely felt his fingers leave my scrotum, but took notice immediately when his fingers began to lightly prod at my hole. I had never experienced this sensation and it was too much for me to take. I felt my orgasm explode as my muscles tensed involuntarily. I cried out and threw my head back as the orgasm waves began to hit. I could feel the pulsations continue as I felt the cum shoot from my cock and felt the light pressure as it landed on my body, as far up as my ribcage. Steve continued to stroke expertly, perfectly in time with the waves of pleasure. He slowed slightly as the orgasm began to subside and began to milk my cock gently. I exhaled sharply and began to see stars as my eyes peaked open. I could vaguely see Steve's broad smile looking at me. I again closed my eyes as I rode the post-orgasmic glow the rest of the way down. My mouth was slightly agape as I tried to replenish my oxygen supply. I felt the gentle brush of Steve's lips on my cheek in a soft kiss. "I won't make you taste it this time." He said as my mind finally connected the dots on what he was saying a moment ago. I sighed deep relief as the thought after my orgasm seemed much less appealing. My mind and body were finally on the same page. I hit the post-orgasmic guilt harder than I ever have before as I tried to take in my surroundings. An older man had just given me a hand job to completion. I wanted nothing more than to dissolve into thin air, or have the Earth open up and consume me and every memory I had. "You did great, baby." Steve said as he stood up. "Don't move, I'll go get a towel to clean you up with." The cum on my body seemed to burn against my skin. It was the physical evidence of what had just happened. I lay perfectly still, unsure of what I should do apart from being overwhelmed with guilt. Steve returned after what seemed to be seconds and rubbed a warm, wet cloth over my belly and chest. He followed it with a dry towel being sure to not miss a single spot. I flinched a bit as I felt him lean over me and kiss my forehead. I could feel my cock begin to shrivel up in exhaustion and was embarrassed to be naked again. I moved the blanket over my groin to regain a sense of modesty as Steve stood and turned to walk out with the towel and washcloth. I stared distantly at the subtle blues of Harry Potter and tried to process what had just happened. “Alright, well I’m going to go collect some things... you sit tight.” Steve said, beginning to move toward the door of the media room with a bounce in his step, leaving me naked on the couch, still exhausted from the intense orgasm.

During this last week, I'm very happy to report that I've woken on three mornings to find a wet (or more wet) nappy with no recollection of waking. I don't even recall stirring during the night. Perhaps my goal of achieving bedwetting is or has perhaps come to pass, with certain caveats at least. The main caveat would be, I doubt there would be any bedwetting if I did not drink enough liquid before bed to require my bladder to fill. However, were I fall asleep after drinking a couple of alcoholic drinks with friends for example, I'm no longer certain that I would wake to use a bathroom. Rather I suspect that I'm now quite accident prone at night if I do not take steps to dry out before sleeping. So yay! I'm very happy about this and hope it continues. Not to mention, and I think I've said this before, waking to a warm and wet nappy is one of the most amazing feelings. Also in this last week, on a couple of occasions I've felt a few drops leak unexpectantly while at work. This is something I also experienced years ago and at the time resolved through kegel exercises for several weeks. As such, this seems to be a warning that my sphincter muscle is no longer 100%. I do wear basic pads during the day, and it is literally just a few drops currently, so I don't think this is anything to go diapering-up about just yet. Still, considering my aim to be IC of urine, it's a good sign, even if it has taken longer than I'd hoped. Otherwise, I've continued to observe a smaller range between bathroom visits while at work assuming I remember to actually stay hydrated. One 600ml bottle and a couple of cuppas in a normal shift is enough to see my bladder asking to be emptied every 1-2 hours tops, often more frequently. All in all, with an aim to go 24/7 next year, this is coming along well. I've continued to explore my little side too. It is certainly something that comes and goes unlike the need to wear nappies. I've found it to be stronger in the evening and early morning, and almost absent during the day. Or at least I don't find myself really missing any little things during the day. When the desire strikes, I've been able to indulge in some more activities, colouring in, and watching some of my favourite shows and movies while having some blankie and binkie time. It's been very nice, although I'm still lacking a proper environment for now, although this will change down the line too. Little steps seems to be the name of the game currently, although I'm definitely going in the right direction.

There was the clanging of dropped utensils followed by silence. Ella knew from the look on Heather’s face she was in trouble. Her lips were pulled tight and her eyes narrowed. She looked like she was about to say something, but before she could, Danielle and Charlie had broken the silence with uncontrolled gales of laughter. Her eyes shifted from Ella onto the pair of them and then back to Ella. “That kind of language isn’t allowed in this house.” she said. Ella sunk in her seat. “I’m giving you a warning this once, but if I- Will you two stop laughing!” She snapped at them. “You’re sending the wrong message.” “I. Can’t. Breathe.” Danielle managed to choke out through fits of laughter. “I’m sorry, I can’t help it.” “Sorry, honey, it was just so unexpected.” Charlie said, wiping his mouth with his napkin as he tried to pull himself together. Ella could tell he was still trying to fight back a grin as he looked up at Ella. “You shouldn’t say things like that.” He sounded very unconvincing with his bright red face and teary eyes. “And-and you said you were glad she wasn’t in public school so she wouldn’t pick up bad habits!” Danielle roared making Charlie lose his composure all over again. “Yes. Yes. Yes. Fu-” “You are not too old to go over my knee young lady!” Heather said through pursed lips. “Please get yourself under control.” “Sorry,” she said, raising a glass of water to her lips and taking a drink. “I hope I’m not too old to go over your knee.” said Charlie. Danielle choked on her water, spilling it down the front of her shirt. “OUT! Both of you!” She shook her head at them as they left, laughing all the way to the living room. Once it had gone quiet again, Heather turned her eyes back on Ella. “Did you hear that at school?” Ella nodded. “Words, Ella.” “Yes.” She croaked out. “Who? Another student or a teacher?” “Kay-” she trailed off, unable to get the last syllable out. Heather looked displeased. “She shouldn’t be using that kind of language.” Ella pulled her phone out of her pocket and began to text Heather the rest. “No, Ella, use your words.” “Can’t say. Too big.” She can’t control it. She has Tur its. “What do you mean? What’s Tur its?” Ella wiggled around and mimicked some of Kaylee’s movements with her neck and arms. Heather looked at her as if she had just spoken Latin. She did it again, but no recognition came to Heather. Danielle came back in, now composed and headed for the table. “Just wanted my water.” “Do you know what she’s trying to say?” asked Heather. Danielle watched her wiggle around before shrugging. “Maybe she’s trying to make it rain.” Heather rolled her eyes and showed her the text message. “Tur its… Tur its… Oh! I think she means Tourette’s!” Ella pointed to Danielle. “Ten points for Slytherin!” “I… don’t think I know what that means.” admitted Heather. “Yeah you do, It was on that show we watched on TV with the kids who were yelling swear words and moving their heads? You remember Leslie from soccer last year? Her little sister has it.” “Vaguely. Is that the really tall one?” “Yeah.” Heather pursed her lips together. “I don’t know if I want you hanging around her, Ella. She sounds like she might be a bad influence.” “No!” said Ella, sounding firm. “You better not hear Leslie talk like that. She’d be so mad ” “Well Leslie’s not here, this isn’t her sister, and I don’t need Ella picking up any more bad habits.” “We sit to-to-geth-er.” Ella managed to say while crossing her middle and index fingers. “Par- part-ners.” “I think I like that even less.” “Mom, seriously?” said Danielle. “Let her have her friend. It’s only been a day.” Heather scowled. “That’s my point! It’s only been a day and she’s already parroting what she hears her say.” “It’s not like she said it as a swear word. She didn’t yell it while stubbing her toe. You asked her what she learned and she told you.” “Danielle,” Heather said with a sigh, “Take Ella and go pick out a movie. I’ll join you in a minute.” “Friend!” Ella repeated. “Friend!” “Go!” Heather insisted. “I’m just going to clear the table.” …………………………………………………………………………………………………………. Once the girls had left, Heather went to her purse and pulled out her cell phone feeling peeved the school had failed to mention what Ella would be exposed to in their care. She was young and impressionable! She scrolled through her contacts until she found Mrs. Hernandez and hit Send. “Hello, yes, I’m sorry for disturbing you at home, but I was hoping we could talk. This is Heather Graceland, Isabella Marsh’s foster mom-” “Oh, hi, how are you? I’m assuming you’re calling about the note I sent her home with today.” “I’m calling about- wait, what note?” “Oh, I sent it pinned to the bag with her soiled clothes.” Great, thought Heather as she pinched her eyes shut and rubbed at the bridge of her nose. She didn’t tell me she brought home dirty clothes and now her backpack probably smells like pee. “She had a bit of an episode this morning and I’m a little concerned.” “What kind of episode? What happened?” “Well it started when she had an accident in front of a few kids. She was understandably pretty upset, especially when a few of them laughed and made some inappropriate comments-” “Was it Kaylee who laughed at her?” said Heather, cutting her off. “She’s actually the reason I called.” “Kaylee Shepherd? What? No, quite the opposite from what their paraeducator told me. Jasmine said Kaylee sat with Ella while we had her lying in the changing room to rest. I heard she really calmed Ella down. The trouble had come after. Ella had fallen asleep, so we let her nap in there for a bit, and she seemed to have some kind of fit in her sleep.” “Yeah, we’ve been trying to get to the bottom of that for a while now. My oldest shares a room with her, and says it’s been an ongoing concern in the months since we’ve had her.” “Okay, so you are aware? Good, okay I just wanted to check and make sure she wasn’t having some kind of seizure.” “No, nothing like that, we’ve had her checked. The doctor says it’s all psychological. It’s stemming from stress. We’re not entirely positive as to what, but we believe she sustained some kind of trauma in her past.” “Oh, I see, and does that have anything to do with the toilet anxiety?” “It’s not the toilet, but the bathroom as a whole, and yes, it does all seem to come together.” “Is Ella being seen regularly by mental health specialists? If not, we do have resources to get her in touch with certain services.” “Yes, I can barely keep track of them all! She has psychologists, psychiatrists, case workers, therapists. No one can really seem to get to the bottom of it. I keep pushing her forward so she has a better chance of catching up with other kids her age, but she still seems off from what a nearly 11 year old should be. I mean, I honestly can’t believe they’ve let these problems go on for so long! I never would have allowed Danielle to run around in pull ups at her age just because she was scared. At some point she’s just going to have to grow out of this. The doctors kept saying give it time, and i’ve given her plenty! I think it’s time I give her that final push. No more pull-ups, no more buckets. Sooner or later she’s going to figure out nothing’s going to hurt her. I think she’s ready.” “I do have a suggestion, if I may?” Heather narrowed her eyes, clutching the phone a little bit tighter. The silence hung thick in the air before Mrs. Hernandez spoke back up without a reply. “If what I witnessed today is a result of exposing her to the bathroom; she’s not ready. That reaction wasn’t the result of a typical child being scared or anxious. From what i’ve witnessed first hand, and from what you’ve shared with me from the few times we’ve spoken, this is trauma. There is no quick fix, unfortunately. Making her face her fears when she is not ready may only serve to cause her more harm in the long run. While a typical person or child may get over their fears after being exposed to something that frightens them, a person with trauma may not. Something in Ella’s subconscious is telling her that whenever she goes in the bathroom her very life is in danger. ” “What am I supposed to do? Keep her in diapers?” said Heather, sounding indignant at the very thought. “Would that really be so bad?” “Absolutely not! I will not have my nearly eleven year old with a perfectly functioning bladder and bowels, running around in diapers!” “It’s only a thought. Limiting her exposure to triggering situations could lead to less flashbacks and improve her quality of life. Symptoms aren't appearing only in the restroom. Jasmine said even after only spending a single afternoon with her she could tell Ella is very anxious. She jumps at loud and sudden noises, and is hyper vigilant of her surroundings. She spends more time checking her surroundings than doing schoolwork, and any admonishment has her quick to tears. It’s common in children who have a history of abuse or neglect.” “We don’t know if she’s been abused.” said Heather although she knew very well all signs seemed to point that way. Raising Ella seemed to come with one challenge after another. One week Ella would be scared of Heather’s mere shadow, the next Heather never got a moment to herself with Ella clinging to her like a baby possum. On her clingy days, Ella would camp out on the couch, in the office, with her sketchbook and drawing supplies, while Heather worked on the laptop. Once Heather got off, Ella would follow her to the living room where they’d put on a movie and cuddle on the couch together. A week or two later, when Ella’s attention meter seemed to have been filled, she’d be off, either doing her own thing, or go with Danielle to soccer practice and play in the jungle gym. Then the cycle would repeat itself and Ella would be attached at Heather’s hip as if she had never been shown an ounce of love in her life. The therapist had also said that was a sign of trauma. She was cycling through stages of isolation, mistrusting anyone who got too close, then went looking for a “rescuer.” Heather had been confused at first. Ella had already been “rescued”, but the therapist explained what Ella was searching for was a relationship that made her feel safe. Heather tried her best, but the only one who seemed welcome during all her stages was Ribbit. “She hates being wet.” Heather went on. “ She’s expressed to me before that she wants to use the toilet and be like normal kids her own age.” “Well, one reason for that is she wears pull-ups, which are made to make kids feel uncomfortable so they take an interest in potty training. Another reason could be she is expressing interest because she knows that’s what you want.” “We’ve worked so hard to get her to where she is though! I can’t just throw that away.” “I’m not asking you too. I’m asking you to sit her down and ask her what she wants. You mentioned something about a bucket?” “A camping toilet, yeah.” “Maybe she’s perfectly fine with that arrangement. Maybe you just need to take one step back, not a full leap. We can always put a camping toilet in the changing room for her if need be. Just talk to her.” “I’ll think about it.” Heather said. She had almost hung up before even discussing what she had called about in the first place. “What I wanted to talk to you about was Kaylee.” “Oh? What about Kaylee?” “Ella came home and dropped the F-bomb. She certainly didn’t learn it from us. I really don’t want Ella exposed to that sort of language. I hear she has some kind of thing.” “I’m sorry, I can’t discuss private information involving the other students. We can certainly impress on Ella that whatever she may hear should not be repeated.” “I really don’t want her around it at all. She seems like she might be a bad influence. I called to see about separating them.” There was a long pause, and Heather wondered if her phone dropped the call. “Is that what Ella wants? They seemed to be getting along well today.” “No, and she’s not very happy with me, but I feel it-” “Mrs. Graceland,” Mrs. Hernandez said, interrupting her. “While I can not go into the specifics of Kaylee’s condition, our school promises to be a safe space where kids with all disabilities can come to learn in a place where they feel accepted, understood and are taught with patience and respect. We also make it a point to teach students to accept the differences of others. We do not discriminate against our students. If Ella were to say she feels Kaylee is too much of a distraction to her learning, then I would consider moving their desks, but we will not forcefully keep them apart against their will due to a student having a certain kind of disability. We are happy to teach Ella, as we do all students, not to repeat what is overheard in her company, but as this is out of Kaylee’s control, I do not feel punishing her by taking away her friend is an appropriate course of action, do you?” ………………………………………………………………………………………………….. Heather stood in the hallway feeling dumbfounded. That was not how she thought the conversation would play out. Instead of the school apologizing and having Ella moved safely away before she picked up on any new lingo, Heather had been the one to swallow her pride and apologize. Mrs. Hernandez had come to the defense of her student, and she had come swinging. Now she wondered if maybe she had jumped to conclusions about Kaylee after being told a second time how she had been there for Ella. The phone call had also given her a lot to think about. Maybe she had been pushing Ella too hard too fast. What was the point of making Ella sit on the toilet if she was too scared for anything to even come out. Was she really just setting her up for failure? Heather’s head throbbed just thinking about it. No matter what she did she seemed to make the wrong move. She felt like an armature chess player going up against a computer who would always win. She had gone to all the professionals, she followed the doctors orders to a ‘T’ and yet, here she was back at square one. Did she let Ella slide backwards or did she make her keep moving forward? She cleared the table while lost in thought. Mrs. Hernandez’s words seemed to sting. “Is that really what Ella wants, or is Ella only saying it because she knows that’s what you want?” She had a sinking suspicion that was the case. Heather spotted Ella’s backpack in the corner. She picked it up and opened it, relieved to find her soiled clothes sealed tightly in a bag trapping the odor with it. She spotted the note and pried it off. Ella is showing an unprecedented level of anxiety when faced with using the restroom to the point she is physically unable to urinate. As a result, Ella had an accident on herself and the floor. While we welcome students in need of varying levels of personal care, we strive to limit students exposure to harmful bodily fluids. Due to Ella’s current mental state, we do not feel it is in her best interest to pursue her on file instructions of care without a doctor's written consent. Until such time where more suitable arrangements can be made, please send Ella in more appropriate attire. Enclosed are a few garments to hold you over until more can be obtained. If you have any questions, please don't hesitate to call me. - Mary Hernandez ………………………………………………………………………………………………….. Ella sat at her desk feeling confused. Heather had gone through the previous night acting as if nothing had happened. She had expected to be punished. Instead they watched movies until 9:30 pm where Heather sent her off to bed with a kiss to the forehead. This morning had been even more strange. Heather had come to wake her up later than usual. Instead of being dragged off to the bathroom half conscious against her will, she had been told to use her bucket. Ella had wasted no time in this, eagerly bunching up her nightshirt as she sat on the seat behind her bed. “Ella,” Danielle groaned from underneath her blankets. “Keep it down, you’re making me have to pee. Some of us have to get up and walk to the other end of the house.” Like any good sister, Ella’s response had been to position herself in a way that made her stream as loud as possible. Once she had finished, Heather had told her to lie back down on the bed. Without an explanation, Heather had then put her in a diaper before sending her off to school. Now she sat at her desk wondering what the hell just happened as she religiously swiped her hand behind her back to check if it was poking out. Kaylee snickered and put her book away. “You’re just making it obvious.” Ella pulled her note book out of her backpack and began writing a response. I think it’s because I’m in trouble. Kaylee frowned as she read the note. “No one puts a kid in a diaper because they're in trouble. Mrs. Hernandez probably told your mom to after what happened yesterday. You were freaking out and I saw Jasmine putting some in your backpack.” Ella realized that made a lot more sense than what she thought it was for. So I’m not in trouble for… earlier? “Nah, happens all the time. There’s a rumor that you can’t graduate until you stain the carpet at least once. It’s like tradition or something. You just got it out of the way on your first day.” Ella considered this before asking, So have you? Kaylee seemed to lose her composure for a moment. “Don’t trust a fart on Taco Tuesday.” Ella scrunched up her face in disgust before laughing. “Fuck!” Kaylee blurted out. I got in trouble for saying that last night. “Why’d you say that of all things? You don’t even talk much.” Ella shrugged before writing, Heather kept making me talk. My throat was hurting and it was the easiest thing I could think of to say. Then she made me tell her where I heard it from and now she thinks you’re a bad influence. Ella thought this would make Kaylee laugh, but instead she seemed to deflate and Ella could tell Kaylee seemed hurt. “Guess you shouldn’t talk to me then.” said Kaylee before giving her the cold shoulder. Ella tried getting her attention, but Kaylee seemed to be looking everywhere but at her. What had she done? When all her written attempts had failed, she moved on to audible ones. When those had failed as well, Ella slumped down on her desk and rested her head in her arms. “Good morning, class!” Mrs. Hernandez called out making Ella jump. Kaylee let out a few barks before slapping herself in the face with one hand and swiping everything off her desk with the other. She let out an annoyed sigh as she watched pencils and paper scatter across the floor. She got up and began hurriedly collecting her things, but just when she grabbed the last elusive pencil, Kaylee would let out a yell and throw them. On the third attempt, while she was crawling under a desk, she had suddenly sprung up and hit her head with a loud thwack. That seemed to have been her breaking point. She collapsed to the floor, clutching her head as she rocked back and forth. Ella had tried to help her, but Kaylee had moaned at her to stop and turned away from her. Ella stood helplessly by as Jasmine helped Kaylee to her feet and led her onto the table in the changing room to lie down before leaving to get some ice. Still quietly wondering what she had done wrong, Ella picked up the scattered pencils and paper before sitting back down and setting them in a pile on Kaylee’s side. She could hear her writhing on the table and yelling an assortment of words and curses. She seemed to quiet down when Jasmine returned with ice. Ella had wanted to see if she was ok, but Jasmine had shut the door behind her. Mrs. Hernandez had gone on with the morning announcements, picking up where she left off as if nothing had happened. When she had finished and excused the class to begin working on their assignments, Ella was forced to open her English packet on her own and start as Jasmine was still preoccupied. When Jasmine had finally emerged, Kaylee hadn’t followed. “I see you started already, good job.” Jasmine said, taking a seat across from Ella. Is she okay? Ella mouthed. “She’s just having a rough morning. She wants to lie down until her head feels better. She’ll be okay.” I made her mad at me. Ella wrote in her notebook. I said Heather called her a bad influence and now she won’t talk to me. “So that’s what got her all wound up.” Jasmine said, more to herself. “Sometimes people say and do some not very nice things to Kaylee because of something they don’t understand. She gets punished for things that aren't her fault and it can be very frustrating for her. Nobody likes feeling unwanted.” Ella dug through her backpack until she pulled out her sketchbook and flipped to the picture she had been working on this morning. “Friend.” Ella said, showing Jasmine the picture. “Oh, Ella! Did you draw that?” Jasmine asked looking at the sketch of Kaylee in awe. Ella nodded and reached for her sketchbook, but Jasmine had picked it up and had begun flipping through the pages. “These are, wow! Where did you learn to draw like this?” Instead of responding Ella made another grab for the book. If Jasmine kept going she would find her other drawings. Ella could see the moment Jasmine had gone too far. The look of awe was gone and in its place grew a worried frown. She flipped through the back pages silently. Some were of herself, trapped by black vines holding her in place while words she associated with herself surrounded her. Worthless. Burden. Broken. Sick. Disgusting. Slow. Another page had the words from her repetitive nightmares written over and over again, “Let mommy make it all better.” The final page held her most recent drawing in the back section. A sketch she had stayed up late drawing last night after waking with a fragment of memory previously lost to her. It was a doorway, and in that doorway leaned a blacked out figure. All except the face. With long stringy black hair and a pointed nose, he leaned in with tear filled and blood shot eyes. A face she hadn’t recalled being in her nightmare until last night. Her old soccer coach. “Ella, who is this?” Jasmine asked, turning the page around. Ella mumbled something that Jasmine had barely caught. “The monster.”

Part 1 I can’t say I was in a bright point of my life, literally or figuratively. The perpetual darkness of third shift work coupled with the lackluster performance in my freshman year of college and losing my girlfriend of two years only a month before had sent me down a spiral of depression that I wasn’t certain would have an achievable recovery. I thought when I graduated from high school that I’d had life all figured out. I would take the job working the night shift at the airport for a few years, then go on to become a hot-shot business man or advertising executive. The airport would provide me with free tuition to the university a few hours from my home town, and the degree would get me the rest of the way. I guess to tell you a little bit about myself... I’m Adam Stafford. I’m the youngest child of Dennis and Joanne Stafford, and brother to Megan. I grew up in a small community that kept me sheltered from just about everything not small-town or Jesus-y. My Dad is a pilot for United Airlines, my Mom an executive for the local hospital. They divorced my sophomore year of highschool in a very messy battle, and pretty much alienated everyone in the family from each other. We’ve all gone our own ways, really only communicating for weddings, funerals, birthdays, or normal holidays. Don’t feel bad, it really is better this way. I had a pretty good childhood, no major complaints. I was always outgoing as a kid, knowing that a sharp wit and self-deprecating humor would remove any ammo that any school bullies would seek to leverage. Not to be arrogant, but I was a cute kid. Unfortunately for me, the cuteness never really went anywhere. I never hit that magical growth spurt that would cause me to tower above my friends, dunk a ball, or set records of the track. I currently stand a slightly below average height of 5’6”. I also never seemed to experience the flood of testosterone that would sculpt my body like a Greek god either. I guess I just stayed cute and youthful when everyone else became handsome and matured. But, like I said, I was never really picked on, so I didn’t mind my height or looks. I was moderately popular by highschool, usually being known as the smart-ass class clown. I had no trouble maintaining a 4.0 grade point average while also cutting jokes constantly. My humor and confidence opened up doors for me. I was nominated to prom court my Junior year, and also started dating a beautiful girl named Sarah. She was a grade younger than I was and came from a well-respected family not far from mine. As my perverted uncle Nick would say “That girl comes from good stock.” She and I dated all through my senior year, never really had any fights, and my parents adored her and hers adored me. We were voted “Most Likely to Stay Together” by the yearbook committee and happily danced in the spotlight as homecoming king and queen... a real shocker since I didn’t play football. Sarah was heart-broken when I decided to move for school. She had known it was my intent, but I think she assumed I would change my mind because we were dating. I had considered staying a time or two, but with the still fresh divorce of my parents and my sister moving away to California for school, I knew I couldn’t stay in small-town America for much longer. After the initial shock wore off, we made the plan together that she would move in with me after she graduated and we would attend college together, live together, and live up to the expectations of the yearbook committee. My job, coupled with free tuition would allow us to get an apartment together and, down the road, we’d both graduate. We’d start a family, be rich and successful, and have a marriage so happy that our grandkids would tell their children about. It was that simple, and it all laid out perfectly. She and I did everything together while we dated. I loved it at the time, but later realized that the friends I had prior to us dating all seemed to have move on. I didn’t have any core friends anymore, she consumed my every waking moment. I don’t think she was trying to cause a falling out, I think she was just so in love with the thought of being in love that she couldn’t let go. Sarah and I were both each other’s first for just about everything. We awkwardly explored our raging teenage hormones not long after we started dating, both trying to build the courage to take things just a little bit further each opportunity we had. I can vividly remember the look on Sarah’s face when she touched my cock for the first time. It was over my shorts, but I could tell she tried to play it off like an accident as her hand slowly rubbed on my thigh. Of course having zero experience and a beautiful girl rub her hands on me caused some tenting to happen rather quickly. She noticed. It was the first touch that shot electricity through my body as we laid cuddled up on the chair in the den of her parents upscale country-chic home, a blanket covering our still-clothed bodies. She moved her hand away quickly at first contact. I could see her face from the corner of my eye, flushed with excitement, very lightly nibbling on her lower lip with nerves. After a few seconds, I felt her hand begin to creep back up. I heard her sigh audibly as she very carefully laid her hand on my now fully erect dick. I could see the faintest smile form on her face as she crossed the hurdle. Both of us were too afraid to do much else, but she did very gently rub for a moment before we heard the garage door open, signaling that our alone time was at an end. From that day on, we both pushed the envelope just a bit more. I took advantage of days she would wear skirts to school and use the ease of access to fondle her anytime we had some privacy. I’m happy to say that I was her first non-self-induced orgasm, right there under that same blanket on that same chair. I can remember hearing her try and stifle her moans, no doubt fearful of waking her parents directly above us in their bedroom. It nearly sent me over the edge as well when she sucked my fingers clean right after. One evening while her parents were out celebrating their anniversary, Sarah excused herself to the restroom in the middle of ‘The Goonies’ and emerged wearing only her baby blue thong and matching bra, her hair tied up with a white lace ribbon. She approached me, my jaw now slack from the beauty I was witnessing, and yanked the blanket from my lap. She settled in on her knees in front of me trying to appear confident and sexy, but I could see her trembling from nerves. I could tell how big of a step this was for her. She pulled my shorts and boxers down, nearly ripping them in the process, and stared wide-eyed at my dick. She never really looked closely at it while using her hands. She would usually play coy and keep watching TV while jerking me off. Now though, she was face to face. I can still see the shimmer from the chapstick on her lips as she very slowly moved her mouth over the head of my cock. She froze once it was in for what felt like an eternity. I could hear her breathing becoming rapid, and for the first time in front of me, I saw her hand move quickly into the waistband of her panties as she touched herself. As she began moving my dick in and out of her mouth, her hand motions became more rapid under the thin baby blue fabric. It wasn’t 3 minutes into the blowjob before Sarah had a massive orgasm, seemingly larger than the ones I could giver her with my own hands or tongue. She pulled her face away, a trail of saliva extending from the head of my cock to her lips and only said ‘fuck’. I believe it was at that very moment that Sarah realized that she had a passionate love for giving head. She attacked my dick after that, like there was nothing else in the world. She didn’t flench when I came, just swallowed and tried to keep going until I pushed her off due to the sensitivity. Things progressed from there. Sarah gave me head every chance she could, preferring to give orgasms rather than receive them. We finally had sex a few weeks after that, in the dark basement bedroom of a friends house. I was disappointed that she didn’t seem to enjoy it as much as I thought she would, opting after maybe 5 minutes to have me pull out and finish in her mouth. We didn’t have sex often, but when we would, it always ended in the same way. Everything in life was perfect, even after I moved… or so I thought. I went home many weekends and we seemed to pick up right where we left off. Everything was perfect. Until Sarah cheated on me, at least. I heard about it from a former classmate still living back home. He said he saw Sarah and some guy in a car together driving in town. He said it was a new looking BMW, a car that isn’t very common in our small town, so he took notice and tried to see who was driving. He didn’t recognize the guy driving, but he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was her, he got a clear view from the windshield as they passed on the road. He said he turned around to see what was up and after about 5 minutes of following them, he said he saw Sarah sit up tall, then lean her body across the center console of the car. He said he didn’t see her again for about 10 minutes and that the guy started driving pretty erratic during that time, and kept rolling his head around. He followed at a distance and eventually saw her head rise again and they carried on. He followed them until they turned into a restaurant. He circled the block and watched them walk hand-in-hand into the building. He even said she was wearing a little yellow sun dress... I knew it well. She always looked amazing in it. I guess it goes without saying that I felt like I had been stabbed in the chest as I listened to his recanting of the story. I trusted the guy and knew he wouldn’t be saying these things to fuck with me. I quickly got off the phone with him and called her, but it went straight to voicemail. I tried again, again right to voicemail. Finally she sent me a text asking what was up. I didn’t know what else to do so I said “Jeremy saw you two together. I’m bummed you never offered to give me road head.” Of course this elicited a call back right away. I was heartbroken, but I did appreciate that she didn’t try and deny anything. She didn’t lie. She said she wasn’t happy anymore and wanted to move on. By this point, I knew what she meant. I had started working third shift already and had a rapid decline in happiness. I was always cranky, always tired. She was right and I hated myself for it. “You’re not you anymore, Adam. You’re sad all of the time... you sleep constantly. You don’t strike up conversations on the phone, and that’s all we have most of the time since we can’t be together.” She had told me as I stared blankly at the wall of my kitchen, tears now flooding my vision. “I’m sorry you found out like this, but I’m glad you found out.” “Yeah, pretty shitty way of you breaking it off though.” I countered. She agreed. That was the last time we spoke. After Sarah ended it, I sunk further into a depressive state. My life revolved solely around work, school, and Netflix in my basement studio apartment. Typically I would wake up around 10 in the morning and catch the campus shuttle to class. The classes were specifically scheduled for employees of the airport, allowing us to work nights and attend school without as much sleep depravation. After class I would usually eat some dinner in the campus cafeteria and do some homework, then report in for my shift. I didn’t mind my job. It was easy compared to the manual labor most people had to do to pay for their tuition. I drove a tug around pulling trailers of packages bound for different planes all night. All... night... long. I could usually start my shift with a conversation with the dock supervisor and not talk to another person for the rest of the night. I was known as ‘Tug 4301’ and drove the exact route from the south dock to the west ramp, spots 1, 3, 5, 7, and 9, then back to the south dock to reload and do it all again. We weren’t allowed to have music, cell phones, audio books, or anything else to help pass the time due to FAA regulations, so I had hours to see the same sights, and have the same thoughts and internal conversations. At around 3 in the morning, I would park my tug back behind the south dock and begin the walk back to the shuttle to campus. From the bus stop, it was a brief walk back to my apartment. By this time, the vast majority of the factory employees had already departed, meaning the bus ride was usually as isolated as the tug. Back in the basement abyss, the daylight blacked out by thick curtains and a “Please do not disturb, I work the graveyard shift!” sign that the previous occupant had left behind, I ended my day with some concoction of frozen meals and another episode of The Office. Occasionally, I would think about Sarah. How her hair seemed to shine as intensely as the sun. How she would nibble gently at my lower lip when she would kiss me. How she would deftly put her hair up in a ponytail and lick her lips before she would push me back towards the bed or chair... or floor and nearly attack my dick. These memories would cease thanks to my self delivered orgasm, and I hate to say it... sometimes I would cry. I would always feel ashamed. By 5am, I would be asleep, waiting for the alarm to signal that it was time to live another instance of Groundhog Day all over again. It was nearly six months into this routine that I decided it was time to get help. I knew I was depressed. I scheduled an appointment with a counselor at school on a Monday morning. I didn’t work Sunday nights, so Monday was usually my ‘live like a normal person’ day, but I knew I was going to keep going down darker and darker paths until there was no return. Fortunately by this time, the nagging memories of Sarah had faded to an occasional jolt of emotion that would strike unprovoked, but would subside after a quick orgasm. “Have you been eating alright, you look really thin...” the counselor said as I sat in the chair across from her. The question reeled in my thousand yard stare. “Umm... probably could eat better, to be honest. I don’t have much of an appetite, really.” I awkwardly responded. I had lost a significant amount of weight in the past few months. At my high school graduation, I was nearly 140lbs. At my last work physical a few days prior, I was down to 116lbs. Even at 5’6”, I was looking too thin for my frame. “Adam, this is pretty serious. I think you need to see a doctor... this may be more than you and I can handle alone. You’ve got me a bit worried.” she said with a concerned look. “Will you do that? Will you promise me that you’ll see one of our doctors?” “Yeah, I guess so. Yeah.” murmured back. “And I want you to promise me, Adam... I want you to promise me that you’ll look after yourself until then. And I want you to promise me that you’ll come back and see me after your appointment. I’m going to schedule it. Okay?” “Yeah, of course.” I said, realizing that she was genuinely worried that I would hurt myself. “I will, I promise.” She smiled at that, and attempted to give me a reassuring pat on my hand. “Maybe you should hang out with some friends until then. Maybe try and have fun... see a movie, bowl, laser tag... try and not be alone if you can help it.” she said as she escorted me to the end of the hallway of the student health center. I smiled as best I could. I hoped it to be warm, but the look on her face told me that she could see right through the facade. The walk back to my apartment seemed colder than usual. I looked around at the other people navigating their way thought the urban campus with their heads slung low to protect from the biting wind and wondered if I was alone in feeling like this, or if there were others near me right now that were struggling just as bad. Maybe if I tried, I would find others like me and we could pick each other up. If I tried... but I really didn’t feel like trying. They probably wouldn’t either. I arrived back to my apartment and sat in bed, turned on Netflix, and opened up my laptop. It wouldn’t hurt to look and see if anyone was out there. Maybe grab lunch with someone, maybe a movie. I decided to check around on some of the school forums and Facebook to see if any groups were meeting soon. I didn’t see any that really caught my interest. I eventually ended up Craigslist thinking maybe there were some groups posting on there. I browsed for a while, nothing piquing my interest. I was about to close out the page when I saw the ‘Personals’ section and decided to browse that avenue as well just for the heck of it. The ‘F for M’ section was pretty sparse, most of the women looking were significantly older, had children, or were blatantly looking for money in exchange for company. While I wasn’t seeing anything that interested me, I was finding some thrill in reading the posts. Some were witty, some funny. Some were so sexually charged that I considered responding for a split second, kids or age be damned. I navigated each section enthralled by how some people were able to put themselves out there so openly, so anonymously vulnerable. I envied their cavalier attitude and only wished I could put myself out there like they did. I kept going down the rabbit hole, page after page, profile after profile. Some of the specifics people were listing were repulsive, but many made me jealous that I didn’t have Sarah to try them with. I wasn’t really prepared for some of the detail I encountered in the ‘M for M’ section, to say the least. I had never really given much thought to gay sex, it was something that went undiscussed in sheltered small-town USA. I didn’t have any issue with gay people, but I honestly didn’t give it much more thought than that. But the level of detail described of the litany of posts from just today... I didn’t have to use my imagination much. I clicked through post after post, caught up in reading the carnal nature of the post, intrigued beyond belief by what I was reading. Most of the posts didn’t talk about love or relationships, they talked about gritty sex. They talked about gang bangs and blow-and-gos. Anonymous mouths for anonymous dicks. It was enthralling. “Loving but Firm Professional seeking Young, Inexperienced to Nurture and Teach” the title read as I scrolled down the list, measured now by minutes scrolling rather than pages. It was lost in the sea of others, but it stood out to me for some reason. I clicked the link and stared intently as the screen flickered from the main page to the posting. “Hi, thanks for reading. I’m a 38 year old legal professional looking for a young boy between 18 and 22 to teach about sexual desire. Ideal candidate is slim and naturally submissive to power, and completely inexperienced with men. I want a boy I can build from the ground up. Must have an open mind. Message me if you think this is you, you’ll know right away if it is.” Fuck. I don’t know what came over me at that moment, but my heart began to race, my hands became sweaty, and my lips dry. I read and reread the post multiple times, each time exciting me more. It was as if instinct required that I replied. I straightened myself up in bed and began to search my laptop for a face picture that was generic enough to be lost in a crowd. I didn’t want this guy recognize me right away, just in case. I found a full body picture from earlier in the fall at a Halloween party back home. I didn’t dress up, but I thought I looked decent, and the ball cap I was wearing at the time obstructed part of my face. “Hello. I’m not gay, so I’m not sure why I’m replying to be honest. I've never been with a guy. I'm 18, a freshman in college. Something about your post. It struck me. I don’t even know what else to write. You don't have to write back if you don't want or if I don't fit what you say you're looking for." Attachment: 1” My heart was frantically beating in my chest as I hit send from my spam collecting Yahoo Mail account. I had felt more alive in these few minutes than I can remember feeling since moving to the city. I stared at the inbox, nearly expecting an immediate rejection reply or an email from someone back home saying they were cat-fishing and happened to reel me in. I stared at the screen for at least five minutes, barely breathing before setting the laptop down and getting up to use the restroom and grab a drink. I nearly dove across the room when I heard the ‘Ding’ signifying a new email. “Save 15% or more on car insurance with Geico”. Damn it. What the hell was I doing. I’m not gay. I’ve literally never even thought about it until 10 minutes ago, and now I’m so worked up to get the attention of someone writing on a public forum. I closed the laptop and walked over to the chair to focus in on Season 4 of The Office... yet again. Sipping on the Diet Coke and watching Dwight be Dwight and Jim be Jim, the urge to check again struck me. It had been some time, surely enough for some sort of response. I retyped the password into the Yahoo Mail page and saw the familiar ’Inbox (1)’ notification staring me in the face. I clicked, and went weak as the page opened. There it was. “Re: Seeking” I took a deep breath and clicked on the email that loaded painfully slow. “Hello. Thanks for writing. I know you. Don’t worry, not you specifically (although hard to tell with the photo so far away). I know your type though. I'm willing to bet that you just happed to stumble upon my message without really going out and looking for it. I have a feeling this is so new to you that you've really got very little desire in actually meeting anyone. If you are serious about at least meeting up and discussing more, send me a better picture. -Steve” With a slight smirk on my face, and my heart back to racing, I opened Facebook to find a better picture to send. I selected one from a family vacation in Hawaii. I had shaggy, dirty blonde hair and was standing shirtless in front of a waterfall on the Napali Coast. I was bronzed by the sun, and a smile beaming on my face. A tinge of pain hit me as I looked at the picture, I was standing there with Sarah. Her beautiful face staring up at me, a smirk affixed to her full lips, and her gorgeous body clad in a small red bikini. I drew in a deep breath and downloaded the photo to my desktop and cropped Sarah’s face and body out of the picture until only myself and the waterfall remained. “As requested. -Adam Attachment: 1” Sent. I felt as if I were going to vomit at that point. If this were a rouse, I was surely busted. It was clearly me in the photo, no mistaking that. A screencap of the conversation with my picture plastered there was surely enough to ruin any chance I had at a happy life, if malice were intended. Ding. Inbox (1) “Re: re: re: Seeking” “You’re perfect, baby. Perfect in every way. You are exactly what I was hoping you would be. My name is Steve. I’ve been pretty clear with what I’m really looking for, so I hope that you’ll understand when I say that I’m not interested in games and flaking out on meetings, etc. If you really are interested, and if you really are willing, I want to meet you face to face. Send me your phone number if you want to keep going. Attachment: 1” I double clicked the attachment, fearful that what I had conjured up in my mind would be a far stray from reality. The painfully slow wi-fi struggled to open the picture, but when it did, I was stunned. He was so handsome. Large, for sure. Not fat at all, but he had to be at least 6’6” judging by the SUV that he towered over. He had a stern smile and an intense gaze at the camera... it felt as if he took the picture specifically for me. His hair, his suit... he was the personification of masculine. I struggled to figure out how only a few hours ago I was numb and seemingly entirely heterosexual, and now I was lusting over a man. A dominant man... and I wanted it to happen so bad. I did everything I could for the next few hours to distract myself from the email. I had to be at work tonight, so no phone, no email. I knew if I wanted to go through with this, I would need to decide well before then. He was very insistent that the only content in the reply be my phone number. What if I sent it and he called while I was working? What if he began texting me with times and locations and I was unable to reply? I knew I had to decide now. Being the decisive and confident guy I am, I flipped a coin. Okay... heads, I send my phone number. Tails... I don’t. Simple. Leave it up to fate. With a deep breath, I flipped the coin into the air. Heads. “I’m serious: 555-776-2323 -Adam”

Ryan sat at Chez Jeunesse, waiting for his date, praying this wasn’t some elaborate prank. It felt like an elaborate prank, and not just because of what he had been instructed to wear. “Will monsieur be dining alone this evening?” the waiter had asked. The fake french accent was so thick, it sounded like something out of a Monty Python skit, and not one of their good ones. Ryan shook his head. He had wanted to call the hack waiter “garson” or some other suitably French sounding word, but he didn’t want to make waves. Don’t make waves: That was Ryan’s modus operandi, his life in a nutshell. To call him average would have been an insult and a misnomer to the word. When most people said “average” they really meant “normal” or “down to earth”. For most, “I’m your average guy”, meant “I’m not showing all of my crazy in one sitting, but I definitely won’t bore you.” What it meant in Ryan’s case was: “There’s nothing about me that separates me from the pack in any significant way. I’m not even boring or dull. I’m a living extra from the Lego Movie. No not Emmet, one of Emmet’s co-workers in the beginning of the movie. Were my life fiction, I’d be the perfect self-insert for just about anyone with a penis.” There was nothing remarkable about Ryan, or so he’d thought. When playing an rpg, he’d just go for the base character creation stats and appearance. Seemed right. In highschool he was voted most likely to not make a most likely list. Yeah. That tracked. He wasn’t dirt poor or break-the-bank rich. He had a fairly boring job in which he was perpetually on the cusp for a promotion into middle management. The youngish man wasn’t ugly, but not particularly handsome, either. He had friends of convenience, but none of them were particularly close or knew much about him, not that he felt like there was much to know. Stories about the invisible man, or songs like Mr. Cellophane didn’t apply to Ryan, because those unremarkable people were still remarkable enough to get songs written about their un-noticability. Those bland pop songs about “boy” or “you”, the ones that gave virtually no description of the the singing protagonist's love interest: They very well could have been about him. Or not. Either way was fine. If Ryan had been a more sinister sort, he very well could have made a living in crime. Rob diamond stores. Mug little old ladies. Shoot people in the middle of Time Square. Who would have noticed him? Neither thin, nor plump, nor muscular. His hair was not wild nor short cropped, nor long nor wavy. His eyes were an indistinct color of brownish, blackish, greenish, blue. A Ken doll was less generic than Ryan. God help the police sketch artist trying to draw him from a description or the victim pointing him out in a lineup. He was a living ghost; remarkable in only how unremarkable he was. There were many people who might beg for Ryan’s life. Mediocrity was a blessing when you were low, and a quiet reprieve when you were high. By his own reckoning, though, Ryan was neither low nor high. He just was. And that was the problem. Even living ghosts got lonely. The high and mighty could get whatever they wanted, and even the lowlies got a smidge of pity to help things even them out. Ryan was constantly passed over. If he was a puppy at the pound, he’d be passed over either because he wasn’t cute enough to adopt or messed up enough to get the sympathy save. Everyone was sure that things would be “fine” for him...eventually, but “eventually” wasn’t coming any time soon. Puppies like Ryan got put to sleep. Until two weeks ago, it felt like every time Ryan shook a Magic 8-Ball, the result was “Ask again later”. “More water, monsieur?” The waiter asked, disrupting Ryan’s inner monologue. Ryan nodded and stared as the water flowed from the pitcher into his glass for the third time. The waiter must have been on his A game tonight. Normally, Ryan had to flag down a server at Ruby Tuesdays to get so much as a soda. “Are you sure you are at the right restaurant?” Oof. That one hurt. But hurt felt good, comparatively speaking. And he was indeed underdressed. This place was too rich for him, and his polo shirt, and lack of tie, while nice enough, made him seem terribly college freshman. Ryan had taken a peek at the menu and none of the items had prices listed next to them. Not a good sign. At places like Chez Jeunesse, you either had the dough to shell out, or you didn’t. Ryan didn’t. “Are you sure you have not been how you say, left at the altar?” The waiter asked. Ryan had to fight an increasingly overwhelming urge to reach up and rip out the man’s snooty nose hairs. He swallowed his pride and his temper. “I’m here early, is all.” This was technically true. Heather had told him to arrive at 6:30 and expect her at 7:00. She’d told him to come in an Uber. He wouldn’t need his car tonight. The waiter let out one of those strange caricature laughs that French people only did in the cartoons. “Haw haw haw! A blind date, then?” He winked at Ryan. “Of a sort.” The waiter seemed to take his meaning and left him be. Ryan knew exactly who he was meeting, but felt that he had no idea of what was going to happen tonight. So yeah, he was effectively going in blind. Even his outfit had been determined by Heather’s orders: “Wear a collared shirt, but nothing fancy. Business casual,” her text had read. Looking at the other diners in their three piece suits and fancy dresses, Ryan felt amazingly underdressed. He didn’t have anything close to this in his closet, but if he had at least come in the one nice suit and tie that he kept in the back of his closet for weddings and such, he could have looked like a poor man’s rich man; like he was trying. At present, he felt like an elementary schooler who’d dressed up for picture day. Trying...but not really. The diaper didn’t help, either. That had been another prerequisite from Heather: Wear protection. “Protection” was Heather’s code word for “Adult diaper.” Ryan had been disappointed and confused when he’d learned that last time. “Let me give you some protection to put on.” The medical brief she’d slipped out of her purse was decidedly nothing like the old condom that he’d had in his wallet since freshman year. Nervously, Ryan shifted in his chair, thing padding of the Depends shifting with him. How did old people wear this stuff? His bladder was beginning to feel full, too. Not enough for desperation to set in or for him to need to use the diaper (wait, did she want him to use the diaper?) but enough that he noticed. Not so absentmindedly, he kept tugging at the back of his polo, hoping that the edge of the adult diaper wasn’t poking out the back of his waistband. Heather was a weird girl, but decidedly worth it. And that wasn’t the crushing loneliness talking, either. The waiter was coming back for what felt like his umpteenth pass, when 7:00 hit, and Heather walked in, right on cue. Shiny blonde hair. Perfect skin and teeth and a red mini dress that just barely covered her perfect, perfect ass. “Can I help you ma-?” The waiter stopped and gawked as Heather walked right by him like he wasn’t even there. The way he tilted his head after she’d passed didn’t go unnoticed by Ryan, either. Ryan didn’t stand. He’d been told not to on date numero dos, a date that had baffled the more-average-than-average man for even existing. Ryan didn’t get second dates. He barely got first dates. The waiter threw a look towards Ryan. He couldn’t believe it either. The waiter’s questioning glance was met by a slight shrug of Ryan’s shoulders. Clueless. Both of them. Heather picked up the chair opposite of Ryan and walked around the intimate circular table so that she was sitting right next to him. “Hey,” she said. “Been waiting long?” “No, Ma’am.” The reply had come so naturally that Ryan wasn’t even sure he’d meant to say it. He saw Heather’s nostrils flare and a faint flicker of surprise in her crystal blue eyes when he called her Ma’am. Was she…? Was she turned on by this? Naw. She couldn’t be. She leaned in. “I’ve been looking forward to this,” he whispered. “Me too,” he said. She giggled. “Don’t lie, sweetie. You can’t be looking forward to what you don’t know is com-” “Bonjour,” the waiter interrupted. “I am Francois and I’ll be serving you to-” Heather whipped her head around. “Thank you,” she said, cutting off ‘Francois’. “I’ll have a glass of Champagne, but only the one. I’m driving. And make sure it’s Champagne, and not sparkling wine I can tell the difference.” Nervously, the waiter whipped out his notepad and started jotting down the order. “He’ll have a lemonade, fresh squeezed if it pleases you,” Ryan’s date continued. “We’ll each have the house salad, though his dressing will be on the side. On second thought make mine a Ceasar salad. I’ll have foie gras as an appetizer and the kobe beef with steamed vegetables.” “And the ahem..gentlemen?” Ryan was about to open his mouth when a finger attached to one of the most gorgeous women he’d ever seen slapped itself vertically across his lips. “My boy will have the chicken fingers with fries, and make sure that the honey mustard is fresh and not straight out of a bottle.“ A spasm rocketed through Ryan’s system. Her boy. His cheeks flushed. That was like boyfriend, right? Right. “Madam,” Francois said, his fake-ass French accent starting to falter. “You do realize of course, that the chicken fingers are on the children’s menu, yes?” “If the proprietor of the establishment is concerned about the children’s menu being a loss leader, then he should also know that my entre will more than cover the loss.” There was a pause for the waiter to absorb everything. When Heather wanted something, Ryan had learned, she tended to talk fast. “If you’re hesitant due to worry that serving him a child’s menu item would break some sort of decorum, then perhaps you should not have a child’s menu. Better yet,” she cleared her throat. “N'essayez pas de parler avec un faux accent français lorsque vous ne connaissez pas la langue.” Ryan could see the waiter’s Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “I..beg your pardon madam?” “Don’t talk with a French accent when you don’t know French…” The waiter gulped. “Yes ma’am.” His accent went full, bland, mid-western. Heather took her finger off of Ryan’s lips as the waiter scampered away. “Sorry about that,” she said. “Some people need to be put in their place, and some people need to be put in their place.” “You called me your boy,“ Ryan said, dumbly He was still stunned at that. A devilish smile fell over her. “I did.” She stood up. “Now excuse me.” Carrying a purse that might have been bigger than her dress, Heather walked away in the direction of the ladies room. A moment later, the waiter returned with a glass of lemonade and a glass flute filled with champagne. “Is she still here?” His French accent hadn’t returned. “Bathroom,” Ryan yelped out. “Dude,” he said. “I am so sorry for doubting you. What is your secret?” “What do you mean?” “How did you,” he looked over to the ladies’ room, “get a girl like that?” He paused. “No offense.” “None taken,” Ryan said. “And I have no idea. We met on a tinder date that went really really right and it hasn’t stopped.” The only thing more surprising than getting that first date was getting the second and third. “Do you have like a giant dick or something?” “We haven’t had sex yet...” “THE FUUU-?” The waiter stopped himself when a nearby diner dropped their knife in shock. He leaned in and whispered. “Are you her drug dealer or something? Is she yours?” He gestured to himself. “Like like...I’m not a bad looking dude, but I can’t get someone like that!” Ryan could only echo his own acute disbelief. “I really have no idea.” Even after half a dozen dates, (if he counted this one), he still couldn’t get a read on the woman. Their first date she had him buy two movie tickets to two separate movies. He only stayed in the theatre because kid-centric or not, Disney was good at what it did. His surprise was immeasurable when she was waiting for him outside and bought him dinner. The waiter looked once more towards the restrooms and scribbled on his order pad. “I don’t normally do this,” he said. “But this is my email address.” He slapped a thin sheet of paper down. “If you figure out why and if she knows anybody like her, email me. Please.” The door to the restroom opened and “Francois” was out of sight. Heather walked back up to the little round table. Still standing, she picked up champagne flute and took a swallow from it. Reaching out, she grabbed Ryan’s hand. “Come on,” she said. “Up you go and follow me.” Reflexively, Ryan followed her gentle tug and was standing up before he knew what he was doing. “Where?” Their feet were moving, he was following her lead. “No time to explain.” “But why-?” “There’s no time to explain, I said. Now come along.” She spoke to him as if he were a silly little boy, the thing smile on her face contrasting with her stern tone. Leading him by the hand, he certainly felt the part. He thought they might be leaving the restaurant as she dragged him across the floor, but that wasn’t the case. Instead, Ryan found himself making a bee-line with his date straight back into the women’s restroom. No! Nope, nope, nope! Nope on a rope! Ryan dug his heels in, as soon as Heather’s intentions became clear. Heather turned around and saw the look of pure panic on his face. “I just checked. No one’s in there. Would you rather do this in the boy’s room?” Ryan genuinely didn’t know. He didn’t dare guess what “this” was. On their second date they met at the park. Heather gave him a bag of corn and shredded lettuce and made him feed the ducks. Only he wasn’t allowed to call them ducks, just “duckies.” Then they’d gone to an empty playground, and she wasn’t satisfied until he’d played on every bit of the jungle gym. A small lifetime of internet dating expectations had been shattered by this lady. He’d been told not to stick his dick in crazy, and he hadn’t yet...but why did he keep coming back? “Boy’s room?” Heather repeated. “Yes or no?” When he couldn’t come up with an answer fast enough, she rolled her eyes. “Ugh, boys. Come on.” The ladies room door flung open again and Ryan found himself dragged inside. With the precision and purpose of a military general went for the wide handicapped stall in the back. The rest of the restroom blinked by and Ryan found himself inside the stall, Heather latching the door closed before his brain spoke over his penis. Women’s room. Hot girl. Privacy. Boxes were being checked buttons were being mashed. This was a bad idea, but bad ideas were sounding pretty damn good all of a sudden. Heather walked to a thick slab of plastic mounted on the wall; a decoration of a baby elephant holding its mother’s tail drawn on it. “Changing station or floor?” “What?” She pulled the flap down making it run parallel to the ground. “Changing station or floor?” A massive red flag and 404 error flashed across the computer screen of Ryan’s mind. “But I don’t under-” “If you can’t decide where I’m going to change you, Miss Heather will decide for you.” Miss Heather? Both referring to herself in the third person and as an adult might refer to themselves to a child...that was unexpected, and slightly arousing. “But I’m potty trained!” he yelped. That too, was unexpected. He had meant to just say “no”. Instead he was whining like a three year old. “We’ll see about that,” She got down on her knees and unfastened his belt buckle. It was happening! It was happening! She unbuttoned his pants! Oh God! Oh God, yes! Let it begin! “Awwwww!” Then she let out a condescending giggle. Ryan didn’t know that giggles could be condescending, but Heather had found a way. “Depends? You’re wearing, Depends?” Ryan deflated. “You said to wear uhh...protection.” She looked up at him grinning. “Ryan, sweetie…” she was smiling at him as if he was absolutely precious. “...I gave you that sample last time as an example of what to buy.” “I’m sorry…?” His date let out a sigh. “It’s okay. You tried your best. Go on and sit down on the potty.” Her hand was pushing him back onto the toilet. “Boys…” He was too flustered and confused to wince at the coldness of the toilet seat. He was too blown away by what was happening to care much that he was peeing sitting down while Heather ripped apart the sides of his Depends. His Depends. The fuck had his life come to? “So I don’t have to uh...use it?” “It wouldn’t have done either of us any good,” Heather assured him. She opened her purse and unfolded a blanket from it. “Lay down.” He did, not even thinking to shake it off or flush because she had not instructed him to. Pants around his ankles he laid down on the giant changing pad, feeling the vinyl lining beneath his bare ass. The rational part of his brain already knew that this wasn’t going to end with her mouth around his penis. His penis didn’t much care. It was getting attention from a pretty lady and was in no position to complain. Beggars couldn’t be choosers. “I’ll clean you up.” Even with the coldness of the baby wipe (and that’s what it was there was no denying it) Ryan started to swell as she caressed his member. That same “awww so cute” giggle kept him in check, however. He wasn’t surprised when she reached into her giant purse and took out a diaper. Both Ryan and his penis were well aware of where this was likely headed. What caught him off guard was how damn babyish it looked. Last time, the diaper she’d made him wear looked like something one might find in a hospital. This one had cartoon animals all over it, and even some of them were wearing diapers. It looked like something his little brother might have worn years ago before he was potty trained. Ryan pushed himself up on his elbows. “Do I really have to wear tha-?” “Yes.” She was already unfolding it. “Raise your hips.” “Raise my…?” “Lift your butt up for me, babe.” That word, “babe”, might as well have been a hypnotic trigger for how fast he reacted. His back was down on the floor, his legs spread, his knees bent, and his feet flat and pushing, thrusting his butt up off the pad. She slipped the diaper under him and gave his knee a pat, signalling him to relax. It was as he felt the soft padding and heard the crinkle beneath him that some semblance of second thoughts forced their way into his gray matter. “Do I hafta?” Down below, Ryan felt himself shrivel a bit as blood rushed from one region to another. Slowly, seductively, Heather leaned forward between his legs, her hands on his waist. “Ryan, honey,” she whispered so that only he could hear. “Miss Heather understands. But if you had forgotten and had an accident, those silly Depends would have leaked.” Ryan licked his lips as she paused for an agonizingly slow breath. “And these Crinklz look so much cuter. You do want to look cute for me, don’t you?” Fuck. He did want to look cute for her. He really did. “But with my pants on, no one else will see them.” God please let him keep his pants up after this. He didn’t know if he’d have the internal strength to refuse if she insisted. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll see them...later.” A spasm rocked through him and she leaned back. “All done.” Ryan looked down at his waist. When had she...? Her thin and satisfied smile spread out into a full mischievous grin. “I can be sneaky when I want to be.” That whole pep talk when she’d been whispering sweet nothing to him, she had been pulling up the front and fastening on the tapes. She’d diapered him without even looking! Again, she was helping him stand up, only now his pants were around his ankles. Ryan stopped himself from bending over to pull his pants up and got another thin smirk of approval as his girlfriend (this HAD to count!) bent over and redressed him. Wordlessly she turned him around to make sure that he was tucked in and then made him jump with a muffled swat on his padded behind. Less than half-a-minute later, her (his?) diaper bag was packed. He stood there nervously as she washed her hands in the bigger stall’s built in sink. The moment her hands were dried, they were on his wrist again with her maneuvering him out of the women’s restroom and out into the crowded restaurant. Something was wrong, Ryan knew, and he dug his heels in, again. Heather turned around. “What’s wrong?” He could hear the crinkle, still. Every single step he heard it, and some dark paranoid fear in him whispered that everyone would hear it too. “Nothing,” he lied. The people outside in the dining room would hear, they all would, and they’d know that it was: No one would assume that he had slipped a plastic shopping bag into his pocket. They’d hear it, know what he was wearing a diaper; not a Depends, but a full blown DIAPER and...and...and… And? Heather patted him on the top of his hand. “No one can hear it. It’s like potato chips. Crunchy and crinkly, and unless it’s absolutely quiet no one else will know.” “How do you know?” “Do you want to get caught in the ladies’ room?” He did not and she must have been able to read minds. “Come on. Our salads will be ready.” She was right, of course: Darting across the room, him holding her hand being led back to their table, Ryan kept scanning the room for cases of stink eye or good old fashioned shocked-and-appalled. Oh yeah, and the salads were there too, sitting right next to each other. Ryan slinked into his seat, quietly hoping to disappear as Heather pulled out her own chair and glided into hers. She started eating with gusto, not waiting for him. She paused to wipe her mouth and then looked at his plate, still untouched. “It’s okay. Go ahead and eat up.” Her gaze wandered over to the little bit of dressing on the side. “Oh!” she said. “Sorry. I almost forgot.” In one fluid motion she was drizzling the salad dressing over the bits of lettuce, tomato, and cucumber as Ryan sat there like a helpless idiot with his hands in his lap. “All better. Go ahead.” He didn’t. She stopped and stared. “That is unless you need me to feed you…” That same mischievous grin flashed, more in her eyes than her lips. She seemed a little disappointed when he finally picked up his fork. Gingerly he stabbed a lettuce leaf and placed it in his mouth. It was a good enough salad. The crunching in his mouth made him think of the diaper in his pants. She was right, he told himself. No one would hear the diaper, just like no one could hear the lettuce crunching in his mouth. The blessed relief was short lived. With his current underwear filed away as a “later problem” his mind went on to other things; namely dinner. Foie gras and kobe beef? Ryan didn’t even know what those were, but they sounded expensive. Both his tongue and his wallet was more accustomed to burgers and chicken fingers. This was by far the most expensive “date” they’d been on, and he wasn’t sure he could afford the bill. Shamefacedly, he looked down at his salad. “Heather?” he said. Despite being right next to him, Heather kept eating. “Heather…?” She’d gone deaf to her own name. “Miss Heather?” “Yes, Ryan?” “Um...I’m sorry to bring this up.” Ryan said, feeling even more embarrassed, “but can we go Dutch on this? Please?” Heather cocked an eyebrow. “Don’t be silly.” Ryan’s heart stopped. “I’m paying for you.” ALIVE! His stomach grumbled. “Oh. Cool,” he said. Finally his appetite was coming out. “Thanks for treating me. Can I-?” “No.” “Excuse me?” “Calling it Treating implies that this is a one time thing and that I expect you to pay for me for eating with you. It’s antiquated, sexist, and assumes you have something to hold over me. You don’t.” Ryan practically felt himself shrinking. He wanted to just hide under the table and die. He’d never had a girlfriend before, but this was not what he thought it was supposed to be. He’d just wanted to date a pretty girl. Maybe take her out to dinner at Chili’s or something. Maybe see a movie. Maybe get laid and if he was really lucky, they’d like each other. This...this wasn’t that storybook romance of boy-meets-girl. This was we’re not in Kansas anymore level of overwhelming, ratcheted up slowly over several encounters, like boiling a lobster. Heather’s expression softened. “Hey,” she said. “Sorry. I wasn’t talking about you specifically,” she said. The back of her hand caressed his cheek. Damnit that helped! “Tell ya what, kiddo,” she said. “From now on, when we go out, I’ll tell you whether you should bring your wallet and for how much you’ll be paying. Would you like that.” Ryan nodded. Yeah. He’d like that. He’d like that alot. “Good.” She leaned over and gave him a chaste kiss on the forehead. His diaper was crinkling again, but not because of his shifting weight. Something else was shifting. The salad plates were just being scraped clean when the waiter brought out the next dish: A little brown hunk of meat drenched in a brownish orange sauce. “Your foie gras, Madam,” the waiter said. Heather shot him a look and he quickly self corrected back to his real accent. “I mean, “Ma’am.” “What is that?” Ryan asked, pointing like a six-year old. In reply, his date cut a piece and put it on her fork. She offered the meat up to him, prongs first. “Try it.” He reached to grab and got his hand lightly slapped for his trouble. Internally, Ryan chastised himself: She’d already put baby briefs on him. Of course she’d want to spoon feed him. He opened his mouth and let her slide the food in, closing his lips around it and feeling the metal prongs slide back out from his lips. “Good boy.” Wow! Ryan was taken back. Rich. Buttery. A little slimy, but satisfying nonetheless. Very good. “What is that?!” “Liver of a duck that was force fed to the point of basically diabetes.” A moment of revulsion crossed Ryan’s mind. The moment passed. It was just like when he’d found out how chicken nuggets were made. Appetite beat out disgust. In a strange way, this entire relationship had been a bit like foie gras or chicken nuggets: Gross on paper but he was hungry enough to eat it. And, he had to admit, it wasn’t that bad, was it? What he wouldn’t admit, even to himself, was that he wasn’t quite thinking about food. “Can I have some more?” Heather shook her head. “No,” she said. “But maybe next time you can get your own.” Next time! First a “from now on” and then a “next time”. Holy shit! The fried chicken fingers and honey mustard (fresh the waiter assured Heather) came out just as Heather was finishing the last bite of her diabetic duck liver. Heather was kind enough to eat quickly and without further comment so as not to tease him. Ryan tried to pick up one of the tender pieces and was rewarded with a fork lightly smacking the back of his hand. He squeaked a little as if he’d felt actual pain, even though surprise was a more apt descriptor. Even then...was he really surprised? He jerked his hands backwards and laid them down in his lap, much like how his mother had taught him to do when walking through antique stores or other places where little hands were not supposed to touch big things. “Hold on. Let me help,” Miss Heather said, leaning over to cut up the kids’ meal into even more bite sized pieces. Her entree came while she was still prepping Ryan’s plate as if he were a preschooler. Kobe beef, Ryan surmised, was some kind of super expensive steak. Francois, the waiter, did an actual double take right out of Looney Tunes when he saw Ryan getting his chicken cut by a woman who was at least 3 degrees out of his league. The questioning expression Ryan caught said, “Is this really a thing?” Ryan wasn’t sure and communicated the same with his own baffled expression. He didn’t know if the waiter approved or not. Hell, the waiter might not even know if he approved or not. Regardless, he had the proper mix of courtesy, situational awareness, and fear of Miss Heather to leave her dish and exit without comment. The chicken tenders were sectioned off into something more resembling nuggets. “There ya go,” she said. “You can use a fork, or your hands. Your choice.” Ryan chose hands. The tenders were cut into such small pieces that it was functionally impossible for him to eat without getting sauce on his fingers, instead licking it off with every bite. “Good boy.” One advantage to being painfully average: Ryan might not have been the fastest horse in the race, but he wasn’t the last one to cross the finish line, either. His date was watching him, dare he say ogling him, with every honey mustard filled bite that he popped into his mouth. “Heather, I mean Miss Heather,” he stumbled, “can I ask you a question?” “I don’t know,” she said. “Can you?” Just like in grade school, Ryan huffed. “I mean may I ask you a question?” “You may.” “What are we even doing?” Miss Heather took another bite of far-too-expensive-to-taste-bad steak in silence rather than answer. Or maybe silence was the answer. “It’s just that,” Ryan added, “I feel like this is going somewhere, but I don’t have a map.” Miss Heather dabbed her lips with her napkin and sat up a little straighter. “I’m a maternalist,” she told him. Ryan was now one of those meme dogs cocking his head to the side in confusion. “A what?” “I’m what’s called a Mommy Domme,” she replied. “I...get off...on treating grown men like small children. Babies.” Yeah. That made sense. No it didn’t, actually, but it lined up with the last few dates. “Why?” For the first time ever, Ryan saw her look slightly uncomfortable. “I’m not sure. My psychologist might have something to say about it if she knew. But putting pampers on big boys just does something for me. It makes me happy.” “I mean ‘why me’?” “Oh,” Miss Heather replied. “That.” She hummed to herself a bit. “It’s because you’re average and you know it.” He wasn’t sure why, but he was offended. Only he was allowed to talk down about himself. “If your self-esteem was particularly high, you wouldn’t let me do half the things I’ve done to you.” She reached over and took a sip of his lemonade. “I’m kind of out of your league, and you know it.” “More than kind of,” Ryan heard himself admit. Miss Heather’s eyes brightened a bit. “See? But if you were used to getting kicked around all the time, you might think this was some kind of trap. The abused break instead of bend” There was a kind of twisted logic to it. “No,” Miss Heather told him. “You know a good thing when you see one and you’re desperate enough to hear me out.” She paused. “That, and you are kind of cute.” Ryan wanted to melt away into her lap right then and there. “Not too hot. Not too cold. Just like Goldilocks.” “And I love the fact that your brain went there.” Another thought beamed into Ryan’s skull. “Sex? I mean, do you like it? Is it on the table?” Miss Heather deflated and rested her arms on the table. “I was hoping to ease you into this later tonight,” she admitted. “Kisses and petting are fine, but sex is off the table. For now at least.” “Oh…” Before he could say anything else, Miss Heather was in his ear, whispering breathily. “I know how to make a wet diaper feel reeeeeally good, though. It’s practically a pocket pussy.” Her hand was groping him beneath the table. “Think about it. No risk of getting me pregnant, I’ll definitely get something out of it, and you can be completely selfish. I’ll even let you suck on my titties.” A low moan rumbled out from Ryan’s throat. “All you have to do is call me by my name.” Ryan looked sideways at her. “Heather? Miss Heather?” “Not that name,” she teased. “My special name. The name that I’m only going to let you call me, and no one else.” Ryan took a not-so-wild guess. “Mommy?” She called for the check then said, “That’s my boy. Come on. Let’s go over to my place. I’m driving.” Things had started off oddly enough, but Ryan had a sense that his “average” streak was about to come to an end. It might still be a storybook romance. Just not the kind of stories that Ryan had been used to reading. (Fin)

Dammit, I ran out of likes again. Please don't construe that to mean I'm not grateful for another installment.

Over the years my wife has blurted out things about my diapers to embarrass me. Not often, done in fun, and the humiliation adds to...well i remember them all. Anyway it has been years, but she got me the other day. A forest fire had shut the highway and we returned to a small town to get gas. The station was small and packed with a large group of bikers, mostly couples and close to our age. We got out and I was starting to fuel up, she proceeds to the store, stops, looks back at me, and loudly says.. Your diapers are showing, you might want to pull your shirt down! (abena with plastic pants, and the back of my shirt was way up)) Well i grab my shirt, just as a couple of the bikers are pulling away. One lady probably sprung her neck trying to see.. anyway my wife just smiled when she returned. ,

I’m in a wet and messy attends

I'm in a wet tranquility atn diaper. Been getting some baby time today as a 2 yr old toddler.

Not sure what really got me interested in plastic pants but I remember a picture I saw of me as as baby wearing the clear ones all big and bulky. As I got older I always wanted to know how they felt on and also pampers were very popular as I was going through puberty. i loved how those diapers looked and sounded when I saw a baby wearing . i once had access to them when my nephew was born and did take one but it wouldn’t fit but loved how it felt and smelled. Ive had a thing for baby things ever sense, but these days it just ebbs and flows

Currently in a wet barnyard which I will stay in for another couple of hours.

I wasn't trying to say that DD bans whoever it wants for no reason. I was just replying to the free speech stuff that the website technically COULD ban anyone for any reason. In reality the website has generally been very lenient and has often given users a lot of chances. The rules do need to be clearer for sure. @lord.bill The rule is and has always been 18+. I'm not sure if someone has implied otherwise and I missed it but we simply require users to be adults.

31.) "I understand you helped your Mom with dinner tonight, it was delicious." Mace had asked Maisie to join him for cookies in his study after the meal was finished, and he was sitting in his easy-chair watching her curiously. She seemed much less... encumbered, versus this morning, and he was pleased to see that. "I'd love to hear about your day. Please, sit and share with me. As much or as little as you like." Bonding was important to Mace. "Alright..." I sat down across from Mace and bit my lip. "Uh... well..." What even happened? I pissed myself. But I decided to omit that. Then there was... "Cora kissed me..." "She would, I imagine." "...I don't know how I feel about that. The girls kissing thing." "Girls don't kiss where you're from?" "Not unless they're romantically involved..." "It's something that many girls do, but you shouldn't feel pressured to partake. Your mother, for example, never kissed another girl. She wanted it to be new for her when she found a boy that she liked. Of course, and in confidence, your mother was a lousy kisser when we first dated. But she learned in time, at her own pace. You can choose to go with the flow, or do things at your own pace. I don't think there's a wrong answer to be found, either way." Mace definitely saw things a lot more openly than many others here, which was surprising. "I do think you should do your best to fit in as best you can, of course, but that's your decision." "It's not that kissing Cora was bad! I mean, it was nice... but I just don't like the idea of kissing somebody I'm not interested in that way, you know?” "I do know." "Yeah... other than that, nothing really happened. People are still being nice to me..." Though the next day, that may no longer be true. I had a score to settle. "And you're making friends, then? That was my great concern.” The man steepled his fingers in though, before continuing. "That your lifestyle choices imposed upon you on the mainland would make it difficult for you to fit in here and make friends. Your first day, for example, with your Drab attire, I'm sure you haven't forgotten." "No, I didn't forget..." I guess that's really why I'd relented to the dresses. "Are girls allowed to wear skirts...? I mean, I'll make sure it's like... appropriate or whatever..." "It's mostly women who wear skirts, after training out." "But I am trained out." "That's not a good thing in high school." "And I don't wanna draw attention to it..." I sighed. "Okay... fine... no skirts..." Mace smiled and then carefully chose his words. "You're smart, like your birth-mother — I suppose in having her eyes it's good to see you have her common sense." I opened my mouth and then closed it again, looking down at my feet. "...do you think... there's more information on them, somewhere? I just... I really want to know about them, even if they were... you know..." Bad parents? I sighed and shook my head. "Nevermind..." "The Capitol will have files on them. Where you were when you were registered." "The one with the big library...?" "That's right — there's a sub-level beneath the library has archived documents on every person that ever lived in Lillikol. Maybe we could go there together, at the weeks end? I'd like to use one of the days to take you to Nishi, but we could use the other to go to Lillikol Proper if you'd like. A daddy-daughter-day weekend, maybe. You could invite your sister along, too, if you like. But I'll leave that much up to you." "Oh... um..." Jeeze... "Okay... I mean, I don't..." Ugh... "I don't really want to know. I mean, maybe later. It's just nice knowing they're there..." He nodded and smiled. "But the... uh... Nishi thing sounds nice! Wherever that is!" I smiled as widely as I could, but it felt a little forced. Jeeze, being a daughter was more work than I'd thought... "It's to the east of the island, and offers beaches with crystal clear emerald waters. Maybe you should invite Julienne along, some to think of it — you might appreciate her help picking out a bathing suit." To Mace's knowledge, there were no bathing suits for girls her age that didn't have the insert pouch for the swim-diaper component. Perhaps it would be good, though, the warm ocean currents of Nishi tended to wreck havoc on girls’ bladders. "Maybe..." I liked Mace. But at the same time, I didn't know him the way I knew Sugar and Julienne. Maybe having my sister come along was a good thing... maybe it could help if things were weird. "Alright. I'll ask her. If she wants to go." Today was Friday. The last day of our school week. Maybe we'd go tomorrow! The beach sounded pretty nice... "Nishi?! Daddy is taking you to the beach! But! BUT! I wanna go to Nishi!" Maisie hadn't even had the chance to make the invite component of what she'd come to tell her sister when Julienne had started pouting like the child she was currently dressed as. "This is so unfair... I'd do anything to go to Nishi... maybe you could ask him if I can come, too? If you do, I'll um... lesse, I'll um... I'll buy you a present! With my allowance!" "Mmm... I don't know... everything I want is probably Carded..." "I... I have connections!" Very, very interesting. I smiled up at her and thought quietly to myself. "I guess if you can promise to get me something, then I can ask if you can come." I was such a good sister! Julienne agreed, of course, and then gave her sister as tight a hug as she could manage. "Maybe I could get you sparkly lipgloss? Boys go crazy for that stuff, like proper gaga, which is why it's carded because it's so desired. You could make Lyon do anything you want!" Well. Despite the power dynamic seemingly shifted in one direction, skewed as weirdly as it seemed to a patriarchy, girls still had the majority of the control over their boyfriends. They just had to know how to play things. "...hm." Lip gloss, huh? "Can't I get in trouble, though, if someone sees that?" That's why I liked the discreet stuff. Makeup. Panties. Things people didn't see. "I am not getting another punishment for some stupid lip gloss!" I didn't know much about this place. The rules were still vague to me. "Well, adults don't usually notice it to look at you. But they'll notice if you start leading around a bunch of boys, so you should only use it when you're with Lyon. He'll do anything you say, I promise, it's so great. Boys are so easy!" What was not explained was that sparkly gloss had a specific powder in the compound, which was why it made boys go gaga. Sure, of course, it was adorable too! But that was certainly not the extend of its power. Julienne didn't know or care about any of that, though. "...okay. Sure. That stuff. And..." "AND?!" "And." I bit my lip, thinking curiously... "Is there a kind of powder that's like... really uncomfortable, if it happened to be in your diaper? Like baby powder, but uncomfortable?" She just stared at me. "Purgatory Powder? I can get that, but that's only for Mom's to use on six or seven year olds who are being naughty. I don't know if you should be messing with it. Why would you want something like that, anyway? That's not fun or anything, I promise, and if you use it on a boy he'll probably hate you..." "I just do, okay?" Purgatory Powder. Sounds... badass. Way better than Lemon Powder or Strawberry Powder. Or Bright Powder. I was excited. "Get me that, and the lip gloss, and you've got yourself a deal." I was so smart sometimes. Now I could put my plan into action. "Okay, but you have to promise not to use it on me because I was a thumbsucker until I turned 14 and I don't wanna go back to that, even for a few hours, okay?" There was genuine worry and concern in her voice, and she frowned as she watched her sister for verification that her condition was accepted. Julienne loved the beach, but she didn't love it that much. "I can't wait to go to the beach, I'll have to pick out which bathing suit to wear... maybe we can build castles together!" "Oh, right... Mace said something about needing a bathing suit, so we'll have to go buy me one, if that's okay." "Yeah, of course!" It was already pretty late, though... I guess we'd have to go in the morning. ----------------------- Thanks for reading! Please Like, Comment, and check us out on Patreon!

First and foremost, this a privately owned website and the owner/moderators can reserve the right to ban whoever they want. That said, the ABDL community is pretty niche and dailydiapers is largest and most active online community (it's been my impression ADISC is smaller and less active, I could be wrong, though.) People are really going to want to avoid getting banned from here because there isn't really anywhere equivalent. Being upset about a ban and wanting an appeals process isn't necessarily the same as throwing a fit after getting banned off of a political discourse subreddit, getting banned means major loss or restriction of access to the ABDL community. There are absolutely people that should be banned, but I think dailydiapers has a degree of social responsibility to not create situations that precipitate bans. That is, if violation of a rule can get you banned, that rule should be clear and obvious to all users. I think an appeals process might be fair considering the role of dailydiapers in the ABDL community, particularly because it appears that there has not always been a large amount of communications before or after bans. Mistakes happen. Users and moderators. I don't think an appeals process needs to (or even should) include the community, but a description of the appealed issue from both (or more) parties could be put forth to all the moderators which can agree/disagree if the ban is fair. This could aid in rule violations being punished uniformly and impartially. A tangle that I see here is that the (invisible) rule against multiple accounts means that the banning of your account constitutes a lifetime ban from dailydiapers. OP's original account was banned for it's name and misstated age. It makes sense to ban an account that violates the (invisible) rules- but with no communication and a ban on further accounts, that means that that individual is banned from ever having an account on dailydiapers ever again, which seems somewhat harsh. As to the age/birthday rule seeming "implied:" first, I agree with kasarberang that "implied" is not accessible for people with some disabilities. Second, there are confusing things, as is, that make the "implied" part a bit harder to parse. It might be assumed that birthday needed to be accurate. But it was visible on our profiles for five years. It could be interpreted that the public nature was for other users to wish a us a happy birthday, making accuracy not as important. I find the lack of care to our privacy kind of disturbing. Then, the "real age" field allows us to type in a number. This number does not change with our stated birthday, because it doesn't even have to be a number. I could type "diapers" or "grilled cheese" into it and it wouldn't care. This does not generally scream to me as a field that must be accurate. There's also the weird overlap between trans/nb identities in both the (optional) gender field (which is in the same section as the real age field) and the "I am a...." field (which is in the diaper etc. field) which makes it seem like that section might not necessarily be intended for vital account information. Then there's I think a telling thing- in this discussion there have been a lot of posts talking about the website being 21+ (even from US posters.) As far as I know, this website is 18+ (dailydiapers.com says "if you are 18+ you may enter," but I haven't seen anything entering into or in the forum itself that says an age limit) I am 20 years old. I am not a minor. I am not buying alcohol on here. If it turns out this website really is supposed to be 21+, then banish me, I guess. But I don't think it is. And if any sizeable amount of your user base isn't sure whether it's 18+ or 21+ then the age rules are not clear enough.

What time frame did this happen ? Recently - a few months ago - more than a year ? What website do you recall that you read of it ? Long story (multiple parts/chapters) - short story (one off / page) ? There are thousands of stories out there - each waking day presents more search material - more detailed pinpointing direction helps !

I'm not gonna lie. Chasing Emily helped shape a lot of Clark's personality, at least early on.

Very entertaining. I laughed a lot. I haven't seen such a clever little thing since Chasing Emily. Really prepared for everything brilliant and how he used the obvious trap of the Amazon against herself brilliant. Looking forward to more.

Chatper 2- A Home Away From Hell Downtown That’s your home address Ya live Downtown When your life’s a mess Ya live Downtown Where depressions’ just Status Quo Down on Skid Row Tom didn’t slam the door when he came home. Slamming the door would have taken too much energy and the door didn’t deserve his wrath, or at least it didn’t merit it as much school did. “Home” in this case was Apartment 27 in Forrest Luxury Apartments. He wasn’t sure why the Section 8 housing had the name “Luxury” in it; either this part of the slums sucked way less when ground first broke, or somebody had a bizarre and ironic sense of humor. Tom suspected it might be the latter. Luxurious or not, it was home. Home was a two-bedroom one-bathroom apartment for three people. It was dirty and cluttered and reeked of cheap incense, with a different, grisly type of air that you could feel more than smell. The water heater broke often, and that was when the water could be bothered to run. Some days Tom felt like Seymour from Little Shop of Horrors. He was trapped in his own personal skid row, but took a certain dim comfort from it. Apartment 27 of Forrest Luxury Apartments wasn’t the envy of anywhere in Scrumpton, but he was safe and shielded from the Josh Hamlins and Trevor Macintoshes of his sad little world. It was a shithole. But it was still HIS shithole Katlynn was in the three-by-five kitchenette, spreading peanut butter on a slice of white bread. Three minutes older and born at 11:58 pm to Tom’s 12:01 am, Katlynn was by the barest of definitions Tom’s “older” twin sister and one of the few people in Tom’s sad little world that he genuinely trusted. It didn’t hurt that they technically had different birthdays. That had been neat early on. “Missed the bus home?” It was more of a statement, obviously he had, but she was kind enough to phrase it like a question. Before Tom could respond, she sniffed the air. “You smell like piss and cheap cigarettes. Hiding in the boys room again.” This wasn’t phrased as a question. Tom reddened a bit, but there was no point in lying about it. Not here. Not now. He scratched the back of his neck, due to nervous habit more than an itch. “Yeah…I kinda...it’s...it’s complicated.” Tom had stayed hidden in the bathroom all of 6th period, only digging his backpack out of the trash well after the buses had taken off. It had been a long walk back home, but it was the only way. It’s not like Mary would have bothered to pick him up. His sister took a bite of peanut buttered bread. “What’s so complicated about getting a boner in front of Amanda and running out of Math class?” “How did you-?” Tom let the question and his jaw hung in the air. “We’re twins. Duh.” Tom twisted his mouth to the side and cocked an eyebrow, incredulous. “Bullshit.” Katlynn looked like an alternate version of Tom, one in which he’d gotten a different set of chromosomes. Same brown hair, worn just a little bit longer past the ear, same soft face and dimple on her chin, same sad eyes. They’d never gone through any kind of “twin telepathy” phase. It was Katlynn’s turn to scratch the back of her neck. “Cameron told me on the bus,” she said. Then she looked down at the floor. “Loudly.” Neither spoke for a minute. “Sorry,” he said. “No big deal.” It was a lie, but at least it was a kind one. Both of the Dean twins were lithe, thin little things, and neither genetics nor nutrition were in their favor as far as “filling out” went. With tiny breasts (Sister boobs...gross) and less than a hundred pounds of meat on her under five-foot frame, Katlynn had never grown into highschool. Those who didn’t know her often mistook her for a freshman, if not a middle schooler. Regrettably, societal double standards were still very much a thing in Scrumpton. Katlynn was a small mousy thing, in appearance if not personality; but she was a girl, making her “petite.” Tom had a good half-foot on her and almost fifty pounds, making him the bigger twin, but he was a guy, making him “scrawny.” Katlynn had a bare handful of friends at school, even if they never hung out after dismissal. Had better grades, too. She was on the verge of actually getting a life outside of this dump; maybe even a date. At this point in their lives, being his sister was harder than being her brother. She gulped down the last of her bread and leaned over for a hug, laying her head on his shoulder. “Sucks to be you,” she said. Oddly enough, coming from her, it wasn’t an insult. “Yeah, it does,” he agreed, then looked around. “Where’s Mary?” Katlynn rolled her eyes. “It’s Friday. Where do you think?” “Bingo Hall?” “Bingo Hall.” This wasn’t a twin thing. Mary Dean was Tom and Katlynn’s mother, though by most societal definitions, she barely fit the mold. A little over eighteen years prior, Mary had gotten knocked up by some jerk who promptly fucked off. In most stories this would be the part where it’s mentioned that Mary did the best she could with what she had, but certain factors beyond her control prevented her from giving her two beloved children everything they ever wanted or needed to succeed It is in that spirit and formula of storytelling that the following shall be stated: Mary Dean did the best she could, but she really didn’t give a damn. Possessed of an unidentifiable and therefore incurable disability, Mary hadn’t held down a steady job since her children could remember, instead living off of other people’s charity, government assistance, and a crude but clever workaround for Scrumpton’s anti-gambling laws. Friday night was Bingo Night, meaning that Mary was living it up with the old and the dying, hoping to score BINGO on as many knick-knacks and useless pieces of junk as possible, all so that she could pack it into her beat up Sebring convertible, drive it home and try to sell it to another crowd at a “garage sale.” Whatever didn’t get sold inevitably ended up in their home, with Mary’s room in particular being a dragon’s horde of cheap costume jewelry, white elephant Christmas gifts and other garbage that you couldn’t pay a pawn shop to take off your hands. The twins were allowed (or required) to stay with Mary only because of an overstretched foster care system and that Mary just barely met the requirements for avoiding charges of child neglect. The last few months since their eighteenth birthdays, things had only gotten worse. Now that the twins were no longer “dependents,” Mary’s support checks were greatly diminished. It didn’t help that her children were now the same age as she had been when they were born. Existential midlife crises at thirty-six sucked for all involved. There was a reason that the twins preferred to think of her as “Mary” instead of “Mom,” the latter word having long left a gritty taste of cognitive dissonance in their mental mouths. She was increasingly talking about the two of them getting jobs so that they could “pull their weight around here.” If she was aware of the irony, Mary never showed it. It was a hard knock life. Little Orphan Annie had Mrs. Hannigan to deal with. Mrs. Hannigan was a cakewalk compared to Mary Dean. Tom and Katlynn didn’t have that legendary “twin telepathy” so often depicted in popular media, yet on days like this, when they were alone in the quiet of their apartment, drained from everything life had thrown at them and with only more of the same to look forward to, they both thought the same thing. I’ve gotta get out of here. Tom looked around in silence. He sniffed. He really did smell like piss and cigarettes. “I’m gonna go take a shower.” “Fine, but I get the bed tonight.” The “younger twin” looked over to the old couch that doubled as their third bed. A pile of rumpled old clothes was strewn out over it. It was anyone’s guess if those were relatively clean clothes plucked from the laundromat and waiting to be folded, or not-quite-dirty-enough-to-toss clothes being gathered for the laundromat and then promptly forgotten. Unlike his mother, Tom was not a gambling man. “No fair!” “There’s only going to be enough hot water for one shower,” Katlynn said. “You know how much that heater sucks.” “If I take one now, it’ll be warm enough by the time you go to bed.” “Then you wait to take a shower.” Tom scoffed. “Do you even want a shower right now?” “I don’t want a cold one,” she said. BEEP! BEEP! BEEEEEEEEEEEP! Both whipped their heads towards the front door. Those three honks only meant one thing: an event atypical this time of day, before the streetlights had clicked on and before pizza delivery places did their best business among the drunk and the stoned. “What’s she doing home so early?” Katlynn asked. Tom shrugged. “Maybe she crapped out at Bingo early.” His sister twisted her mouth sideways and cocked her eyebrow. “How the heck do you crap out at Bingo early? They only call out the numbers so fast, don’t they? It’s not scratch-off.” Another series of obnoxious honks confirmed that they were not in fact imagining things. Their mother was waiting in the car, signaling for them to come out and help her unload. A few fumbling steps out into the dusky sunlight, Mary’s beat up old convertible stood silhouetted against the darkening sky. “Hey kids!” Mary waved them over. “Look what I won!” Tom frowned and looked over to Katlynn. Her expression mirrored his. “Seriously?” it said. Serious enough, it seemed. “Come on!” Mary shouted. “Are you deaf? Help me unload it! I can’t put the top back up until we get this out! True enough. Mary normally brought home old busts and boxes of out of fashion clothes piled up in the back seat. The passenger seat, when it wasn’t littered with gas station junk food wrappers, was home to paintings that even Bob Ross would be unimpressed with. Meanwhile, her trunk was persistently packed to the brim with novelty lamps and unwanted As Seen On TV Products that (surprise surprise) worked better on the infomercials. This afternoon the car held none of that. Taking up the entirely of the back seat, jutting out into the open sky, was an old grandfather clock. “I won this!” Mary proclaimed. “Can you believe this was the first item they had up?” Once they approached the car and got a better look at the thing, both siblings shook their heads in agreement. They couldn’t believe it either, though not for the reason their mother did. The old grandfather clock’s wood was notched, nicked, and gnarled by a hundred different little uneven cuts; with jagged splinters and pulp forming on the worst spots. Glittering in the setting sun, the glass door on the front was severely damaged and barely holding itself in one piece. A lightning-bolt-shaped crack jutted down, off-center. Beyond the door, Tom could make out old gears that hadn’t moved in years; the copper rusted green and more than a hint of cobwebs ran to and from the cogs. The old grandfather clock really should have been put in hospice long ago. “Mary?” Katlynn asked. “Are you sure that you, y’know, won this thing?” “Of course I did!” Mary said. “Now help me unload this so I can get the top back up. Weatherman says it’s gonna rain tonight.” “What are we supposed to do with a big ol’ clock?” Tom wondered aloud. “We’re going to restore it.” “We?” Katlynn asked. Shit. Fuck. “Restore?” Tom echoed his sister’s misery. Damn it. Son of a bitch. “Just help me get it in.” Reluctantly, Tom walked around to the backseat, already calculating (guessing, really) the best angle or approach to lug the big rotting paperweight. With the sun at this back, he squinted and ventured a second look at the thing. Didn’t Aladdin talk about there being a diamond in the rough? Hadn’t King Arthur just been a lowly squire? Wasn’t there at least a little something redeemable in this big box of worthless gears? Nope. Probably not. The only thing that even hinted at the stately grandeur of the old timepiece was an ornately carved word, right above the clock face. Gently, afraid that too much pressure might cause the wood to collapse at his touch and cause a nest of termites to spring out, Tom traced the letters one at a time, sounding out the strange word in his mind before speaking. “Malacus?” he said. “What’s a Malacus?”

As I said earlier! This is the bottom line! If there is confusion about the rules, perhaps on the home page each and every rule should be fully spelled out as one of the first thing people see on that page. Maybe right above the, "We need your content and Join Our Mailing List. That is the perfect place for it. The home page and make sure peole are aware of all the rules before going any farther with content or joining any mailing list. Just a thought. Rules should be the first things people see, not go along and have to look for them or stumble across them somewhere. Maybe this can be addressed in the next update?

That would kill me if my loved ones did that to me. Even if I had to wear them. To tell you the truth. It's none of your other families business that you wear diapers even if they know from the past due to the accident. And saying out loud let's go and see if you need a change. To me that's just not right. Though I do have a question. What does your other family say when she says that?

Pretty much. She's stubborn, proud and hormonal. Her idea of the perfect family is a husband, wife, two kids and a pet. I'm trying to avoid "the perfect parent" trope while literally writing an "adopt the abused child" trope story. *shrugs* Lily the Liar took on daycare, and that ended up being one of the best stories i've read on here.

I didn't want to necessarily talk about this, because I didn't want to distract from the story, but my mother (I grew up in a single-parent household) was an extreme disciplinarian to the point of physical abuse. When the only tool you have is a hammer, every problem is a nail. Heather impressed me as this type of parent, not the same way as my mother, but still, she has one tool, and she approaches every problem with the idea that this tool will fix it.

This! This so much! This is how i've been trying to paint Heather, but I've gotten so many messages saying she's an unrealistic character. There is no such thing as a perfect parent and the average person doesn't realize the challenge associated with raising someone with special needs. In Heather's mind, all Ella needs is a firm hand and a push to be "normal" She's somehow under the impression that her love will "cure" whatever trauma she has gone through. She's confused and frustrated that meeting all of Ella's basic needs isn't magically fixing everything.

I don't know. Heather impresses me as a pretty typical suburban mom with a bit of a "savior" complex. She had a lot of options when she found out she was unable to have more children, yet she chose to foster an older kid. She's flustered because she's way out of her league dealing with Ella's various and sundry issues, but she's still clinging to the idea that her instincts regarding "normal" children are still correct. So she's overreacting to things that punch more holes in her instincts. I think the whole "fuck" scenario just hammered that concept home for me, really painted this perfect picture of a woman who expects to be in control all the time and is clearly not comfortable with this situation as a result. (edit) I think the above speaks to what a job @SashaButters did in building the Heather character. She's not a perfect mom. In fact, she's highly flawed. It's clear she cares, and she wants to love Ella, but the fact that Ella doesn't immediately respond to her efforts at love confuses her and makes her anxious and self-doubting. And in the last couple chapters, every effort she's made to "take command" has backfired, as she was slapped down by the teacher on several fronts where she was sure she was doing the right thing.

Part 2 “New iMessage” flashed across my phone as I sat eating dinner and prepared myself mentally for the work week to begin again. Steve: Hello, baby. I’m glad you’ve decided to write me back. Adam: I’m a little nervous, not going to lie. Steve: Don’t be scared, let yourself explore. You’ll like this. Adam: Thanks, as long as we can pace, I guess. Steve: You’ll help set the pace, but I will push a bit. Boys like you need a push. You’ll sit still too long without one. Adam: Yeah, I guess that’s true. Steve: I know it is. Adam: So I work nights and have to work tonight, I can’t have my phone there. I go in soon. Steve: Ah, an airport worker. Lovely. Adam: ...I’m sorry. I know it isn’t ideal. Steve: Don’t be, baby. It’ll be fine. We’ll do what needs to be done. When do you start/finish? Adam: 9pm to 3am, then class from 10am to 4pm depending on the day. Steve: Whew! Brutal. Guess the weekend will have to do for our first rendezvous. Adam: Yeah, I guess so. I’m sorry. Steve: Stop apologizing. You’re a working student, that’s admirable. So you really are interested in going further, I assume? Adam: Yes, I think so. Steve: Okay, I’m really happy to hear that. I have a request though, one that’s pretty personal. Adam: Okay, whats that? Steve: You’re in a strange place right now exploring something that is very new to you that sounds exciting and taboo. I want you to keep that energy to explore. I don’t want you to masturbate until we can meet face-to-face. Can you do that? Adam: Oh, uh - yeah. I guess so. That’s fine. Steve: Alright, good. I’ll message you later this week with a time and place. Until then, keep the excitement going and those hands off. Adam: Okay, talk soon. Okay, the first hurdle was over. He seemed nice enough by text. He didn’t seem pervy, pushy, or creepy. I guess the least I could do would be to meet him and see how that goes. At the very least, it would be nice having dinner with someone that wasn’t on a TV screen. I felt optimistic with the plan and walked out of the door into the frigid winter with a smile on my face. That night was the longest night I’ve had at work, by far. Each circuit with the tug felt as it took a week. I replayed the events of the day in my mind at least a hundred times. I was caught in a cycle between feelings of needing to throw up and getting so hard that my khaki shorts tented awkwardly against he oversized steering wheel of the tug. After work, I raced home anticipating Steve would have messaged me something. I was disappointed when the only text was an auto-generated message confirming an appointment with a school psychiatrist at 10:15am. The events of the day yesterday knocked that completely from memory, but knowing that skipping it would probably cause a mandatory well-check by campus security, I decided begrudgingly to go. It felt like it took an hour to fall asleep once I finally laid down. I kept imagining what our first meeting would be like. I teetered on nerves, one moment wishing I wouldn’t have responded, one moment thrilled for the interaction. Was I only considering it because I was lonely? Was I gay for attention? Who knows. I finally drifted off, my erection still throbbing against my sheets, no doubt confused that it didn’t get the normal attention it was used too prior to bed. The alarm rang earlier than normal, giving me enough time for a shower, quick breakfast, and brisk walk across campus. I arrived to the student health center right on time for the receptionist to escort me back to the office and asked that I be seated on the couch across from an oversized brown leather high-backed chair. The office was filled with deep mahogany and was lit entirely by warm lamp light. The hum of the florescent lighting, almost assaulting in the rest of the building was noticeably absent. In it’s place, the slow, smooth ticking of a wall clock. The door opened after a moment and a maternal looking woman in a dark pantsuit walked in with her hand already extended. “Well, you must be Adam. I’m Dr. Mary Klyburn. Please call me Mary. It’s such a pleasure to meet you.” she beamed. Her enthusiasm seemed over the top, but I think it was sincere. “Thanks Mary. It’s nice to meet you as well.” I replied, unable to even come close to a level that would be considered enthusiastic. “I want you, in your words, to tell me why you’re here. In as many or as few as it takes, okay?” she said as she directed me to lean back on the couch, seating herself with a plop on the leather chair. “Well, I guess times have been pretty hard since I started school. My girlfriend and I broke up, I have a job that keeps me pretty isolated, I work night shift, and sleep all day. Classes are large and impersonal.” I blurted quickly. “Mmhmm, go on...” Dr. Klyburn prodded. “Well, I think things may look up. I think I’m taking steps to break out of my comfort zone and try something new and exciting. I don’t really want to get into specifics, but I’m sort of excited about it, I guess.” I said, opening up much more than I had intended. “Gonna stop you right there to make a few obvious remarks, Adam. Drugs, alcohol, and unsafe behaviors are not appropriate coping mechanisms... not saying that’s where you were going, but I do need to say that...” she interjected. “No, no... it’s nothing like that. It really is trying something new though.” I responded. “Well, I think that’s great, Adam. I encourage self-discovery and risk-taking within means. It can really help pull you from a slump, and I think that’s what you’re stuck in. You’re waiting for the signal to change, and I think you’re learning that sometimes the signal isn’t flashing at you, often, as adults, we must find and ignite our own signals. Make sense?” she said beaming at the revelation she will no doubt credit herself with starting. “Yeah, it does.” I said We talked for a while longer, mostly about classes, career aspirations, and her mind being blown that an isolated tug with no way of passing time or heat could be considered a humane work environment. We agreed to meet again in two weeks, if I felt any slippage backwards. As with all patients of the Psychiatry Department, I was asked to sign a commitment to well being... also known as an unenforceable contract not to kill myself. I agreed, happily. The rest of the week went much like any other week. Work, eat, sleep, school, repeat. I was glued to my email and phone every second I could be, waiting for the next message to come through. The message that may send my life down a track I still couldn’t fathom I was willing to entertain. It finally arrived mid-day Friday. Steve: Hello, baby. I hope the week is treating you well. Adam: It is, same old stuff. Can’t complain though. Steve: Good. I’m assuming that you don’t work on Saturday or Sunday nights? Adam: That is correct, I do not. Steve: Great. I want you at Antonio’s Pizza at 6pm tomorrow. Sound good? Adam: Yes, I will be there. Steve: Great. See you tomorrow. Work that night was even longer that the longest of the long days from earlier in the week. I was more scared than anything though. The desire to cum was eclipsed largely by the desire to not throw up in my tug. Finally, the clock read 2:55am. I drove the tug to the depot, thinking that the next time I get in this tug, I may be a different person than I am now. To say sleep was tough would be the understatement of the century. I was only able to doze off after taking a medicine cup full of Target’s off-brand of Nyquil. My alarm startled me awake, my arm thrashing from the bed to silence it. I was in a momentary lull of consciousness nearly ready to fall back asleep when I remembered why my alarm was set in the first place. I shot up in bed, the anxiety causing a miniscule amount of bile to enter the back of my mouth. I wearily grabbed my phone, half hoping for a text, half hoping for nothing. Steve: I will be there at 5:45, you arrive at 6. I will be seated in the back of the restaurant in the booth off by itself. Before you come, I want you to shave all body hair. No beard, mustache, or stubble anywhere. See you soon. Follow my directions. Shit. That’s a tall order. My body hair is naturally pretty fine, so not impossible, but inconvenient to say the least. I turned on the shower, getting it hot and grabbed the clippers, razor, and shaving cream from the bathroom cabinet and made my way into the shower. 30 minutes, a couple of disposable razors, and some awkward positions in front of a hand mirror later, I was completely hairless and smooth with the exception of the shaggy blondish hair on my head desperately overdue for a haircut. I dressed casually, but on the nicer side of casual. Dark jeans and a fitted shirt covered by a newer L.L. Bean sweater that my Grandma got me in Ellsworth, Maine last fall. I tussled my hair to give it the ‘It’s cool because it’s messy, but it’s messy on purpose’ look. After a final nod of approval in the mirror, I was off. The pizza place was about 15 minutes walking from my apartment. Fortunately the sun had warmed up the city just a bit, and the walk was only mildly uncomfortable thanks to the biting winds. At 5:57 I arrived. The parking lot was nearly empty, only a few cars scattered about. It was concerning for any restaurant to be that empty on a Saturday for dinner, but that may have been why he picked the place. My eyes glanced from car-to-car in the parking lot, curious which was his. All I knew was that he was a ‘legal professional’, but heck, that could be anything from a hotshot lawyer to a security guard at T.J. Maxx depending on how good of a sales man he was. I knew what he looked like, and he didn’t present himself in that way, but who knows. I didn’t recognize the Grand Cherokee that he was standing next too in his picture that he sent, but tried to not harp on what kind of car he drove. He seemed like a nice guy no matter. I looked at myself for another moment in the reflection of the blacked out window next to the door, again putting my hair into the ‘messy but on purpose’ look, knocking back the damage the cold wind had done. I brushed over my clothes hoping I still looked presentable, but hoping I looked more mature than my normal ‘cute’ look. I looked down at my phone, 6pm on the dot. I took in a deep breath and blew it out to try and calm my heart rate, then extended my right hand, opened the door, and passed through the threshold. “Are you Adam?” the hostess asked from behind her podium as I stepped into the dark restaurant, the scent of garlic and basil slapping me hard in the face. All I could do was weakly shake my head in the affirmative as all of the saliva in my mouth and throat had suddenly disappeared, leaving only a gritty feeling of sand. “Right this way.” she said with a smile and began the walk to toward the rear of the restaurant. We rounded the corner and there he was. In person. Steve stood and seemed to tower over the hostess and myself. The sand in my mouth had turned to a fine dust by now. “Thanks, Sam.” Steve said as the hostess smiled, turned, and walked back toward her post. “Hello, Adam. Sit... please.” Steve motioned to the booth opposite him. I shot a look around to survey any other restaurant patrons or staff within earshot. “Don’t worry. We’re on our own over here. A good tip to a hostess buys you an hour or so of privacy.” Steve said with a wink. “Thanks.” was the first word I would get out in what felt to be an eternity. I sat myself across from him, nearly convinced that he had also paid to have my side of the booth lowered to the floor to further call out the stark contrast in our sizes. I looked sheepishly up at Steve, instantly recalling that the man I was sitting across from was the same that had written the post on Craigslist. I became intoxicated in anxiety at that thought, nearly paralyzed in fear. “I ordered us a salad and a pizza. It’ll be out in a moment. Until then, I want you to look me in the eyes and tell me if you’re willing to keep going.” He said with intensity in his eyes. I was almost insulted that he thought I wasn’t wanting to go through with this. I shaved my entire body, refrained from masturbating, and walked here in the cold. Of course I wanted to go through with it. “No, no... I want this. I really do.” I forced out as hard as I could. That garnered a large smile from Steve. He beamed on hearing that. “Atta boy.” He noticed the look of confusion on my face following that comment, but only offered a grin in response. I was knocked out of the moment by a loud yell from the dining room adjacent to ours. “Go, go, go!” and “Run you son of a bitch!” among other explitaves were erupting with increasing frequency. “Football season.” Steve said with a chuckle. “I was hoping it would be quieter here.” “Yeah, they’re pretty loud…” I started but was interrupted by another burst of yelling. “Wow, must be a good game.” He joked at the noise. “House works and salads?” the food runner asked seeming to appear out of nowhere, placing the food on the table without waiting for confirmation that the order was correct. “Actually, we’ll take it to-go, if that’s alright.” Steve said to the peeved looking runner who gathered up the food and walked it back to the kitchen to box up. “It’s a bit loud here, let’s go talk somewhere quiet. We can go back to my house." He paused, waiting for a reaction. “I promise I won’t try anything funny. I’ll bring you back to your apartment after.” I hesitantly nodded my consent and began to stand just as the runner emerged from the kitchen with the food prepared for carry out. Steve paid the bill and escorted me out to the parking lot, pizza in hand. He made his way across the parking lot with his free hand on my shoulder and led me to the side of the building, out of site from my previous vantage point, and guided me toward a black Mercedes SUV. Part of me was impressed that he had a nice car, but I think a larger part of me was relieved that at least he seemed to have his stuff together. It was brand new, still heavy with new car smell. The ride was mostly quiet, I was too nervous to say much. I kept my eyes forward nearly the entire drive. We were driving east, away from the restaurant and my apartment, toward the nicer part of town. I started to feel very vulnerable, now aware that I had just agreed to get into his car and go back to his house with really no hesitation. I didn’t have the extra money for an Uber from this far out, so I really hoped he would keep his word and not make me to fend for myself. I think Steve could sense my nerves by this point. We were well into the nice part of town where the grind of the city dropped away to the rolling, manacured hills of the well-to-do. He broke the silence by telling me about himself. He was a corporate lawyer for a major healthcare company, but before that had been very successful in a few lawsuits early in his career. He chuckled as he told me that the company he works for now was actually one that he sued while he was in his own firm leading to a multi-million dollar payout on behalf of his client. The 40% settlement fee was a major windfall for his small practice and he and his small team each walked away with a lifetime of wealth for any average person. Six weeks later, the company that he successfully sued called and asked him to lead their legal department. He turned over his private law practice to one of his partners and went into the corporate world. I can’t even imagine what his paychecks look like, but they must be huge to entice him away from his own successful firm. After about 10 more minutes of driving we arrived Stone Lake Estates, a gated community that overlooked Stone Lake. It was beautifully surrounded by high-dollar homes, parks, and golf courses. I’d never actually seen this part of town but knew that if you had money, you lived at Stone Lake. He slowed the SUV to a crawl as he approached the gatehouse, rolling his window down as a security guard stepped from behind a closed door. The guard waved us through as he saw who was driving. I watched the gate close tight behind us and wondered just what in the hell I was getting myself into. After navigating the streets lined with million dollar mansions, we pulled into the last house in the neighborhood nestled against the park on one side, and the lake right out back. It’s a large stone, wood, and glass log cabin style home with a circular cobblestone driveway out front that seemed to belong in a magazine, but was fairly nondescript amongst the other lavish homes nearby. He carefully parked the Mercedes at the closest point to the front door and reached over me to open the passenger door. Mere inches from his face, I caught an intoxicating scent of cologne that left me nearly breathless. I climbed out of the SUV and waited for Steve to come around and lead me inside. I stood in amazement of the ornate house, compete with solid wood front doors that had to be 12 feet tall. The doors opened inward to the large foyer with two wrap around grand staircases to the second level. There was a massive stone hearth in the entryway, surrounded by ornate dark wooden accents. The white marble stairs contrasted against the deep hand-scraped wooden floors and black iron rails. A large, beautiful iron chandelier hung down from the high ceiling and cast a warm glow from the dozens of Edison bulbs glowing against the darkness. We passed through the foyer into a hallway that seemed cavernous compared to any normal home. My entire apartment could comfortably fit within its confines. Steve led me into the massive gourmet kitchen at the rear of the house, overlooking the now inky black lake beyond. He pulled out a chair at the large center island and helped me up, pushing the tall chair in tight, my body now pressing against the cold granate top. Steve proceeded to open the pizza box and hand me a slice. I took it eagerly, realizing that I hadn’t eaten in nearly 24 hours. Steve handed me a can of Diet Coke from the oversized stainless industrial refrigerator and grabbed a beer for himself. “Alright, baby. Tell me your story.” He said as we both sat at the large granite island. I told him about me growing up, about having a hard time with school and being lonely. I opened up to Steve significantly more than I did the therapist or psychiatrist. I was amazed that he sat there, intrigued by my boring life. I must have rambled on for 15 to 20 minutes, him never interjecting. "Have you ever had an attraction to men?" Steve asked after I finished telling him about Sarah and how I found out that she was cheating. “No.” I responded in a low voice. "Well, you read my email and responded, so I'm guessing there's at least a hint of curiosity there." He stated back with certainty. I nodded, nearly petrified to meet his gaze after his comment. "I want to tell you about the things I like... exactly what I'm looking for. Is that okay? I don't want to scare you, but I want you to know that I'm a bit different from most men looking for guys like you." I nodded, curious as to where this was about to lead. "I'm a fairly dominant guy, I like submissive boys. I like taking charge, I like making the rules and decisions. I like setting the punishment when rules are broken." He said, followed by a pause. I stared at him motionless, but decided to nod in the pause to assure him I was hearing him. "I like guys that are smaller than I am. Thin and short. Like you. I like guys that have feminine and submissive tendencies. Like you." He continued. I was slightly offended that he said I was feminine, I didn't think I was but I was the one sitting here completely hairless from ears to toes so I nodded again. I think he could see the wheels turning in my mind. "Is everything I've said agreeable to you so far?" He asked with intense eyes. "Yeah... yes. I'm fine... yes." I stammered back. "Okay, here's the part that may throw you, if anything will. Keep an open mind for me. The reason I like small guys like you is I like to play dress up with them. I sometimes like to dress guys up like girls." He paused for a while and watched the blank expression on my face. "Not to look like hookers or anything. I like innocence. Think cute, not trashy." I was pretty struck by his comments. I wasn't sure this was going to be for me. I didn't have much of a desire to dress up like a girl. Girls have bodies that look great in their clothes. I flashed back to an image of Sarah standing there in her baby blue bra and thong. The way it all hugged her body. It was perfection. I surely wouldn't look good like that. "I don't know that I'd look..." I started, but was quickly interrupted. "You would look absolutely phenomenal, Adam. You have the perfect little body. At least for my taste, you do." He said with a smile. "Oh, well... okay then..." I couldn't find the words to counter his argument. I guess everyone has a type, and I guess I was his. It would still be weird and I wasn't sure I wanted to play that kind of game. "I want you to just try it and see how it makes you feel. I think you'll grow to love it." He said. I could see lust in his eyes, I was becoming his prey now. He saw me exactly how he wanted me to look, and I was nervous that I was really liking the feeling I was getting from him. I kind of wanted to be desired by him the way that I desired Sarah. There was the knowledge of a physical lust there that I'd never experienced before because it was reserved for pretty girls. I had never had the feeling of turning someone on just by being there. Just by wearing the right clothes. It really felt nice. It was intoxicating. "Okay... I guess I can try it." I answered after a moments pause. His smile grew large, so I tried to show enthusiasm with a small smile of my own. "Come on, let me show you some stuff." He said as he stood from the stool and gestured me toward the hallway off of the kitchen. I placed the half-eaten slice of pizza on the lid of the box and got up to follow behind him. I couldn’t help but think how much larger he was than me. I was acutely aware that this guy could do what he wanted with me and I wasn't going to be able to amass much of a physical stand against him. The thought made me nervous, but sort of excited at the same time which made me even more nervous. We walked to a set of heavy french doors down the hallway. They opened on a large bedroom with a large king-sized bed and sitting area with a fireplace. It was a beautiful, masculine room. “Through here.” He said as he motioned to a door across the room. What appeared to be a walk-in closet was much larger than I had anticipated. “The people that built this house a few years back had the sitting room converted into a nursury for their twins.” He said as he ushered me through the the door into the gray, white, and pink accented room. The room was large and had a wall of windows overlooking the side of the house facing a park just beyond the fence surrounding the gated community. The room was completely empty but did hold two additional doors on the wall opposite the windows, seperated by a few feet. He guided me to the door on the left and extended his hand to open it. On the other side was a decently sized closet with built-in storage. Steve reached out for the top drawer, then focused his attention on me as he pulled it open. The drawer was mostly empty, but folded neatly inside were numerous pairs of panties. Most of them were soft shades of pink or blue and almost all were adorned with ribbons, bows, or lace. None would be what I would consider sexy. On one side of the drawer were a few bras that seemed to match some of the panties, a few folded camisole tops, and some folded socks and tights. I turned my head to Steve, but he was now facing toward a fabric partition on the side of the closet. He pulled it open and revealed a few outfits all hanging neately. There looked to be a couple of cotton dresses, a few jumpers, and a very ornate pastel Easter dress. Steve sensed my being overwhelmed and began to close everything back up after a momement. We stepped back into the empty nursury together, him turning behind to close the door. I stood for a moment anticipating that he would go to the next door, but never looked in its direction. “What’s in that one?” I asked, my mouth now dry. He shifted his gaze toward the door and chuckeled. “You’re not quite ready for that one, baby.” He said, guiding me out of the nursury and back into the master bedroom. "Have a seat there." He said, pointing to a large leather chair angled to the fireplace. I sank down against the buttery leather and stared at the exquisite stonework around the wood-burning fireplace. The room was dark, but I noticed a few dim lights scattered about. It was almost as if he knew I would accept his invitation and would end up in his bedroom. "Have you ever worn any girls clothes?" He asked as he settled into the chair next to me. "I haven’t..." I replied somewhat mystified by the collection. We sat for a moment in silence. I wanted to tell him that I was okay trying it, that nothing I just saw scared me off. I couldn’t get the courage to speak though. So I sat and looked at the stone fireplace. I could feel him looking at me. He finally spoke after what felt like an eternity. “So did that make you change your mind?” He asked, with some hesitation in his voice. “No, no... it didn’t.” I said while finally breaking my gaze away from the stones. “It’s not something I ever thought I would want to do, but then again, none of this is. I think I’ll be okay trying it if that’s what you really want.” Steve beamed a big smile, causing me to smile back. All of the awkwardness seemed to drift away at that point. “I really mean it when I say that you’ll look beautiful. You’ll be my little princess.” He said. I blushed intensely as my mind processed that he just called me a princess. It was humiliating, but I really liked it for some reason. “Well, I’m glad you think that.” I replied back. “So did you and Sarah ever play with any toys?” He asked after another moment of silence. I laughed lightly and shook my head at the question as I tried to process through what was likely to be a very taboo conversation. “Well, I’ve got quite the collection if you’ve got any interest.” He said with an eager voice. “Uhh, I guess... maybe?” I stammered back. Before I could even finish the thought, Steve was pivoting around the chair and back to the empty nursery. I looked as he walked away and saw that he was unlocking the door on the right. From my vantage point I couldn’t see much, but I could see that there was plenty of stuff contained in there. Before I could identify anything, he was back out with a medium sized box. He stopped to lock the closet again before coming back to take his seat again. “So of course we don’t have to use anything that’s in here, but we do have it if you have any interest later.” He said as he pulled the cardboard flap open. I couldn’t see into the box from my seat, but could hear the contents within bang around as he rummaged through the box. He pulled out a flesh colored, very realistic dildo and tossed it casually over to me. I caught it very awkwardly by it’s testicles and felt the weight of the phallic shape pull my arm down. I wasn’t sure what he wanted me to do with it, so I turned it in my hands. It was very life-like feeling skin, soft on my hands but firm enough to stand erect. I could feel Steve’s eyes on me as I lightly rubbed the shaft and ran my thumb along the bulging underside. “Wow, it’s big.” I said after a moment. “Yeah, that’s one of the larger from the collection. It has a suction cup base, so you can stick it to the floor and... well, ride.” He said as he stood and collected the dildo from my hands. It took me a moment to process what he meant by ‘ride’. It gave me a queezy feeling in my stomach thinking of having that thing inside of me. “That’s a lot of stuff you have in there.” I said after a few seconds trying to keep my nerves in check. “Yeah, quite a bit. I won’t make you look at it all, but we have an assortment of BDSM stuff, dildos, plugs, gags, vibrators... some lube. You know, normal stuff.” He said with a chuckle. I laughed a bit at this then stood to try and keep from throwing up from nerves. I felt like I had just gotten in over my head. Dressing up was one thing, but the size of that dildo was quite another. I had no doubt in my mind that if we kept seeing each other, it would turn sexual and as Steve has put it a few times, I would be the recipient. I would be the one penetrated. I would be the one sucking dick. I would be the one swallowing cum. I would be the one pranced around in little panties and dresses. I would be his princess. I was strangely turned on by this. It was getting pretty late by this point. Steve picked up on that and walked us back to the kitchen to finish eating the now cold pizza. He didn’t bring up the sex toys or clothes again, just talked about school and work. After a few minutes, we made our way to the SUV and before I knew it were heading west on the highway, back to reality. I thought about the gravity of what happened tonight. I could see myself standing on the edge of a cliff. Behind me was the safety of the known. Sure, I needed to talk to a therapist, I was depressed. I wasn’t eating. I hated what I had become. In front of me was a deep, dark hole that had never been explored, but I knew that once I jumped into explore it, I would likely never be able to get back out. I thought about all of the things that I could be giving up and decided sleeping on it was probably a good idea. I had an exciting night, to say the least. I got to talk with someone new, I had enjoyed the pizza, and I got to hold the most realistic face dick I’ve ever seen. Weird night. “I really hope I get to see you again soon.” Steve said as we pulled into the parking spot next to my apartment door. “I think I’d like that.” I said back with a small smile, not sure if I was being totally truthful or not. I leaned over the console and gave him a hug. I wasn’t sure what else to do, but I’ve had girls end dates like that before and it seemed like an appropriate thing to do in the situation. I watched the bright LED taillights drive off and waved into the blackness after him. I wasn’t sure what the future would hold, but I decided it was at least enjoyable to think about.

Or is it Captains' Log?

I remember being in diapers because I was in them full-time until I was 4 1/2 and diapered every night until I was 10. I remember really liking diapers. I remember my mom calling my over to check my diaper when I was playing in the back yard or riding my tricycle on the back patio. In the summer I was pretty much in just diapers and a t-shirt when at home.

Scene #3 The only thing worse than going to an office party is going to an office party at someone else’s office. That, and a few fatal diseases. That’s just medical science. I had zero desire to go to Mary’s office event – some anniversary something or other – Mary knew that, so when I told her I wasn’t feeling well and asked if I could stay home, she said yes knowing I felt just fine. Unless you count a case of the I-don’t-wannas as being sick, in which case I was on my deathbed. Or maybe that’s a little dramatic. Anyway, Mary’s response was typical. I was changing from my lazy-day-around-the-house clothes into my lazy-evening-around-the-house clothes as Mary got ready, and she stuck her head back out from the bathroom and said, “I know. Why don’t I call Sandy and see if she’ll come hang out with you. She was complaining earlier this week she didn’t have anything to do this weekend.” I don’t know what it is about watching a woman get dressed for an evening out, but I surmised I couldn’t both pretend to not feel well and get frisky with her. That was more on my mind than Sandy, but since Mary brought her up, it certainly redirected my attention. “I don’t need a babysitter,” I said, “I’ll just watch Netflix for a while and probably go to bed early.” Mary and I went to a monthly play party once upon a time, and we found Sandy. She was new to the scene at the time, but over her knee was a man a foot taller than her, twice her weight and twice her age, and she had him in tears. Not just tears – absolutely bawling, snot running down his face, begging her to stop. Naturally, she and Mary bonded while he was on display in a corner. We were shocked to learn Sandy was only 19. That was two years ago, and though Mary always, always denies it, she basically uses Sandy as a babysitter for me. Imagine a teenager who doesn’t think she needs a babysitter and a mom who doesn’t want to get into that fight, so she has an older teen “friend” come hang out while she’s gone. That’s basically the game Mary likes to play, and she told me that Sandy was officially on the list of surrogate disciplinarians for me. It’s not a long list, but the gist is if they think I’ve earned a spanking, I’d better take it or Mary will make my bottom wish it had. “Don’t be silly. She’s not a babysitter. She’s just a friend. Do you really wanna sit home alone all night?” “She’s bossy,” I whined. “Well, sometimes you need bossing around. Besides, I hate to think of you alone all evening and not feeling well. What if you need someone to take care of you?” The ear to ear grin Mary was wearing told me she knew damn well I felt fine, and now that I’d told that fib I was gonna have to live with it. Why hadn’t I just said I didn’t wanna go to her stupid office party? Even she didn’t wanna go. I pouted on the couch in my pajamas wishing Mary would stay home and keep that black dress on while I put my head under it for an hour and reminded her why I’m so much more fun than an office party. Barring that, I just wished she hadn’t called Sandy. I mean, I like her; I just like her more after she’s, well, it’s obvious where this is going, isn’t it? Anyway, Mary was closest to the door, so she answered it when the doorbell rang. “Hey,” she said, “so glad you could come over.” “Happily,” Sandy replied. “I was hoping something fun would turn up tonight.” “I gotta run, but you know the drill. We haven’t had dinner yet, and like I said on the phone, she says she’s not feeling very well.” “Aw. Poor thing,” Sandy said. They both knew I could hear them from the living room. “I’ll take good care of her.” I heard their footsteps coming down the hall. “I’m leaving, Daphne,” Mary said. “I’ll see you when I get home tonight if you’re still up.” “Have a good time,” I said. “Be safe.” “You, too.” Sandy interrupted with, “And don’t worry, Mary. The two of us have everything under control here.” Sandy winks about as subtly as an arctic icebreaker. She put her purse down and sat next to me on the sofa as the door closed behind Mary in the kitchen. “So what do you want to do tonight,” she asked me. “Order a pizza and watch a movie, if that’s alright with you,” I replied. “Are you sure you’re feeling up to that?” “Um, yeah.” “I don’t know. Maybe you should have some soup instead. Or maybe just some saltines and ginger ale.” “My stomach feels fine.” “It does? Well, still better safe than sorry. When a little girl doesn’t feel well, better to play it safe.” “I’m not a little girl! I’m almost ten years older than you!” “Don’t get upset. I’m just thinking about how to make you feel better.” She leveled her eyes with mine. “Unless you were fibbing about not feeling well so you didn’t have to go out this evening. You’re not fibbing, are you, Daphne?” If I’d been wearing a watch, I’d have checked it and registered the time from when Sandy came in to when she found a pretext to spank me at about 70 seconds. Maybe not even that; she probably figured it out one the phone with Mary. It was just after six, but I figured my best bet for my butt was to dig into the lie. “No,” I said, “In fact, I think I just wanna go to bed. I don’t need dinner tonight.” “Hmm,” Sandy said. “That’s pretty convincing. Alright. Why don’t you head up, and I’ll bring you a glass of water in a few minutes.” “Okay. Sorry to ruin your evening with, uh, me not being able to hang out.” “Oh, don’t worry about that, sweety pie.” I went up to our bedroom, and I was about half certain I had avoided trouble, but that’s the same as half uncertain. If I were more honest with myself, I’d just accept the fact that Mary and Sandy and a few other people are usually two steps ahead of me. I should’ve just put myself in the corner and bared my own bottom as soon as Mary said she was calling Sandy. I believe they call that accepting the things we cannot change. Anyway, I was in bed when Sandy came in with her purse and a glass of water. “Here you go,” she said. She sat down on the edge of the bed. “You need anything else?” “No.” “Hmmm.” “’Hmmm’ what?” “Oh, I was just thinking that there’s another girl I babysit for, and when she’s sick her mom has her wear these,” Sandy said as she took a pink pull-up from her purse. “First, you’re not my babysitter. Mary said,” I answered petulantly, “And second, I don’t need those.” “Of course you don’t! I was just musing. And I know I’m not your babysitter.” Her lips curled up to the left, following her eyes as she play-acted having an innocent thought. “But I still feel sorta responsible for you, and I think I should find out just how sick you are.” “I’m not sick. I just don’t feel well.” “Well, you could be coming down with something. So why don’t you just hop out of bed, and I’ll give you a quick once over. I am a nursing student, ya know.” Yeah, remind me how young you are. That’ll really make me feel better about this. “Fine,” I said, admitting defeat. I enjoy a game of kinky mental cat and mouse, but as the mouse, sometimes I get tired of running when I know the most likely outcome. All that work to get eaten anyway. I threw the covers back. “Whadduya wanna check?” “Your temperature.” “Okay.” “So stand up.” “Why?” “Because I can’t use the thermometer with you sitting down, silly.” Ever step on a rake and get whacked in the face? That’s what it felt like, something that stupidly obvious in retrospect. “No way!” “Yes way, little girl. Unless you want me to give Mary a bad report.” I knew what that would mean. “But …” “Nope. Just be a good girl, and it’ll be over soon.” She reached into a purse and came up with a ziploc bag whose contents I tried not to look at. “What do I do,” I said, the exasperation in my voice obvious. “Why don’t you just flip over onto your tummy for me? That’ll be more comfortable for you than bending over the bed.” I did. “Hips up,” she said as she took the waistband of my pajamas in her hands. She yanked them down to my knees when I lifted up. “You’ve done this before, right? I’m not your guinea pig,” I asked. “Of course I have.” “And you clean your toys?” “Of course. You’re sure you’re good with this?” “I’m naked, aren’t I.” I couldn’t see what she was doing. I just listened to the sound of a glove snapping. “The trick is to use plenty of lubricant, and to get make sure it gets where it needs to go.” I shuddered when her hand touched by bottom. She giggled. “See? You don’t hate this.” “Yet,” I said. “Just relax.” She narrated as she went. “I’m going to spread your bottom cheeks now.” I sighed. “And you’re going to feel some petroleum jelly on your button.” It was cold. “And then my finger inside of you. Just relax … don’t clench … there.” She slowly but firmly pressed her finger into me, and I could feel each knuckle pass my sphincter. “We want to make sure we get that everywhere the thermometer might go.” I bit my lip. “And a little further, just to be safe.” “Mmmmm,” I moaned. “What a good girl you can be when you want to.” She kept fingering me for another thirty seconds. “I’m taking my finger out now.” “Mmm.” “And now here comes the thermometer.” I felt the cold, thin glass slip gently in. “That needs to stay there for about two minutes. You comfortable?” “Yes,” I squeaked. “Good.” Her finger tips were massaging and tickling my bottom cheeks, and I couldn’t help but squirm under them. She twisted and flicked the thermometer every few seconds, or pushed it in a little further and drew it back out. “Ya know, there’s good news and bad news if you're temp is normal?” “What’s the bad news?” “I’ll have to spank you for fibbing.” “And the good news?” “I’ll get to spank you for fibbing, and we can order pizza.” She kept tickling my butt, letting her fingernails run gently down my thighs. Mary and I agreed I could get sensual with other women that she approved of, which – what a coincidence! – is a list that overlaps with my disciplinarian one, but I couldn’t cum with them, a rule they all respected. Sandy took that rule to mean she had license to make me writhe under her hands, which neither I nor Mary ever disabused her of. I think Mary actually likes to see me revved up by her, getting my body hypersensitive, because there’s nothing at all sensual about her Sandy’s hands once she’s ready to mete out discipline. “Out it comes,” she said as she withdrew the thermometer. I sighed. It was fun while it lasted. “Hmmm. Looks like some little girl is a fibber.” She put her things away and slapped my butt hard after. “Sit up.” I did, and there was no mirth in her face. Playtime was over. “I’m sorry,” I said. “You usually are, but that doesn’t mean you don’t get the spanking you deserve, does it?” I’ve always wondered what kind of household she grew up in, because even when she was 19, Sandy could lecture and scold like puritan. “No,” I said. “’No’ what?” “No, Miss.” “Am I boring you?” I guess I sounded less than rapt, maybe because I’d heard I don’t know how many variations on this lecture since I told Mary I wanted a full time domestic discipline relationship. “No, Miss,” I said in a more crisp voice. “You know better than to lie,” she told me. “Mary has taught you better than that.” “It was just a little lie.” It wasn’t even really a lie. Mary knew I didn’t mean it. “Daphne! There is no such thing as a little lie. We need to know when you’re telling the truth, and we can’t do that when you tell lies. How will we know when you’re really sick?” “I … sorry.” “We care about you, and we want to keep you healthy and safe.” “I know,” I said softly. “And Mary wanted to be with you tonight. She’s proud of you and wanted to show you off to her colleagues. Would that have been so hard for one evening when she does so much for you?” I’m pretty sure Mary didn’t care if I went or not; even she didn’t want to go. But I’m a soft touch, and Sandy has a way of eliciting guilt where there’s no reason for any. My response was to sniff. “You know you need to be punished, don’t you?” “Yes, Miss.” “And you know that punishment needs to be a spanking.” “Yes, Miss.” “Show me how you know.” Sandy positioned herself with her left leg on the bed and her right on the floor. With my pajamas still just above my knees, I got up and then laid myself across her left thigh. I took a pillow and put it under my head, knowing in a few minutes I’d be burying my face in it. “I don’t like having to spank your bottom,” Sandy lied like the world’s biggest liar, ironic under the circumstances, but she and I both love the little roleplay touches that bring us both into the right headspace. But then I wasn’t sure how much we were roleplaying or not. I had fibbed, and every time I get caught doing that, I get my butt spanked. So maybe this was reality+, or roleplay lite. Her hand brought my philosophical thoughts to an immediate end. I’ve been spanked by people much bigger than Sandy. I don’t know how she does it. She has the softest skin, but whatever is under it is like ironwood. It’s like whatever boxers do to toughen their knuckles, she does to her palm. Mary is a fast, ferocious spanker. Sandy is a steady, methodical spanker. There’s no clear line between her warm ups and the aching fire she really ignites when she gets going. I grunted and oomphed and ahhed and oofed with each spank, and each spank overlapped with the one before it as she worked her way up and down, sparing no flesh all the way down to halfway between my sit spots and knees. I passed from tears escaping shut-tight eyes to sobbing, and Sandy took that as her cue to begin to lay in her heavy spanks, now focusing on one spot for three four five spanks in a row before moving on, targeting my tender sit spots and thwacking the backs of my thighs with her fingers to make it really sting. I buried my face in my pillow but still heard her say, “And you think you’re a big girl,” as she assaulted my butt. I’d had enough. “Please! I learned my lesson! I learned my lesson!” “Now we’re getting somewhere,” Sandy replied as her hand bounced off me again and again. “But this naughty caboose of yours isn’t done yet.” “I’ll be good! Waahhh! I p-promise – ah! – I’ll be good! Ah! Waah-ahh!” Bawling. That’s the word for it. It’s like it sets a timer in Sandy’s head, because she never spanks long past bawling, not with me. I laid limp over her lap and bawled into my pillow. After so many hard swats, I didn’t even fully feel Sandy’s hand rubbing gentle circles across my butt. I color easily but don’t bruise easily. I’m sure I was close to purple in spots, but I knew when I was done crying, I’d bounce back quickly. But first I had to cry it out. I always do after a spanking like that. “Shhh. It’s all over, and it’s all forgiven,” Sandy cooed. She bent down to place a soft kiss on my hair. I’ve seen Sandy head to toe in leather lingerie laugh and push away bottoms when she was done, and I’ve seen her cry real tears when she accidentally broke skin without meaning to. With me, she’s always very gentle when she’s done. I think she likes the babysitter role. “Up we go,” she said as she helped me back to my feet. She bent down and pulled my pajamas back up for me and gave me a hug. “Why don’t you go wash your face, and I’ll order that pizza, and then we can have a nice evening together.” “Pepperoni,” I asked and sniffled again. She laughed. “Sure.” She sent me on my way with a soft swat that made me jump. After I washed my face, and cleaned the vaseline from between my cheeks, I decided to change my sob-stained top, too. When I got downstairs, she was leaning against the arm of the sofa. “C’mere,” she said. “Why,” I asked warily. “Just c’mere.” I shuffled over, each step reminding me what a good spanker she is as each step hurt. I could feel my skin growing taut as my cheeks swelled. Sandy held out her arms. “Come sit.” I dropped down to the sofa, that dull throb sending a wave of pleasure through me. I felt glowy, that wonderful whole-body sensation of peace that makes every bit of pain worth it. Endorphins are fucking awesome. “Just lie back.” Mary and I snuggle all the time, whether it’s aftercare or not. That was a first with Sandy. I laid back against her, and she stroked my hair. “Thank you,” she whispered in my ear. “My butt hurts,” I said with a giggle. “It’s reminding you good girls don’t fib.” She kissed my hair and my ear and my neck, and then crossed her arms over me. “You’re a good babysitter.” I dreaded her coming, but like always, I was glad she had. Way better evening than Netflix. “I’m not your babysitter,” she said lightheartedly. “I’m just a friend. That’s all.” We got back into that position after our pizza, and I dozed off. I woke up when Mary got home and pretended to still be asleep. “How was she,” Mary whispered. “Just like this after our little talk about fibbing.” Mary touched my hair. “Ooh. Did she cooperate?” “She always does.” “I wish you’d let me pay you for babysitting.” It dawned on me. We’d all been telling little white fibs all evening, and I was the only one who got her bare bottom spanked for it.

Scene #2 Nordstrom is the only store I can stand to shop in. I rarely do, because who can afford it, but everything is spaced out more, everything is nicer, everything is more organized. Everything is just better, including the salespeople, which is how I got in trouble. The salespeople at Macy’s get paid by the hour. The sales people at Nordstrom get paid by the hour plus commission, which is why they tend to follow you around at a distance. I find that annoying. Mary and I were looking through blouses after having already told the woman working in that department we didn’t need her help, but everywhere we went, she was just ten steps behind us, pretending to straighten the racks and fold shirts on the tables. Maybe I was in a bad mood already, but I snapped at her, “We don’t need any help! Stop following us!” “Daphne!” Crap. “Apologize right this instant,” Mary ordered me. The saleswoman looked more surprised than hurt by my comment or happy with Mary’s rebuke. “I’m sorry,” I said to her. “Can you point us to the junior miss department,” Mary asked as she put an arm around my shoulder. “Oh, Mary, no. Please? I apologized. I meant it, really!” “Hush, little girl.” Dammit! She knows I hate that, and I know nine out of ten times she uses it, I’m about to get my butt spanked. “Stop calling me that!” “I can’t believe the scene you’re making,” Mary said, making me more aware of our surroundings. Now the saleswoman was smiling, and a couple shoppers were looking in our direction. “I’ll take you over there myself,” the sales woman said, and Mary took my hand. I walked alongside her, knowing if I didn’t she would pull me along. “Anything in particular you’re looking for,” the woman asked. “She needs some new undies.” I decided the least embarrassing thing I could do was stay quiet. “Hmm. Everybody has their own style I guess,” the saleswoman quipped, “but I think you’ll find some to fit her over here. She’s pretty small.” How is it I’m the one who deserved a spanking right then, but Miss Shop Girl Schadenfreude didn’t? If I could have taken back my apology, I would’ve. “Thank you. We appreciate your help, don’t we, Daphne.” “Yes.” “’Yes’ what?” “Yes, thank you for your help,” I said with zero enthusiasm. Too late now, so might as well say it like I feel it, or at least use the tone I was feeling. “See,” Mary said, “She can be very polite when she remembers to be.” The saleswoman left, and Mary turned to me with her you’ve-really-done-it-now smile on her face. “Go ahead and pick out a pair.” “Mary, I said I was sorry. What’s the big deal?” “The big deal is she was doing what she’s been trained to do and needs to do to earn her living. You were rude to the waiter at lunch and to her, and you need to learn that you lead a privileged life even if it doesn’t always seem like it.” Put that way, she was right, and I was wrong, and I told her so. “I’m sorry, really. You’re right. I’ll try to remember … But I don’t really need another pair of panties.” In fact, I have an entire drawer of panties from junior miss departments. Mary makes me wear them when she wants to remind me to be good, which is to say probably four days a week. “Yeah, you do. You definitely, definitely do,,” Mary said. “C’mon, pick out a pair.” I reached for a pair of plain, heather grey ones. “Uh uh. You know better.” I smiled at my attempt to get away with that, but Mary didn’t. I looked over my choices. Mary wanted me to pick something cute and girly, like always. I have ones with hearts already. I have rainbows. I have a pair just like the ones with the little pink bow on the front. “What about the ponies,” Mary suggested. “Fine,” I said. “Let’s go try them on.” I knew that code! “No! Please? We know they fit. I can try them on at home.” Mary’s just shook her head. “I think we definitely need to try them on here.” “Why?” This was just unfair. Mary loves finding reasons to spank me in public, and this one was a little contrived. She was right – I had been rude – but I didn’t think that called for a spanking in the dressing room. “This isn’t fair,” I pleaded. “Do you want to try them on twice? Once here and again at home?” “No,” I meekly replied. “Then let’s go.” Mary took my hand again, and this time she did have to pull a little to get me to stop dragging my feet. When we got into the dressing room, Mary indicated for me to walk in front of her, and I walked down the aisle of booths to the one at the very end. I’m not sure how many other people may have been in there, but I know there were at least two because we could hear the girl bickering with her mother. If Mary had any intention of being discrete, she wouldn’t have made me try on the panties there. As far as she was concerned, she closed the door behind us, and therefore we were being discrete even if others could hear us. I knew and Mary knew that anyone would think they were hearing some very old fashioned parenting going on, and while that embarrassed me all the way to the middle of my tummy, it didn’t embarrass Mary at all. And why should it? She wasn’t the one who people would hear yelping or the one they might see walking back through the aisle with an obviously sore butt. The booth was big enough for both of us, but it didn’t have a chair. I sorta like going over Mary’s knee – if I didn’t, I never would have asked for this relationship dynamic – but I really hate the position she spanks me in when there’s nowhere to sit. That’s when I really do feel like a naughty little girl, because it only works because of our size difference. She knelt down in front of me. “Lift,” Mary said, and I lifted by right foot, and she took off my sandal. I lifted my left without being told. Without a word, Mary reached up under my skirt and pulled my panties down. She likes me in A-line skirts just for that reason: they make it easy for her to take my underwear down. She stood back up. “Tell me why you need to be spanked,” Mary directed me at her normal volume. “Because I was rude to the saleswoman and the waiter, and I need to remember that I’m privileged,” I whispered. “That’s right,” Mary lectured. “Those people work hard all day long, on their feet, and they make a lot less than we do in our jobs and get a lot less respect. But they’re going to get that respect from you from now on, won’t they?” “Yes.” “I swear, Daphne. I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately. It seems like I can’t take you anywhere that you don’t embarrass me or need a trip to the dressing room half the time.” “I’m sorry,” I sniffled. I felt guilty. She was right. It wasn’t half the time, but it was definitely more than it should have been. I probably got around two public spankings a month, although not all of them were at stores and restaurants (and rest stops and hiking trails). Some were at munches and play parties and were deliberate on my part. But obviously plenty of 30-year-olds can go shopping with their girlfriend without earning a spanking ever. “So am I. I want to go places with you and have fun, not need to spank you in the dressing room.” The bickering from the other booth stopped, and after a pause, in its place, we heard, “Is that what you need, Annie? A spanking like that little girl?” I don’t think the girl answered verbally, but she didn’t start arguing with her mom again. “I want that, too,” I said. “Please don’t stop taking me out with you.” Mary smiled at me, and gave me a kiss. “Maybe you need a break from it for a while, but I don’t think we’re there yet. Let’s get this over with.” Mary reached down into her purse and took out the small paddle she keeps there. “Bend over.” Facing Mary, I bent at the waist, and Mary tucked me under her arm so she held me by my middle. With her other hand, she took the hem of my skirt and tucked in into its own waistband. I looked up and got a good look at myself from both sides as there were mirrors on both walls. I looked back down at the floor; I didn’t want to watch. That just makes it harder. SMACK! Mary wasn’t holding back. I grunted and struggled to stay in position. SMACK! “Ow!” SMACK! “Oomph!” SMACK! “Ugh!” That last one got my right sit spot. SMACK! That one got my left. “Five more,” Mary said. SMACK SMACK SMACK SMACK CRACK! She delivered them fast, so fast I didn’t have time to make five sounds in response. My legs were quivering, and my cheeks were wet. I wasn’t sobbing – I’m used to much worse spankings – but it was definitely hard enough for me to let go a tear from each eye. “Wow,” I heard from some stall, not the one with the mother and daughter in it. “Glad that’s not me.” Mary let me up and hugged me in one motion, and I put my cheek against her breast and let her shirt wick the tears away. “I’m sorry,” I said, my voice muffled by Mary. “Shhhh. I know you are, babygirl.” She kissed the top of my head, a gesture that always makes me feel small and loved. “Are you going to behave the rest of the day, or are we going to need to visit another dressing room?” “I’ll be good.” “Okay. Here.” Mary knelt back down, and took the tag off the underwear we’d picked out, then held them open for me to step into. She pulled them up my legs, pulled the hem of my skirt back down, and gave me a love tap on my bottom after she’d straightened my skirt out. She put the paddle away, along with my panties, and took out a package of wet wipes. I held still while she used one to wipe the tear stains from my cheeks. “Are you ready,” she asked me. “Yes.” “Okay. Let’s go pay for these, and then we’ll go back to the tops.” I followed Mary out of the booth and down the aisle, keeping my eyes on the floor when we walked past a woman who looked bug eyed when she saw me, obviously shocked I wasn’t about twenty years younger. We went to the register. Thankfully there was no line. I tried to look inconspicuous. Mary handed the woman behind the counter the tag. “We had a little emergency and needed to change into these right away,” Mary explained to the woman. “Oh, that’s okay. I think we’ve all been there. Some just need a little more …” the woman said to Mary, trailing off when she took a closer look at the size listed on the tag. Wait, I thought, what kind of emergency does she think I had? My face was undoubtedly as red as my butt, more so when the clerk looked up and saw me, obviously not the age she expected. Her lips closed tightly, and she made an inscrutable expression, finishing the transaction without another word. “Now, let’s go back and find what we came here for,” Mary said as she took my hand. “Then we can go home and play.” “Promise,” I asked with a smile. Between the spanking and the humiliation, she had me wound up like a spring. We were definitely going to have a nice rest of the day.