FingerToes

Sorry, my friends. I have been busy. I got a new job and had graduations to attend with family. Now traveling every week back and forth from home. It has been an adjustment, but I haven't forgotten about the story. I hope you haven't forgotten it. Chapter - 45 - First Deep Clean Darlene arrived at Avery’s apartment just as the sun was rising. The days were growing cooler as the breeze whispered through the streets. Darlene wore navy blue leggings that hugged her legs snugly, their fabric soft and slightly stretchy, designed to accommodate her changing shape. Her long-sleeved shirt was a deep shade of teal, made of breathable cotton that clung comfortably to her figure. Beneath it, she continued to wear a supportive maternity bra that provided both comfort and ease. Over this ensemble, she had thrown on a light jacket in a muted gray hue, its material thin yet warm enough to ward off the morning chill. She looked around the side of Avery’s apartment, just between the bushes, and found a rock she hoped was where Christy had placed Avery’s key to the apartment. Sure enough, when she lifted the rock, just on the dirt was the key. Darlene grabbed the key and dusted off the dirt on it. She slid it into the lock and unlocked the door. The door creaked open from the hinges, probably never being oiled in years. She slowly stepped into Avery’s apartment. The first thing she saw was Avery, curled up facing the sofa, in just a green t-shirt that looked well-worn and a white diaper, while hugging the same large red stuffed animal he brought to her apartment from the last instance here.. The apartment was a mess. His backpack was half-hazardously thrown on the chair, about to fall off near the table. A PlayStation controller on the floor, and a TV screen that was on. Darlene shook her head. Christy was right. He needed help. This presentation wasn’t just about him, but about Christy and the others who had put their time into the project. Unfortunately, the next phase of the project required him to make it happen, which included attending the board meeting and giving the presentation with Christy and Bryan. Darlene grabbed the empty chair from the kitchen table and sat it quietly down between the coffee table with half-eaten food out of a plastic container and an empty wine bottle and glass. She just watched Avery sleeping there and wondered what she should do.. Her mind tried to think. He never liked wearing diapers and resisted the idea. He told her when they first discussed his incontinence issues, he only wore them at work, and that was just a pull-up, but he is now on the sofa and not on his bed. It looked intentional. The pillow is stacked intentionally in a certain position for comfort. If he truly passed out drunk, he wouldn’t have done this. She must have sat quite for at least 20 minutes watching him breathing and snoring, some in between. Darlene finally got up to look around. The kitchen wasn’t too much of a mess, still far messier than she could have ever handled. She stepped into his bedroom. It was a total disaster. Legos on the floor are still where he smashed them when she was last here a week ago. Clothes and boxer everywhere. She couldn’t tell what was clean or dirty. The bed sheets were completely unmade, and two pillows were on the floor. Stepping into the bathroom was even more of a mess. The towels on the floor are also with clothes. A shampoo bottle spilled inside the bathtub shower combo. Hair shavings was all over the sink and counter where he saved. Dried shaving cream. The bathroom had a stale smell of mildew and mold. Darlene shook her head. He was a mess right now. She didn’t know how much of this mess was normal or due to the stress of the job. It didn’t matter; it needed to be cleaned up. Darlene returned to the living room. She could clean it up, but that wasn’t her responsibility. This was not her place. She also thought there was no way that this place could be conducive to a relaxing atmosphere. In her mind, a clean place helps calm the mind. She thought back to how Avery said he didn’t want to participate in the regression therapy and be kept in a diaper like a baby or toddler, but what she was looking at was the opposite of what he said he didn’t want. She wondered what his reasoning was for all this. She thought back to the missed phone call. Was he reaching out for help? Would he even admit it if he were awake? Darlene sat back down on the chair in front of Avery, wondering what she should do. She thought back to the call from Christy and her conversation about his panic at her house. Christy is a lovely and wonderful lady. This was out of her league. In fact, he was really out of Darlene's league. At least she had her sister, who tried to explain a lot about Avery and some of his past. This made her more equipped to deal with Avery. Plus, she was more controlling and type A than Christy. Then, there was. She paused her thoughts. It was hard to admit. There was a deep-seated desire to mother him, as Laurisa so well observed and explained why she might be able to help him. But he didn’t want help. He was upset at the thought of help. Why? Part of it was simple. Every time he trusted someone, they hurt him and abandoned him. She thought back to some of what Laurisa explained. The auto accident and losing his parents at one and a half years of age.The fact that he could remember this was unusual. Till then, he had a loving mother and father. But after that, they went from foster home to foster home. Each seems to neglect his needs as a child. The whole purpose of the regression therapy, according to Laursia, was to repair the damage and give him what he needed, unrelenting love. A love that isn’t earned but just given, no matter what. She knew it. Her heart ached for this. She was ready to give it, but then she lost the opportunity with the baby she held in her stomach for nine months. Felt her kick and squirm. It was just random biology and life that took her child from her. No evil deed she did. It was life, and a horrible accident that took Avery’s parents from him, no matter what he did. Darlene sighed. She can’t force him into regression therapy. But maybe she could help today. Just today. She asked herself what a parent would do at any age of a child at this moment, then she realized what she would do with her own child if he were six or nine and his room was a mess, his mess. At that moment, Darlene sat up and walked over to Avery, grabbed his shoulder, and started to tug at it. “Avery, wake up!” the voice was loud and demanding. Avery mumbled, his shoulder jerking and pulling back towards the couch. “Let me sleep,” he mumbled. “Avery, wake up now!, This place is a mess, and you have work to do.” Avery felt like he was hearing Darlene’s voice, strong and demanding, in his dream. But then suddenly he realized it wasn’t a dream. Recognition dawned in stages: first, that someone was in his space; second, that this someone was Darlene; third, that this made no sense within the current state of their relationship. He pushed her away. His eyes widened, pupils dilating with a surge of adrenaline that cut through the lingering effects of deep sleep. It was Darlene here in his apartment. He very quickly sat up, confused and stunned, as she saw her standing over him. “What are you doing here?” Avery's eyes open again, against the crust from sleeping. He wiped his mouth from some drool that he had slept in. “I am here to make sure you do well tomorrow with your presentation, and from he looks of this place, you need help. I mean a lot of help!” He pushed himself up onto one elbow, the motion causing his t-shirt to ride up further, exposing more of the diaper that encased his lower half. The stuffed animal tumbled from his grasp, landing on the floor with a soft thud that seemed to trigger full awareness of his situation. Avery looked down at himself, then back at Darlene, horror blooming across his features like a time-lapse of a disaster. His free hand made an instinctive grab for the fallen stuffed animal, then diverted mid-motion to tug his t-shirt down in a futile attempt to cover the diaper. The gesture achieved nothing but drawing more attention to what he sought to hide. He sat up fully now, his movements clumsy with panic. A line of dried drool marked a path from the corner of his mouth to his chin, and he wiped at it with the back of his hand, adding to his dishevelment rather than reducing it. His hair stood in disorganized tufts, flattened on one side where he had pressed against the sofa cushion, sticking out in all directions on the other like a failed experiment in asymmetrical styling. His eyes darted around the room, taking in the evidence of his evening—the wine bottle, the game controller, the scattered pillows—before returning to Darlene with the panicked gaze of someone witnessing the collapse of carefully constructed walls. His hands clutched at the sofa cushion beneath him, knuckles whitening with the force of his grip, as if he might somehow anchor himself against the tide of humiliation rising within. He knew being caught in a diaper wasn’t good when he refused it before. Say he wasn’t a baby, but here he was. Darlene met his gaze steadily, neither retreating from his distress nor amplifying it with unnecessary reaction. "I am here to make sure you do well tomorrow with your presentation," she stated, her tone matter-of-fact, as if her presence in his apartment at this hour, under these circumstances, were the most natural thing in the world. She gestured broadly at the chaos surrounding them. "And from the looks of this place, you haven’t cleaned up since the last time I was here. If anything, it is worse, which I didn’t think was possible. You need help. I mean a lot of help!" Avery's mouth opened and closed without producing sound, like a fish suddenly finding itself on land, struggling to adapt to an environment for which it possessed no evolutionary preparation. His fingers plucked at the hem of his t-shirt, still trying to extend the fabric to cover his exposed state, still failing to achieve anything but nervous fidgeting. "How did you—" he began, then redirected. "You can't just—" Another false start. Finally, he managed a complete sentence: "This is my apartment!" The protest sounded weak even to his own ears, a technicality that did nothing to address the larger, more mortifying reality of being discovered in his current state. His eyes fell on his phone, sitting on the coffee table amid the detritus of the previous evening. Had he called her in some alcohol-induced moment of vulnerability? Had he invited this invasion and then forgotten? "Christy called me last night," Darlene explained, answering his unspoken question. "She was concerned about you. About your ability to handle the presentation tomorrow." She paused, allowing the implications to sink in. "She found your work phone at her house and came to return it. The door wasn't properly closed." "You had no right," he managed, the words emerging as a whisper rather than the forceful accusation he intended. His hands had stopped their nervous movement, falling still in his lap as exhaustion overtook anger, as the energy required for outrage depleted his already limited reserves. "Perhaps not," Darlene acknowledged, surprising him with the concession. "But rights aren't always the most important consideration. Your welfare is. Your career is. Your ability to function in a high-pressure situation tomorrow is." She gestured toward the television, still displaying its screensaver of floating geometric shapes. "This doesn't look like preparation for a crucial presentation. This looks like avoidance, like surrender." The assessment was accurate, which only made it more difficult to hear. Avery had indeed surrendered—to anxiety, to the comfort of regression, to the temporary relief offered by wine and gaming and infantile security objects. He had chosen escape over preparation, comfort over growth. And now the consequences of that choice sat before him in the form of Darlene, her expression a mixture of concern and determination that left no room for further evasion. "I would have been fine," he insisted, the lie transparent even as he spoke it. "I just needed to sleep. To rest. I was going to work on the presentation today." Darlene's raised eyebrow conveyed her skepticism more eloquently than words could have. Her gaze moved pointedly from the wine bottle to the game controller to the diaper visible beneath his inadequate t-shirt. "Were you?" she asked simply. The question hung in the air between them, rhetorical in nature but demanding an honesty Avery wasn't prepared to offer. He looked away, unable to maintain eye contact under the weight of her quiet assessment. His gaze fell on the red stuffed dog lying on the floor where it had fallen, its button eyes staring up at him with what seemed, in his heightened emotional state, like accusation or perhaps pity. "What time is it?" he asked instead, a deflection that sought to move the conversation to more practical matters, to the realm of schedules and tasks rather than emotional states and coping mechanisms. "Just after seven-thirty," Darlene replied, allowing the diversion for the moment. "Which gives us approximately twelve hours to clean this apartment, prepare you for your presentation, and ensure you're ready for tomorrow." The "us" in her statement caught Avery's attention, its presumption both presumptuous and oddly reassuring. Despite his embarrassment, despite the violation of privacy her presence represented, there was a part of him—small but undeniable—that felt relief at the prospect of not facing the day's challenges alone and having her company. This relief conflicted with his pride, with his desperate need to be seen as capable, creating a dissonance that manifested as a slight tremor in his hands. "I don't need—" he began automatically, the reflexive rejection of help that had become his standard response. "You do," Darlene interrupted, her tone gentle but firm. "And that's okay, Avery. Needing help isn't a failure. It's human." She gestured again at the apartment, at the evidence of his struggle. "This is what happens when you try to handle everything alone. When you reject the support systems that could make the difference between surviving and thriving." The words struck deeper than she perhaps intended, touching a wound that had been forming since childhood—the belief that independence was the only acceptable state, that needing others was a fundamental weakness. Foster homes had taught Avery that reliance on others led to disappointment, that the only safety lay in self-sufficiency. Yet here he sat, literally wearing the evidence of his inability to maintain that self-sufficiency, his private coping mechanisms exposed to the very person from whom he had most actively concealed them. The irony wasn't lost on him, though he lacked the emotional capacity to fully process it in the moment. Instead, he focused on the immediate, the practical, the aspects of the situation he might still control. "I need to change," he said, the statement both literal and symbolic—he needed to remove the diaper, to don adult clothing, to transition from the vulnerable state of regression to the more defensible position of conventional adulthood. Darlene nodded, stepping back slightly to create space for him to rise. "Yes," she agreed. "But first, we need to establish some ground rules for today. Some expectations." The word "expectations" triggered an automatic tension in Avery's shoulders, a conditioned response to a lifetime of failing to meet them, of disappointing those who placed their hopes in his performance. He remained seated, the prospect of standing in his current state still too daunting to face. "What expectations?" he asked, wariness evident in his tone. "That you will accept my help today, without the usual resistance," Darlene stated, her directness leaving no room for negotiation. "That you will follow my guidance in preparing for tomorrow. And that you will begin by helping me restore some order to this space, which is currently working against your mental clarity." The conditions were reasonable, which made them difficult to reject without appearing petulant. Avery recognized the strategy, starting with small, unobjectionable requests to establish a pattern of compliance that could later extend to more challenging demands. It was a technique he had observed Darlene using with others, had admired from a distance while simultaneously resenting its effectiveness when applied to him. "Fine," he conceded, the word emerging with more irritation than he intended. "I'll clean up. I'll prepare. Whatever you think is necessary." The last sentence carried a hint of sarcasm, a small rebellion against the control being exerted over him, a token resistance to preserve some sense of agency in a situation where he had effectively surrendered it the moment Darlene entered his apartment. Darlene accepted the concession with a nod, choosing to ignore the tone in favor of the content. "Good," she said simply. "Then let's begin. The sooner we start, the more progress we'll make before tomorrow." With that statement, the terms of engagement were set, the boundaries established. Avery sat on the sofa in his t-shirt and diaper, disheveled and exposed, while Darlene stood before him, composed and purposeful. The power dynamic couldn't have been clearer if it had been formally declared, codified in a contract signed by both parties. And yet, beneath his embarrassment and resistance, Avery felt a subtle shift—a lessening of the pressure that had been building in his chest for days, a small release of the tension that had driven him to seek comfort in regression and alcohol. Someone else was taking charge, assuming responsibility, creating structure where chaos had reigned. The relief this brought was complicated, tangled with shame and resentment, but present nonetheless—a quiet counter-melody to the louder tune of his humiliation. “Ok, just let me get changed first. It won’t take long,” Avery said as he stood up to leave. He didn’t think she would object because he agreed to the ground rules so to speak. Darlene's expression didn't change, no flicker of disgust or judgment crossing her features. She regarded him with the same steady gaze, neither avoiding the reality of his statement nor drawing undue attention to it. "Let's clean up this mess; then we will address your wet diaper," she replied, her tone matter-of-fact, as if discussing something as mundane as a spilled drink. "The apartment first, then personal care. One step at a time." Avery sat down in disbelief. The prioritization was clear and, from Darlene's perspective. But to Avery, sitting in a cold, wet diaper that chafed with every slight movement, the order seemed arbitrary and punitive. The discomfort was immediate, physical, and demanding of attention, which Darlene was deliberately withholding. He felt a flash of resentment, hot and sharp, followed immediately by the familiar wash of shame that seemed to color all his emotional responses lately. "I can't clean like this," he protested, gesturing vaguely toward his lower half, the movement causing the diaper to crinkle audibly in the quiet room. The sound amplified his embarrassment, a sonic reminder of his infantilized state. "It's uncomfortable. I need to change and get dressed properly." Darlene crossed her arms, her stance unchanging. "Avery," she said, his name emerging with the patient firmness one might use with a stubborn child, "you need a clean place so you can focus; you will feel much better after it is clean. The physical discomfort you're feeling now is temporary. The mental clarity that comes from an ordered environment will benefit you much longer." Again, the logic was sound but emotionally tone-deaf, prioritizing abstract benefits over immediate physical relief. Yet Avery found himself lacking the energy or will to continue the argument. The fight had drained from him upon waking to find Darlene in his apartment, upon realizing the extent of his exposure. What remained was a dull resignation, a surrender to the inevitable restructuring of his day, his space, his autonomy. With a sigh that carried the weight of this surrender, Avery pushed himself back up to his feet. The diaper sagged between his legs, heavy with absorption, forcing him to adopt a slightly bow-legged stance that felt as undignified as it undoubtedly appeared. His t-shirt, a faded green with a tech company logo across the chest, fell to mid-thigh, providing minimal coverage that did nothing to disguise the obvious bulk beneath. He waddled toward the coffee table, each step producing a soft squish and crinkle that seemed to echo in the quiet apartment. The sensation was unpleasant but familiar—he had experienced it before on mornings after particularly stressful days when he had deliberately worn a diaper to bed, finding in its restrictive embrace a comfort that defied rational explanation. The difference now was the audience, the witness to his most private coping mechanism, standing in his living room, issuing directives as if his regression were simply another problem to be managed. Avery began clearing the coffee table, gathering the empty food container and empty wine bottle into a garbage bag, which Darlene had gathered while Avery was asleep. Each item told the story of his current state. He worked methodically, focusing on the physical tasks to avoid dwelling on his situation. The wine bottle clinked against other glass items as he placed it in a separate bag for recycling. The plastic cup retained a sticky residue of wine at its bottom, requiring extra effort to detach from the table's surface. The controller had fallen at an angle that pressed one joystick against the carpet, and Avery noted with detached concern that the battery was likely completely drained. Throughout this process, Darlene neither helped nor hindered, maintaining her position as observer and director. Her presence was a constant pressure at the periphery of Avery's awareness, a reminder that his actions were being evaluated, his compliance measured. He felt like a specimen in a laboratory experiment, his behaviors noted and categorized by an impassive researcher. The living room slowly transformed under his efforts, not to pristine condition but to a basic level of order that made the space recognizable as an actual living area rather than a chaotic nest. Pillows returned to their proper positions on the couch, blankets were folded and draped over armrests, and surfaces were wiped with paper towels dampened from the kitchen sink. The television was turned off, the screen fading to black and eliminating the blue glow that had colored the room since Darlene's arrival. "Good," Darlene said when the living room had reached a minimally acceptable state. The single word of approval triggered a complex response in Avery—a flicker of satisfaction quickly overwhelmed by resentment at his own reaction, at the way part of him still craved external validation despite his insistence on independence. "Now the bedroom. Start with the clothes piles, then tackle those Legos. Be careful not to step on them—they're surprisingly painful when embedded in a foot." The shift to the bedroom introduced new layers of vulnerability. This was Avery's most private space, the room where he slept and dreamed and struggled through nights of insomnia. The disorder there wasn't just physical but deeply personal, each item out of place representing a moment of fatigue or frustration too great to overcome. Avery moved ahead of Darlene into the bedroom, hyperaware of his waddling gait, of the way the sagging diaper forced his legs apart in a parody of a toddler's uncertain walk. He felt Darlene's eyes on his back, imagined her clinical assessment of his movements, his body language, his physical manifestation of regression. The sensation of being observed, analyzed, and categorized without consent intensified his discomfort far beyond the physical sensation of the wet diaper against his skin. The bedroom presented new challenges. The clothes piles had developed their own ecosystem, items migrating from "clean but unfolded" to "worn once but still wearable" to "definitely needs washing" without clear boundaries. Avery began sorting through them, creating more organized categories—shirts in one pile, pants in another, a few underwear, which he wore when he wasn’t wearing his diaper and pull-ups, and socks in a third. Each item required a brief assessment: clean enough to fold and put away, or dirty enough to place in the hamper that sat perpetually half-full in the corner. As he worked, Avery became increasingly aware of the absurdity of his situation—a grown man in a wet diaper, being supervised like a child as he cleaned his room. The regression wasn't just in his comfort objects now but in the entire dynamic that had developed between him and Darlene. He was being treated as less than an adult, and the most disturbing part was how familiar it felt, how easily he had slipped into the role of compliant ward. The Legos presented a different sort of challenge. The scattered pieces represented hours of careful construction, of focus and attention directed toward creating order from chaos, only to have that order destroyed in a moment of frustration. Avery knelt carefully, mindful of the wet diaper that now pressed against his thighs in this new position, and began gathering the colorful bricks. Each piece returned to the plastic storage container was a small act of restoration, a tacit acknowledgment that destruction wasn't permanent, that broken things could be rebuilt. "What were you building before you crashed it all?" Darlene asked, her voice softer than before, curiosity temporarily replacing direction. Avery glanced up, surprised by the question. It was the first indication of interest in his activities beyond their relevance to the current cleaning task. "A space station," he replied after a moment's hesitation. "From one of the Star Wars sets. It had a docking bay and living quarters and..." He trailed off, embarrassed by his enthusiasm for what many would consider a child's toy. Darlene nodded, her expression thoughtful. "Intricate work," she observed. "Requires patience, attention to detail. Good qualities to have." The comment wasn't exactly praise, but it acknowledged the value in his hobby, in the skills it both required and developed. The unexpected validation momentarily disarmed Avery's resentment, creating a small breach in the wall of resistance he had constructed. He continued gathering Legos, now moving with slightly more care, occasionally pausing to separate pieces that had remained connected when the model shattered. The bed was made with sheets that hadn't been changed in longer than Avery cared to admit, but were at least now stretched taut across the mattress rather than bunched into uncomfortable ridges. Pillows were fluffed and positioned at the head, and the comforter was pulled up and straightened. The floor became visible in expanding patches as Legos were returned to their container and clothes were either hung in the closet or deposited in the hamper. Throughout this process, Avery continued to maintain an acute awareness of his state—the wet diaper growing colder and more uncomfortable with each passing minute, the t-shirt that kept riding up to expose his condition whenever he bent or reached, the distinct sound of plastic crinkling with every movement. He felt reduced, diminished, stripped of the dignity that adult clothing normally provided. Yet alongside this humiliation ran a contradictory current—a strange, reluctant relief at surrendering control, at following simple, clear directions without the burden of decision-making, of pretending capability he didn't feel. The bedroom gradually emerged from beneath its covering of discarded clothing and scattered possessions. "Bathroom next," Darlene announced when the bedroom had reached a state of basic functionality. "Those towels need to be hung up or put in the laundry. The sink needs a thorough cleaning. And that shower..." She let the sentence trail off, her expression conveying what words couldn't adequately capture about the state of his bathing area. The bathroom presented unique challenges, not least because the small space meant working in close proximity to Darlene, who positioned herself in the doorway to observe and direct. The sink was crusted with toothpaste, shaving cream, and what appeared to be several days' worth of facial hair trimmings. Avery ran hot water, watching as the basin slowly filled, the liquid turning slightly gray from dissolved grime. "Use that cleaner under the sink," Darlene instructed, pointing to the cabinet where, to Avery's mild surprise, a bottle of bathroom cleaner actually existed, purchased during some long-ago burst of domestic ambition and then promptly forgotten. "Spray it on the surfaces first, let it sit while you deal with those towels." Avery followed the directions, spraying the cleaner on the sink, counter, and even the mirror, which had accumulated a film of toothpaste splatter and steam residue. The chemical smell filled the small space, sharp and astringent, a physical manifestation of cleanliness that contrasted with the lingering scent of mildew from the shower area. The towels were another matter. Some were merely damp and could be hung properly on the rack that had stood empty while they lay on the floor. Others had been there long enough to develop a musty odor that signaled the need for washing. Avery gathered these into a separate pile, trying not to inhale too deeply as he handled them. As he worked, the diaper between his legs seemed to grow more prominent in his awareness, its weight and bulk impossible to ignore in the small, enclosed space of the bathroom. Each time he bent to pick up a towel or crouched to reach under the sink, he felt the material shift against his skin, heard the soft crinkle that marked him as different, as needing management and containment in a way other adults didn't. Darlene's presence amplified this awareness. Her eyes missed nothing—not the slight waddle in his walk, not the way he occasionally reached back to adjust the diaper's position, not the grimace that crossed his features when a particular movement pressed the wet material against his already irritated skin. She observed without comment, but her silence felt loaded with assessment, with judgments he couldn't access but could certainly imagine. "The shower needs a thorough scrubbing," she said as Avery finished with the towels. "There's mildew forming on the curtain and in the grout. Do you have a brush of some kind? Something with stiff bristles?" Avery shook his head, his knowledge of cleaning implements as limited as his application of them. "Maybe under the sink?" he suggested, uncertain if he'd ever owned such a thing. Darlene sighed, a sound that conveyed disappointment without requiring words to elaborate. "Check the kitchen. Sometimes people keep brushes there that can serve the purpose." This directive required Avery to walk past Darlene in the doorway, a proximity that heightened his self-consciousness to nearly unbearable levels. He turned sideways to avoid contact, the movement exaggerating the awkward gait forced by the diaper. The crinkling seemed louder in the small space, amplified by the tile surfaces that reflected sound with merciless clarity. The kitchen yielded a brush that had once been used for vegetables but had long since been abandoned to the back of a drawer. Its bristles were stiffer than ideal for food but perfect for attacking the buildup of soap scum and mildew in the shower. Avery returned with it, along with a bucket he'd found under the sink, its original purpose forgotten but its current utility obvious. Cleaning the shower was physically demanding in a way the previous tasks hadn't been. It required scrubbing with force, applying pressure that engaged muscles unused to such exertion. Avery knelt on the bathroom floor, reaching into the tub to attack the worst areas of discoloration. The position was uncomfortable, pressing the wet diaper against him in ways that heightened his awareness of its presence, of the rash that had begun to form beneath it from prolonged contact with moisture. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he worked, the physical effort combining with embarrassment to flush his skin. The bathroom was warm, but the humidity from the hot water he'd run for cleaning purposes was condensing on surfaces and adding to the discomfort. Yet there was something almost meditative in the repetitive motion of scrubbing, in seeing immediate results as areas of grime gave way to cleaner surfaces beneath. Throughout this process, Darlene maintained her position as an observer and occasional director, pointing out areas he'd missed and suggesting techniques for tackling particularly stubborn spots. Her presence was both motivating and inhibiting, spurring him to more thorough efforts while simultaneously heightening his awareness of his exposed, vulnerable state. "Make sure to get into the corners," she instructed, leaning slightly to indicate an area where mildew had established a particularly tenacious foothold. "That's where moisture collects and problems start." The comment seemed weighted with additional meaning, as if the physical corners of the shower somehow corresponded to psychological areas in Avery's life where problems had been allowed to fester through neglect. He attacked the spot with renewed vigor, partly to address the mildew and partly to channel the complex emotions swirling within him—frustration, embarrassment, a strange determination to prove himself capable in this one limited arena when he felt so incapable in others. The bathroom slowly transformed under his efforts, not to a state that could be described as pristine, but to a basic level of cleanliness that represented significant improvement. The sink no longer harbored islands of congealed toothpaste, the mirror reflected with reasonable clarity rather than through a fog of grime, and the shower's surfaces showed their original color rather than the patina of neglect that had accumulated over months. Avery sat back on his heels, the movement causing the diaper to shift uncomfortably against his skin. He was breathing heavily from the exertion, sweat dampening his t-shirt and causing it to cling to his back. His hands were red and slightly raw from the cleaning chemicals and the mechanical friction of scrubbing. But there was also a subtle satisfaction in seeing the results of his labor, in the tangible evidence of transformation he had enacted. Darlene surveyed the bathroom with a critical eye, her gaze moving methodically from floor to ceiling, noting areas of improvement and spots that still fell short of ideal. "Better," she pronounced finally, the single word carrying more weight than effusive praise might have from someone else. "Not perfect, but significantly better." The qualified approval stirred conflicting reactions in Avery—a flicker of pride quickly tempered by irritation at his own response, at how easily he was affected by her assessment. He'd spent years insisting on his independence, on his capability as an adult, yet here he was, kneeling on a bathroom floor in a wet diaper, feeling a wash of satisfaction at the most basic acknowledgment of his efforts. The contradiction wasn't lost on him, adding another layer to the complex emotional landscape he was navigating. He wanted to reject Darlene's authority, to assert his autonomy. Yet, he couldn't deny the relief that came from temporarily surrendering that autonomy, from following clear directives without the burden of decision-making that had recently become so overwhelming. "Are we done?" he asked, rising carefully to his feet, mindful of the wet floor and the awkward bulk between his legs. His legs ached from kneeling, and the diaper felt heavier than before, the material saturated to capacity after hours of wear. Darlene nodded, stepping back from the doorway to allow him passage. "With the cleaning, yes. The apartment is functional now, orderly enough to support mental clarity." She gestured toward his lower half, the movement clinical rather than judgmental. "Now we can address your personal needs. The wet diaper, the change of clothes."

Here is the next chapter. I have been working on a cover for this book/story. I would like to get feedback on the cover. I used AI to help me generate. I had to go through a lot of iterations to get what I wanted. The story continue below the picture. Chapter 44- Disorganized Retreat Avery closed his apartment door with a heavy sigh, stepping into a world vastly different from Christy's meticulously curated space. The transition was like stepping from daylight into shadow. His apartment was a chaotic mess, devoid of any sense of order or personal touch, with clutter strewn haphazardly across every surface. A stark reminder of the day's chaos lay in the living room: a clean, crisp disposable diaper perched on the arm of the sofa, exactly where he'd left it when Christy had stumbled upon it. He still couldn't piece together how it had ended up there, a testament to just how inebriated he must have been. Although the clock read only 5 pm, Avery was desperate to shed the weight of the day's events. Too much had transpired: the mortifying discovery of the diaper, the surge of panic that had overtaken him, the humiliating loss of bladder control, being forced into Christy's sweatpants, and the unsettling return to wearing a pull-up at her house. He had convinced himself that wearing just a pair of boxers would be enough for the day. It was just him and Christy. He didn’t get nervous around Christy. She had always treated him kindly. Yet, as they continued to work on the presentation, her relentless insistence that he must deliver his section drove him into a spiral of anxiety so severe that he snapped, succumbing to a full-blown panic attack. The intensity of his distress was so overpowering that it shattered his composure entirely, leading to the humiliating loss of his bladder control. Avery let out a deep, weary sigh as the realization of spending the rest of the day alone washed over him. He trudged towards the kitchen table, where he carefully set down his keys and iPhone, their metallic clinks breaking the silence. His backpack was slung over one shoulder, and he placed it on one of the two worn chairs that flanked the small kitchen table. Seeking solace in the routine, he wandered over to the freezer, its cold breath misting the air as he opened it to assess his dinner options. The shelf was stacked with four remaining microwaveable meals, and tonight, he settled on a Salisbury steak with mashed potatoes. Methodically, he unpacked the frozen package and placed it inside the microwave, the hum of the appliance filling the quiet space. As he turned around, his gaze fell upon the living room, where the object of his embarrassment lay—a diaper. It was the same diaper that had humiliated him in front of Christy, a reminder of an awkward moment he'd rather forget. But it felt like it was whispering his name, inviting him to grab it and put it on. The fabric promised to envelop him in that soothing embrace he had conjured the night before, a sensation akin to sinking into a warm bath after a long day. Last night’s haze of laughter, drinking wine, and playing video games had faded, but the memory of its gentle weight remained vivid. It was like being wrapped in a cocoon of tranquility, each thread woven with the promise of safety and security. As he imagined slipping into it again, he could almost feel the world outside softening at the edges, his worries dissolving into the background noise while he basked in its familiar warmth. His mind buzzed with a torrent of objections to wearing the diaper. The fear of being discovered loomed large, a prospect that filled him with an acute sense of dread and humiliation. Practical worries followed suit—what if it leaked or left him with an irritating rash? He also grappled with the idea of losing his autonomy, worried that leaning on such comfort might chip away at his independence. A new thought crept in: he was an adult, not a child; he needed to confront life’s challenges as a grown-up, not retreat into infantile comforts. Moreover, he wondered if succumbing to this habit would intensify his insecurities rather than ease them. Yet, despite these anxieties swirling in his head, the temptation of its gentle embrace and promise of solace pulled at him insistently, ensnaring him in a tangled web of conflicting feelings. The microwave chimed with a bing, snapping him out of his tangled thoughts. Yet, instead of reaching for the microwave to retrieve his meal, he turned away and headed towards the worn-out sofa. His hand brushed against the diaper, its smooth plastic exterior cool beneath his fingers, the substantial thickness of the absorbent material promising comfort. A decision crystallized in his mind. He realized he didn’t need the wine tonight, the last night’s crutch to coax him into wearing the diaper before bed. The events of the day lay heavy on him—a day fraught with challenges that had left him weary and longing for solace. The diaper seemed to extend an invitation of comfort, offering the soothing reprieve and escape he so desperately craved in the aftermath of the day’s trials. He walked into the cozy, softly lit bedroom and quickly tossed aside his worn jeans, feeling the cool air brush against his skin. He then spread the crisp, white diaper out on the unmade sheets, crumbled up in the bed. The irritating itch was getting much worse between his legs, now a persistent discomfort he needed to address with some soothing remedy come tomorrow. With a sigh, he lay down on the plush comforter and carefully slid the diaper beneath him, the fabric rustling softly. He pulled it up snugly between his legs, fastening the four adhesive tabs securely with practiced precision. As he did so, a rare and comforting sensation enveloped him, like the soft embrace of a warm breeze on a cool evening. It was as if an invisible hand gently untangled the knots of tension that had wound tightly around his shoulders throughout the day. A serene murmur drifted through his thoughts, caressing each one with tender assurance: "It's all okay, just let go…" His muscles loosened, surrendering their rigidity as tranquility seeped into every fiber of his being, allowing him to finally unwind and breathe deeply. Avery moved with a relief that had eluded him all day, stepping back into the living room with the subtle crinkle of the diaper accompanying each stride. What might have once caused him intense embarrassment now presented a peculiar comfort. He felt the fabric of the diaper whisper a gentle reassurance into the silence of the apartment; the thick padding nestled securely between his legs affecting his gait as he transitioned from a hurried pace to an easy, relaxed waddle. Alone and liberated from expectation, he welcomed the sensation, the soft rustle echoing off the walls like a soothing lullaby. Without disrupting his newfound peace, he veered into the small, cluttered kitchen and reached for the microwave. His dinner, the Salisbury steak with mashed potatoes, radiated warmth through the plastic tray as he removed it with care. He hesitated for a moment, then set it back on the counter. The fridge opened with a faint pop, and an inviting stream of chill air brushed against him, mingling with the warmth he'd begun to feel. He recognized the half-empty bottle of wine at once. He took it from its place among the less inviting leftovers and closed the fridge door with his elbow. Turning back to the counter, he collected his meal once more and mentally savored the rare tranquility that seemed to flourish in the absence of company and judgment. This time the wild thoughts that so often consumed him faded into mere whispers, and full seconds passed when they seemed to vanish altogether. Balancing the meal in one hand and wine in the other, he made his way back to the living room. His steps were unhurried, each one purposeful and deliberate, the sound of crinkling plastic mingling with his breath and the steady beating of his heart. The relief was palpable, a disarming shift from the relentless sense of chaos he'd endured throughout the day. As Avery walked, the waistband of the diaper pressed snugly against his skin, a reminder of the carefree surrender he'd allowed himself in lying down on the bed just moments ago. Its weight and presence, guaranteed by his careful fastening of the tabs, anchored him more surely now than his anxieties ever could. Once such freedom would have felt impossibly far away, now he relished the solitude, the safety, the unspoken permission to exist precisely as he was, without fear of judgment or consequence. As he reached the sofa, he placed the tray on the coffee table and felt the skin on his bare legs tingle in response to the air's cool touch. He allowed himself a brief pause, taking in the scene, as though to impress it upon his memory for nights less forgiving than this one. Once settled into the worn embrace of the couch, he grabbed an old red plastic cup from last night and poured himself a generous glass of wine. He took a deep, satisfying gulp of wine, then shoveled a big forkful of food into his mouth while powering up the PlayStation. The soft whoosh and chime of it booting up filled the room, a soundtrack as familiar as his own breath. His mind reeled in grateful anticipation, eager to dive into another adventure with Ratchet and Clank. A palpable release spread through him with each sip and bite, the day’s tension unraveling as he maneuvered through vibrant alien landscapes and battled robotic foes. Each successful mission was a delightful triumph, the winding tension of the afternoon slackening with every victory. He barely noticed as the wine quickly dwindled; the evening unfolded without the oppressive weight of expectation. At one point, he paused the game, the screen frozen in mid-action, to swallow his evening meds. Navigating around heaps of dirty clothes and towels strewn across the floor, he made his way into the cramped bathroom. Amidst the cluttered chaos of toiletries and half-empty bottles, he located a small plastic container that organized his pills for the week on the edge of the sink. Flipping open its lid revealed an assortment of pills in various shapes and colors. The small white sleeping pill stood out, promising the rest he desperately craved. With practiced efficiency, he swallowed it along with the others in one swift motion, chasing them down with a swig of wine that promised to smooth his mind and body when he finally turned off the screen. Then, without missing a beat, he resumed playing, letting himself get lost once more in that sprawling digital world—a world where he was the master of his destiny. As he vanquished enemy after enemy, any remaining strands of self-consciousness seemed to dissolve. This was the life he could embrace fully: simple, unburdened, dictated by his own terms. The gentle hug of the diaper around his waist whispered reassurance with every movement, an unspoken assurance that echoed the tranquilizing effect of the wine. He took great comfort in the solitude, in knowing that, for once, he could savor his dinner and his game without fear of interruption or judgment. He nestled into the couch, embracing the soft surround of the cushions and the glow of the screen while nibbling on food between missions and indulging in the rarest of luxuries: a perfectly quiet mind. Instead, he found himself gathering the throw pillows from various parts of the couch, arranging them in a nest-like formation at one end. One pillow to support his head, another positioned at his back, and finally, his “Red Dog,” his stuffed animal, to hold tightly to his chest. The arrangement created a bounded space, a soft enclosure that complemented the diaper's embrace. Avery curled into this improvised nest, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around the the large stuff dog, face pressed into its fabric that smelled faintly of his own shampoo and skin. His last coherent thought before unconsciousness claimed him was of Monday's presentation, of standing before the board with Christy beside him, her knowledge of a secret found current running beneath his sleeping mind. The anxiety this image should have provoked was dulled by alcohol and comfort, reduced to a distant concern that belonged to a future self he couldn't quite imagine from this place of artificial peace. Avery's breathing deepened, his body relaxing fully into the nest of pillows, one hand still clutching the fabric of the stuffed dog as if it might anchor him against the storms of his unconscious mind. The apartment settled around him, creaking occasionally as buildings do at night, while outside, the city continued its ceaseless rhythm, indifferent to the small dramas of its inhabitants. Inside his padded cocoon, separated from that world by layers of material and meaning, Avery surrendered to sleep, his vulnerability protected for a few hours by the very things that marked it. ——————————————————————————————————————————————————- Back home, Christy moved through her evening routine with the precise efficiency that characterized all her actions, the events of the day filed away into appropriate mental compartments. Dinner had been simple—a salad with grilled chicken that she'd prepared in advance on Friday, portioned for easy reheating. The dishes were washed and dried immediately after eating, the counters were wiped, and the kitchen was restored to its baseline state of order before Avery arrived. A quick shower, hair wrapped in a microfiber towel that minimized frizz, and skin care regimen completed in the exact sequence recommended for optimal absorption. The day had been more taxing than she thought with Avery, but her evening, at least, could follow its established routine, a small island of solitude and predictability. Christy sat down on the sofa with a steaming mug of chamomile tea, its golden hue shimmering in the soft light. The gentle aroma of honey and apple wafted up, mingling with the subtle hint of fresh daisies. As she brought the cup closer, she inhaled deeply, letting the soothing fragrance envelop her senses and ease away the day's tension. She wanted to read Echoes of the Forgotten, a fantasy book that she was about midway through and getting really good. As she picked it up, she thought about Avery being the first man to have been in her house in the two-plus years she had lived here. From Christy’s past, men were not to be trusted. She was married to an abusive husband who had a high standing in his community. Her parents were not supportive when she fled one night with the help of one of her friends and her husband. She hadn’t been on a date since then. Christy pretty much wrote men out of her life, other than casual acquaintances at best. Bryan, her boss, was friendly and supported her, but she would not even invite him over to her house. Her house was a safe haven from men chasing her or even the potential of men flirting with her. The strange thing was, she hadn’t thought twice about asking Avery over to work with her. She didn’t really perceive him as a typical man. In fact, he wasn’t. She didn’t know how to describe him at all if she was honest with herself. He often acted like a nervous or scared boy rather than a man. There was no threat or concern of a threat from him. He never hit on her, never made crude comments. Christy leaned back, turned on some soft classical music, and began to read her book on her sofa. Feet propped up on the other side, after away she reached for her cup of herbal tea steaming beside her laptop, when she noticed it—a sleek black rectangle partially hidden beneath a stack of magazines she subscribed to. It was Avery's work phone. She recognized the sturdy case with the company logo, distinct from his personal device she'd seen him use earlier. He must have forgotten about it with all the stress of creating his portion of the presentation. Christy rolled her eyes. “Of course, he would forget something. I should have paid more attention to him.” She picked up the phone. The screen remained dark, locked with whatever passcode Avery used, which the IT department required, but the significance of the device wasn't in its current contents but in its purpose. The work phones contained proprietary apps for accessing the company's secure servers, Outlook for email communication, and Teams video conferencing that he would need if Bryan tried to communicate with Avery on his status, last-minute changes, or additions to the presentation. She set it down with a sigh that contained equal parts resignation and annoyance. The rational course of action was clear, though inconvenient. Avery would need the phone for tomorrow. She could wait until morning to return it, but that would require her to miss her morning cycling class and workout class. Christy relied on those mornings to relieve stress. With everything lately, she needed a good, long cycling workout. The more logical solution was to return it tonight, an inconvenience to give her a day alone, which she so desired. Still, the prospect of driving back to Avery's apartment was not appealing. Christy had allocated this evening for a relaxing evening, enjoying a good fantasy book. She glanced at the clock: 7:47 PM. Not unreasonably late, but late enough that the visit would need to keep it brief, a simple handoff with minimal conversation, she promised herself. Christy closed her book and placed it on the coffee table, accepting the inevitable adjustment to her plans for the night. She changed from her comfortable home clothes into jeans and a simple T-shirt. The damp towel came off her hair, which she quickly dried and pulled back into a low ponytail. No time for makeup. She grabbed the keys and purse, collected Avery's phone, and secured it in her jacket pocket, as the nights were getting chilly. The drive back to his apartment provided unwelcome time for reflection. Christy had been successfully compartmentalizing the day's events, separating the personal revelations about Avery from their professional collaboration, but alone in the car, the boundaries between these categories began to blur. Images resurfaced—the diaper on his couch, his mortified expression when she'd discovered it, the wet pants he'd handed her through the bathroom door, his panic during presentation practice. The vulnerability she'd witnessed went beyond ordinary workplace dynamics, beyond the typical boundaries of coworker interactions. The realization is that Avery was the first man ever to set foot in her house. She wondered if she had made a mistake, but then again, she couldn’t ever see Avery trying to seduce her. What was Avery’s background that made him so uncomfortable around people? He was brilliant at what he does. But outside of that, he seems uncomfortable in his own skin. She remembered when she first met him. He hardly talked to her. How quiet and bashful his voice was when he did talk to her. There was no eye contact. During the day, the work sessions with Avery, Christy would maintain a deliberate neutrality, offering practical assistance without commentary and acknowledging his anxiety without making it the center of their interaction. This approach had seemed to work, allowing them to continue their professional collaboration despite the intensely personal undercurrent. But it didn't answer the larger question of how this new information changed their working relationship, if at all. She had seen beneath Avery's carefully maintained facade to the damaged person beneath, damaged in ways she couldn't fully comprehend but could recognize from her own experiences with people who carried invisible wounds and as one who also held her own wounds from life. The revelation should have created distance, discomfort, the natural recoiling that occurred when someone's carefully constructed public image cracked to reveal the messier truth beneath. Instead, Christy had felt something closer to recognition, to a kind of respect for the effort it must take him to function in a world that had so clearly been unkind. This response surprised her, running counter to her usual preference for emotional simplicity and clear boundaries. Christy prided herself on maintaining professional distance, on being reliable precisely because she didn't allow personal complications to interfere with work objectives. Yet today, she had made allowances, adjusted expectations, extended kindnesses that went beyond professional courtesy into something more human, more nuanced. The lights of the city blurred slightly as she drove, yellow and red and white against the darkness, their boundaries softening like the mental categories she'd constructed to make sense of her experience. Perhaps there was no neat compartmentalization possible for what had happened today, no way to file it under "professional" or "personal" without losing something essential about the interaction. Perhaps it existed in some third space, neither one nor the other, but a hybrid territory she rarely explored. Avery's apartment building came into view, as uninspiring in the evening as it had been that morning. Christy parked in the same visitor spot she'd used earlier, the familiarity creating an odd sense of circular time, as if the day were folding back on itself. She sat for a moment after turning off the engine, the phone a small weight in her pocket, its presence the only justification for this return journey. Christy approached the front door, Avery's phone in hand now, prepared for a brief, professional exchange—the return of forgotten property, perhaps a brief confirmation of Monday’s meeting time, nothing more. Her knuckles hovered over the door's surface, poised to announce her presence with the same crisp efficiency that characterized all her actions. She hesitated for just a moment, an uncharacteristic uncertainty passing through her like a current, before delivering three sharp knocks in quick succession, the sound echoing in the empty open hallway like an announcement of something more significant than a simple errand of return. Christy's knocks went unanswered, each crisp rap against the wood met with silence from within. She waited a measured thirty seconds, then tried again, slightly louder this time, in case Avery was in a back room or wearing headphones. The hallway lights flickered once, a brief surrender to age or poor maintenance, then stabilized, casting her shadow long and distorted against the opposite wall. Still no response from apartment 4C. Christy checked her watch—8:32 PM, not unreasonably late, though perhaps Avery had gone to bed early to compensate for what had clearly been a rough night before. She considered leaving, perhaps sliding the phone under his door with a note, but the device was too thick for the narrow gap, and leaving it outside in the open hallway wasn't an option given its value and the building's apparent lack of security. "Avery?" she called, pitching her voice to carry through the door without disturbing neighbors. "It's Christy. You left your work phone at my place." This again felt all to familiar to Christy from this morning as she tried to get him to answer the door. The silence that followed felt deliberate somehow, a presence rather than an absence. Christy pressed her ear to the door, listening for movement, for water running, for any sign that Avery was home but unable or unwilling to answer. She heard nothing but the faint hum of the building's lights and the distant bass of someone's music several apartments away. A tendril of concern worked its way through her practical considerations. Avery had been deeply anxious about the presentation, had experienced a humiliating accident, and had been visibly exhausted when she'd dropped him off. What if something had happened? What if the cumulative stress had triggered a more serious episode? The thought of him alone and in distress on the other side of the door shifted the equation from simple inconvenience to potential responsibility. What if he tried to commit suicide? Christy didn’t think he could do such a thing, but she remembered her college roommate in her second year at the university did. This immediately brought back old images of finding her roommate dead in the bathroom tub. Christy’s heart began to race. “No, not again!” Christy quickly tried the handle—not expecting it to yield, just an automatic check—and was surprised when it turned easily in her grip. The door wasn't just unlocked but slightly ajar, not latched properly when Avery had entered earlier. The discovery presented a new dilemma: to enter uninvited, violating privacy but ensuring safety, or to leave, respecting boundaries but potentially ignoring someone in need. Her practical nature assessed the variables quickly. If Avery was fine—just showering or sleeping with earbuds in—the intrusion would be momentary and justified by the returned phone. If he wasn't fine, her presence might be necessary. The potential benefit outweighed the potential harm. "Avery?" Christy called again as she pushed the door open wider, announcing her presence to mitigate the intrusion. "I'm coming in to leave your phone. Sorry to disturb you." The apartment's interior was dimly lit, the overhead light off, but a small lamp in the bedroom provided enough illumination to navigate the space. The air carried the faint smell of slightly burnt food and the scent of wine, sharper and more distinct than it had been that morning, suggesting recent consumption. Christy stepped inside, leaving the door open behind her both for propriety and as a ready exit. Her eyes adjusted to the low light gradually, details emerging from shadow—the kitchen to her right, counter bare except for an empty wine bottle standing sentinel beside a glass; the coffee table with another bottle, this one half-empty; the television screen dark and silent; and on the couch... Christy froze, her hand still on the doorknob, as the scene before her registered fully. Avery lay curled on the sofa in a fetal position, his back to the room, his body curved around a large red stuffed animal he hugged to his chest like a child. Another pillow supported his head, his face pressed into its surface, features slack with sleep or unconsciousness. His t-shirt had ridden up during his restless slumber, exposing the small of his back and everything below. And what was below was unmistakable—a diaper, stark white against the dark fabric of the couch, the tapes visible at his hip securing it in place. Not a pull-up like he'd worn at her house out of necessity, but a full diaper, thick and deliberately donned, worn not because of an accident but in anticipation of one, or for some other purpose she couldn't immediately comprehend. The sight was so unexpected, so intimate in its vulnerability, that Christy felt a moment of physical disorientation, as if the floor had tilted beneath her feet. This was not something she was meant to see, not a moment she was meant to witness. It was Avery at his most unguarded, most private, most exposed—beyond even the humiliations he had endured in her presence earlier that day. He had been drinking, that much was clear from the bottles. Had he simply passed out without changing into proper sleepwear? No—the deliberate nature of the diaper, its careful application evident even from her position by the door, suggested intentionality rather than happenstance. This was a choice, a habit perhaps, a comfort measure or coping mechanism that she had inadvertently discovered. She could hear him breathing, which was a big relief. Christy should leave immediately. That was the only appropriate response to this accidental invasion of privacy. She should back out quietly, close the door, pretend she had never seen this tableau of vulnerability. Yet she remained momentarily rooted to the spot, her analytical mind processing what this new information meant, how it connected to the diaper she'd discovered that morning, to his accident at her house, to his extreme anxiety about the presentation. Avery shifted in his sleep, murmuring something inaudible, his fingers clutching the stuffed animal more tightly. The movement caused his t-shirt to ride up further, exposing more of his back—pale skin with the faint ridge of vertebrae visible, a body thin for its height, suggesting meals skipped or forgotten. A wave of something uncomfortable moved through Christy's chest—not disgust or judgment, but a complex emotion she rarely experienced: a mingling of compassion and intrusion. The phone in her hand seemed suddenly insignificant compared to the weight of what she had witnessed. Christy stepped back toward the door, determined now to leave as quickly and quietly as possible, to minimize the violation her presence constituted. But she couldn't simply abandon the phone, the ostensible reason for her visit. She needed to leave it somewhere visible, somewhere Avery would find it in the morning, but that wouldn't require her to approach him more closely. Her gaze fell on the small kitchen table near the entrance, where his keys and mail sat along with his backpack in one of the chairs. This would do. Christy placed the phone there, carefully positioning it so it wouldn't slide off, then began to back toward the door, her eyes still adjusting to the dim light, her movements deliberately slow to avoid making noise. Avery remained curled on the couch, oblivious to her presence, his breathing deep and regular. The wine had done its work well, granting him the oblivion he had clearly sought. Tomorrow he would wake, hungover perhaps, but unaware that his most private self had been witnessed, his vulnerability observed by the very person from whom he had most likely wished to conceal it. Christy took one more look at Avery's vulnerable form on the couch, his body curled up, his t-shirt riding up. The high backing of the thick diaper on him. Her mind raced with concern for his well-being and anxiety over the upcoming meeting. Could he really face the CEO and present their project? The apartment was just as she'd seen it this morning—cluttered with empty microwaved meals and scattered items—a testament to his current state of turmoil. She didn't know how to bolster Avery’s confidence. Their entire initiative could collapse if he panicked or failed to show up. Standing in the doorway, Christy hesitated, feeling the full weight of her discovery. Earlier, she had found Avery wearing a diaper—a stark reminder of how deeply stress affected him—and now she worried even more about his mental health. If Avery couldn't perform despite all he'd achieved so far, everything they had worked for might unravel. She needed help but felt powerless to change Avery's trajectory before Monday. As she closed the door partway, leaving Avery to his fragile sanctuary, Christy reached for something that Avery seemed to trust at least a little more than her. She called Darlene for support. "Darlene, it's me, Christy," she said quickly when Darlene answered. "I need to talk. I worried" Darlene sensed her distress instantly, her voice steady despite the late hour. "What happened?" she asked. "It's Avery," Christy confessed while pacing in the parking lot beneath dim streetlights. Her words tumbled out, her breath visible in the chilly air. "I came by his apartment to drop off his work phone, which he had forgotten at my house. I found him in a diaper curled up on the couch hugging a stuffed animal... I'm really worried about his mental health. You seem to know him better, and I didn’t know who else to turn to." Darlene was silent for a moment before responding thoughtfully, "Avery is different. I told you that before. I know we haven’t talked about him much. I will be straight with you; I have recently learned he didn’t have the best upbringing. Actually, he had quite a shit upbringing. All of which I believe has carried over to who and how he acts. I don’t fully understand everything myself." Her tone was calm, but there was an underlying urgency meant to reassure Christy that she was heard, that Avery's distress was not unexpected. Christy leaned against her outside wall of Avery’s apartment, trying to gather her thoughts before replying. The lights above flickered briefly, casting a strobe of shadows across the cemented hallway. "He had a terrible outburst at my house today while we were trying to finish our presentation," Christy pressed on anxiously. "He kept saying he shouldn't be giving this presentation—that he's not able." She hesitated, unsure how much detail to disclose, whether to mention the panic she'd seen, the physical trembling that had accompanied his breakdown, which led to him wetting his pants. Darlene paused, sensing the depth of Christy's concern, wondering if the situation was as dire as it seemed. She was trying to figure out if this was all about finding him in a diaper or if there was more. “Did something else happen today?” Christy exhaled, watching the mist of her breath dissipate into the cold night air. "It's everything," she said, her voice tinged with frustration. "The stress, the exhaustion, the way he's been acting during his breakdown... I'm afraid the pressure will be too much for him. He was quiet but ok when I left him. I think... I don’t know if he's on the verge of a total breakdown." Her mind flashed back to her college roommate, to the horrible silence she'd found that evening when she came home from her class. She had thought everything was alright when she left her that morning. "What is it you want me to do?" Darlene replied, curious about the purpose of the call. There was more concern in her voice this time, a willingness to step in, to play a role in resolving the crisis that was clearly brewing. Darlene could hear the panic in Christy’s voice. This was beyond just venting and informing her; it was a plea for help. "I was hoping you might be able to calm him down and get him ready for the presentation. I don’t know what else to do for him." There was a long pause. The last time Darlene was really alone with Avery outside of the office was at her house when he learned of the possible regression therapy that Laurisa proposed. That did not go well. Since then, she didn’t really know where he stood with her. Would he even listen to her? Or would her presence just aggravate him further? “I will stop by early tomorrow, and I will see what I can do. Waking him now would not be a good use of my time. He needs to sleep. Can you get a key from him and place it somewhere that I can find it later, so I can get in if he is still sleeping?" Darlene wasn’t sure if this would make things better or worse, but she knew she had to try. She was concerned about his reaction. Christy felt a wave of relief mixed with apprehension at Darlene's willingness to intervene. She knew this was not a perfect solution, that it might upset Avery further, but it was the only option she could see. She nodded, forgetting for a moment that Darlene couldn't see her. "Okay," she said, her voice steadier now. “I can place it behind some bushes and under a rock that is on the side of Avery’s apartment.” Christy blinked into the night as she spoke. “I will snap a picture and send it to you, so you know where to look.” Her heart pounded, and she could feel a sudden chill as a gust of wind blew down the open hallway from Avery’s apartment. She wrapped her free arm around herself, her breath visible like faint smoke in the cold air. "I will do my best to talk to him and calm his nerves down," Darlene replied, her voice filled with a mix of certainty and hesitation. She was still figuring out what she would do or if she could really help. "Do you mind if I ask him to give me the presentation, to present it to me first? I probably won’t understand it all, but it might be good practice for him." There was a brief pause, a moment of silence as if both were weighing the potential success or failure of the plan. "No, no, that isn’t a problem at all," Christy responded almost too quickly, her words tumbling together, her voice carrying a sense of relief that there would be help. It was as if a great weight had been lifted. Maybe this would be enough. Maybe Avery would respond better to Darlene, someone he trusted a bit more than her. Maybe... She shook her head, trying to rid herself of the uncertainty that clung to her like static, but she couldn’t let go entirely. Darlene could sense Christy’s apprehension. “You might need plan B and rethink your approach with Bryan if you’re truly worried .” Darlene’s words hung in the air as both of them paused briefly. Then, as if acknowledging the end of their conversation, they said their goodbyes and hung up. Christy glanced at her phone, wondering if she should call Bryan, but decided to let Darlene try first. Finally, she tucked it into her pocket and returned her attention to Avery's door. The apartment was silent, save for the muffled hum of the refrigerator or distant traffic. She took one last look at Avery in his state to make sure he was still sleeping. She hesitated before closing the door fully, her hand gripping the knob as she considered what more she could do. She locked the door from the outside, checked it twice, and even pressed against it to ensure it wouldn’t budge. Anxious thoughts flitted through her mind, a carousel of worry over Avery's vulnerability and their looming deadline. Her steps were heavy as she walked down the cemented hallway, each footfall echoing in rhythm with her fears. She passed the bushes where she planned to hide the key for Darlene, a small but desperate gesture, and looked back again at the apartment, feeling the chill more acutely now. Her breath was a visible whisper in the cold night as she reached her car. She turned on the ignition, and the dashboard lights flickered to life, casting a dim glow over her anxious face. Would Darlene be able to reach Avery in a way she couldn't? Could his panic and self-doubt be calmed in the precious hours they had left? She gripped the steering wheel, her knuckles white, and drove through the quiet streets, praying that Darlene could do what she herself had failed to accomplish. Just wanted to say thank you so much for the excellent feedback!! I am glad you are enjoying it.

I read your post and felt compelled to reach out and let you know that I truly understand. When I allow myself to regress into that cherished little space—wrapped in the soft, comforting embrace of diapers and a cherished onesie—all my worries instantly melt away, replaced by a gentle swell of joy. In these moments, I wrap my arms around my collection of beloved stuffed animals, each of which blossoms into its own vivid character. There’s Dotty, the delightful dotted pony with a remarkable talent for both mending and breaking things, and Starlite, the enchanting unicorn whose mischievous adventures never cease to brighten my day. Then there’s Maple, the wise old moose whose ancient, knowing eyes seem to hold every secret of the universe—so expert in math that, in her whimsical logic, 1+1 becomes 11. And finally, there’s Grizzly, my devoted dog, whose enormous, warm hugs wrap me in a cocoon of unconditional love. I hope I haven’t overstepped by sharing too much, but you mentioned the idea of confiding in someone. Curious and empathetic, I peeked at your profile and discovered that like me, you grew up in a time before the internet—a time when every secret was guarded closely and loneliness often echoed louder. I can scarcely imagine the challenges you faced as a transgender individual in those days. I, too, have known the sting of isolation. My older brother, who was open about his identity as a gay man, bore the weight of those struggles in a pre-digital world. I remember how isolated and different we felt, unable to connect with others who understood our truths. Over two years before he passed away, I bravely shared my affection for being little with him. He embraced my truth with open arms, offering love and support beyond measure. He even encouraged me to indulge in my unique self-expression—wearing diapers, a cozy onesie, and even drinking from a bottle when I was at his place. He was not merely my brother, but my closest friend; I was there for him when he needed me most. I realize I might be rambling, but what I am trying to convey is that I cannot imagine the compounded difficulty of being transgender and harboring the desire to be little in a world without the connecting power of the internet. I vividly recall the early ‘80s when I was just nine—a time when my little self felt so intensely lonely and secretive that I promised never to share it, believing it was somehow wrong. Yet, when my wife discovered that side of me, it filled me with a paradoxical sense of relief that someone truly understood. Though she sets gentle boundaries—diapers are not allowed in her presence—she warmly embraces the pacifier and the comforting presence of my stuffed animals. In fact, tonight I find myself venturing out into the night to hunt for tree frogs in the backyard, all while clad in my trusty onesie and cozy pajamas, with Dotty by my side, as my wife peacefully sleeps. I understand that, much like me, you experience an almost magical release from stress when you embrace your inner little, dressed in diapers, a onesie, or any attire that speaks to your unique soul. In a world that often brands such self-expression as taboo, we must remember that taboo is only defined by the limits we place upon it. I wish you the very best should you decide to share your truth with someone, and I hope you find the courage to accept outcomes that may range anywhere between the most challenging and the most uplifting. Sending you warm, heartfelt hugs tonight.

I think this is the longest chapter I have written yet. Enjoy. Chapter 43 - Hangover Morning arrived way earlier than Avery wanted. He was harshly awoken by knocking that slowly but painfully filtered through Avery's wine-soaked consciousness. At first, he thought the rapping on the door was a dream. He slowly surfaced from sleep in increments, his eyes opening and then closing as they felt heavy. Each time he open his eyes a little more bringing new discomfort: the crick in his neck from sleeping at an angle the human spine was never meant to sustain, the cottony dryness of his mouth that tasted like something had crawled inside and died, the throbbing behind his temples that kept perfect time with his pulse. The knocking came again, more insistent this time, and Avery's eyelids peeled apart with the reluctance of Velcro separating. Sunlight assaulted him through half-open blinds. The television was still on, the game having long since gone to its screensaver. An empty wine bottle and one that was ¾ full still stood on the coffee table like accusatory sentinels, the plastic cup tipped on its side, a purple ring staining the wood beneath it. Knock. Knock. Knock. The sound was real, not part of the fading dreamscape. Avery blinked, his brain struggling to process the implications. Someone was at his door. He shifted to sit up and felt an unfamiliar squish beneath him, followed by a cold dampness against his skin that sent a jolt of awareness through his system like an electrical current. The diaper. He was still wearing the diaper. The diaper he had used intentionally last night while playing games and seeking comfort and refuge. Reality crashed down upon him with merciless clarity. Memories of the previous night reassembled themselves in jagged pieces—the wine, the gaming, the strange release of wetting himself, the surrender to sleep without changing. The diaper had absorbed more through the night, but now, hours later, it had reached its capacity. He must have used it while we was asleep. The once-dry padding had transformed into a sodden mass that clung to his skin, cold and clammy where the warmth of his body had faded. "Avery? Are you in there?" Christy's voice rang out behind the door. Panic roared through Avery's hangover. He tried to stand and immediately regretted it, his head spinning violently, the room tilting like a carnival ride. The diaper hung heavy between his legs, gravity pulling at its saturated bulk. He looked down at himself in horror—t-shirt ridden up to expose his stomach, diaper visible and unmistakable with its yellow indicators now a deep amber, the material stretched and sagging. "Avery, I know you're home. Are wake? Why are you not opening the door?" Christy's voice had taken on an edge of impatience. "I came to get you at ten o’clock like we planned, so we can work on the presentation. I don’t want to waste time." Avery's eyes sought out the clock on the cable box: 10:07 AM. "I tried calling you like five times." The door handle jiggled. Thank god he'd locked it. "Your phone's going straight to voicemail." “Wake up, I don’t want to have to come back here again.” Christy's voice sounded upset and desperate for a response. Avery spotted his phone on the floor where it must have fallen during the night. The black screen confirmed what he already knew—the battery had died, just like his dignity. The diaper made a wet, squelching sound as he forced himself to stand. The sensation was indescribably unpleasant—cold, clammy, the material chafing against his inner thighs. Avery looked down at himself in dismay. As he stood, the t-shirt fell to mid-thigh, but did nothing to disguise the obvious bulk beneath. The diaper had swelled to twice its original size, the tapes straining at the sides. A faint odor of urine hung about him, unmistakable at close range. "Give me five minutes," he called over his shoulder, his voice steadier now but still rough around the edges. "I need to shower." Avery shuffled toward the hallway, each step producing a soft squish and crinkle. The diaper had lost most of its structural integrity, sagging between his legs in a way that forced him to adopt a bow-legged gait. A drop of liquid escaped the leg hole and traced a cold path down his inner thigh. The diaper was worse than he'd feared. The blue decorative elements had vanished beneath the swollen yellow of the indicators. The tapes clung valiantly to the stretched material, defying physics to maintain their hold. With clumsy fingers, Avery worked at the adhesive, grimacing as the diaper sagged further with each released tape. He stumbled towards the bathroom. A mess, as always, when he entered. A shower. He needed a shower immediately. And then clothes. He moved towards the sink, stepping over his clothes. “Drugs.. I need drugs,” he thought to himself as he grabbed a bottle of Advil. He struggles to pop the top open. But when it did, the top shot opened, and he spilled a lot of pills down the sink. Unfortunately for him, he had taken the sink stopper out not long ago to get better draining, and several pills went down the drain. He was able to recover two on the side of the sink that he popped in his mouth, turned on the faucet, and leaned his head down to drink from it to swallow the pills. Avery quickly stripped off his shirt and diaper. Tossing the soggy diaper into the trash can by the toilet. Avery became aware of the cold air on his damp skin, the lingering scent that clung to him like an accusation. Stepping into the shower, Avery scrubbed at his skin with the desperation of someone trying to remove evidence of a crime. The shower spray, initially a shock of cold, had heated to just below scalding, turning his pale skin an angry pink. Steam filled the small bathroom, fogging the mirror and condensing on the ceiling in droplets that occasionally fell like judgment from above. His hands shook as he worked the soap into a lather, the hangover and anxiety creating a perfect storm of motor dysfunction. "Two minutes!" Christy's voice penetrated the bathroom door, the thin wood doing little to muffle her increasingly impatient tone. "Coming!" Avery shouted back, the effort sending a spike of pain through his temples. He rinsed quickly, water streaming into his eyes and mouth. The artificial scent of "Ocean Breeze" soap—a product that smelled nothing like any ocean Avery had ever visited—competed with the lingering ammonia odor that seemed embedded in his nostrils. Whether the smell was real or a psychological remnant, he couldn't be sure. He stepped out of the shower without turning off the water, hoping the continued sound might buy him extra seconds. The towel was damp from yesterday's shower, but it was his only option. Avery dried himself haphazardly, leaving patches of moisture that immediately chilled in the apartment's air conditioning. He wrapped the towel around his waist and darted across the hallway to his bedroom, leaving wet footprints on the worn carpet. His dresser yielded nothing but disappointment—t-shirts with faded graphics, jeans with frayed hems, boxers that had seen better days. He grabbed a pair of worn-out jeans and an old T-shirt, dropped his towel, and quickly stepped into the clothes. As he fumbled with the shirt buttons, Avery imagined Christy on the other side of his front door, her immaculate appearance making his apartment building look even shabbier by contrast. She had probably been up for hours, had probably eaten a nutritious breakfast, and reviewed her notes and chosen an outfit that was simple but very nice. Meanwhile, he had spent the night pickling his brain in cheap wine and wearing a diaper like some oversized toddler. The thought sent a fresh wave of shame through him, followed immediately by a surge of nausea that had him gripping the edge of the dresser, knuckles white. His stomach roiled, the combination of hangover and anxiety creating a perfect environment for revolt. Avery breathed through his nose, counting backwards from ten, willing the nausea to subside. He couldn't afford to vomit now. There wasn't enough time. "Avery!" Christy's voice had acquired an edge that could have cut glass. "I'm not kidding around here. We're going back to my place and getting started!" "Just a second!" he called back, his voice steadier than he felt. The room spun slightly as he straightened, the blood rushing from his head, leaving him momentarily dizzy. There was no time for socks; he shoved his bare feet into his sneakers. A glance in the mirror revealed a disaster—hair sticking up in wet spikes, eyes bloodshot, skin alternating between ghost-pale and blotchy red. He looked exactly like what he was: a man who had drunk himself into oblivion and woken up in a puddle of his own urine. Avery ran a hand through his hair, attempting to impose some order on the chaos. It was a lost cause. He rushed back into the living room, nearly slipping on the wet floor where his footprints had tracked shower water. The evidence of last night's regression was everywhere—an empty wine bottle and one-third full on the coffee table, a gaming controller on the floor. Avery grabbed the bottle and shoved it in the trash. He corked the partially full wine bottle and shoved it in the refrigerator, swept the controller under the couch with his foot, and kicked the trash can deeper into the corner. "I'm counting to ten, and then I'm leaving!" Christy announced, followed by the sharp rap of knuckles against wood. "One...two..." She wore a tailored blazer in navy blue over a crisp white blouse, her hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail that emphasized the sharp angles of her face. A leather messenger bag hung from one shoulder, and in her hand, she held a cardboard tray containing two coffee cups. Her expression was a mixture of annoyance and concern, brown eyes narrowing as they took in his disheveled appearance. "Crap, Avery," she said by way of greeting. "You look like hell." He attempted a smile that felt more like a grimace. "Good morning to you, too." "Did you forget?" Her tone made it clear that forgetting was not an acceptable excuse. "The presentation? That we're supposed to be working on for Monday next week?" "No, I didn't forget," Avery paused, feeling the pounding of his head.. "I just... overslept." Christy's gaze was shrewd, assessing. "Are you hungover?" There was no point denying the obvious. "A little." "Fantastic." She shook her head, disappointment radiating from her in her eyes and facial expressions. "Well, drink this." She extended one of the coffee cups toward the gap in the door. "Starbucks, Molcha, I thought I would treat us for a good start to the day, working together, but now I'm not so sure.” He felt belittled a little from the comment as he knew he wasn’t presenting himself as a responsible adult, Avery's chest. "Right. Thanks." He reached for the cup, keeping his body firmly positioned to prevent the door from opening further. The coffee's aroma cut through his congested senses, promising salvation in the form of caffeine. "Can I come in now?" Christy asked, impatience returning to her voice. "We have a lot of work to do, and standing in your hallway isn't going to get it done, plus I feel stupid hanging outside for 20 minutes trying to wake your ass up.." Avery's mind raced. The apartment was still a disaster zone. The bathroom floor was wet. The shower was still running. And beneath all the artificial soap scent, he was certain the smell of urine lingered, detectable to anyone with functioning olfactory nerves. "Just... give me one more minute," he said, hating the pleading note in his voice. "I need to, uh, tidy up a bit." Christy rolled her eyes, a gesture she had elevated to an art form. "Seriously? I'm not here to judge your housekeeping, Avery. I'm here to make sure we don't humiliate ourselves in front of the board." "I know, I know. Just—please. One minute." He began to close the door, coffee in hand. "I'll be quick." Christy's foot shot out, preventing the door from closing completely. "One minute no more, I am tired of waiting," she agreed, her tone making it clear that this was her final concession. "I'll time it." She withdrew her foot, and Avery quickly shut the door. He didn't lock it—didn't want the click to betray his distrust—but closed it firmly, leaning against it for a brief moment as the reality of his situation washed over him. One minute to erase the evidence of his shameful night. One minute to transform his apartment from a den of regression to a semi-respectable place of residence. One minute to steady his hands, settle his stomach, and prepare for hours of close proximity to Christy's perfection. Avery pushed himself away from the door and lurched into action, his heart hammering against his ribs, the coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim of its cup. The clock was ticking. Christy, it seemed, had lost patience with his delays. The door swung open, revealing her in all her bright-eyed and ready to work. As she saw, her eyebrows raised in an expression that hovered between concern and exasperation. "I'm sorry," she began, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation, "but we really can't afford to waste any more time. Bryan already texted me twice asking for the presentation when we finish it so he ….." She stopped mid-sentence, frozen in the entryway, her gaze fixed on something over Avery's shoulder. Her expression transformed, concern morphing into confusion, then realization, then—worst of all—pity. Avery turned to follow her line of sight, dread pooling in his stomach like lead. He had missed something. In his panic, he had overlooked something crucial. There, on the arm of the couch, partially obscured by the throw blanket but unmistakable in its clinical whiteness: a thick adult diaper. Clean, unused, but undeniably an adult diaper. He wasn’t sure how it would go there. Did he, in his drunken state last night, take out another diaper to change into before going to sleep, but didn’t? Time stopped. The apartment fell silent except for the sound of Avery's pulse roaring in his ears. He felt the blood drain from his face, felt his extremities go cold and numb, felt shame bloom in his chest like a poisonous flower. He knew Christy knew about the pull-up and how he told her it was only to prevent accidents when he gets overly stressed. But she never knew that he wore diapers to work or even around the apartment. "Avery," Christy said, her voice unnaturally gentle, as if speaking to a wounded animal. "Is that—" Christy began to question how bad his incontinence might be, or was it for some other purpose. "It's not what you think," he interrupted, the words tumbling out too fast, too desperate to be convincing. "It's not—I don't—" But there was no explanation, no excuse that could transform an adult diaper on his couch into something innocent, something normal. The evidence was damning in its simplicity. Christy took a step forward, then another, her movements careful, deliberate. She set her coffee and bag down on the kitchen counter, never taking her eyes off Avery's face. Her expression was unreadable now, a carefully composed mask of neutrality that somehow made everything worse. He would have preferred disgust, preferred judgment—anything but this careful blankness that felt like clinical assessment. "It's okay," she said, still in that gentle voice that rasped against Avery's nerves like sandpaper. "You don't need to explain. I don’t need to know" But he did. He needed to say something, anything, to fill the vacuum created by her discovery. Explanations crowded his throat—medical conditions, jokes, pranks, anything to distance himself from the reality of what she'd seen. Nothing emerged. His vocal cords seemed paralyzed, frozen by the absolute horror of the moment. Christy's gaze shifted from his face to the rest of the apartment, taking in details he hadn't managed to conceal—the overpowering smell of artificial pine, the damp patches on the carpet, the throw blanket arranged too carefully over the couch cushions. Her eyes returned to the diaper, then to Avery, connecting dots he desperately needed to remain separate. "We should get going," Avery managed finally, though where he would go or how he would escape this moment remained a mystery. His feet seemed rooted to the floor, his body a foreign object that refused commands. —------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Christy's car was exactly what Avery had expected—a late-model Blue Honda Civic, sensible but not extravagant, the exterior washed despite the perpetual drizzle of morning dew. She unlocked it with a press of a button, the lights flashing in acknowledgment. "You can put your stuff in the back seat," she said, the first words either of them had spoken since leaving the apartment. Avery nodded, opening the rear door to reveal an interior that matched the exterior's tidiness. No fast food wrappers, no loose change, no forgotten sweaters or abandoned umbrellas. The back seat looked barely used, the upholstery unmarked by the daily chaos that characterized his own existence. He placed his laptop bag on the pristine seat, aware suddenly of the contrast between Christy's ordered world and his own disarray. The passenger seat adjusted automatically as he sat, conforming to some previous occupant taller than him. Avery sat rather far from the glove compartment. He resisted the urge to fiddle with the settings. Christy started the car and navigated out of the parking lot in silence; The radio remained off, the only sounds the soft whoosh of climate control and the occasional click of the turn signal. Avery stared out the window, watching his apartment building recede in the side mirror, a concrete monument to his humiliation growing smaller but never quite disappearing. His mind replayed the moment of discovery in an endless loop—Christy's expression shifting from annoyance to shock to that carefully neutral mask that somehow hurt worse than disgust would have. The diaper on the couch was wondering again how it got there. They stopped at a red light, the car idling quietly. Christy tapped her fingers against the steering wheel in a pattern that might have been a song only she could hear. Avery searched desperately for something to say, some neutral topic that might disperse the thick cloud of awkwardness that filled the vehicle's interior. "So," he began, his voice sounding foreign to his own ears, "the presentation." Christy seized on the topic with visible relief. "Yes. We need to focus on the how and why of the theory and calculations, and how it goes into making these custom drugs, and how we think it will work with the proposed pilot plant. Bryan was very specific about the board wanting detailed analytics and user engagement." "I have the numbers," Avery said, grateful for the shift to professional territory. "I was thinking we could present them as a flow chart rather than just raw data. Show each calculation leads to another till we get to the custom-made drug." "That's a good idea," Christy nodded, her eyes still fixed on the road ahead. "They respond better to visual representations than data dumps. I have learned that from the last presentation I did last year." The city gave way to residential areas, houses growing progressively larger and more well-maintained as they drove. Trees lined the streets here, their new spring foliage creating dappled patterns of light and shadow on the car's hood. Christy turned onto a street of modest but well-kept bungalows, each with its own small yard and individual touches—wind chimes hanging from a porch, a collection of ceramic gnomes patrolling a garden bed, a row of bright yellow tulips standing at attention along a walkway. "This is me," Christy said, pulling into the driveway of a brick gray house with white trim. A small porch wrapped around one side, furnished with a wooden swing and potted plants that looked suspiciously healthy. The front yard was neat but not obsessively manicured, wildflowers mingling with conventional plantings in a controlled chaos that suggested deliberate choices rather than neglect. It was, Avery thought, exactly the kind of house he would have imagined for her—practical but not without charm, ordered but not rigid, a physical manifestation of Christy herself. He felt suddenly, acutely aware of his own apartment with its blank walls and minimal furnishings, its air of temporary occupation despite years of residence. His living space, like his life, had been on hold, waiting for some future version of himself to arrive and claim it properly. Christy turned off the engine. "We can set up in the kitchen; It is a nice-sized table to spread our stuff out," she said, her tone deliberately casual. "It also gets good light this time of day." Avery nodded and stepped out of the car and followed Christy to the door Christy's house greeted Avery with a feeling of soft comfort. The entryway opened directly into a living room that managed to be both inviting and meticulously arranged, a feat of domestic engineering that made Avery immediately conscious of the contrast to his own haphazard habitat. A scent lingered in the air—something floral but not cloying, like lavender with hints of vanilla—likely emanating from the reed diffuser that sat on a small table near the door, its glass container catching the morning light in prismatic splinters. As Avery moved into the living room. His gaze traveled across the living room, absorbing details that cohered into a portrait of Christy more intimate than anything he'd learned through a month of working together. The sofa wore a blanket the color of sea foam, its neatly folded presence suggesting both practicality and decorative awareness. Throw pillows in complementary shades of blue and gray were arranged in a sequence that appeared random but was clearly deliberate, their varying textures—velvet, linen, something with subtle sequins—creating visual interest without clashing. A bookshelf occupied one wall, its contents organized in a system that wasn't immediately apparent but clearly existed—perhaps by genre, or time period, or personal significance. Fiction mingled with academic texts, photography books with what appeared to be travel guides. Several framed photographs stood among the books, showing Christy with various companions—an older couple who shared her eye shape and dimpled smile, likely parents; a group of women raising cocktail glasses in a toast, their faces flushed with laughter; Christy herself standing on what appeared to be a mountain summit, arms outstretched against a backdrop of endless sky. The coffee table, a minimalist construction of light wood and tempered glass, supported a small collection of objects that seemed curated for both utility and aesthetics—a ceramic coaster set painted with watercolor wildflowers, a sleek remote control, the latest issue of Scientific American, and a small potted succulent with delicate pink-tipped leaves. What struck Avery most, however, was the complete absence of anything traditionally masculine. No oversized leather furniture, no sports memorabilia, no electronic gadgets beyond the basics. The space was unapologetically feminine without relying on stereotypical frills or pastels—a sophisticated, adult interpretation of femininity that spoke of confidence rather than conformity. "The kitchen's through here," Christy said, breaking Avery’s thoughts of the living room, leading the way through an archway that separated the living room from a dining area that flowed into an open kitchen. Her,e too, personal touches transformed what might have been a generic space into something distinctly Christy. The kitchen table—large enough for four but currently set for one—was made of the same light wood as the coffee table. A single place mat sat at one end, a small vase containing three fresh tulips marking what was clearly her usual seat. The walls bore framed botanical prints, detailed illustrations of herbs and flowers identified in elegant script beneath each image. The kitchen itself was compact but efficiently arranged, with white cabinets, gray quartz countertops, and stainless steel appliances that gleamed under recessed lighting. A row of potted herbs lined the windowsill above the sink—basil, mint, and something with feathery leaves that might have been dill. A magnetic strip on the wall held a collection of knives in various sizes, their blades catching the light like metallic exclamation points. "You have a nice place," he said, the inadequacy of the compliment apparent even as he spoke it. Christy nodded, accepting the words at face value. "Thanks. I've been here for about two years. It's small, but it works for me." The statement contained multitudes—the implication that she lived alone, the suggestion that the space had been tailored specifically to her needs and preferences, the quiet confidence of someone comfortable in her solitary domain. Avery wondered briefly about past relationships, about whether any man had ever occupied this space alongside her, had disrupted its careful harmony with masculine disorder. There was no evidence of such a presence, current or historical. "Bathroom's down the hall if you need it," Christy said, gesturing toward a short hallway that presumably led to the more private areas of the house. "We can set up here." She indicated the kitchen table. "I'll make some fresh coffee." Avery nodded, grateful for the practical direction. He moved to the kitchen table, clearing the place mat and tulip vase to make room for their work materials. The surface beneath was unmarked, free of the water rings and scratches that characterized most used furniture. Christy lived carefully, it seemed, protecting her possessions from the wear that came with casual use. He felt suddenly, acutely out of place—his rumpled shirt and hasty appearance a discordant note in this symphony of order and intention. Avery ran a hand through his still-unruly hair, aware that the gesture did nothing to improve its appearance. His reflection in the glass door of a cabinet confirmed his fears—he looked like what he was, a man assembled in haste, the components of respectability present but improperly arranged. Christy moved around the kitchen with practiced efficiency, measuring coffee grounds, filling the reservoir with filtered water from a pitcher in the refrigerator. Her actions were economical, without wasted motion or hesitation. This was her territory, her routine. “If you need more coffee, just let me know. The coffee machine makes single cups with fresh grounds. Also, if you need water or soda, please help yourself to the refrigerator.” “Thanks, I will let you know. I am still drinking my mocha.” His voice was softer than normal as he was still bothered by Christy seeing that diaper on his sofa. "We'll need to start with getting the outline finalized, then we can divide the sections and work simultaneously. I suggest you take the technical data visualization parts, going with your suggestion on flowcharting,a long with a few graphs.” The shift back to work talk normalized the situation slightly, giving Avery something to focus on beyond his discomfort. He opened his laptop, the screen illuminating with the half-finished notes for the presentation. "I can do that," he agreed, reaching for the notes he'd brought—crumpled sheets covered in his angular handwriting, diagrams in various colored inks, some sections crossed out with violent lines that had occasionally torn the paper. They looked like the ravings of a madman compared to Christy's neat spiral-bound notebook with its color-coded tabs that sat on the kitchen table. She came over and sat down at the kitchen table just at the corner next to Avery. She opened her laptop and notebook. They began to work, Christy outlining the presentation structure while Avery pulled up the relevant data files, their professional personas gradually reasserting themselves. But beneath the surface of this collaboration, the memory of what had happened in his apartment lingered, an invisible current that shaped their every interaction, every carefully casual comment, every avoided glance. The diaper on the couch arm might have been left behind, but its revelation had traveled with them, a third presence at the table that neither could acknowledge but neither could forget. The kitchen table slowly transformed into a command center, laptops open and angled toward their respective owners, notes spread in controlled disarray between them. Avery's papers—creased, coffee-stained- created a stark contrast to Christy's color-coded system of folders and transparent documents. The scene resembled any ordinary collaboration between colleagues, a fiction both seemed determined to maintain despite the knowledge that hung between them, invisible but undeniable. Christy took charge naturally, without discussion or apparent awareness that leadership was being assumed. She pulled out a yellow legal pad covered in her precise handwriting—each letter individually formed rather than flowing together, as if typography itself required conscious attention. "So here's how I think we should structure this," she began, her voice taking on the neutral efficiency of professional discourse. "We open with the problem statement—three slides max, just enough to remind the board why we undertook this project in the first place. Then we move to methodology, which I've already drafted." She tapped a section of her notes highlighted in pale blue. "That transitions into your user engagement metrics, which will be the meat of the presentation." Avery nodded, grateful for the clear direction and the blessed normalcy of work discussion. Here, at least, he knew his role and understood the expectations. The data, the mathematical theory, the statistical analysis—these were realms where he felt competent, where his value was unquestioned. He clicked through the files on his laptop, pulling up spreadsheets and visualization drafts he'd been working on before his ill-fated decision to postpone work for wine and gaming. "I've got the raw numbers here," he said, turning the screen slightly so Christy could see. "I was thinking we could show this as a heat map rather than a standard line graph—it makes the usage patterns more immediately visible." Christy leaned forward to examine the screen, her professionalism overriding any lingering awkwardness. Her hair fell forward, briefly brushing against Avery's arm as she squinted at the data visualization. Neither acknowledged the contact. "That works," she said after a moment's consideration. "But we should add a time-lapse element to show how the patterns evolved after the beta release. Otherwise, it looks static, and Bryan wants to emphasize the dynamic response to the user's specific genetic makeup." "I can do that," Avery said, already mentally coding the animation sequence. "It would be pretty straightforward to add a slider control that moves through the weekly snapshots." This exchange set the pattern for their collaboration—Christy providing the strategic framework, Avery contributing the technical execution. They moved through the presentation structure methodically, discussing each section in turn, debating visualization approaches, and refining language. Gradually, the rhythm of professional interaction began to supersede the memory of that morning's revelation. Not erasing it, but pushing it temporarily into the background, like ambient noise that remains present but ceases to demand attention. Time passed unmarked except by the changing quality of light through the kitchen window, the morning's clear brightness giving way to the softer glow of midday. Christy's refrigerator hummed periodically, the dishwasher completed a cycle with a soft chime, and the neighbor's dog barked briefly at some unseen disturbance. These domestic sounds formed a gentle backdrop to their work, a reminder that beyond the bubble of their professional focus, ordinary life continued its unremarkable progression. By noon, they had completed the structure of the presentation and divided the remaining tasks. Christy would finalize the executive summary and conclusion, ensuring the narrative flowed coherently from problem to solution. Avery would refine the technical visualizations and prepare the interactive elements that would demonstrate the product's functionality. The division played to their respective strengths while ensuring a cohesive final product. Both Christy and Avery felt comfortable in each other's presence again, like they did at work. "We're in better shape than I expected," Christy admitted, leaning back in her chair and stretching her arms above her head, the first sign of physical fatigue she had displayed. "I thought we'd still be struggling with the basic outline at this point." "We work well together," Avery said, the observation slipping out before he could consider its implications. It was true—their professional styles complemented each other, her strategic thinking balancing his technical focus, her attention to narrative offsetting his immersion in data details. Christy's expression shifted, a brief flash of something—surprise, perhaps, or recognition—crossing her features before settling back into professional neutrality. "We do," she agreed, the simple acknowledgment somehow weightier than the words themselves warranted. A moment of silence followed, neither uncomfortable nor entirely easy. Avery looked down at his laptop screen, at the visualization he had been refining—a complex pattern of user interactions represented as interconnected nodes, colors shifting to indicate intensity and frequency. In that moment, it seemed an apt metaphor for his relationship with Christy—a network of professional connections now complicated by personal knowledge, the dynamics altered in ways he was still trying to understand. "Should we break for lunch?" Christy asked, practical as always, bringing them back to the immediate and manageable. "I have some soup I could heat up, or we could order something." The question was ordinary, domestic, a colleague-to-colleague inquiry with no hidden meanings or underlying judgments. Yet it represented something significant—a continuation, an indication that whatever had been revealed that morning had not rendered their association impossible and possible friendship. They would eat lunch, they would finish the presentation, and they would move forward. The world had not ended with his exposure. Avery felt something tight in his chest loosen slightly, a constriction he hadn't fully acknowledged beginning to release its grip. "Soup sounds good," he said, the words simple but the sentiment behind them complex—gratitude, relief, the tentative acceptance of kindness he wasn't sure he deserved. Christy nodded and stood, moving toward the refrigerator with that same efficient grace that characterized all her actions. Avery watched her for a moment, then returned to his visualization, adjusting colors and connection weights, finding comfort in the logical patterns that had always made more sense to him than the unpredictable complexities of human interaction. He was never good with people or relationships, but he couldn’t help wonder what it might be like to be more than coworkers with her. The afternoon stretched before them, minutes accumulating into hours as they refined the presentation, polished transitions, and debated word choices. Outside, clouds gathered and dispersed in silent commentary, occasionally casting the kitchen into momentary shadow before retreating to reveal harsh sunlight that emphasized the growing tension in Avery's posture. Each completed slide brought them closer to the inevitable conclusion of their work—the presentation itself. This recognition hovered at the edges of Avery's consciousness like an approaching storm, initially distant but growing more insistent, more unavoidable with each passing hour. By two o'clock, they had assembled a cohesive draft. Christy's executive summary flowed seamlessly into Avery's technical sections, which in turn supported her strategic recommendations. On paper—or rather, on screen—it was a compelling narrative, a testament to their combined skills and complementary perspectives. But as Christy began discussing the practical aspects of the presentation itself, assigning speaking parts and estimating timing, Avery felt the familiar constriction in his chest, the subtle tightening that preceded full-blown anxiety. "So for the user engagement metrics," Christy said, marking up a printout of the slide deck with a yellow highlighter, "you'll walk them through the heat map visualization and explain the significance of the usage patterns. That should take about five minutes, leaving time for questions." Avery stared at the highlighted sections—his sections—and swallowed against the dryness in his throat. "That's... a lot of talking points," he observed, aiming for casual but landing somewhere closer to strained. "It's your data," Christy replied without looking up, adding another mark to the printout. "You understand it better than anyone, so you're the logical person to present it." Logical. The word grated against Avery's mounting anxiety. Logic had nothing to do with the physiological reality of standing before the board, all those eyes fixed on him, judging, evaluating, waiting for him to fail. Logic couldn't account for the tremor in his hands or the sweat that would inevitably bead at his hairline or the possibility—horrible but real—that his bladder might betray him under the extreme stress of public scrutiny. "Couldn't we just give Bryan the slides and let him handle it?" Avery suggested, attempting to keep his tone light, as if the question were motivated by efficiency rather than fear. "He's always taking credit for our work anyway." Christy looked up then, her expression a mixture of surprise and something like disappointment. "That's not how it works, Avery. We did the analysis, we present the findings. That's what being employed at this level means." "I know, I know," he conceded, running a hand through his hair, which had settled into new formations of dishevelment since their arrival. "It's just—I'm better with math and theoretical concepts than with people. You know that." "Everyone gets nervous presenting," Christy said, her tone softening slightly. "It gets easier with practice. And the board isn't as intimidating as it seems. They just want the information presented clearly." Avery nodded, not trusting himself to reply without revealing the depth of his anxiety. They returned to work, but the seed of distress had been planted and continued to grow, fertilized by each new slide, each new talking point assigned to him. The pressure built incrementally, like water rising against a dam with hairline fractures. An hour later, as they rehearsed the transition between sections, the dam began to crack. "And then I'll introduce the next segment by saying, 'Now Avery will guide us through the technical implementation and user response metrics,'" Christy read from her notes, then looked expectantly at Avery, waiting for him to begin his portion. Instead, he pushed back from the table abruptly, his chair legs scraping against the kitchen floor with a sound like fingernails on a chalkboard. "This is ridiculous," he said, the words escaping with more force than he'd intended. "I don't understand why I have to be the one to present this part. Why can't you do it? Or Bryan? Why me?" The outburst hung in the air between them, Avery's frustration crystallized into words that couldn't be taken back. Christy set down her notes slowly, deliberately, as if giving herself time to form a measured response. "Because it's your work, Avery," she said, her voice calm but firm. "You wrote the algorithms, you analyzed the data, you created the visualizations. No one else can explain it as well as you can." "But that's exactly the point," Avery insisted, rising from his chair and beginning to pace the small kitchen, unable to contain the nervous energy coursing through him. "I did the work. It's done. The slides explain themselves. Anyone with basic technical literacy could read them and understand. There's no reason for me to stand there sweating and stammering through an explanation when you or Bryan could do it more professionally." His hands gesticulated as he spoke, emphasizing points with jerky movements that betrayed his escalating anxiety. "Bryan's the supervisor—he's supposed to represent the team's work. That's literally his job. And you-you're good at this stuff. You don't turn red or forget words or look like you're about to pass out when someone asks a question." "Avery—" Christy began, but he was too far into his spiral to stop. "It doesn't make sense," he continued, his pacing increasing in speed, his words tumbling out faster. "It's inefficient. It's poor resource allocation. You put the person with the skills in the position that requires those skills. I'm good at code, at data. Not at standing in front of a room full of executives who make more in a day than I do in a month, trying to convince them that my work has value when I'm not even convinced that I have value." The last admission escaped before he could censor it, revealing more than he'd intended. Avery stopped pacing abruptly, his back to Christy, suddenly aware of how much he'd exposed—another vulnerability laid bare before her in the space of a single day. His hands were shaking now, a fine tremor that traveled up his arms and settled in his shoulders. Sweat dampened his shirt at the small of his back, and his breath came in shallow pulls that didn't quite satisfy his lungs' demand for oxygen. The familiar lightheadedness of an impending panic attack hovered at the edges of his consciousness. Silence filled the kitchen, broken only by the sound of Avery's slightly ragged breathing and the soft ticking of a clock on the wall. He couldn't bring himself to turn around, to face whatever expression Christy wore—pity, annoyance, confirmation that her earlier discovery was just one manifestation of his fundamental brokenness. "Avery," Christy said finally, her voice quieter than before but not unkind. "Please sit down." It was a request, not a command, but something in her tone made compliance seem like the only option. Avery returned to his chair, still avoiding direct eye contact, focusing instead on a point just past Christy's left shoulder where a small spider plant hung in a ceramic pot, its arching leaves perfectly still in the motionless air. "I understand that presenting is difficult for you," Christy continued once he was seated. "But avoiding it isn't the solution. Bryan and I could present your sections, yes. But then, what happens the next time you're required to present? And the time after that? This is part of the job, Avery. A part you need to learn, just like you learned programming languages and statistical analysis." Her logic was impeccable and entirely beside the point. The rational part of Avery's brain recognized the truth in her words, but rationality held little sway over the primal fear that gripped him at the thought of public speaking. Fear that manifested physically—in trembling hands and racing hear,t and the looming specter of humiliation if his anxiety triggered his most embarrassing symptom. "You don't understand," he said, the words barely above a whisper, laden with a lifetime of similar moments—of being told to overcome, to push through, to just get over it, as if anxiety were a choice rather than a condition. "Maybe I don't," Christy acknowledged, surprising him with her candor. "But I'd like to." The simple statement, offered without judgment or demand, created a small crack in Avery's defensive wall. He risked a glance at her face, expecting to find the familiar impatience he'd encountered from teachers, supervisors, and foster parents who couldn't understand why he couldn't just be normal. Instead, he found something closer to genuine curiosity, an openness that momentarily disarmed him. Before he could respond, however, the tension in his body created a new, more immediate problem—a familiar pressure in his lower abdomen, a warning sign he'd learned to dread. Avery shifted in his chair, crossing one leg over the other, a flush creeping up his neck that had nothing to do with the conversation and everything to do with his body's betrayal. "I need to use the bathroom," he said, the admission tight with embarrassment. Christy nodded, gesturing toward the hallway. "First door on the left." Avery rose, moving with the careful control of someone whose dignity hung by the thinnest of threads. As he walked away from the table, he felt Christy's gaze on his back, speculative but not unkind. Another layer of himself exposed, another weakness revealed. The day, it seemed, was determined to strip him bare, piece by humiliating piece. Avery barely made it to the bathroom before the first warm trickle escaped, a harbinger of the humiliation to come. He fumbled with his belt, fingers clumsy with panic, but it was already happening—a slow, unstoppable release that no amount of muscular control could prevent. The stress, the anxiety, the morning's hangover conspiring against him in a perfect storm of physiological betrayal. He froze, paralyzed by the warm spread of wetness down his inner thigh, the growing dark patch on the front of his slacks undeniable evidence of the one thing he'd dreaded most: losing control of his body in Christy's house, miles from the safety of his apartment and spare clothes. "No, no, no," he whispered, the mantra useless against the physical reality. His bladder emptied itself in defiance of his will, the sensation was both relief and horror simultaneously. The urine soaked through his boxers, saturating the fabric of his slacks, creating a spreading stain that reached halfway to his knee. Some of it pooled in his shoes, an added indignity that would make walking back to the kitchen a squelching announcement of his failure. Avery stared at his reflection in Christy's bathroom mirror—his face drained of color except for two bright spots of shame burning high on his cheekbones, his eyes wide with panic, his mouth a tight line of mortification. Behind him, the bathroom gleamed with the same careful attention as the rest of the house—fluffy towels arranged precisely on a rack, decorative soaps shaped like seashells, a shower curtain patterned with abstract waves in soothing blues and greens. This pristine setting only emphasized his own messiness, his fundamental inability to maintain basic human functions. The wetness was cooling now, the fabric of his pants clinging uncomfortably to his legs. There was no hiding this, no explaining it away. He couldn't walk out of the bathroom in soaked clothing, couldn't stay hidden in here indefinitely, couldn't escape the fact that at nineteen years old, he had just wet himself like a toddler in his colleague's house. Then, a realization penetrated his fog of shame: his backpack. It was in the kitchen, beside the chair where he'd been sitting. And in the front pocket of that backpack, tucked into a side compartment where casual observation wouldn't find it, was a pull-up. But to access it, he'd need to ask for help. To ask for help, he'd need to admit what had happened. There was no good option, only degrees of humiliation. Avery closed his eyes, summoning whatever fragments of courage remained in his shattered composure. When he opened them again, his reflection appeared no more prepared for what came next, but time was passing, and with each minute, his absence from the kitchen became more conspicuous, more difficult to explain. "Christy?" he called, his voice cracking on her name. "I... I need help." Silence followed, then the sound of a chair pushing back, footsteps approaching the hallway. "Avery? Are you okay?" Her voice came through the door, concerned but cautious. "No," he admitted, the single syllable heavy with defeat. "I had... there's been an accident." More silence. Avery imagined her on the other side of the door, processing his words, connecting them to his earlier anxiety, to the diaper she'd discovered, forming a narrative that painted him as fundamentally broken. "What do you need?" she asked finally, her tone carefully neutral. "My backpack," he said, swallowing against the dryness in his throat. "There's a... in the front pocket, the small zippered section, there's a..." He couldn't say it, couldn't name the item out loud. A pause, then: "You're pull-up, I understand. I'll get it." Her footsteps retreated. Avery leaned against the sink, legs trembling slightly from the adrenaline crash following his panic. The wet fabric of his pants was now just cold and uncomfortable, a physical reminder of his shame that matched the emotional weight in his chest. Christy returned quickly, a soft knock announcing her presence... "And... I found what you need." The fact that she didn't name it either was a small mercy, a tacit acknowledgment of his dignity or what remained of it. "I'll open the door just a crack," Avery said, moving to position himself where he would be hidden when the door opened. "Just... hand it in, please." He opened the door enough to extend his arm, keeping his body out of sight. Christy's hand appeared in the gap, holding not just the pull-up but also a clean hand towel. Their fingers briefly connected during the exchange, a moment of human contact that felt both intrusive and grounding in his state of humiliation. "Thank you," he murmured, already withdrawing, eager to close the barrier between them. "Avery," Christy saw the wet spot on his pant legs. There was no way he could wear those pants right now. Christy prevented him from shutting the door completely. "Your pants... do you want me to wash them? It would only take about thirty minutes on my machine." The offer was practical, kind, and somehow more mortifying than anything that had preceded it. The idea of Christy handling his urine-soaked clothing, of her witnessing the extent of his accident, sent a fresh wave of shame through him. But the alternative—sitting in wet pants or, worse, leaving her house in them—was unthinkable. "I... yes," he managed. "If you don't mind." Tears swelled his eyes as he felt mortified without really any other options. "I don't," she said simply. "When you're ready, hand them out the same way. I'll bring you something to wear in the meantime." Christy withdrew, leaving Avery alone with the pull-up, the towel, and the monumental task of transforming from one humiliating state to another only slightly less degrading. He stripped off his shoes first, grimacing at the dampness that had seeped into his socks. Those would need washing too. Then his pants, the fabric heavy and cold with urine, clinging to his legs and requiring a struggle to remove. His boxers followed, the cotton soaked through, beyond salvation. The air felt cool against his bare lower half, a temporary relief quickly overshadowed by the knowledge of what came next. The pull-up lay on the counter where he'd placed it, innocuous in appearance but loaded with significance. White with blue cartoon characters faintly printed on the front—supposedly discreet, though the childish decorations seemed to mock the adult need they served. Avery unfolded it, the familiar crinkling sound painfully loud in the tiled bathroom. Stepping into the pull-up felt like a surrender, an acceptance of what Christy now knew him to be—someone whose anxiety manifested in the most humiliating way possible, someone who couldn't maintain the most basic adult function of bladder control. He pulled it up, adjusting the waistband, feeling the slight bulk between his legs. It fit snugly, designed to contain accidents rather than prevent them—a distinction that offered little comfort in the moment. He used the hand towel to clean himself as best he could, then folded his soiled clothes into as neat a package as possible, minimizing exposure when he would hand them to Christy. A soft knock at the door announced her return. "I found these," she said as Avery cracked the door open. "They might be a bit long, but they should fit otherwise." She passed him a pair of light purple sweatpants, neatly folded. Women's sweatpants, obviously, but plain enough to pass for unisex at a casual glance. Another gesture that mixed kindness with humiliation—being given women's clothing to wear because he'd wet himself like a child. They exchanged the sweatpants for his soiled clothes, the transaction completed with minimal eye contact through the narrow opening of the door. Avery heard Christy walk away, presumably to put his clothes in the wash, leaving him to don the borrowed garment in private. The sweatpants were indeed long, ending a good 4 inches past his ankles, but the elastic waistband accommodated his hips, and the fabric was soft, well-worn. He studied his reflection again—a grown man in women's sweatpants with a visible bulge where the pull-up created extra volume between his legs. The ensemble completed a portrait of degradation so perfect it might have been comical if it weren't happening to him. Avery splashed cold water on his face, trying to reduce the redness that had settled into his features. Nothing could be done about the fundamental reality of his situation, but he could at least attempt to face it with whatever scraps of poise he could muster. He dried his hands and face with a corner of the hand towel, then folded it neatly and placed it in the hamper he found beside the sink. Taking a deep breath, Avery opened the bathroom door and stepped into the hallway. Each movement produced a faint crinkling sound from the pull-up, audible perhaps only to his hyperaware ears but seemingly broadcast to the entire house in his imagination. The sweatpants, though loose, didn't completely disguise the diaper's outline—another layer of exposure he would have to endure. The walk back to the kitchen was the longest journey of his life. She had seen him wet himself before and knew of his issues but wetting himself at her house just the two of them was a crushing weight of shame, there stirred the faintest hint of something else—a recognition that she had responded not with disgust or mockery, but with practical kindness oncea gain, with an acceptance he had done nothing to earn and couldn't begin to understand. With a resigned sigh, Avery settled into his chair at Christy's kitchen table, the soft hum of her refrigerator filling the room like a low, constant murmur. The kitchen was bathed in the warm glow of under-cabinet lights, casting gentle shadows across the countertops and cupboards. He tried to focus on the task at hand—finishing the presentation with Christy—but every movement reminded him of the unfamiliar fabric clinging to his legs. The light purple sweatpants borrowed from Christy were a size too large, and he felt acutely aware of them hugging his thighs and calves. Beneath them, the pull-up added an extra layer of discomfort and self-consciousness. Avery looked at his laptop, the device illuminating his flushed face. He tried to focus back on he task at hand. He navigated through their presentation slides, eyes darting over the data charts and bullet points he prepared. Snippets of text mingled with lines of code in his mind as he tried to weave a cohesive narrative for their project, but his focus was unsteady, fractured by the intrusion of everything that had just happened. No matter how he tried, he couldn't shake the raw sensation of vulnerability that came with wearing someone else's clothes—oversized, conspicuously purple, tailored to remind him he was now borrowing more than just garments. Christy sat beside him, maintaining a silence so complete it seemed intentional, a tactful way to respect the fragility of his composure. Her eyes were fixed on her own screen, making subtle, methodical adjustments to graphs and tweaking transitions with the same precision she applied to everything in her life. She didn’t mention Avery’s attire or glance down at his ankles, where the too-long pants bunched awkwardly around his shoes. Instead, she maintained a professional demeanor, focusing solely on their shared goal of finishing the presentation. She didn’t want him to feel any more awkward than he already felt. The air between them was thick with unspoken tension, a palpable discomfort that wrapped around Avery like an invisible cloak as he worked tirelessly to ignore both it and his own awkward self-consciousness. He was hyper-alert to every sensation: the elastic waistband pressing against his stomach, the slight bulk of the pull-up beneath the sweatpants, the insinuation of childishness each inflection implied. He shifted in his seat, causing a faint crinkling that seemed immensely loud in his imagination and painfully obvious, though Christy didn’t react. Even though he had been in pull-ups and even diapers to her unknowingly, this was different. He averted his eyes from her screen, trying in vain to focus on his own. His mind flitted back and forth, like a moth trapped in a jar, between the content on the laptop and the shame of what had just transpired. Avery wondered how Christy could continue so calmly, how she could detach herself from the awkwardness he felt engulfed in. Even as he tried to work, he couldn't escape the awareness of his situation, the infantilizing ensemble he was wearing, the layers of exposure that seemed to compound with every movement. He had come in boxers and pants, thinking he wouldn’t need a pull-up around her. It was almost unbearable but slightly softened by Christy’s refusal to acknowledge it—her insistence on maintaining their work-first, matter-of-fact approach. In her silence, he found a sliver of relief amid his humiliation. Time dragged with the weight of each slow, uncomfortable second, but gradually regained its usual pace as the two of them wordlessly fell into a rhythm. Avery's sense of displacement began to settle, though his awareness of the sweatpants hugging his thighs and calves never quite left him. With each revision, each minor edit, each moment that passed without her mentioning the incident, his tension ebbed just enough for him to regain some focus on the screen and the task at hand. When Christy finally spoke, she pointed out a particularly complex data set, directing his attention to a slide that needed more work. Her voice was gentle, devoid of any judgment, saturated only with the kind of professionalism that had come to characterize her response to his accident. She didn't tease or even acknowledge the situation. Instead, she questioned the clarity of a graph, her tone direct yet considerate. Avery found a strange comfort in her demeanor, like a raft in the turbulent sea of his emotions. He managed to contribute, though his thoughts at first stumbled under the weight of his own self-consciousness. Each word was hesitant, carefully chosen, as if he were tiptoeing through a minefield of potential humiliation. But as the moments ticked by and Christy maintained her focused indifference to his attire, his ideas began to form more clearly. He felt like a diver surfacing from deep waters, the distance from his embarrassment growing. The sheer effort of concentrating on their project was an awkward relief for him, a welcome distraction from the larger emotional turmoil churning beneath. The more they delved into the details, the more Avery's mind allowed itself to be absorbed in the work instead of the shame. His voice found strength, becoming steadier as he explained the rationale behind a particularly intricate piece of code. Christy nodded, her silence acting as quiet validation, encouraging without words. They refined their content, adjusted slides, and inserted notes, each task drawing them further into a shared world of intellectual focus. Avery felt the tension—slowly, imperceptibly—begin to loosen its grip on his body as the minutes turned into hours. Christy suggested a new transition between sections, her casualness a balm to his exposed nerves. He implemented her suggestion, his fingers moving more confidently across the keyboard. With every edit, every rephrased bullet point, their collaboration felt more like the productive partnership it had been before the morning's incident. Avery marveled silently at her ability to engineer such an atmosphere, to subtly guide their interaction away from the personal and back to the professional. In contrast, he wondered if he would ever be capable of such poise. Her refusal to dwell on his shame, the way she treated it as an irrelevant aside, gave him an unexpected and unfamiliar sense of relief. The hours blended as they refined the presentation, the faint rumbles of their stomachs the only sign that lunchtime had come and gone. The warmth of the indoor lights contrasted with the embarrassment that had initially tinged the air between them, a constant reassurance amidst the chaos of his feelings. As Avery began to immerse himself more deeply in their work, drawing charts and equations onto the screen, he could feel the morning's embarrassment transform into a lingering, but not overpowering, backdrop. Confidence slowly reemerged as he reclaimed some semblance of his usual self amidst the numbers and logic, areas where he felt unquestionably competent. The focus required to process their data and crystallize their findings became its own form of catharsis, paradoxically freeing him from the weight of his exposed insecurities. Their presentation practice concluded as the afternoon light began to soften, the harsh directness of midday giving way to the more forgiving glow of approaching evening. Avery's clothes, rescued from their humiliating state, emerged from Christy's dryer warm and folded with the same precise edges that characterized everything in her domain. She handed them to him without ceremony, a small bundle that represented both his shame and her discretion—his pants, socks, and boxers transformed from evidence into merely clothing again, the incident that had necessitated their washing tacitly agreed to be forgotten, or at least unmentioned. "Bathroom's all yours if you want to change," she said, already turning away to collect the presentation materials scattered across her coffee table, granting him privacy in the only way the situation allowed. Back in the living room, Christy had packed up her laptop and notes, her messenger bag sitting ready by the door. The space had been restored to its previous state, furniture returned to its original positions, and no evidence remained of their work session. It struck Avery as appropriate somehow—her ability to reset, to maintain order, to contain mess, whether physical or emotional. "Should we get you home?" she asked, the question purely practical. "We both need to review our notes tonight, and it's getting late." Avery nodded, gathering his own belongings—laptop, notes, backpack with its front pocket now empty of the emergency pull-up that had proven so necessary. The thought of returning to his apartment produced conflicted feelings—relief at the prospect of solitude after a day of intense exposure, dread at facing the space where his morning humiliation had occurred, awareness that being alone meant being solely responsible for his own emotional state again. They left Christy's house in the lengthening shadows of late afternoon, the sun sinking toward the horizon in a display of color that seemed excessive for a Tuesday. The air had cooled slightly, carrying the scent of someone's early dinner—garlic and herbs from a nearby home, normal people having a normal evening, untouched by the strange intimacies and revelations that had characterized Avery's day. Christy's car welcomed them with the same neat interior, the same faint scent of vanilla air freshener. Avery settled into the passenger seat, his laptop bag on his lap, a physical barrier between himself and further conversation. The engine started with a quiet purr, and they pulled away from the curb, leaving the safe harbor of Christy's ordered world for the uncertain waters of what came next. They drove in silence at first, the space between them filled with unspoken acknowledgments of boundaries crossed, vulnerabilities exposed, kindnesses extended and accepted. The neighborhoods passed by the windows, transitioning from Christy's well-maintained residential area to the more urban landscape that surrounded Avery's apartment building. The shift in scenery marked not just a geographical change but a return journey to separate lives, separate realities that had temporarily, unexpectedly, intersected. "You did well today," Christy said finally, breaking the silence, trying to give Avery some confidence, which she knew he lacked, as they waited at a red light. "With the presentation practice. You improved significantly from the first run-through to the last." The praise was measured, specific, and delivered without unnecessary embellishment — quintessentially Christy. Avery felt a warmth in his chest that had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with the simple human pleasure of being seen, recognized for effort rather than just results. "Thanks to you," he replied, fingers tracing the edge of his laptop bag, a restless habit that helped contain his anxiety. "Your approach helped a lot. Breaking it down into manageable pieces." Christy nodded, her focus on the road ahead as the light changed and they moved forward again. "It's a technique I learned when I was younger. My piano teacher used it—isolating difficult passages, practicing them separately, then gradually connecting them back into the whole piece." The small personal detail, offered without prompting, surprised Avery. Christy rarely spoke about herself, about her past or her life outside work. This glimpse of her history, mundane as it was, felt like a reciprocal vulnerability, a balancing of the scales that had tilted so heavily toward his exposure throughout the day. "You play piano?" he asked, genuinely curious about this aspect of her he'd never suspected. "Played," she corrected, changing lanes with precise movements. "From ages eight to sixteen. I wasn't particularly talented, but I was disciplined enough to compensate." A small smile touched her lips, there and gone in an instant. "My teacher said I approached music like a math problem—technically correct but lacking spontaneity." The self-assessment was delivered without self-pity or defensiveness, simply as an observation about her nature. Avery recognized in it a self-awareness that matched his own, though applied to different areas—Christy understood her procedural approach to creative endeavors, just as he understood his technical competence coexisting with social anxiety. They turned onto Avery's street, the apartment building visible ahead, concrete and unremarkable in the fading light. The day's journey was ending where it had begun, a circular path that had traversed terrain neither of them could have anticipated that morning. Christy pulled into a visitor parking space and turned off the engine, the sudden silence emphasizing the finality of their arrival. Avery made no immediate move to exit the car, his reluctance surprising him. Despite the humiliations of the day, despite the exhaustion and anxiety and exposure, some part of him was oddly reluctant to return to his solitary existence, to the empty apartment with its evidence of last night's regression still present, waiting to be confronted. "Thanks," he said, the single word inadequate for all he meant to convey—gratitude for her help with the presentation, for her discretion about his accident, for the loan of sweatpants, for the washing of his clothes, for the absence of judgment when judgment would have been understandable. "For everything today." Christy nodded once, accepting the thanks without diminishing it through denial or elaboration. "See you Monday, Avery. Remember to practice your slide out loud several times tomorrow. We will have a dry run with Bryan Monday morning before we present to the board." Avery exited the car, watching as Christy drove away, her taillights receding in the gathering dusk. The weight of his laptop bag pulled at his shoulder as he turned toward his building, toward the solitude that awaited him—a solitude that now felt different, neither the comfort he sometimes craved nor the isolation he often feared, but something in between, a temporary state before tomorrow's continuation of this unexpected journey they had begun together.

I put a lot of time into this chapter. It has some humor and then gets serious. I hope you enjoy it. If you didn't read chapter 41 because I posted it recently. Please go back and read it. Chapter 42 - Pandora’s Box Avery sat in the back of the bus on the way home, thinking to himself. Yesterday was hard; the meeting with Bryan and Christy only stressed Avery out even more. Today, he had stayed hunched over his desk in the open office floor plan. His mind raced through the day at work. He ran through the calculations and the report he was writing up time and time again. Christy kept trying to divert Avery’s attention back to the presentation. He just couldn’t get the information in just a few slides. How could he explain everything when the report and calculations were more than that? In Avery’s head, in order for someone to understand the need for the pilot plant, they would have to know how the program Christy put together worked and how it could calculate a custom-made cancer treatment drug based on the analysis of the genetic data from lab results. These calculations were complex and required a deep understanding of several key theoretical applications. How can anyone, the CEO or the board, make a decision off a few slides? Avery slung his backpack over his shoulder when the bus stopped at his location. He stepped off the bus and began to walk toward his apartment. There typically would have been relief when he stepped off the bus and heard the bus doors close, ending the week finally. But he still had work to do to finish the presentation with Christy this weekend. As the bus drove off, Avery took a deep breath. The evening air carried the scent of exhaust and stale air, a familiar urban smell that neither welcomed nor repelled him. He felt his stomach growl, a hollow reminder of the lunch Christy had brought him had long since consumed. He thought back to the last couple of days. The only food he had was food that was spoiled or stale. Avery needed to stock up for at least the weekend, so he made his way over to the discount grocery store, which was just across the street from his apartment. The store sign reading Penny Saver Provisions with neon lights was on display and could be seen easily across the street. The store, Penny Saver Provisions, clung desperately to its existence. Its exterior bore the scars of time and neglect - peeling paint revealing layers of faded colors beneath, graffiti tags marking it as part of the city's underbelly. The neon sign hung precariously above the entrance, flickering intermittently as if gasping for breath in an attempt to stay alive. Despite its dilapidated state, it was a beacon in the concrete jungle that could be seen from across the street. As Avery approached the crosswalk, across the street, a crosswalk signal blinked with a warning as it counted down the last seconds. Quickly looking both ways, Avery figured he could make it, so he hurried across the street, dodging an unseen sedan that seemed determined to claim the intersection as its own as it raced a yellow light. Immediately, there was a loud blaring horn from the sedan. Avery turned to briefly see a middle-aged male driver as the driver flicked him off. Avery rolled his eyes, passing off the driver as someone who was disgruntled with the world as people seem to be these days. Once to the other side of the street, Avery entered the Penny Saver Provisions and grabbed a blue basket, its plastic handle worn smooth by countless desperate hands before his. A chip in the rim cut into his palm, but he barely noticed, his mind already calculating the sum of necessities he would need to spend against the dwindling balance in his checking account. He was still starting out in life and didn’t have much spare cash. He navigated to the dairy section first, his eyes scanning the price tags before the products. He read through the refrigerated window display that the name-brand gallon of milk was $4.59, but the store-brand gallon mix carton was just $2.99. It was worth the savings for Avery to purchase the store brand. His last gallon of milk spoiled before he finished it. He subconsciously told himself he would finish it this time, but he had told himself this many times before, and each time it would end up spoiled again. The microwavable meals came next. He could purchase a slew of Dinner meals, Pasta meals, Soups, and stews. But in the end, they were all a depressing array of sodium-laden rectangles that promised nutrition and taste that they couldn't possibly deliver compared to Darlene’s meals. As he debated what to pick out for the next few days. A woman without warning in workout clothes murmured, "Excuse me," pushing him aside and reaching past him for something organic and triple the price of what he was looking at. Avery could smell her perfume even though he didn’t really know the difference but assumed it to be expensive and subtle. There was a sense of entitlement to this woman as she pretty much ignored his presence when getting the meals. Avery just stood there in silence, his knees crackling in protest. The woman took her time to examine each before placing the meals in her cart. He stood invisible to her as he held his basket with the gallon of milk. The weight of the basket made the plastic dig deeper into his fingers. He was relieved when she finished selecting her organic meals and moved on. Avery crouched, examining the bottom shelf where the cheapest options lurked. Five for $10. He selected the least offensive combinations—two Salisbury steaks with mashed potatoes that resembled wet cement, two mac and cheese the color of a traffic cone, and two beef stroganoff that contained neither recognizable beef nor anything that could reasonably be called stroganoff. Four chicken alfredos completed the set, the pasta photographed in a way that suggested al dente perfection but would inevitably deliver the texture of damp newspaper. In the snack aisle, Avery's eyes caught on a display of kettle-cooked chips, thick and crispy and $4.99 a bag. His hand hovered, then moved to the adjacent tower of generic potato chips, three bags for $10. The bags were half-air, he knew, but the math was undeniable. Three mediocre experiences trumped one good one when the budget was this tight. He selected barbecue, sour cream onion, and "original"—a flavor that somehow managed to taste like nothing and salt simultaneously. The wine aisle drew him over them. He didn’t usually purchase wine or any type of alcohol, but he really needed something to help him relax because that was what tonight was about. That is what he wanted to do tonight: relax, play video games, and not think about work anymore. At least not till Christy came over to pick him up tomorrow. Till then, no work. The bottles gleaming under spot lighting designed to elevate even the cheapest wine to something resembling respectability. He didn’t know his wine well or really anything at all about wine. What he had over at Darlene’s house was pleasantly good, but he knew regardless of what wine he chose tonight, it wouldn't be nearly as good as what he got with Darlene. Darlene had expensive tastes based on her house, furniture, food, and the restaurants she picked. Avery moved past the locked cabinets of anything requiring investment or appreciation straight to the bottom shelves where plastic-corked bottles huddled together. His eyes scanned the tags: $15.99, $10.99, $7.99. They all had ratings on them with descriptions of what tones, flavors, and smells the wine offered. It was all overwhelming to him. He finally chose a cheap wine for 7.99 that had a rating of 88. Seemed good enough. His hand closed around a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, labeled barefoot. He hesitated, then grabbed a second bottle of Chardonnay, labeled Yellow Tail, which promised notes of apple and pear but would most likely not deliver. The two bottles of wine, a gallon of milk, and ten microwave meals made the basket heavy, and about to overflow, so he decided to check out. As he walked towards the checkout aisle, his eyes inadvertently strayed to the section devoted to infantile necessities. Previously, this was a part of the store he would navigate past without sparing a second glance. But today, it had an entirely different resonance. It served as a vivid reminder of the time spent with Darlene. The neatly stacked diapers, the faintly sweet aroma wafting from the baby powder and lotions; each element stirred up a whirlpool of nostalgia within him. His heart throbbed with a warmth that was both comforting and painful in its intensity. He found himself pausing in front of the pacifiers, his gaze lingering on their soft pastel hues, wondering if it would offer any soothing to him as it did to babies. Standing there Avery thought, what if he could be wrapped once more in Darlene’s loving arms? Experience her soothing voice just for him? Feel the soft caress of her tender hands gently rocking him into a world free from pain and fear? He imagined the comforting sensation of a warm blanket tucked around him, the softness of her embrace cocooning him in pure love. Just then, the memory surged to the forefront of his mind: that night when he woke screaming and crying on the cold, heartless floor. Darlene had found him crumpled and screaming in fear, her face etched with concern. She had held him as if he were the most fragile, precious thing, cradling him so gently in her arms. The tender care of her touch, the gentle sway of her rocking, had been enough to calm the tempest raging from the nightmare. Her melodious voice whispered reassurance, transforming chaos into calm, disbelief into an almost serene trust. The room faded away until all that existed was her and the rhythmic lull of her voice, lulling his troubled mind to a hesitant, then deeply restful, sleep. He had awoken in her guest bed, tucked in, an island of warmth and comfort. Avery couldn't help but wonder: was this what it felt like to be cradled, truly loved, by a mother? Was it possible to feel that safe, that cherished? That moment had left his heart aching with a longing so profound it felt like a physical void he had buried for so much of his life. But then reality crashed down on him like a wave breaking against rocks. He wasn't Darlene's child; he was just someone who yearned for that level of care and affection that now seemed forever out of reach. Darlene had offered that care to him in the form of regress therapy, but he quickly pushed her away. Here he was, standing in the baby aisle, feeling alone. He was an adult, not a child. Avery chastised himself as he rolled his eyes and proceeded to the checkout line. Standing in the checkout line, Avery avoided eye contact with the cashier, a middle-aged woman whose name tag read "Dolores" in faded print. She scanned his items indifferently, each beep, another small wound to his pride. The milk. Beep. The sad parade of microwave meals. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. The chips crumpled slightly as she handled them. Beep. Beep. Beep. The wine bottles clinked against each other. Beep. Beep. "Fifty-one dollars and ninety-one cents," Dolores announced, her voice flat as week-old soda. Avery swiped his debit card, and the machine processed his dwindling limited resources. The receipt spooled out like an itemized list of compromises. He stuffed it into his pocket without looking at it and gathered his bags, the thin plastic stretching ominously under the weight. "Have a nice evening," Dolores said, already looking past him to the next customer. "You too," Avery mumbled, although he wasn't sure she heard him. Outside, the temperature had dropped further, and Avery hunched his shoulders against the chill. The bags cut into his fingers as he walked the three blocks to his apartment building, a concrete monstrosity that had been fashionable perhaps in the brutalist heyday of the 1970s but now just looked tired and mean. With each step, the wine bottles clinked against his leg, promising a temporary respite from the anxiety that felt like it had made a permanent home in his chest. His apartment building loomed ahead, windows lit in random patterns like a half-finished game of Tetris. Avery entered the silent apartment, giving him a feeling of indifference that had little to no decorations. Everything was old and used in his apartment, which lacked any warmth, unlike Darlene’s place. The apartment opened directly up to both the kitchen and living room in disarray. The single overhead light flickered twice before committing to illumination, revealing a living room that revealed his makeshift TV stand and his used couch, which he had been sleeping on for the past few days. He walked over to the kitchen table and tossed his laptop bag on a chair that sat next to it. He set the grocery bags on the kitchen counter, wincing as his fingers regained circulation. The two wine bottles clinked against each other, a hollow sound that echoed in the sparse kitchen. Avery glanced at his backpack, which housed his laptop and notebook then at the wine. The presentation for tomorrow's meeting was only half-complete at best. His supervisor, Bryan, had made it clear that the board expected something polished and professional. Something Avery wasn't sure he could deliver, especially with anxiety gnawing at his insides like a starving rat. "Not tonight," he muttered to the empty apartment. His voice sounded strange in the quiet, almost like it belonged to someone else. The presentation could wait until morning. He'd wake up early, he decided, ignoring the fact that his insomnia rarely allowed for restful sleep, let alone an early start on the weekends. It was always a battle for him on whether to take the sleeping pills or not. Not taking the slipping pills, he would toss and turn most of the night. Taking them, he would sleep soundly but wake up feeling overly tired. His body would feel heavy for the first hour or so, trying to get up and get dressed. It felt like a no-win situation to him. Avery decided not to worry about it; he'd give himself this evening to enjoy and relax. A few hours of gaming with a bottle of cheap wine would be a welcomed temporary reprieve from the constant pressure this week. He hoped it would be just enough to reset his fraying nerves. Even as he made the decision, Avery felt a slight weight lift from his shoulders, immediately replaced by a different one—the nagging guilt of procrastination, of not being good enough, dedicated enough. He pushed the thought away and opened the refrigerator. The light inside was harsh, illuminating a landscape of forgotten containers and questionable condiments. A half-empty ketchup bottle stood sentry at the door, its cap crusted with dried residue. Behind it, was a jar of mayonnaise that had expired some time ago. A takeout container from the Chinese place down the street housed something that had once been lo mein but now resembled a science experiment gone horribly wrong. Avery sighed. He couldn't ignore the state of the refrigerator any longer. The smell that wafted out was a complex bouquet of neglect and poor life choices. It was no longer ignorable. Dinner, wine, and gaming had to wait. "Might as well," he muttered, grabbing the trash can and positioning it beside the refrigerator. He started with the obvious casualties. The lo mein container went first, held at arm's length as he dropped it into the trash. He tossed the spoiled milk, meat, and cheese. He didn't dare open any of them. Next came a plastic produce bag containing what had once been lettuce but was now a blackened sludge clinging to translucent plastic. The metamorphosis from food to compost was complete and horrifying. A yogurt cup hiding in the back corner had swollen like a bullfrog in mating season, the foil top distended in a way that suggested microbial warfare happening within. Avery disposed of it with the caution of someone handling time bomb that could go off any minute. "What the?" he whispered as he discovered a Tupperware container of mysterious origin. The contents were unidentifiable, a gray-green mass that might have been pasta, or possibly risotto, or perhaps evidence in a murder trial. The plastic had stained, bearing the permanent mark of his neglect. After a moment's consideration, Avery dropped the entire container into the trash. Some things weren't worth salvaging. A half-empty carton of eggs revealed three survivors and three casualties. The cracked ones had leaked a viscous fluid that had congealed on the shelf, requiring a scouring pad and more effort than Avery had anticipated. The survivors were subjected to the float test, which they failed spectacularly, bobbing like apples in a carnival game. They joined their siblings in the trash. By the time he reached the condiment shelf, the trash can was filling nicely, and the refrigerator had been reduced to its essential components: an ancient bottle of mustard (which, according to internet lore, never actually expired), a jar of pickles floating in brine yellowed with age, and a bottle of hot sauce that had survived three apartments and countless meals. Avery attacked the shelves next, removing each one and washing it in the sink with dish soap that promised to cut through grease but struggled with the archaeological layers of spills. His fingernails scraped at a particularly stubborn spot of what might have been barbecue sauce or possibly blood from a defrosting steak. The refrigerator walls received similar treatment until the interior gleamed with cleanliness it hadn't known since he arrived here. There was no way he was going to let this trash bag sit here all night. He needed to take the trash out. As he was about to leave, he remembered his whole bathroom trash can with the two used disposable diapers. He made his way into the messy bathroom, pushed aside his clothes and used towels, and dumped the contents of the trash can into the larger trash bag. The trash bag was now completely full and heavy. Avery tied up the trash bag and carried it outside. He was lucky that one of the large trash bins was not too far away from his apartment, and one side was already open. He swung the full trash bag into the trash bend it made a loud hollow bang because there wasn’t much trash in the bin. The trash had been picked up early that day. Returning with the purge complete, Avery carefully arranged his new purchases. The milk went on the top shelf, alongside the remaining hot sauce and mustard. The microwavable meals occupied the middle shelf, their colorful packaging providing the only vibrancy in the sterile space. He left the bottom shelf empty—a testament to his financial situation and a promise to do better next payday. Overall, the refrigerator looked bare and lacking but it was clean and didn’t have a horrible odor to it. The door shelves received the two wine bottles, standing like sentinels against the coming night. Avery closed the refrigerator, briefly satisfied with this small victory against the chaos of his life. His stomach growled a reminder that he hadn't eaten since the sandwich Christy made for him at lunch. Avery selected one of the microwave meals—the chicken alfredo, which promised "restaurant quality" despite costing less than a tip on an actual restaurant meal. He peeled back the corner of the plastic film, as instructed, and placed the tray in the microwave. The microwave hummed, numbers counting down with digital precision. Three minutes and thirty seconds to something resembling dinner. Avery leaned against the counter, watching the tray rotate behind the microwave's cloudy window. The sauce began to bubble at the edges, a minor volcanic event contained within plastic boundaries. His mind drifted to the presentation. DNA Pharmica CEO and Board were expecting a high-quality presentation. One that would educate them on the progress of making a cancer drug that was specific to one type of cancer and DNA. The presentation must show them that the improvement was significant and of value. It had to show that the investment in capital for the next phase of the project was worth it... Avery wasn't convinced he could do his part in this. They really needed to read the detailed report. He kept returning to how someone could summarize years' worth of research into fifteen minutes, most of which he didn’t do. Everyone else seemed to manage just fine. Christy navigated the corporate pressure and landscape with ease. He felt like she was someone born to it. Bryan never seemed stressed, his collar always crisp, his smile always confident. The microwave beeped, interrupting Avery's spiraling thoughts. He opened it to find the Alfredo sauce bubbling in some places and still frozen in others, a thermal patchwork that defied physics. Avery dutifully followed the second step of the instructions, peeling back the film entirely, stirring the congealing mass, and returning it for another minute and a half. The second round of microwaving produced a more uniform heat, though Avery harbored no illusions about the quality awaiting him. He removed the tray, testing the temperature with a cautious finger. Hot enough to burn, which was the only temperature microwaved food could achieve. Avery carried the steaming tray to the kitchen table with two chairs, one chair holding his backpack. The pasta gleamed under the artificial light, slick with a sauce that contained more stabilizers than cream. Small bits of chicken—or chicken-adjacent protein—dotted the landscape, islands in a sea of chemical enhancement. For a moment, Avery stared at his meal, a perfect summation of his current situation: mass-produced, barely adequate, and ultimately unsatisfying. But it was fuel, and tonight, that would have to be enough. Avery arranged his meager feast on the coffee table with the careful precision of someone setting up dominoes. The microwave meal was steamed in its black plastic tray, the fork balanced across one corner. Beside it, he placed the bottle of cabernet—already uncorked, the plastic stopper discarded with little ceremony—and a red plastic cup. The arrangement looked almost civilized in the apartment's forgiving half-light, the evidence of his cheapness softened by shadow and intention. Standing back, Avery surveyed his master dinner plan, then glanced down the hallway toward his bedroom door. A familiar tightness crept into his chest—that pre-emptive anxiety that had become his constant companion. Even with the promise of wine and video games, even with the presentation temporarily banished to tomorrow's problems, the tension remained coiled like a spring in his sternum. He opened his gaming console, ready to lose himself in virtual worlds where his anxiety couldn't follow, where failure meant only a reset, not a cascade of real-world consequences. He chewed his lower lip, a habit from childhood that resurfaced whenever he was alone. The thought had been circling his mind since the bus ride home, a shameful but insistent whisper. Walking through the isle with the baby products didn’t help. He almost felt the gentle pressure, the secure embrace that had, on his recent hard nights, been the only thing between him and complete psychological unraveling. "Just tonight," he murmured to himself, the words barely audible. "Just to relax. It might help like it helps me sleep.." It wasn't the first time he'd worn them by himself, but it would be the first time he would wear them during the day without the intent to sleep on the sofa. The diapers he recently started to wear to bed had been a way to give him comfort at night, and he was doing his best to feel like he was asleep on Darlene’s lap or someone’s lap who cared for him for once. Even then, it was a battle-torn inside of him to wear them; it was a reprieve from the world that felt like it was against him but it was also a humiliating thought of being in one even when no one was around. But wearing one while awake, intentionally and not for sleeping, hoping for some comfort while intending to stay awake, was a line he'd approached but never entirely crossed. Avery took a deep breath and moved off the sofa, his socks silent against the worn carpet. His bedroom was sparse, functional—a twin-sized bed with plain gray sheets, some holes and rips in the sheeting, a dresser missing one knob, and a nightstand supporting a lamp with a shade that listed slightly to the left. He approached the dresser, sliding the drawer open with a grind wood against wood. The remaining diapers were stacked and nestled inside the drawer. Avery pulled one out, the familiar weight of it reassuring and embarrassing. He stared at the contents—thicker and more substantial adult diapers than the pull-ups he used during the day at work. These were the kind he'd ordered online last week after hours of hesitation, delivered in discreet packaging that nonetheless had him checking the alley of the apartments before bringing the box inside. Now, was he really going to do this while being up and playing video games? What was he doing? His hands trembled slightly as he held them in his hands. He had done this before; why was this such an issue this time... He held it for a moment, feeling its weight and potential to help relieve his stress. He wasn’t really going to do this, was he? Avery closed the dresser drawer and sat on the edge of his bed. He removed his slacks and boxers with methodical movements, tossing them to the side of the bed beside him.—a small gesture of control in a moment that felt increasingly surreal. The air was cool against his skin, raising goosebumps on his thighs. The diaper unfolded with a soft rustle. Avery positioned it beneath him, the back rising up to meet his lower back. He pulled the front section up between his legs, the material crinkling with each adjustment. The sensation was foreign yet familiar, the padding substantial between his thighs. He secured one tape, then another, then the remaining two, adjusting the fit until it hugged his body in a firm embrace. He stood, the diaper crinkling loudly in the quiet room. Avery winced at the sound, his cheeks burning despite his solitude. The bulk between his legs altered his stance, forcing his feet slightly further apart. He walked experimentally, hyper-aware of the padding shifting with each step, the whispering rustle accompanying his movement. Avery removed his shirt next, replacing it with a loose t-shirt that hung to mid-thigh, not quite covering the diaper completely but offering a token concession to normalcy. He avoided his reflection in the dresser mirror, not ready to confront the visual evidence of his choice. He was afraid the look of him in a diaper would only add to his guilt just trying this out. Back in the living room, Avery lowered himself carefully onto the couch, the diaper compressing beneath him with a soft crinkle. He reached for the plastic cup, filling it halfway with wine that looked black in the dim light. The first sip was as expected—sour with a chemical undertone that hinted at the lack of depth a good wine has. He grimaced but took another swallow, larger this time, hoping the alcohol would dull the edge of his self-consciousness. It didn't. The diaper felt enormous between his legs, an unavoidable presence that demanded acknowledgment. Each shift of his weight produced a rustle that seemed deafening in the quiet apartment. Avery closed his eyes, trying to focus on his breathing the way one of his therapists in the past had taught him. Four counts in, hold for seven, out for eight. His heart continued its frantic pace. He took another sip of wine, then another. The bottle was cheap, but it warmed his throat and stomach, a spreading glow that softened the sharp edges of his thoughts. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, something began to change. The diaper's pressure against his skin, initially alien and intrusive, gradually transformed into something else—a constant, gentle reminder of containment. Avery shifted again, this time focusing on the sensation. The padding cradled him, held him. It was like being hugged from below, a persistent pressure that somehow translated into security. His breathing began to slow, each exhale carrying away a small portion of the tension he'd been holding. By the third large drink of wine from the red plastic cup, Avery had settled deeper into the couch, his body relaxing in increments. The diaper no longer felt like an embarrassing secret but a cocoon, a barrier between his vulnerable self and the harsh demands of the outside world. There was something profoundly soothing about it, something that spoke to a part of him that existed beneath conscious thought—the part that remembered being small, being cared for, being safe before his parents passed away. He ran a hand experimentally over the front of the diaper, feeling its smooth surface, its yielding firmness. It wasn’t sexual for him. A thought flickered through his mind—what it would feel like to use the diaper as intended consciously—but he pushed it away, not ready for that threshold. Tonight was about comfort, about discovering this strange new territory of self-soothing. Avery reached for his fork and took a bite of the now-cooling Alfredo. The pasta was rubbery; the sauce congealed into something that only vaguely resembled food, but it didn't matter. The knot in his stomach had loosened enough to allow hunger to resurface. He ate methodically, washing down each bite with wine that began to taste better with each swallow. And now this—this strange, private comfort. The diaper held him together in a way he couldn't articulate, providing boundaries where his own psyche failed to establish them. It was ridiculous, infantile, and probably worthy of additional diagnoses in his already robust mental health portfolio. But it worked. The racing thoughts had slowed, the tightness in his chest had eased, and the constant tremor in his hands had stilled enough to hold his fork without rattling it against the plastic tray. Avery finished his meal and set the empty container aside. He poured another measure of wine into his cup and leaned back, allowing himself to fully experience the sensation of being diapered. The material whispered against his skin as he moved, a secret conversation between his body and this unexpected source of peace. The presentation was still waiting for him in his backpack with his laptop. Bryan's expectations, Christy's effortless competence, the board's scrutiny—all of it lurked just beyond this evening's temporary sanctuary. But for now, cushioned by padding and cheap wine, Avery found himself capable of believing in tomorrow's possibilities rather than dreading its certainties. He reached for the gaming controller, the familiar contours of it fitting perfectly in his hands. The Playstation hummed to life, the television screen casting blue light across the room. Avery settled deeper into the couch, the diaper crinkling beneath him—no longer an embarrassment but a curious ally in his ongoing battle for comfort and acceptance.. For the first time in weeks, perhaps months, Avery felt something approaching calm while awake. It was fragile, conditional, temporary—but in that moment, wrapped in an adult diaper and bathed in the glow of his television screen, it was enough. The game world unfurled before Avery in explosions of color and movement, a universe where consequences reset with each new challengesl. He decided to play Elderscrolls online tonight. Usually, his social anxiety wouldn’t allow him to play this game, but tonight, he felt secure. Avery started off playing solo. His fingers moved across the controller with muscle memory, executing combos and maneuvers that required no conscious thought, leaving his mind free to float in the space between concentration and release. The diaper crinkled beneath him whenever he shifted position, a constant reminder of his secret comfort, while the wine bottle beside him gradually emptied itself into his plastic cup and then into his bloodstream, smoothing the jagged edges of his thoughts into something more manageable, more malleable. The character on screen—a heavily armored warrior with impossibly broad shoulders and a sword that defied physics—sprinted through a medieval landscape, dispatching enemies with brutal efficiency. Avery guided him through a narrow mountain pass, the digital wind howling through craggy peaks. This was freedom, control—everything the real world denied him. His Playstation pinged with a notification. A rectangle appeared in the corner of the screen: MarauderX42 has invited you to join their party. Avery's thumbs paused over the controller. MarauderX42—Mark from his university; he hadn’t talked to him in a long time. He always quick with a joke and an invitation. Avery had joined him before, but that was a few months ago, He remembered in the past when their digital avatars would slay dragons while their voices crackled through headsets, discussing everything and nothing. Ever since he left the university, his social anxiety had been too much to keep in touch with anyone, even if it was through online gaming. He hovered over the accept button, then moved to decline. Another notification: WolfByte99 wants to know if you're online. That would be Jade, her gameplay ruthless and precise, her laugh infectious even through the metallic distortion of cheap microphones. A third ping: QuantumQuasar is starting a raid and needs a healer. Avery muted the notifications with a quick press of the button. Not tonight. Tonight, he needed solitude and to exist in a space where no one expected anything from him—not conversation, no teamwork, not the constant performance of being okay. The diaper crinkled as if in agreement as he reached for his wine. The second glass went down more easily than the first, the initial sourness muted by familiarity. Avery's character vaulted over a crumbling wall, the animation fluid despite the implausibility of a man in full plate armor performing parkour. The wine settled warm in his stomach, radiating outward to his limbs, which felt increasingly heavy yet somehow disconnected as if they belonged to someone else. By the third glass, the edges of the television screen had begun to blur slightly. Avery's reactions slowed, his character taking damage that would have been easily avoided an hour ago. He died in a skirmish with low-level enemies, the screen flashing red before fading to black. RESTART or QUIT. He selected restart, his thumb missing the button on the first attempt. "Shit," he muttered, the word slightly stretched at the edges. His tongue felt thick, uncooperative. Avery leaned back, the diaper compressing with a loud crinkle that made him giggle—a sound so unfamiliar that it startled him into silence. The fourth glass coincided with a particularly difficult boss battle. Avery's character died repeatedly, each defeat marked by increasingly creative profanity. The boss—a six-armed monstrosity with too many eyes—seemed to mock him with each victory animation. On the seventh attempt, Avery set the controller down and reached for his phone instead. Darlene's contact information stared back at him from the screen. Her photo—hair pulled back in a sensible bun, smile lines crinkling around eyes that had seen too much but somehow remained kind—made something twist in Avery's chest. She had been kind to him. She didn’t seem to give up easily. Avery's thumb hovered over the call button. What would he even say? Hey, Darlene, just sitting here in an adult diaper, drinking cheap wine, and failing at video games instead of working on my presentation. Thought you'd like to know how well I'm doing. The absurdity of it made him snort, a sound halfway between laughter and derision. Still, the urge to hear her voice—steady, unflappable, warm—was strong enough to override his better judgment. Avery pressed call before he could reconsider. The phone rang once, twice, three times. Avery's heart climbed into his throat, pulsing there in time with the ring tone. On the fourth ring, panic surged through him like an electrical current. What was he doing? It was nearly midnight. She'd be sleeping, or worse, she'd be awake and would hear the slur in his voice, the desperation. He ended the call before the fifth ring, tossing the phone onto the couch beside him as if it had burned his fingers. The relief of disconnection was immediate and overwhelming. He got up to grab the second bottle of wine. The Chardonnay he purchased. He hadn’t planned on drinking the second bottle tonight, but why the hell not, he told himself. He uncorked the plastic cork and tossed it into the trash can. Remember, he needed to take his meds and stumble into the bathroom, pushing once again the dirty towel and clothes away as he took his meds. He wasn’t thinking clearly and took his sleeping medication on top the wine he was already drinking. When he returned to the coffee table, he filled his cup to the brim, some of the pale liquid sloshing over the side and onto his fingers. Avery licked it off, grimacing at the taste but unwilling to waste even a drop. The new wine hit his already saturated system like a wave, pushing him from pleasantly drunk into something deeper, more untethered. The controller felt strange in his hands when he resumed playing; the buttons suddenly became complex puzzles requiring concentration to solve. His character moved erratically across the screen, spinning in circles when Avery meant him to walk forward. The enemies seemed to multiply, their patterns incomprehensible. Avery died again, and again, and again, each defeat registering as a distant, almost amusing inconvenience rather than a frustration. By the time the cup was empty once more, the room had developed a gentle spin, a lazy carousel rotation that affected everything except the center point of Avery's vision. He set the controller aside, recognizing that gaming was now beyond his diminished coordination. The television continued to display the game, his character standing idle in a sunlit meadow, occasionally shifting weight as the idle animation cycled. Avery was acutely aware of the diaper now, and its bulk between his legs comforted him. The thought that had flitted across his mind earlier returned with greater insistence. What would it feel like? The idea should have been repulsive, but in his inebriated state, it held a strange appeal—a final surrender to this regressive comfort, a complete relinquishment of control. He shifted position, feeling the material rub against his skin. The alcohol had filled his bladder more quickly than usual, and the pressure was becoming uncomfortable. Usually, he would simply get up and walk to the bathroom. The toilet was less than fifteen feet away, through the bedroom and just off a ways. But the thought of standing, of navigating the spinning room, of removing the diaper and then replacing it—all of it seemed impossibly complex or so he was trying to convince himself of this. And wasn't this the point? The diaper was there, its purpose explicit in its design. Using it intentionally would certainly be crossing a line, but hadn't he crossed several tonight? Avery closed his eyes, focusing on the sensation of fullness, of pressure. His mind, loosened by wine and wrapped in the secure embrace of the padding, made the decision for him. Release came not in a flood but in a hesitant trickle at first, his body fighting against decades of conditioning. Then, as the initial barrier fell, the rest followed. Warmth spread across his groin and down between his legs, the sensation both foreign and strangely familiar—a return to a state he'd left behind in early childhood. The diaper absorbed the flow efficiently, swelling slightly against his skin. The blue indicators turned yellow, a visual confirmation of what he'd done. The moment existed outside of conventional categories like shame or pleasure. It was simply experience, pure sensation unmarred by judgment. The relief of emptying his bladder, combined with the bizarre intimacy of feeling the warmth contained against him, created a cocktail of emotions that Avery, in his current state, couldn't begin to untangle. When it was over, he remained still, processing. The diaper felt heavier now, denser, but not uncomfortable. The material had done its job, wicking the moisture away from his skin while keeping it all contained. Avery ran a hand over the front, feeling the changed texture, the slight give of saturated padding. A laugh bubbled up from somewhere deep in his chest—quiet at first, then louder, edged with something that might have been hysteria or release or both. Here he was, a grown man, an at employee at a pharmaceutical/biomedical firm, a master's candidate, sitting on his couch in a wet diaper, drunk on wine that wasn't worth the bottles it came in. The absurdity crushed him and freed him simultaneously. Avery leaned back, the wet diaper squishing slightly beneath him, and stared at his idle character on the screen—perpetually patient, perpetually ready for the next command. The carousel spin of the room intensified, and Avery surrendered to it, allowing his eyelids to grow heavy and his thoughts to scatter like leaves in a gentle wind. The controller slipped from his fingers, landing on the carpet with a soft thud that he barely registered. The last thing Avery saw before sleep claimed him was his warrior, standing tall in that endless digital meadow, waiting for instructions that wouldn't come. You're right; I should have made it clear to Ashley how much work she caused her to do. I made a note of that for a future change in the final book, as it were. Thanks for making me aware of this.

Here is the next chapter. It's a short chapter, but the good news is that I should have the next chapter, which I've put a lot of effort into, tomorrow. Thank you for all the encouragement with the story and support with my personal life. Everyone is the best! Chapter 41 - The unspoke ( The hidden act of love) Darlene stepped into her home with a quiet sense of relief that the workday was over. The last two days have been quite stressful. When she entered, the evening sun slanted slid through the custom-made blinds in the entryway of her home. She made her way through the living room, recalling her day and her realization that it was Ashely on that sex video with John. Even as she had invited Ashley to come over for dinner, she wasn’t sure if Ashley even suspected there would be a discussion on her revelation. However, right now, there was a little bit of time for solitude, which gave her the perfect opportunity to do her evening routine workout. Eagerly, she hurried up the stairs, swiftly shedding her work attire for her favorite sporty ensemble—a form-fitting sports top paired with sleek leggings accented with snug socks and crisp tennis shoes. It always felt good getting out of her work clothes. It was like shedding off all the day's events and placing them in a box for another time. Once fully dressed, she descended back down the stairs to her custom-designed workout room in the back of her house. This room was her private haven—a place meticulously set up for her to break free from the world, engage in exercise, and rejuvenate her mind and spirit. The decor was simple, and the soft light gray hues were well-lit with natural light and a fully mirrored wall on one side. The floor was covered in protective mats that were perfect for yoga or high-intensity workouts. A stationary bike sat against one wall, its digital display glowing softly. It was flanked by an array of weightlifting equipment - dumbbells of varying weights; kettlebells lined up according to size, and a power rack with a barbell awaiting use. Today, like every day, this was her time alone, a daily ritual that always left her feeling re-energized. Today, she began her routine with a dynamic cardio class streamed on her large, wall-mounted TV, letting the vibrant beats propel her through a vigorous 30-minute session. Following that, she transitioned to weightlifting, carefully aligning her posture as she scrutinized herself in the mirrors that lined the walls. After completing her invigorating workout, Darlene made her way to the kitchen to prepare dinner for herself and Ashley. For Darlene, the act of cooking a nice homemade dinner was continually enhanced by a simple ritual—a glass of wine in hand. She poured a generous serving of red wine she had already opened from the previous nights, savoring the ruby hue and subtle fruit and nut tones as it complemented the kitchen’s serene ambiance. Yet her mind couldn’t help but return to the sex video Johns posted on DNA Pharmica’s media site. With the recount of the video, she re-affirmed that it was indeed her sister on that video. She understood well that in her sister / Ashley’s world as a professional escort, appearances were artfully transformed for each encounter. Ashley always ensured that no photos or videos were ever taken, let alone published to hide her carefully constructed personal life outside of being an escort. Yet this video, intentionally provocative, had stirred conflicting emotions. As she thought through this, anger began to stir for her sister, who let this happen, and there was confusion about why she would let this happen. She was mad that Ashley would take such an uncalculated risk, which was not her style. It made Darlene contemplate why Ashley always cleverly avoided showing her face on camera. She knew she was being filmed and mostly orchestrated it. Darlene took a long sip of her wine as she thought this through more. Among the sisters, each woman was undeniably brilliant—each had chosen a distinct path in life. As her thoughts tangled, she refocused her attention on crafting a delightful dinner. Tonight’s menu was an Italian classic, Cacio e Pepe—a simple yet elegant pasta dish featuring perfectly cooked spaghetti, shavings of sharp Pecorino Romano cheese, earthy shiitake mushrooms, and freshly cracked black pepper. The aroma of sizzling mushrooms and simmering pasta soon embraced the kitchen, mingling with the rich scent of wine. While waiting, she uncorked one of Ashley’s beloved Chardonnay bottles, setting it on the table in a container of ice to keep it chilled. With care, she poured two glasses, placing them next to neatly set plates, complete with a napkin, fork, spoon, and knife. Moments before the meal was ready, the front door creaked open. Ashley appeared walking in tight designer jeans and a T-shirt, her hair braided back into a ponytail. She quickly coasted through the living room as the aroma of dinner led her directly to the kitchen, where she greeted Darlene with a warm, affectionate embrace. “It smells good, sis, as always,” Ashley said, her tone rich with genuine appreciation and love for her sister. Ashley pulled back from the embrace and stepped closer to the stove, taking a glance at the dinner Darlene was preparing. “So, what’s the special occasion tonight?” she inquired, a playful glint in her eyes. Darlene smiled, her focus splitting between stirring a sauce and the conversation at hand. “Oh, I just thought we’d catch up. We haven’t had much time, just the two of us lately, and I missed you at Aegean Palette for dinner the other night.” Curiosity danced in Darlene’s tone. “Were you out with one of your clients?” Ashley raised an eyebrow. “I was out, but not really a client,” she replied ambiguously but truthfully. The conversation continued to skirt around an unspoken truth—Darlene couldn’t help but wonder if Ashley intended to confess something or if Darlene was simply overthinking. She disliked when Ashley spun coy remarks or played mind games. She was not as skilled as her sister. Why couldn’t she be direct and just spit out what she did? “Really, I hope he was nice,” Darlene teased gently. Ashley chuckled softly. “Nice? I wouldn’t say. He was rather self-absorbed.” “That sounds like most of your clients,” Darlene remarked with a chuckle and a knowing smile. Ashley adjusted her posture as she reached for her glass of wine from the kitchen table, handing one over to Darlene in a graceful gesture as she noticed her other wine glass was already empty. “Hey, I do get some wonderful clients, too. Some treat me like a princess, while others... well, if they get too arrogant or pushy, I simply cut them off. I don’t tolerate that nonsense.” They raised their glasses in a cheerful toast. “To Sisters.” Darlene smiled. “To Sisters,” Ashley repeated, clinking their glasses before taking a sip of the Chardonnay, which graced the palate with ripe fruits. Its inherent smoothness was reminiscent of perfectly ripened peaches, delicately laced with an undercurrent of crisp apples. A subtle hint of citrus zest added to a refreshing tang, while a faint vanilla taste finished the wine's complex flavors. As Darlene turned off the stove and carefully strained the pasta, Ashley continued their lighthearted banter about life in general. “So, how’s work been? Any new updates with Avery?” Ashley asked, her voice lilting with curiosity and mischief. Darlene sipped her wine thoughtfully before replying, trying to put the finishing touches on the dinner, “Well, Avery’s started speaking to me again, and John got fired. Honestly, that might just be the best news this month.” She watched Ashley intently, marveling at her sister’s craft in playing different roles—a skill essential for her line of work. Ashley could effortlessly act as though she were blissfully ignorant of any underlying secrets. “John? Wasn’t he the jerk you mentioned, the one who was always all over Avery and got you in hot water?” Ashley looked shocked as if she was trying to recall some information from previous conversations and couldn’t believe the news. “Yep, that’s the one,” Darlene confirmed with a wry smile. Ashley giggled lightly, tossing out a wild guess. “What happened? Did he hit someone or fail a drug test?” “No,” Darlene said, her tone laced with bafflement, “he had sex with someone—but not in his office. It was in his boss’s office, and then he went ahead and posted it on the company’s social media page.” Ashley’s eyes widened in shock and disbelief. “What? No way. People don’t do that—it’s just too stupid.” “I know, right?” Darlene sighed. “I literally saw the whole video: his face, his words; however, the woman he was with never showed her face—as if she was fully aware of being filmed.” “Geez, people these days love taking risks just for some kinky sex. I guess those two just wanted to make a public statement, something to throw their boss off his game,” Ashley mused, taking another sip of her wine. “Glad, I never seem to encounter anyone quite like that.” Darlene studied Ashley’s expressions, noting no hint that she had planned or intended any of this mischief. Her voice, however, stayed unmistakably her own—a subtle reassurance in the midst of swirling thoughts. Setting her wine glass down with deliberate care, Darlene arranged two plates at the kitchen table, her movements graceful and methodical. “Shall we eat?” she invited softly. “Absolutely. It smells divine,” Ashley replied with a gentle smile as she settled into her seat. As they both relished the taste of the food and wine, Darlene watched her sister with hawk-like scrutiny. "You know," she began, her voice slipping into a tone laced with playful yet piercing curiosity, "there's something peculiar about the woman in that video. She had tattoos on her lower back and arm, yet her voice was eerily identical to yours." She awaited a flicker of acknowledgment, a crack in Ashley's facade. "Really? How strange," Ashley replied, effortlessly twirling the pasta around her fork and letting out a light-hearted laugh. "Perhaps I have a doppelgänger who sounds exactly like me. How exciting. I hope to meet her someday." Their jovial exchange blended seamlessly with the food before them. Darlene continued to be met with a wall of nonchalance, unable to extract a confession from Ashley. Her sister's face and body language were a fortress, revealing nothing. Ashley had always been a master of disguise, the star of every high school drama production, and she even earned an acting scholarship. Frustrated but determined, Darlene decided to abandon the game. "God, you're good. I'll never get it out of you without being direct, will I?" Ashley feigned innocence, her expression a perfect mask. "Get what?" "You don't have a vocal twin. I know that was you in the video. With your clients, you always change your hair, alter your eye color, and use tattoos. You brag about it when you have an intriguing client. You always play the part. You didn't do anything different that night, did you?" Darlene's voice was now sharp and unyielding as she glared at Ashley, daring her to deny the truth. Ashley firmly placed her wine glass down, the the clink of the glass on the table echoing in the room as she traced her finger around its rim with a deliberate slowness. "You caught me. It was me. But I did it to get John fired. He walked right into my trap. And by the way, he's a complete asshole. Struts around like he's God's gift to women, I can’t tell you that he has some seething anger issues that will get someone hurt one day.." "You’re insane! I never asked you to do this. You know I’d never want you to risk yourself like that. You went against your principles and allowed a video of you!" Darlene raised her voice, glaringly upset at her sister. "I was meticulous. Like you said, that person never showed her face. I ensured my anonymity in the video even while we were... fucking madly!" Ashley tried to smile and make a bit of humor to cool the situation off. "You should be thanking me for what I did instead of being upset." "I'm furious because I've seen the fury in that man's eyes," Darlene said, her voice caught between anger and fear. "He assaulted a guard when he was fired hand and dragged out kicking and screaming. The police had to escort him away when he refused to leave the premises. There was a brawl, too. This man could have harmed you, and yet a part of me wonders if there's more to his story. For what? I’d never forgive myself if something happened to you, but I can't help feeling torn about not being told about this beforehand or thank your shitty ass. I hate not being in control, especially when I wasn't even aware of what was happening where I work." "But you don't understand, I didn't get hurt. I...I managed to push him away, to keep him from you," her voice elevated but trembled as she tried to hold back tears. "That's what you wanted, isn't it? You never had to voice it out loud for me to know."Ashley turned away, avoiding the piercing gaze of her older sibling. She curled the cloth napkin in her hand as she talked. Why couldn’t Darlene just be happy or proud of her for what she did? "Now, he can't harm you anymore...or Avery," Ashley added, lowering her voice a little. The name hung heavy in the air as Darlene knew that was the real reason she wanted John gone, as if it was an unspoken truth on her own end. "This is why I didn't tell you about my plan...why I kept it hidden." Ashley’s gaze flickered back towards her sibling, eyes filled with a mix of defiance and desperation as her lip quivered and continued. "You would've yelled at me," Ashley confessed quietly. "You would've made me swear not to do anything. But just because I'm your younger sister doesn't mean I can't stand up for us." Her voice grew stronger with each word, revealing a determination that belied her young age. “For once, I could protect you...and Avery too," she declared firmly, "I was able to do something for one of the two people I care most about in my life." She looked Darlene directly in the eyes as her voice was louder and firmer. "You've been my rock so many times in my life. When Mom turned her back on me for my escort business, you stood by me and took me in. You helped me stay clean. I've always wanted to give something back to you, my big sister, just once. I've never had much to offer, but this time, this one time, I had the perfect skill set to help. I'll never get that chance again. Please, just be thankful I did it. Geez," Ashley shouted, her voice trembling as tears welled in her eyes. She truly loved her sister deeply, yet she always felt like the one sister with nothing to give back. Even though she enjoyed what she did for a living and enjoyed playing the characters, it was hard not to feel overshadowed by her other sisters, who had real, respectable careers. Darlene saw the love in her sister's heart. Darlene began to calm down and lowered her voice. “I get it. I do appreciate it, but at the same time. I am upset you put yourself in harm's way. What if you were caught? I can’t have anything happen to you. We sisters are the only family we have. Laurisa is the only one of the three of us who still has contact with Mom and Dad. Both you and I don’t exist to them. So you and Laurisa are all I have. I can’t lose you!” Darlene got up from her chair to embrace her sister in the chair. Ashley stood up and also embraced. “I wanted to be the one to the hero for once. I wanted to show you I can help when things get tough.” Ashley cried, letting loose years of feelings of being felt like a worthless sister when it came to helping her sisters with their troubles. Darlene could feel the love and hurt being released in her arms. She pushed Ashley apart a little and looked at her face. “Thanks, Sis... I do appreciate it, and by the way, you did a number on him. And your acting had me fooled for a while. If it weren’t for your voice in a few of those sentences I heard, I would never have guessed it was you. Your secret is our secret, ok? I love you!” “Love you too, sis,” Ashley said back as the embrace continued for a few minutes before they disengaged and returned to their dinner. As the rest of the night wore on, there were heartfelt exchanges and reminiscing about good times past. It was an evening where Ashley and her sister reaffirmed their bond over shared stories, delicious food, and fine wine - moments etched into their hearts forever. Darlene truly did appreciate her sister's help. She was glad it all turned out ok in the end.

Yes you are correct. I am going to correct it. Thanks so much for finding this.

Here is the next chapter. Thank you for all your support! Chapter 40 - Dread Days to Come Avery's eyelids flickered open, awareness trickling back into his senses like a sluggish, relentless wave. The same as the previous night, the moist sensation of his diaper pressed unpleasantly against his skin was immediately noticeable. It was an intimate and disconcerting echo of his nocturnal regression, a physical testament to the escalating tension from work that seemed to press down on him relentlessly. He clutched more tightly at the makeshift fortress of pillows around him, imagining Darlene's calming aura next to him as he reclined on the couch, allowing himself a few additional moments of quiet isolation. The dampness between his legs was a cold discomfort that clung to him. Avery couldn’t believe he did this again. What is wrong with him? It was a feeling that brought both shame and frustration—a wetness that was chillingly intimate and an unwelcome reminder of his loss of control he felt in his life. It felt like a layer of cold sweat that refused to evaporate—a lingering trace of vulnerability that made him squirm with discomfort. "Another day," he mumbled, his voice a gravelly whisper breaking the morning silence as he looked around his small messy apartment. As he sat up, the cool air nipped at his bare legs, sending a shiver through his body. Avery's eyes drifted to his phone - it was Friday. The looming presentation next week cast a shadow over his thoughts, an ever-present cloud of anxiety. He fretted over whether the project would be canceled or if he would end up presenting with Christy in John's absence. How was he going to contribute something to the board of DNA Pharmacia? He was just the theoretical guy that could do math. Standing up in front of people never goes well for him, yet somehow everyone expected him to. "One week," he murmured to himself, running a hand through his unruly, tangled hair. "One week to figure this out to get the presentation ready and not screw this up." Still feeling half asleep with unsteady steps, Avery made his way toward his dresser. His hands, a little shaky from anxiety and insomnia, plunged into the unorganized chaos of the drawers. He sifted through the clutter until his fingers found what they were searching for - a fresh pull-up, an insert and a wrinkled-up Navy-blue polo onesie which Darlene purchased him. Avery gathered his clothes in his arms and made his way into the cramped bathroom, where the floor was littered with old, used bath towels and heaps of dirty laundry. He nudged them aside with his foot to clear a path to the sink. The air was tinged with a faint mustiness from the damp towels. With a practiced motion, he untaped his diaper and discarded it into the bathroom pail, joining the crumpled remains of yesterday's diaper still languishing at the bottom. As he grabbed the fresh pull-up, its smooth texture was familiar under his fingertips, providing an odd sense of comfort amidst the turmoil within him. The crinkling sound it made as he unfolded it echoed in the silence of the room. He placed the insert into the pull-up then slipped the pull-up on with practiced ease, feeling its snug fit against him - a constant reminder of his issues and insecurities. Once the pull up was entirely in place, he observed with a sigh that the irritating rash was making an unwelcome return to the sensitive skin around his crotch. Aware of the creeping discomfort, Avery realized he needed to take action but wasn’t sure what to really do. The persistent itch was intensifying, demanding his attention. He knew he had to get some soothing cream or remedy later, maybe after work, to alleviate the growing irritation in that delicate area. Next came the navy blue polo onesie. He tugged it over his lean torso, feeling every thread glide against his skin like a gentle caress, a reminder of Darlene’s generosity, snapping the four buttons underneath the crotch, securing the pull up tightly against him. He had to admit Darlene had a clever idea about using these types of onesies. They didn’t at all look like something a little kid would wear. With pants, no one would know he wasn’t wearing a polo shirt, which hid his pull-up well. He then stepped his selected pair of khakis which hung off his slim hips just right. They were worn thin, being worn a lot, and not adequately taken care of. But even as he buttoned up and zipped them closed, there was no escaping the reality reflected in the mirror before him. Despite being fully clothed now, Avery couldn't shake off that disheveled appearance that seemed to cling to him like a second skin - clothes wrinkled from not being taken care of or folded, hair wild like an unruly bird's nest refusing to be tamed. "Good enough," he sighed, catching his reflection. In the kitchen, Avery walked up to the fridge, its humming the only sound breaking the silence. He opened the refrigerator door, revealing a chaos of haphazardly stacked food items and containers. The shelves were a jumble of old leftover takeout boxes from various local eateries, their contents long forgotten. A half-eaten pizza from last week's coding marathon lay on one shelf, its crust now hard and cheese congealed. Amidst this culinary disarray, several containers of milk stood like sentinels in different stages of consumption - some nearly empty while others still full. Avery reached for one of them, his nose wrinkling as he unscrewed the cap. He was greeted by a pungent whiff that instantly told him it was past its prime. His face contorted in disgust at the sour smell assaulting his senses, a testament to his less-than-stellar attempts at grocery management. "Great. Dry cereal it is." Munching on the tasteless, dried-out cornflakes, Avery felt his thoughts spiraling out of control. John's absence was a blessing, but it was the looming project. The dreaded presentation that had his stomach knotting up with dread. The thought of standing before the CEO and the board members, all eyes trained on him, made him feel like he was choking on his breakfast. He thought to himself “if John were still here, he would have probably given the entire presentation himself, then at least I wouldn’t have to give any part of the presentation.” Even as those thoughts swirled in Avery’s head, he ignored all the horrible degrading things John had done to him and that he is the reason he previously started to wear diapers instead of the pull-ups. His lack of self-confidence allowed him to give John some value to the project that he didn’t deserve. "Concentrate and stay focused, get through this day and then focus on the next day," he mumbled to himself, trying to push away the image of their expectant faces. He dumped his half-finished bowl into the sink with more force than necessary. He didn't want this responsibility; he didn't want to be the one in front of everyone. He wished someone else could take his place and shoulder this burden. But there was only Bryan, Christy, and himself. There was going ot be more pressure on him, and that realization only twisted the knot in his gut tighter. Avery packed his bag methodically - laptop, charger, two spare pull-ups, inserts; each item a talisman against disaster. His mind swirled with negative emotions and thoughts, making him unable to see all the positive things around him at this moment. "You can do this, John's finally out of the picture. That should be a relief, right? It's just a typical day, and Christy will be there. Everything will be fine." Avery attempted to reassure himself that John's absence was a positive change. No more belittling or being degraded in front of others. Yet, a part of him hesitated, conflicted by how he'd grown used to John handling all the discussions, which he disliked but now was suddenly ok with him taking the credit during the board meeting. Avery imagined himself previously just sitting back and listening, and now the thoughts of stepping up and presenting parts of the project horrified him. But as he locked his apartment door, Avery couldn't shake the feeling that somehow the project he was working on would be doomed and it might not come to that with John’s absence. Avery stepped onto the bustling sidewalk, his shoulders hunched as if to make himself smaller. The morning crowd surged around him, but he felt oddly isolated as if encased in an invisible bubble. But then a new feeling came over him. Now, he felt like John’s presence was near by watching him. "Get it together," he muttered, adjusting his backpack. "John's gone. You're safe. He has no idea where you live." But his eyes darted from face to face, searching for a threat that wasn't there. Every passing stranger seemed to loom larger, their gazes feeling heavy and judgmental. Lost in his spiraling thoughts, Avery didn't notice the woman until they collided. She yelped, stumbling backward. "I'm so sorry!" Avery exclaimed. "I wasn't looking—" "It's fine," she replied curtly, her voice sharp as she hurried past, eyes fixed ahead, avoiding his gaze. Avery's cheeks burned with embarrassment, a flush of red crawling up his face. He quickened his pace, weaving through the bustling crowd, only to collide with a man a few steps later. "Watch it!" the man snapped, irritation etched across his features as he cast a strange look at Avery before striding away, melting back into the sea of people. Avery's breath came in short gasps. "It's all in your head," he whispered, clenching his fists. "No one's watching you. John doesn't know where you live." He repeated. But the feeling of eyes on his back persisted as he boarded the bus. Avery slumped in his seat, staring out the window without really seeing much. "Why am I letting him control me like this?" he thought, anger and shame warring inside him. "He's gone; fired. There's even a court order for him to stay away from the company." Stepping off the bus, he began the lengthy stroll along the bustling downtown streets. His path meandered past the sprawling green expanse of the park, where the trees swayed gently in the breeze. A reminder of when he wet himself in front of everyone and used the fountain to cover up what really happened before taking a bus home. Towering buildings lined the avenue, their glass facades glittering in the sunlight, casting long shadows on the sidewalk. The rhythmic hum of city life surrounded him as he continued his journey through this vibrant urban landscape. Yet as DNA Pharmica's building came into view, Avery's stomach clenched. He knew, logically, that John wouldn't be there. But the irrational fear persisted, a constant whisper in the back of his mind. "One day at a time," Avery murmured, steeling himself as he approached the entrance. "You can do this. You have to." As Avery entered the office, his eyes were immediately drawn to Christy. She sat at her desk, a steaming cup of coffee in hand, her appearance striking him in a way it never had before. Her chestnut hair cascaded over her shoulders in soft waves, and her emerald eyes sparkled as she looked up at him. The soft pink of her blouse complemented her fair skin, giving her an almost ethereal glow in the morning light. "Good morning," Avery said softly, his voice barely above a whisper as he approached his desk. Christy smiled warmly. "Morning, Avery. How are you holding up?" As Christy's gaze drifted up to Avery, clad in his customary crumpled trousers and rumpled shirt, her eyes widened at the sight of his unzipped fly. She hesitated, cheeks flushing with secondhand embarrassment before she stuttered out, "Uhm...Avery, you might want to...uhm...check your...pants." She stumbled over the words, feeling awkward about bringing attention to such a personal faux pas. "Your zipper appears to be down." A wave of mortification washed over Avery and he felt his face heat up like a furnace. His heart pounded against his ribcage like a frantic drummer as he quickly glanced down and confirmed Christy's observation. He fumbled with the zipper, trying to rectify the situation while sinking lower into his chair as if it could swallow him whole. His fingers found their way into his unkempt hair and started threading through it nervously. His voice came out shaky as he tried to steer the conversation away from his blunder. "I'm... coping, I suppose," he mumbled awkwardly. "What about you? Do you think we can still pull off the project after it is still a go...all that transpired?" Christy's expression was a mix of determination and doubt. "I hope so. We've poured so much into it already. I want to stay positive, but it's hard not to worry." "I have to admit, I'm relieved John's gone. I believe it's better for the company and the project. He was holding things back, but... still, it's complicated." She hesitated. "And he always took credit for everything." "Do you know that sleaze had the audacity to ask me out once? He must've been around his 40s, insinuating it would be a beneficial move for my career." She let out a deep sigh, her brow furrowed in remembrance. "That was when I had no choice but to bring him to HR. It was the right thing to do, but God... making that call wasn't easy." She paused for a moment, her gaze distant as she recalled another incident. "And then there was the time he crossed another line - he tried to touch me inappropriately during his unwelcome advances. His hands were like ice against my skin, sending shivers of revulsion down my spine." Her voice took on a grateful tone as she continued, "I was just thankful that Bryan and Julian stood by me through it all. Even though all that came of it was a mere verbal warning for him." Just then, a notification pinged on Christy's computer. Her eyes widened as she read it. "Avery, look at this. We've got a meeting request from Bryan. Conference room at 10:00 AM." Avery leaned over to look at her screen, his heart rate picking up. "What's it about?" "It just says 'Path Forward.' Pretty vague, huh?" Avery nodded, his mind racing. "You don't think they're canceling the project, do you?" Christy chewed her lip thoughtfully. "I don't know. Maybe it's about reassigning tasks now that John's gone?" "Or maybe they're shutting the whole thing down," Avery muttered, his anxiety spiking. Christy reached out, gently touching his arm. "Hey, let's not jump to conclusions. We'll find out soon enough." Avery nodded, trying to calm his racing thoughts. "You're right. I'm going to grab some coffee. Want a refill?" As Christy declined, Avery shuffled toward Darlene's office, his steps slow and deliberate, each one echoing his hesitance. He paused at the open doorway, taking a deep breath to steady himself before stepping inside. “Good morning, Darlene,” Avery greeted, his voice soft yet just loud enough to break the silence of the room. “Good morning, Avery. Here for your morning coffee, I presume?” Darlene replied warmly, casting a discerning eye over him. Avery appeared more disheveled than usual—his hair tousled, his shirt slightly wrinkled. She had become adept at interpreting his body language and sensed a heightened tension in his demeanor. “Did you manage to get any sleep? You look exhausted,” she remarked, watching as Avery made his way to the Keurig machine. “Not much, but I’m hoping to catch up tonight,” Avery replied, attempting to downplay his fatigue as he finished putting the creamer in and placed his well-loved Lego-themed coffee cup under the Keurig and started brewing a fresh cup. Darlene, curious and always one to probe gently, leaned forward slightly. “So, have you heard anything from Bryan lately?” she asked, her tone inquisitive. She was eager to know if Avery had gleaned any new information about John’s dismissal and the status of the ongoing project. “No, nothing yet,” Avery admitted, running a hand through his hair in a gesture of frustration. “But we do have a meeting scheduled with him later this morning. Hopefully, we’ll get some clarity then.” Darlene nodded, her expression thoughtful and contemplative. "I truly hope it goes well. I hope there's continued support and Bryan can align everyone moving forward. It would be a real shame to see this project canceled. You've done such great work, even though most of it is over my head." Avery nodded in agreement, raising his steaming cup of freshly brewed coffee to his lips. "Yeah, I'm hoping Bryan has some answers," he said, exhaling a sigh of uncertainty. Avery was still unsure about the direction he wanted the project to take. It seemed like the path ahead would not be easy, no matter what. He longed for the simplicity of sitting at his desk and focusing on his tasks rather than delivering a presentation to the board and CEO, but he didn’t want the project to be canceled or not move forward. "Let me know if you need any support or if there's any way I can help," Darlene offered sincerely, her eyes locking with Avery's, reflecting genuine concern and empathy. "Thanks, Darlene. I really appreciate it," Avery responded, feeling a wave of relief wash over him, providing a touch of comfort as he braced himself for the challenges of the day ahead. Darlene was a bit taken aback by his gratitude. He wasn't usually the type to express thanks, even though she knew he valued and appreciated her efforts. "You're welcome," she replied warmly, unable to resist offering a bit of practical advice. "But you really should hang them up or fold them properly so they don't get so wrinkled." She smiled, her eyes twinkling with gentle amusement. Avery blushed slightly, a faint pink tinge on his cheeks, and then turned to head back to his office, feeling a bit more buoyant. Darlene returned to her work with her eyes fixed on her computer screen, lost in thought. The events of the past few days swirled in her mind, a chaotic storm of emotions and memories. Suddenly, a fragment of the video she'd seen yesterday floated to the surface of her consciousness. The woman's voice, muffled and breathy, tickled at something in her memory. Her eyes flew open in shock and mouth agape, the realization crashing into her like a violent storm. That voice. She knew that voice. Frantically, she loaded the video on her computer, her fingers trembling as she jammed the headphones on and hit replay. Every word confirmed her suspicions, stripping away the tattoos, the altered hair color and style. It was unmistakably her. "Oh my God," Darlene gasped, her hand clapping over her mouth in disbelief. "It's Ashley." The shock of the revelation sent her reeling. Her sister. Who they shared flesh and blood had been involved with John. There was a slight sense of betrayal since she had no idea about Ashley’s plan, but a surge of conflicting emotions quickly followed it. Anger bubbled up first. How could Ashley do this? Didn't she know what kind of man John was? But just as quickly, bewilderment set in. Why would Ashley hide this from her? They'd always been close. She knew the answer because Darlene would have done everything to stop her from doing this. Then, in a surprising twist, gratitude seeped in. If it hadn't been for Ashley's involvement, they might never have been rid of John. This left her torn, unable to decide whether to feel upset or grateful, with the emotions swirling in a relentless storm. Darlene's fingers trembled as she reached for her phone. She typed out a quick text to Ashley: "Need to talk. My place after work. Important." She set the phone down, her mind still reeling from the revelation, when a knock at her door startled her. Bryan stood in the doorway, his expression serious. "Darlene, do you have a moment?" Bryan asked, stepping into her office as she knew there must be a purpose for him coming. It was probably about John and what more they could do to prevent this from happening again. She felt that this was the reason for the visit. It was unnecessary because she was already handling it on her side. Darlene nodded, taking a deep breath to steady herself. "Of course, Bryan. What's on your mind?" Bryan settled into the chair across her, the leather creaking under his weight. "I wanted to discuss Christy and Avery's placement. Now that John's gone, I think it's time we moved them back to the Project and R&D department." Darlene felt a sharp pang in her chest, and she hadn’t expected this. "Is that really necessary? They've been working so well here. Avery seems more comfortable and productive than before. At least that is what I understand from Christy." She did her best not to show any emotions about this. She didn’t want Byran to think she got comfortable having Avery around. After all, this was just a favor she was doing for Bryan. Bryan leaned forward, his expression earnest, his words gentle yet unyielding. "I understand your concern, Darlene. However, their research is crucial to the project. They'll be more effective working directly with the R&D team. I will be able to work more closely with Avery and guide him." Darlene stood frozen, her heart tangled in a web of conflicting emotions. On one hand, she desperately wanted to keep Avery near, to protect him from the unpredictable future. Yet, Bryan's words echoed in her mind, resonating with a harsh truth Darlene couldn't ignore. With John no longer there, she struggled to find a reason to keep Avery around that wasn't rooted in her desire for reconciliation. "I suppose you have a point," she conceded reluctantly, her voice tinged with regret. "When would this transfer take place?" Bryan's face softened with a smile, relief shining in his eyes. "After next week's board presentation, assuming all goes well. We want to make sure the project has the green light before we shuffle things around." Darlene nodded, a mix of resignation and understanding washing over her like a tide. "Alright, Bryan. If you think it's best for the project, I won't stand in the way." As Bryan exited her office, Darlene slumped back in her chair, the weight of the morning's conversation pressing down. She had much to process, with a difficult conversation with her sister looming on the horizon. Would this be the end of her seeing Avery? The prospect of him returning to her felt increasingly dim. —————————————————————————————————————————— The conference room felt suffocating as Avery settled into his seat, acutely aware of the pull-up hidden beneath his clothes. Bryan's presence at the head of the table exuded confidence, a stark contrast to the anxiety churning in Avery's stomach. "Good news, team," Bryan began, his voice cutting through the tension. "The meeting with the CEO is still on for next week." Christy's face brightened with a palpable sense of relief, her eyes sparkling like sunlight breaking through a cloudy sky. In stark contrast, Avery's heart began to pound erratically, each thud echoing in his chest like a drumbeat. He shifted uneasily in his chair, his fingers twitching nervously against the armrests. A sudden, unwelcome warmth spread across his lower abdomen as stress washed over him like a tidal wave, causing him to involuntarily wet his pull-up slightly. The pressure of the moment had become too intense, engulfing him in a storm of anxiety. Avery felt his cheeks grow warm with embarrassment as he struggled to maintain control of his bladder. He could feel the pull-up becoming increasingly damp, a clear sign that he had lost the battle against his nerves. "I-I'm sorry," Avery stammered, feeling humiliated and helpless. "I just...I don't think I can do it." Bryan's expression softened, his eyes betraying a hint of concern. "What do you mean? This is your chance to shine." Avery shook his head, feeling overwhelmed by the pressure and expectations placed on him. "I can't do it, Bryan. I'm not ready." Bryan's brow furrowed in confusion as he leaned forward in his chair, studying Avery intently. "You have to. You don’t have a choice, Avery. The CEO expects all three of us to make the presentation. You are the one with the theoretical background on the calculations. You will need to be able to field his and the board's questions.” Avery's heart sank at the realization that he had no choice but to face his fears and make the presentation. He knew it was crucial for the department, but the thought of speaking in front of a room full of executives and potentially embarrassing himself was paralyzing. "I...I don't think I can handle it," Avery admitted, his voice trembling with fear. "What if I mess up? What if I can't answer their questions?" Bryan's expression softened with understanding as he gently placed a reassuring hand on Avery's shoulder. "You won't mess up. You're more than capable, Avery. And if you get stuck, Christy and I will be right there to support you." Avery finally nodded, a mix of defeat and agreement washing over his features. Bryan's eyes flickered with a disturbingly palpable relief. He didn’t expect that kind of resistance from Avery. Meanwhile, Christy watched the exchange, puzzled by Avery's persistent resistance. A hint of embarrassment tinged her cheeks because they were supposed to be a team as she pondered his behavior, questioning why he was so hesitant. "Let's go over the presentation layout," Bryan said, oblivious to Avery's distress. "I'll handle the introduction, setting the stage for our proposal." He pulled out his laptop and cast the outline of the presentation he was thinking onto the screen for all three of them to see. Avery nodded mechanically, his mind racing as he thought to himself. "How bad is it? Will it leak? Can they tell?" He shifted slightly, feeling the cool dampness pressing against his skin, a tangible reminder of the fullness of his pull-up. The moisture clung to him, creating an uncomfortable sensation that spread slowly, a subtle yet persistent discomfort. Bryan turned to him. "Avery, you'll cover the theoretical aspects. Your expertise is crucial here." "I require your expertise in elucidating the intricate variations in the genetic makeup of cancer cells across individuals. It's imperative to delve into the nuanced complexities of how this unique genetic code can influence the thickness of a cell wall. The disparity in cell wall thickness between a normal cell and a malignant one is not a mere physiological difference, but rather a manifestation of underlying genomic alterations. Therefore, it becomes crucial for us to comprehend and quantify these differences. In essence, we're attempting to map out an individual's cellular landscape, differentiating between benign and malignant territories based on their structural characteristics - primarily the thickness of their cellular boundaries or walls. I will then explain how these variations are instrumental in determining an individual's drug metabolism rate. This is where our discussion transitions from theoretical genetics and cellular biology into practical pharmacology." "R-right," Avery stammered, his voice trembling and barely audible. "I think I can do that." Doubt gnawed at him like a relentless beast. The plan seemed evident in his mind, a coherent thread of logic and ideas. But the prospect of distilling it all into a spoken explanation felt like attempting to scale an insurmountable mountain with bare hands. His heart raced, and his thoughts tangled in a whirlwind of anxiety. "Christy," Bryan resumed, "you're tasked with the software execution and subsequent strides. It's your responsibility to explain the intricacies of translating Avery’s mathematical computations into functional code. The challenge lies in creating an algorithm that can dynamically adapt to the ever-changing genetic maps of individuals. We're not merely dealing with static data here – we have a labyrinth of constantly mutating genetic information that needs lab data, interpretation, and response. This code must be robust enough to handle millions of data points and yet sensitive enough to detect minute changes in gene sequences, all while maintaining speed and accuracy. Following this, I'll take over with the discussion on the pilot plant proposition." Christy responded with eagerness and assurance. "I can do that," she declared, her voice brimming with confidence and excitement, a stark contrast to Avery's more subdued and hesitant demeanor regarding the opportunity. As the meeting dragged on, Avery found it increasingly difficult to maintain his concentration. The damp pull-up clung to his skin, an ever-present reminder of his vulnerability and discomfort. Each minute felt like an eternity, and the room seemed to close in around him. When Bryan finally dismissed them, Avery shot up from his seat with urgency. "Avery, wait!" Christy called after him, her voice carrying a hint of concern. "I thought we could go over some-" "Not now!" Avery interrupted, his voice crackling with a sense of panic in his chest. "I can't... I need a minute!" His words were sharp, slicing through the air with intensity. Christy's expression shifted, a flicker of confusion on her face as she pulled back slightly. "What's wrong with you?" she asked, her voice tinged with confusion and worry. "Nothing! Just... leave me alone!" he shouted, his voice filled with raw emotion. He stormed off, leaving Christy standing there, bewildered and alone, trying to make sense of his sudden outburst. Avery ran by his desk to grab his backpack. Trying to hold back tears and a panic attack. Racing to the restroom, Avery locked himself in a stall, tears pricking at his eyes. "Pull it together," he muttered, fumbling with his clothes. "You can't fall apart now." As he changed into a fresh pull-up, Avery's mind reeled with the enormity of the task ahead. How could he possibly present to the CEO when he couldn't even control his bladder? Outside, Christy leaned against the wall, a mix of concern and irritation warring within her. "Should I check on him?" she wondered. "Or give him space?" She sighed, realizing they had much to get ready for this presentation. Christy hesitated for a moment as she realized Avery wasn’t coming out anytime soon and left. She then made her way to Darlene's office. She knocked softly, her eyes brimming with frustration and unshed tears. "Come in," Darlene called, looking up from her computer. Her expression softened when she saw Christy's distress. "What's wrong?" Christy stepped inside, closing the door behind her. "It's Avery," she said, her voice trembling. "He just... he completely lost it after the meeting and doesn’t want to present his part to the CEO and Board. I get that he is nervous or even scared, but that is no excuse for not wanting to do it. I don't know what to do. This is important to the department, Bryan." Christy paused as a tear slid down her face. “It is important to me.” Darlene gestured for Christy to sit. "Tell me what happened." As Christy recounted Avery's outburst, Darlene listened intently, her brow furrowed in concern. When Christy finished, Darlene leaned back in her chair, considering. "Avery is... special," Darlene said carefully. "What little I know about him is that he makes things more stressful than they need to be, and it is more intense for him than for the average person. Then, speaking in front of people, particularly the board, is a nerve-wracking ordeal for him. The mere thought of standing before an audience, their expectant faces staring at him, I bet it sends his heart racing. If you watch him, he has trouble mingling in simple social situations, often ending up awkward and clumsy, as if he's navigating uncharted territories. I have watched this with him and a few of my coworkers who have tried to have conversations with him.” Darlene paused as a small smile of caring came across her face. “Yet, there's an undeniable brilliance that resides within him. He does well when surrounded by understanding and supportive individuals who acknowledge his quirks rather than chide them. He becomes capable of doing those hard calculations that leave even the most accomplished in awe. But he needs that special nurturing that he probably hasn’t experienced much in his life” Christy nodded, wiping her eyes. "I want to help him, I don’t know how. Lately, I feel like every time I reach out, he tries to make it harder. It's as if my attempts to aid him at work are seen as intrusions rather than support. He pushes me away, leaving me feeling frustrated. And what's worse is that I'm lost. He needs to work on this presentation with me. I am afraid he won’t do it or won’t stand up and give his part, yet I can't find a way to help him focus and conquer his fear." "I want to help him, but I don't know how." Darlene smiled gently, her eyes softening with warmth. "I wish I could give you better advice, but patience is key. Be calm, be reassuring. Let him know you're on his side, no matter what." Her voice was soothing, like a gentle breeze on a warm day. Darlene paused, her hesitation evident as she considered the weight of her following words. “Sometimes, I think it is best to think of him as a scared little kid and treat him as such.” Christy looked up, her gaze meeting Darlene's, and she could see the genuine concern for Avery etched in her friend's expression. "You really care about him, don't you?" Christy asked, studying the sincerity in Darlene's face, which was lined with empathy. Darlene paused, her thoughts momentarily drifting, before she nodded. "I do. And I'm glad you came to talk to me about this. I don’t know how much help I can offer, but if he comes to talk to me, I will listen. I hope at least our conversation has helped you," she said, her voice carrying a note of earnest hope. As Christy stood to leave, Darlene unexpectedly stood up from her desk and walked over to Christy, pulled her into a warm embrace. Christy stiffened for a moment, caught off guard by the gesture, then gradually relaxed, realizing how much she needed the comfort of Darlene's arms, which felt like a safe harbor in a storm. “You will do manage. He is a tough one to figure out.” "Thank you," Christy whispered, her voice barely audible as she gently pulled away, gratitude shining in her eyes. Back at her desk, Christy saw Avery approaching, his face still pale but calmer. She took a deep breath and remembered Darlene's advice. "Hey," she said softly, her voice as gentle as a whispering breeze. "How are you feeling?" Avery slumped into his chair, the weight of the day pulling him down. "I'm sorry," he mumbled, his voice barely audible, eyes cast downward. "I shouldn't have yelled at you." Christ got out of her chair and sat in a chair next to Avery. She reached out, her fingers brushing his arm with a feather-light touch. "It's okay," she reassured him gently. "This is a lot of pressure for both of us. But we're in this together, alright?" as she tried to reassure herself on the words Darlene told her. “he is like a scared little kid” Avery's nod came with a subtle release of tension from his shoulders, and a hint of relief sparked in his eyes like a distant star. "Together," he echoed back to her, the tremor in his voice reduced. Christy attempted to muster a warm smile. "How about we take a break and have some lunch?" she suggested, her voice laced with a gentle invitation. "I packed a sandwich for you along with some fresh fruit." She reached into her bag and retrieved two neatly packed lunch bags. One was meant for him, the other for herself. Avery responded with a nod of affirmation, having grown accustomed to Christy's habit of preparing his lunch. As they enjoyed their meal, Christy made a concerted effort to steer clear of work-related thoughts. She posed numerous inquiries, discovering that Avery was quite fond of video gaming. "Oh really?" she asked, feigning interest as best as she could while he started to describe his favorite games. "Tell me more about these... Little Big Planet and Ratchet and Clank?" "Well," Avery began with enthusiasm lighting up his eyes, "Little Big Planet is like entering into a world of puzzles where you have to use a lot of creativity. You can also design your levels and characters using whatever materials you find in the game world." "And Ratchet and Clank?" Christy prompted him further. "That's an entirely different beast," Avery chuckled softly. "It’s an action-adventure game set in a futuristic universe populated by all sorts of alien species. The main characters are this quirky duo: Ratchet, who is a mechanic with dreams bigger than his current life, and Clank, his robot sidekick with a heart of gold." Throughout their conversation, Avery never probed much about her life but that didn't bother Christy at all. The rest of the day was used to begin preparing for the presentation. Avery tried to summarize everything multiple times and would end up trashing it. A couple of times he would get upset and Christy tried her best to calm him down. Talking to him softly, reminding him to breathe slowly. As the workday began to wind down, Christy turned to Avery with a thoughtful expression. "You know, Avery," she started, her voice a gentle lilt in the quiet office space, "We are both not as far along as we would like and we are going to need to work on this both Friday and throughout he weekend.” Avery looked up from his computer screen and met her gaze. He nodded for her to continue. "I think it might be beneficial if we tackled it together," she suggested, her tone light and non-demanding. "It's quite a load, and I could really use your expertise in the technical aspects. We could review each other's presentation and work" She paused for a moment before adding, "And besides, working together might help us both stay focused and calm amidst all this pressure. What do you think?" The suggestion hung in the air between them as Avery considered it. His eyes flicked back to his computer screen before returning to meet Christy's expectant gaze. “I like that idea.” Avery felt some relief that he wouldn’t have to put this together by himself. "How about we order lunch to your place each day and work through the weekend?" Christy proposed, an optimistic grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. "We could even kick off tomorrow for an early start on our presentation." Avery attempted a tight smile, but the unease etched on his face was unmistakable. "My place is... not really suitable," he confessed, his voice tinged with hesitation. Christy's grin wavered just a bit, like a flickering candle, but she held firm. "It doesn't matter, Avery," she reassured him with warmth in her voice. "I don't mind." But Avery was resolute. He refused again and again, each refusal more firm than the last. His home was not something he was ready to share; it was his sanctuary amidst chaos, however messy it may be. Eventually, Christy gave up on that idea and instead suggested an alternative she wasn’t thrilled about herself. “Fine,” she conceded with a sigh, “How about I pick you up tomorrow and we can work at my place?” She didn’t like this idea because it would require her driving back and forth from his place multiple times. The prospect sat better with Avery as he finally agreed. “That sounds good,” he said quietly, adding a small “Thanks, Christy.” As the clock ticked closer to the time for Avery to leave work and catch the bus home, he stood up from his desk and began to pack his backpack with deliberate care. He quietly thanked Christy once more, his voice barely rising above the hum of the office as others prepared to leave for the day. Passing by Darlene's office, he knocked gently on the doorframe, peering inside to see her deeply engrossed in her work, her fingers dancing over the keyboard. "I just wanted to say good night," he said, his voice warm and sincere. Darlene looked up, her expression one of pleasant surprise, as Avery had never stopped by to bid farewell before. "I hope you have a good night, too," she replied with a smile that reached her eyes. Just as Avery was about to turn away, she added, "Avery, maybe we can get lunch sometime next week." A childlike grin spread across his face, lighting up his features. "I would like that," he said, his eyes twinkling as he turned to leave. Darlene watched him go, the brief smile he wore warned her heart for a second. She felt a swell of satisfaction in seeing his happiness, even if it was just for a fleeting moment. Little did Avery know, she grinned, about the news that he and Christy would soon be moved back to their original department the following week.

I just wanted to say that what a wonderful post and compliment. I am glad you have enjoyed the story. I am also glad (because I think it is a good thing) that this helping deal with some issues. I would be lying if I told you I always accepted my AB/DL slide. In fact, I spent most of my life so far trying to deny, belittle, and even degrading that side of me instead of letting that side of me exist and help me through things. The AB/DL side of me has been with me since I was about 9 years old that I recall. It wasn't till I was around 40 years old did I embrace this side of me. I did the typical binge and purge things so many have talked about on here. This sight is wonderful for support. We are here for you if you need any support. Oh by the way the next chapter should be out next week.

Wow, this chapter is long. I would really like to know everyone's thoughts on this chapter and the previous two. Are you ok with the direction I am taking it? Also, if you find mistakes, let me know. I reviewed it twice, but I was getting ADHD from it being so long Chapter 39 - Last Straw As night approached in Avery’s apartment, Avery found himself once again wrestling with sleeplessness. His mind was entangled in a yearning for Darlene's comforting presence he had enjoyed before he so quickly left her place in anger about being regressed to so-called help him with his social and anxiety issues. He didn’t want to believe any of that. He was fine the way he was. He didn’t need Darlene. He didn’t need anyone. But he couldn’t help but crave the tranquility she effortlessly bestowed upon him when he was with her at her place. His heart was weighed down by her absence as he grudgingly accepted his solitude within the confines of his apartment. He hadn’t eaten well the last few nights. Just his typical microwavable dinners. They were bland tasting compared to what he had at Darlene’s house. The last few nights became a ritual of a hot shower and a solitary microwaved meal. Afterward, Avery would immerse himself into the labyrinth of his theoretical calculations, sitting at the small kitchen table with the small camera on a kitchen self just under the trash can that faced the table. This was IT policy to ensure proper usage of DNA Pharmacia’s property. Intellectual property was the highest priority there. His fingers danced over the keyboard, eyes squinting at the glaring screen as he wrestled with complex algorithms. This was familiar territory for him, yet the looming presentation to the board threw him into uncharted waters. His heart pounded at the mere thought of standing before that formidable panel. He had never navigated such social terrain before; his world was one of numbers and codes, not speeches and presentations. How was he going to stay dry in front of them? Conversations with Christy did little to quell his anxiety. Though she exuded more confidence than him, she, too, was a novice in this arena of corporate rules and expectations. They were both stepping on what felt like almost like a battlefield with nothing but their wits and raw determination. The only ones with any experience with these types of presentations to a board were Byran and John. It scared Avery that he had to rely on John. He just knew he would be set up in front of the board by him. That didn’t make matters easier for him. It was almost 2 am when he finished for the night. He laid on his bed exhausted, but there was a gnawing desire for solace that only Darlene seemed to offer stubbornly lingered. He had so many emotions. He was depressed he wasn’t around her. He was mad at her for making him feel this way and feeling like he needed someone. He was mad at himself for letting him get close to someone. In almost tears again and in this moment of raw vulnerability, he finally surrendered to an object he had been evading - the diaper. Even though he had purchased these a few days ago for this very thing, each night, he tried to avoid doing it, telling himself this was the last time. With a nervous touch, he retrieved the disposable diaper hidden inside one of his dresser drawers. He delicately unfolded the soft fabric, smoothing out any creases or imperfections. The gentle rustling of the diaper filled the silent small bedroom, almost like a lullaby. Slowly, he removed his boxers lowered himself onto the bed, and spread the diaper beneath him, arranging it perfectly before securing it snugly around his waist with the adhesive tape. The plush padding cradled his body, providing a sense of comfort and security that he could not explain nor deny. Avery sighed as the diaper wrapped around him felt oddly comforting; its presence was a tangible reminder of reality - harsh yet grounding how he needed something to soothe him. It held him together just enough to keep him from falling apart. It wasn’t as snug and tight as Darlene did it, but it was good enough for the effect. He grabbed his stuffed Red Dog. He then moved towards the sofa. Settling down on the old ruff sofa, he did his best to surround himself with an array of pillows, each strategically positioned to mimic being in Darlene's lap and her tender embrace. One pillow nestled behind his back provided support while another cushioned under his head offered softness akin to her lap, which he used to rest his worries away. He clutched a third pillow tightly with Red Dog in between him against his chest, pretending it was her warmth radiating through. Although her actual presence was painfully absent, this makeshift setup offered a semblance of reassurance - like a bandage over an open wound: not healing but preventing further injury. Yet even amidst this carefully constructed fortress of comfort, the longing in his heart persevered unabated. He tried brushing aside memories of being cradled and the fleeting moments shared with Darlene, but they persistently resurfaced. As sleep finally began to claim him, he yearned for the hollow void within him to be filled, fully aware that no number of diapers, pillows, or sofas could ever substitute the warmth and love he once found in Darlene's arms. He told himself he would at least try to say “hi” to her tomorrow. ———————————————————————————————————————————————————————— As the sun crept through the curtains, Avery stirred awake. He reached for his phone to check the time and immediately felt a jolt of panic run through him - he had overslept. Why didn’t his alarm go off? Avery quickly jumped off the sofa in a rush, he felt the diaper and realized that he had slightly wet himself while asleep. The stress of the upcoming presentation must be taking a toll on him, he thought to himself. He had never done this before. There was no time to dwell on this right now. He had to get to work. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror tired, Avery could see the tired lines etched on his face. Was it from a bad dream he couldn’t remember or just a lack of sleep? He couldn't quite recall. But one thing was for sure - he needed to hurry if he didn't want to be even more late than he already was going to be. Quickly tearing off his wet diaper and tossing it into the small trash can by the sink, he grabbed a pull-up and an insert from the cabinet and stepped into it. Sighing with relief, he put on a light green polo onesie, sliding it over his head and snapping the four crotch buttons. Next, he rummaged through his closet for a pair of slacks and found a slightly wrinkled but clean gray pair. Stepping into them, he pulled them up and buttoned them before putting on some socks and shoes. Grabbing his backpack, Avery rushed out the door, knowing he had already missed the first bus and cursing himself for it. It was apparently his routine to never miss that bus - until today. He had to wait an hour to hop onto the next bus that arrived. There was nothing he could do but pray that he wouldn't be too late and Christy and Bryan wouldn’t be too mad at him. The wait was madding, but eventually, the bus did show up. It was things like this that made Avery realize how out of control his life felt. Avery slumped back in a seat on the back of the bus, his heart racing with anxiety. He felt as if the weight of everyone's judgment was bearing down on him on the bus, even though they had no clue. He just faced the window of the bus to avoid their curious glances. The passing cars and buildings blurred together as Avery's mind raced, replaying all the ways he could have prevented this delay. Each passing second felt like an eternity, the slow crawl of the bus mocking his tardiness. Avery couldn't bear to face the disapproving looks from his peers, so he buried himself in his thoughts, feeling like a failure for being so late once again. When the bus finally arrived at his stop, Avery stumbled off the bus, his heart racing as he glanced at his watch. Two hours late. Dread pooled in his stomach as he rushed towards the office building, his mind a whirlwind of unfinished calculations and half-formed presentation slides. It was a brisk, cold-mile walk to the DNA Pharmacia. It seemed to take forever to get there. The walkways were busy with people who continued to block and slow him down. Eventually, and out of breath, Avery made it. The elevator ride felt interminable. Avery's fingers tapped an anxious rhythm on his thigh as he silently berated himself. Why hadn't he just taken the sleeping pills instead of working late? Now, he'd have to face Christy and Bryan's disappointment, not to mention how he might be giving John a reason to yell at him. He was glad in his rushed state. He still managed to put the pull-up on with the insert inside and stashing and a couple more pull-ups in his backpack. It would have been horrible if he had forgotten. As the elevator doors slid open, Avery stepped out into the open workspace. He hallway and was struck by an odd stillness. The usual click-clack of keyboards was absent, replaced by a low murmur of voices. He rounded the corner, eyes searching for a familiar face. "What's going on?" he muttered, taking in the clustered groups of coworkers, heads bent in fervent discussion. His gaze landed on Christy's empty desk. That was strange - she was always here before him, usually with a cheerful smile and gentle ribbing about his perpetual lateness or how he was dressed. Her laptop was connected to the docking station, and a half-full mug of coffee was still steaming beside it. "Christy?" Avery called softly, peering around. Maybe she'd just stepped away for a moment. But as he scanned the huddles of people, he couldn't spot her anywhere. He felt like what was going on in the quiet huddles of conversations by the coworkers had to be about him. Did they all know about his pull-ups? Did John spread a rumor about him? Did John somehow convince them he was a fraud or failure? Was he fired and didn’t even know it? Unease prickled along his spine as he set down his backpack and grabbed his empty coffee-stained LEGO coffee mug. Whatever was happening, he would see if Darlene might now besides he needed caffeine and this might be a chance for him to just say “hi” to her. As he headed towards her office, Avery's mind raced. His mind continued to race. Had there been some announcement? A security breach? Or worse - layoffs? "Get it together," he muttered to himself. "You're just on edge from lack of sleep. Everything's fine." But as the whispers and furtive glances continued around him, Avery couldn't quite convince himself that was true. Avery's fingers tightened around his LEGO mug as he knocked on Darlene’s partially closed office door and slowly pushed it open. “Come in,” Da’s voice sounded stressed. The scene before him froze as he stepped into Darlene’s office. This was not the atmosphere he expected to be walking into. Christy stood behind Darlene's chair, her face pale and eyes wide. Darlene herself looked like she'd aged a decade overnight, her brow furrowed deeply as she stared at her computer screen. As Avery entered, her hand flew to the mouse, quickly minimizing whatever they'd been viewing. "Avery," Darlene said, her voice strained. "You're here. We were wondering if you were going to show up today. We were starting to get worried." The tension in the room was inescapable. Avery's stomach churned, his mind racing. What could be so bad that Darlene, always composed, looked this rattled? Christy looked nervous and out of sorts. It was something he did. He was sure of it. “I tried to call you, but you didn’t answer your cell phone,” Christy said as Avery realized he had accidentally set it on silent just before bed. "I, uh... yeah, sorry about that," he stammered, fighting the urge to fidget. "Is everything okay? The whole office seems... off. Did I do something?" Christy's gaze darted between Avery and Darlene; her lips pressed into a thin line. Whatever they'd seen on that screen, it wasn't good. Christy and Darlene both in unison. “No, you didn’t do anything.” It was too quick. They could see the confusion and fear in Avery’s face. Darlene took a deep breath and tried to clear her mind, knowing that Avery was stressed. She wasn’t sure how much to say. "Avery, we have a situation. It's... complicated. And sensitive." Avery's pulse quickened. Had something happened with their project? Was the presentation cancelled? Or was it something worse? He felt himself starting to wet his pull-up right there in front of the both of them. Avery's voice trembled as he spoke, barely managing a whisper. His throat constricted with fear and confusion, and he struggled to form the words. "What kind of situation is this?" His eyes darted between Darlene and Christy; their tense expressions only heightened his anxiety. Sweat beaded on Avery's forehead as he continued, trying to explain himself. "I missed the bus, so I had to wait for the next one. I-I'm sorry." Tears welled up in his eyes, feeling like a complete failure in front of these two powerful women. Darlene's composed demeanor shattered as she met Avery's gaze. She slid her chair back from the desk and walked past Christy. When she approached Avery, she leaned forward, her voice dropping to a low whisper as if afraid of being overheard. "It's not you, Avery. It's John." She couldn't help but wrap her arms around him in a comforting embrace. Christy watched in shock as Darlene hugged Avery tightly. Her mind was racing with questions and doubts, but now wasn't the time to question anything. All that mattered was that John was involved, and Darlene needed to act fast before it was too late and out of control. "John really did something bad. We all can’t believe it," Darlene said, her words careful and measured. "He has caused a lot of problems this morning, and my team and I are trying to clean it up, but the news has got out." Avery's mind reeled. John? The guy that was taunting him and yelling at him., the one he had to work with and was too scared to? What could he have possibly done to cause such a stir that didn’t involve him? He felt his palms grow clammy, gripping his empty coffee mug even tighter. "Problems? What kind of problems?" Avery asked, his voice barely above a whisper as he was recovering from the fear that he did something. He glanced at Christy, hoping for some clue, but she averted her eyes, her face a mask of discomfort. Darlene pinched the bridge of her nose, clearly wrestling with how much to reveal. "I can't go into details right now, Avery. It's... sensitive. But it's bad. Really bad. And it's affecting the whole company." Avery's stomach twisted into knots. Their presentation, their project – was it all in jeopardy now because of whatever John had done? Avery's mind raced, trying to piece together what could possibly be so catastrophic. His voice trembled slightly as he asked, almost about to throw a tantrum, "What news?" “Calm down, Avery.” Darlene gave Avery another warm embrace and decided he needed to know if he was going to have a meltdown. She could feel it in her bones. Avery didn’t want to leave that embrace. He finally got back in her arms, but he didn’t want Christy to see his vulnerability. Darlene's eyes darted around the room, ensuring no one else was within earshot of her office door. She fully closed the office door. She leaned in closer, her voice barely above a whisper. "There is news that he brought a young, pretty woman back to Bryan's office. Had sex with her and posted it online." She paused, her face contorting with a mixture of disgust and disbelief. "Somehow, he posted it on the company's media platform. Plus, it's now out on other platforms outside of the company." Avery felt the blood drain from his face. His coffee mug slipped from his grasp and fell. Darlene was quick and caught it just in time before it hit the ground and possibly shattered into pieces. "He did what? Why?" he choked out, his mind reeling. Christy, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, let out a shaky breath. "I saw it," she whispered, her eyes wide with shock. "It's... it's bad, Avery. Really bad." Avery's thoughts whirled. How could John be so reckless? So stupid? Their project, their careers – everything they'd worked for was now teetering on the edge because of one man's idiocy. He felt a familiar twinge of anxiety in his bladder as he leaked again a little but forced himself to focus on the issue at hand. "But... why?" Avery managed to stutterer out. "Why would he do something like this?" Darlene shook her head as she got up and sat back down on her desk facing the computer, her fingers flying across her keyboard as she spoke. "I'm not sure how this happened. That's what I'm looking into right now." She frowned, squinting at her screen. "I didn't get any security notice because it seems to have been posted through his work iPhone. He had clearance to post on the site's Media forum." Avery's stomach churned. "But how did it spread beyond our company?" "Someone must of saw it before we could get to it and it was downloaded and distributed to other platforms," Darlene explained, her voice tight with stress. "I have my team trying to clean it up, but it's a mess. It's spreading faster than we can contain it." Christy leaned against the desk, her face pale. "This is going to be a HR nightmare for Julian," she murmured. Avery's mind raced, trying to process the implications. Their project, their reputations, the entire company's image – all hanging in the balance because of John's reckless behavior. He felt a cold sweat break out on his forehead. "What's going to happen to John?" Avery asked, his voice barely audible. Before Darlene could answer, her phone rang. She glanced at the screen, and her eyes widened. "It's the CEO," she said, her voice tense. "I have to take this. I am sure it's an emergency meeting." As Darlene answered the call, Avery caught Christy's eye. They shared a look of apprehension, both knowing that whatever came next would change everything. Darlene's face tightened as she listened to the voice on the other end of the line. She hung up, her shoulders slumping. "Shit, this isn't good," she muttered, running a hand through her hair. Turning to Avery and Christy, Darlene's expression hardened with resolve. "I need you both to stay in my office and lock the door." "Why? What's going on?" Christy asked, her voice tinged with worry. Avery felt his heart rate quicken again. "Is it John? Is he coming up here? Darlene's hands shook as she hastily closed the blinds, her eyes darting around the room with a sense of urgency. "Listen to me," she said in a low, urgent tone. "There's something serious happening in this building and I don't want John causing any trouble for you two. I need you both to stay safe." As the last blind was shut, plunging the office into a dim, artificial light, Darlene spun back to face them. "Do not open this door for anyone while I'm gone. Not even if they say, it's an emergency unless you can confirm it. Understand? I'm putting up my out-of-office sign now." She fixed them with a stern look, warning them not to disobey. Avery could feel his heart racing as he tried to process the gravity of the situation. What was going on? And why was Darlene so adamant about their safety? Did she know something about John he did not? "But what about our presentation?" he asked, his voice shaking as he glanced at Christy. Darlene paused at the door, her hand gripping the knob tightly. "That doesn't matter right now. Just do as I say and stay put and quiet. I'll be back as soon as I can." With that, she slipped out of the office, leaving Avery and Christy alone in a suffocating atmosphere of fear and uncertainty. Avery's stomach churned as he watched the door close behind Darlene. The gravity of the situation began to sink in, and a wave of anxiety washed over him. His eyes darted around the room, settling on Christy's worried face. "Why would he even come up here?" Avery whispered, his voice quivering. As the words left his mouth, he felt a familiar warmth spreading in his lower region. His bladder had betrayed him again, releasing its contents into his pull-up. A mix of embarrassment and fear coursed through him as he realized what had happened. Christy's brow furrowed with concern. "I don't know, Avery. This whole situation is bizarre." Avery shifted uncomfortably as he sat on one of the seats behind the desk, trying to hide his predicament. He could feel his cheeks burning as he attempted to focus on something else. "Do you think John will get fired?" he asked, desperate to distract himself from his wet pull-up. "Why would he do this?" Christy sighed, running a hand through her hair. "I honestly can't say. It's hard to believe John would do something this reckless. There has to be more to this story." Avery nodded, his mind racing. He wanted to believe there was a logical explanation, but the fear in Darlene's eyes haunted him. Whatever was happening, it was clear that their somethings may never be the same. Christy leaned back in her chair, her eyes distant as she recalled the disturbing footage. "I saw the video," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "It was weird. He was cursing, saying, 'Fuck this person, fuck this company, fuck them all' while... you know." She grimaced, clearly uncomfortable. "The woman with him was saying it too. 'That's right, fuck them all.'" She nodded grimly. "It was... intense. John had this woman bent over Bryan's desk, papers flying everywhere. You could see the company logo on some of the documents. It was like he was deliberately trying to cause as much damage as possible." Avery's eyes widened in shock, his own discomfort momentarily forgotten. "That's... that's insane," he stammered. "It's like he wanted to get caught." As the gravity of the situation sank in, Avery became acutely aware of his wet pull-up. The material clung uncomfortably to his skin, and he could feel a slight chill where it had leaked. He shifted in his seat, trying to find a position that didn't make the wetness so apparent. "I... I need to use the restroom," Avery said, his voice strained. He glanced nervously at the door, remembering Darlene's warning. "But Darlene said not to leave..." His cheeks burned with embarrassment. Here they were, locked in an office during a crisis, and all he could think about was his need to change. He felt childish and ashamed, especially in front of Christy, whom he admired so much. "Maybe I can wait," he muttered, more to himself than to Christy. But even as he said it, he knew it wasn't true. The wet pull-up was becoming unbearable, both physically and emotionally. Christy's brow furrowed as she observed Avery's discomfort. Her eyes darted to his fidgeting hands, then back to his face. Realization dawned in her eyes. "Avery," she said softly, "do you... do you need to change?" Her voice was gentle, devoid of judgment. Avery's face flushed a deep crimson red. He wanted to disappear, to sink into the floor. "I... I..." he stammered, unable to form a coherent sentence. Christy leaned forward, her expression compassionate. "It's okay. Can you wait until Darlene gets back?" Avery's eyes welled with tears of embarrassment. He shook his head slightly, avoiding her gaze. "I don't think so," he whispered. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry you have to deal with this." "Hey," Christy said, reaching out to touch his arm lightly. "There's nothing to be sorry about. We all have our challenges." Avery looked up, surprised by her kindness. "You... you're not disgusted?" Christy shook her head. "Of course not. Do you want to talk about it? Sometimes, it helps to share." Avery hesitated, then nodded slowly. "I've had issues since I was a kid," he began, his voice barely audible. "Stress makes it worse. And lately, with all the pressure..." "That's understandable," Christy said. "How long have you been managing it?" "All my life, really," Avery admitted, feeling a weight lift as he spoke. "But it's gotten harder to hide at work. I'm always afraid someone will notice." “Well, we will do our best to keep a secret. You don’t have to be ashamed about it.” There was a long pause as Avery still felt ashamed. It was then that Christy realized how fragile Avery could be. In fact, even though he was a young man, he looked like a scared little kid right now. She wasn’t sure how to respond. This was out of her expertise. They were stuck inside Darelen'soffice together. Her head raced on what to do as she remember when she would baby sit for a toddler that was wearing pullups how she would handle the situation. "Sweetie, do you need to get changed, or can we hold on a little bit longer?" Christy's voice was soft and gentle, like a lullaby. Avery kept his gaze fixed on the floor. "I... I don't think I can wait," he muttered, his cheeks burning with humiliation. Christy nodded sympathetically. "Alright, love. Did you bring an extra pull-up?" Silence hung in the air as Avery didn't answer. "I'll take that as a no," Christy said after a moment, her tone light despite the gravity of the situation. She tried again, "Is there any chance you've got a spare one tucked away in your backpack by your desk?" "Yes," Avery admitted reluctantly, "but we're not allowed to leave..." "Well, darling," she interrupted him gently, "we can't have you sitting here uncomfortable either." The truth of Christy's words weighed heavily on Avery's mind. He had no idea how long they would be stuck in this office together. The silence between them felt suffocating as he grappled with feelings of entrapment and helplessness. "Here's what we'll do." Christy broke through his thoughts with a determined edge to her voice. "I'll step outside for just a second and grab your backpack from your desk under the guise of looking for something else." "But change in here? With..." His voice trailed off as anxiety overwhelmed him. "Shh... it's okay." Christy reassured him with warmth in her voice. "I promise I won't look at all. And I'll make sure the door is locked for privacy." Avery swallowed hard before managing an almost inaudible response: "Okay." With a sense of urgency, Christy swiftly turned the door handle and left the office into the open floor plan. The area was abuzz with gossip and speculation about today's event. She calmly walked over to Avery's desk, feigning interest as she searched through piles of papers and opened drawers. Her gaze then pretended to fall upon his backpack, which she rummaged through as though searching for a missing item. As she scanned the backpack’s contents, her eyes landed on two spare pull-ups nestled neatly in the main compartment. She snatched the backpack with false annoyance, hoping no one would notice the turmoil inside her. As she hurried back to Darlene's office. As she hurried back to Darlene's office, she felt bad for Avery, but she needed to remain professional. She closed and locked the door behind her, wondering if anyone would come looking for her. "Here," she said, holding out the backpack. "I got it." Avery gratefully took his backpack from Christy's outstretched hand, careful to keep his head down and avoid her gaze. He could feel the heat rising to his cheeks as he reached inside and pulled out one of the spare pull-ups. He had never been in a situation like this before, and he felt incredibly embarrassed and vulnerable. "Appreciate it," he muttered, his words barely audible. Christy quickly turned around, not to look. “Make it quick.” Avery quickly unbuckled his belt. His pants were next. They slid down his legs with ease, pooling around his ankles like liquid fabric. He kicked them aside unceremoniously, stepping free from their confines. His hands, trembling slightly with a mix of embarrassment and urgency, fumbled with the four snaps of his onesie. Undoing each with a “pop” sound. The pull-up was fully exposed and its dampness was immediately noticeable against his skin. In a swift motion, he pulled down the pull-up, a practiced maneuver that he had done countless times before but always in a bathroom stall. He carefully stepped out of it, one foot at a time. He could feel the cool air of the room brush against his bare skin - an uncomfortable reminder of his predicament. Avery felt so exposed and naked in the office, even with Christy’s back turned. The new pull-up was ready and waiting—pristine white and crisp to the touch. He unfolded it carefully, revealing the insert nestled within like a secret promise of security. With deft movements born from necessity rather than choice, he stepped into it before pulling it up and securing it in place. The insert felt cool against him— foreign yet familiar at the same time. He quickly snapped the onesie together underneath the pull-up, securing and hiding it in place. He then slipped his gray slacks back on and buckled his belt. All this while, Christy remained in the office, her presence a silent specter that he tried hard to ignore as he focused on completing this intimate task. Christy kept her eyes averted and back turned respectfully, giving Avery some privacy as he changed into a clean pull-up. She couldn't help but feel sorry for him, knowing how uncomfortable it must have been for him to be stuck in a potentially embarrassing situation. Once Avery was finished changing, he took a deep breath and stood up straight, feeling more comfortable now that he was in a clean pull-up. "I... I think I'm okay now," he said softly. Christy turned back to face him with a reassuring smile on her face. "Good job. I'm proud of you." She gave him an encouraging pat on the back before turning towards Darlene's desk. Christy felt bad when she did this. She realized it must of sounded like he was 4 years old or so when she said it like that. Avery couldn't help but feel grateful for Christy's help and understanding. At least he was in a dry pull-up. The little bit that leaked in the inner side of his slacks would dry quickly. ———————————————————————————————————————————————————————— Darlene stepped in boldly into the CEO’s conference room, her heels clicking against the polished marble floor. The room was a spectacle of grandeur and power, with its high glass walls revealing the city skyline. The CEO's conference was crackled with palpable tension. Mr. Bryans, his face a bright crimson, paced frantically like a caged animal. Julian from Human Resources, usually the personification of calmness, sat rigidly in a high-back leather chair next to the imposing conference table. His hands shook uncontrollably, betraying the inner turmoil he was experiencing. All eyes turned to Darlene, but she barely noticed as her gaze fell on the damning evidence displayed on the screen in front of them all - a sex video filmed on DNA Pharmacia company property with John's scathing words denouncing the company echoing through the room. The board members remained stoic and silent, their faces etched with disapproval and shock. This could be the downfall of everything they had worked so hard to build. "This is a catastrophe of epic proportions," the CEO thundered, his hand crashing down on the polished mahogany of the conference table. "How in God's name has this transpired here!?" His voice filled every corner of the room with palpable fury as he pointed as the screen. Bryan finally sat down, beads of sweat forming on his forehead, sitting shoulder to shoulder with Julian. He stammered, "I... I can't explain it. We've had minor issues with him before but nothing... nothing like this." He swallowed hard, struggling to find words that seemed to have abandoned him. Bryan kept his personal thoughts to himself as the CEO had many opportunities to get rid of John before but refused to. One of the board members, a stern-faced woman in her fifties, fixed on Bryan with a piercing gaze. "Why would he choose to do such a thing in his office and then post?" Bryan rubbed his temples and sighed heavily. "Not his office - mine. It was as if he wanted to make some twisted statement." He paused for a moment before adding bitterly, "For God sakes,he even left behind a used condom in my trash bin as evidence... not to mention the state of my office." trying to hold his own anger in. The CEO's face was now crimson with rage. "John has been given more leeway than anyone else here because we all sympathized with his loss of his family and brother, and he had made many contributions to this company. But this? This is crossing every damn line!" His voice echoed through the room as he hammered home his point. "He needs to be fired immediately - I never want him within earshot or sight again!" Julian was in agreement, his expression grave. "Understood. I'll handle the termination process promptly." His eyes swept across the room and landed on each board member and Darlene, Julian, and Bryan - one by one. “Do you realize what kind of impact this could have on our investors?” A murmur spread across the room at his question: How did John manage to upload such explicit content onto their media site? Darlene cleared her throat and spoke up calmly despite her racing heart. She had been looking into this matter even before being called to this meeting, and she had come prepared for such queries. "It seems John used his company-issued phone to upload the... material... directly onto our media platforms. We're still trying to figure out how he managed to sidestep our security measures." The CEO's glare turned icy as it landed on Darlene. "Who was responsible for granting him such access? It should have been restricted! How in the hell did he get access in the first place?" Darlene looked across the conference table. “I don’t know, but there is no way it could have happened without a request being sent out to grant him access. I will have to look over our logs to find out when and who requested him to have access.” Bryan suddenly remembered. “A couple of years ago I requested him to have access. He was making a video explaining the future of cancer treatment for our company website and all the initiatives we were pursuing. I don’t remember ever submitting a request to revoke his access. It would be might my fault.” Bryan, feeling the weight of his mistake, spoke up. "I'll make an internal statement, taking full responsibility for the oversight. It was my error that allowed this breach to occur." The CEO, though visibly displeased, nodded at Bryan. "Do it. And make it clear that we are taking swift and decisive action to address this issue." "Now, what kinds of damage will this cause us in our stock price, in our investors, in potential sales and customers? What kind of news coverage are we expecting out of this?" His gaze swept across the room, landing on each board member individually. The CEO's question hung heavy in the air, a tangible tension that filled the conference room. Maria from Marketing chimed in next. Her voice was steady, but there was a hint of worry in her eyes. "There's no doubt it'll affect potential sales and customers. Our brand reputation is at stake here." "Indeed," added Robert from PR with a solemn nod. "As for news coverage... it won't be favorable." He ran a hand through his hair anxiously. "Let's not forget about our competitors," interjected Susan from Sales with an edge to her voice. "They'll seize this opportunity to steal our customers away." Each statement seemed to weigh heavier than the last as they echoed around the room. The CEO listened intently to each response, his expression unreadable as he took in their concerns and predictions. The CEO's face contorted into a mask of rage as he whirls towards Darlene, his voice laced with venom. "Did you take the damn video down from our website? And how in the hell are we going to scrub it from all those other social media sites?" His words were like bullets, sharp and piercing. Darlene's heart pounded as she scrambled to respond. "Yes, I have a team working on it, and our lawyers are sending formal requests to have the video removed immediately from all known sites out there to each social media company," she stammers, her voice shaking. "We just need your signature-" "Get those letters out NOW!" The CEO interrupted, slamming his fist onto the desk. "I want to sign them within the HOUR, no exceptions." He locked eyes with Darlene, seething with impatience and fury. Darlene's heart raced as she mustered up the courage to speak. “Yes, sir. I am on it.” She knew there was no time to waste. She had already taken a bold risk by breaking protocol and cutting off John's access to his iPhone and laptop before the meeting, hoping to prevent any further damage. It looked like she made the right move. The CEO turned to Robert from PR with a look of urgency. "We need a statement before the media catches wind of this mess. We have to show that we're taking swift and decisive action. It's already out there - we can't hide from it. If we don't address it head-on, it will only make us look guiltier in their eyes. I would have hidden it if I could, but it's too late for that now!" The tension in the room was palpable as they scrambled to contain the fallout from this grievous error. The room was filled with tension as the CEO's words hung heavily in the air. Susan from Sales spoke up, her voice shaking with worry. "What about our customers? How do we regain their trust after this?" The CEO's expression softened just a bit as he turned to her. "We'll have to be transparent and honest with them. We'll have to show that we take responsibility for our actions and are taking steps to make things right." He paused for a moment, thinking. "We'll also need to offer some kind of compensation or gesture of goodwill." Darlene spoke up, feeling uneasy but determined to contribute. "I think it would be best if we issued a public apology from the company, signed by you, sir." The CEO nodded in agreement. "Yes, that's a good idea. We'll make sure it's sincere and heartfelt." Robert from PR spoke up next, his voice steady and confident despite the chaos unfolding around him. "I'll start drafting the statement now and get it approved by legal before sending it out." The other board members nodded in agreement, understanding the gravity of John's actions and the impact they could have on the company's reputation. "Alright then," said the CEO with finality in his voice. "Everyone has their assignments - let's get to work on mitigating this disaster before it gets any worse." As they all began to leave the conference room, Darlene lingered behind for a moment to speak with the CEO privately. "I want to apologize again for not catching this sooner, sir," she said, her voice filled with regret. The CEO gave a harsh look at Darlene. “Let’s not let this happen again and beef up our IT systems.” Darlene could feel the disappointment As the meeting concluded, Julian and Bryan also stayed behind to quickly discuss the next steps. They knew that rebuilding trust with both their clients and their internal team would be a long and challenging process. But they were determined to emerge from this crisis stronger and more resilient than before. In the CEO's office, silence settled heavily in the aftermath of the violent altercation. The CEO slumped in defeat, his weariness palpable as he muttered a quiet prayer for resolution. He knew all the times he had given John grace within the last couple of years and tried to pretend his behavior would get better. ———————————————————————————————————————————————————————— As soon as Julian and Bryan exited the conference room, they made their way toward the security station located at the entrance to the first floor of the building complex. The air grew heavier around them as they descended, filled with a sense of urgency and tension, knowing that John wasn’t going to make this easy. Upon reaching the station, they found two guards on duty. The first was a man named Frank, a formidable presence encased in a uniform of midnight black. His broad shoulders filled out the crisp shirt that was stretched taut over muscles that seemed as if they had been carved from granite. A thick salt-and-pepper mustache sat above his stern lips, creating a stark contrast against his dark skin. His duty belt was laden with tools of the trade, from handcuffs and pepper spray to a flashlight, each item reflecting his readiness for any situation. Yet, nestled within this daunting facade, his eyes sparkled with an unexpected softness. Next to him was Sarah, her authority evident not through physical intimidation but through her commanding presence. She wore the same black uniform as Frank but tailored to fit her slender frame perfectly. Her sharp green eyes, always alert and scanning their surroundings, were framed by short blonde hair that fell in an austere style around her face. Her duty belt held similar equipment to Frank's but also included a small notebook and pen - tools she used more often than not. Her competence wasn't just evident; it was woven into every thread of her uniform like impenetrable armor. Byran spoke up first, “Accuse me, we have an order from the CEO that John Taylor is to be removed from this facility immediately and escorted offsite. His badge and all employment privileges are to be revoked immediately.” "John," Julian began, his voice echoing in the hushed room, "has become a liability. We need to let him go immediately." His words were sharp as flint, striking sparks in the dimly lit room. Bryan chimed in, his tone equally grave. "And it won't be easy. He's not going to leave quietly. We expect resistance." Frank and Sarah exchanged a look across the table, their shared history speaking volumes in that silent exchange. They had faced such situations before - this was just another challenge they would tackle together. Without missing a beat, they both stood up from their chairs. Their synchronicity was as fluid as a well-practiced dance - a testament to their years of working together. What John and Bryan did not realize was that these two people had served in Afghanistan as marines together. They had always had each other’s back and seen the worst and best of people in those times. "We understand," Frank said, his voice steady and calm despite the gravity of the situation. "Let's do this," Sarah added, her determined gaze meeting Julian's and Bryan's as she grabbed two tasers for them, just in case. Together, they followed Julian and Bryan to the elevator, ready to face whatever John would throw at them. The quartet moved swiftly through the maze-like corridors of the office building, their footsteps echoing against the polished marble floors. Upon reaching John's office door, they paused momentarily before Frank reached out to knock firmly on its polished surface. John's expression was a crystal clear mirror of foreknowledge, reflecting the unfolding events even before they happened. "That wasn't my doing. I didn't post that," he insisted, his voice echoing around the room. He was wearing a crisp white shirt that hugged his strong built frame, its sleeves neatly rolled up to his elbows, revealing a hint of strength. The charcoal grey suit trousers were expertly tailored, hanging just right on his hips and tapering down to meet polished black leather shoes that gleamed under the overhead lights. A matching grey tie with subtle blue stripes was knotted perfectly at his throat, completing the picture of professional elegance. “I don’t give a fuck about your lies anymore. You had the gall to have sex with a young woman in my office. How dare you!” Bryan yelled angrily, losing control as everyone outside John’s office could hear the commotion. At the CEO’s request, you are to be permanently removed from this premises.” Suddenly, the office reverberated with thunderous shouts that pierced through the hallway. The two security guards maneuvered through the chaos toward John. They closed in on him as he thrashed against their grasp, his face contorted in a mix of rage and desperation. Amidst the tumult, John's voice rose above all else, a tempest of curses and screams that echoed off the glass walls and filled the air with an unsettling intensity. "You can't do this to me!" John bellowed, his face contorted with rage. "I helped build this company! You're nothing without me!" The guards grappled with him, trying to pry his laptop from his white-knuckled grip. John's elbow connected with one guard's jaw, sending Frank stumbling back. "Fuck all of you!" John screamed, spittle flying from his lips. "You'll regret this!" Sarah swiftly deployed the taser, causing John to release his grip on the laptop as she deftly snatched it back. With a firm grip on his arm, she and Frank began leading him out of the office and towards the elevator. The hushed silence enveloped the open floor plan office as curious onlookers peered over their desks, their eyes fixed on the unfolding scene. John's feet shuffled along the pristine floor, leaving faint scuff marks in his wake, a silent testament to his resistance. John's screams echoed down the hallway, drowning out the sound of the taser as he thrashed against the two security guards in a frenzied fury. His muscles bulged and strained as he swung his fists with reckless abandon, each blow fueled by desperation and rage. But despite his strength and determination, the guards expertly dodged and subdued him, their grip unyielding. Julian's eyes landed on John's iPhone, still attached to his hip. With a quick motion, Sarah snatched it from its holder, her fingers trembling with urgency. "Let me go, you imbeciles!" John roared, his voice laced with pure hatred. He lunged forward, a primal force unleashed, determined to reclaim his precious device at any cost. The guards braced themselves against his onslaught, surprised by the sheer ferocity of his attack. Unexpectedly, John reached for the iPhone to retrieve it back. The scuffle intensified, grunts and thuds echoing off the walls. Frank managed to disarm John, wrenching the iPhone away forcefully. John's resistance only grew fiercer, his curses cutting through the tension like a knife. "You can't do this to me! I'll sue the company and destroy you all!" John's threats were laced with venom as he continued to struggle against the guards' relentless hold. His words dripped with malice, a stark contrast to the chaos unfolding around them. With astonishing speed and efficiency, as they had worked years together, the guards swiftly subdued John, their trained movements synchronized as they dragged him towards the elevator. His protests grew more frantic, his struggles becoming increasingly desperate as he was forcibly taken away. The elevator's descent was no easier, John's wrath still simmering to a violent boil. The two security guards, calm from their years of training together, were still forced once more to deploy the electric bite of their tasers to quell his outburst. At long last, they alighted onto the ground floor, leading a subdued John through the lobby and out into the open air. As soon as his feet hit the pavement outside, a procedure of security measures began inside. The guards initiated a lockdown protocol that transformed the building into an impenetrable fortress. Doors automatically slid shut and locked with metallic clicks that echoed through empty corridors. Additional security personnel were called and stationed at each entry point swiftly moved into position, their fingers flying over control panels as they activated steel barriers. Closed-circuit television monitors flickered to life, displaying feeds from every corner of the building while alarms blared intermittently – a cacophony of safety measures all aimed at ensuring no one could breach the premises. Meanwhile, outside, John's shouts and curses reverberated down city blocks, his anger echoing off buildings like an urban thunderstorm. Soon enough, though, those cries were drowned out by approaching sirens – a chorus of authority coming to take control. The police arrived in force; uniformed officers spilled out from squad cars like ants from a disturbed nest. They quickly formed a human barrier between John and any potential escape route before moving in with practiced ease. Two officers stepped forward - one calmly reading him his rights while another secured handcuffs around his wrists with professional detachment. John was escorted away under this watchful guard, his volatile presence replaced by an eerie silence that settled heavily on the scene as he disappeared into the backseat of a waiting cruiser. ——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————r Sitting in Darlene's office, Christy tried her best to keep Avery calm. Avery sat in one of the chairs and just held on to his Lego coffee cup, taking sips of the decaf coffee Christy had made for him. Christy figured that the caffeine would only make him more on edge. He didn’t even notice the difference. He kept trying not to think about what he did in the office with Christy’s back behind him. There was the used pull-up in Darlene’s office as evidence. He had crumbled several sheets of unused paper to try to cover it in case the janitors came by to pick up the trash. Christy’s fingers anxiously scrolled through the messages on her iPhone as she read some of them out loud, her voice trembling with worry. "They're firing John," she announced gravely. "He's not happy." She continued to read the incoming messages, her phone buzzing repeatedly. The tension in the room was palpable as they waited for updates. "Holy shit," Christy exclaimed suddenly, causing Avery to jump from his seat. He paced nervously, feeling like everything was his fault even though zero of it was his fault or in his control. He couldn't shake off the guilt and anxiety that clouded his mind. "They had to taser him," Christy said in shock. "He hit one of the guards." Avery's heart raced with fear and he couldn't control himself as he wet his pull-up yet again, embarrassed by his lack of control. "Did he get away?" he asked anxiously. "No," Christy replied quickly. "After a struggle, they managed to get him into the elevator..." Her voice trailed off as she couldn't believe how a normal work day turned into complete chaos. A sudden voice blared on the intercom, blaring throughout the building. It was Sarah, the security officer, her urgent tone echoing through the halls as she announced an official lockdown. The words rang out like a warning, jolting everyone into action. This was not a drill, and the seriousness of the situation hung heavily in the air. Everyone was to remain at their desk, and no one was to enter or leave this building until further notice was given. Avery and Christy look shocked hearing this. Just then, the sound of the door unlocking caused both Christy and Avery to turn their heads in anticipation. Darlene's entrance was met with a look of deep concern; her shoulders visibly weighed down by heavy pressure. "What happened?" Christy's words rushed out, her eyes darting outside as if searching for someone accompanying Darlene, but she was alone. "If you haven't heard, they finally did it. They fired John. Thank God!" Darlene's exhaustion was evident despite the day having only just begun. "But in the spirit of John, I have a mountain of work to do to fix what he did." Avery remained silent, his gaze fixed on Darlene. He had never seen her so stressed before and being naturally introverted, he chose to stay quiet and observe as Christy and Darlene conversed. "Is there anything we can do to help?" Christy offered. "No, Christy." Darlene looked up at her with tired eyes. "I just need to get to work with my team immediately." Darlene then turned to face Avery and noticed his silence. "Are you okay, Avery?" she asked with genuine concern. But Avery kept his head down and stared at his half-empty coffee cup and simply nodded in response. “Christy, I don’t mean to be rude but I really have to get my team together and resolve a lot in the next hour.” She looked at Christy and the kind of motioned over to Avery as if asking to please watch over him. Christy picked up the subtle cue from Darlene's tone and understood that it was time to get back to work. She didn't want to linger in the tense atmosphere of Darlene's office any longer. Turning to leave, she noticed Avery still sitting in the chair, his body tense and his eyes distant. He wanted to say something to Darlene. He wanted to say sorry, but he wasn’t sure how. "Avery, don't we need to get back to work?" Christy asked gently, walking over to him. She took his hand in hers and led him out of the office, feeling his hesitance with each step they took. As they reached their desks, Christy couldn't help but wonder what was wrong with Avery. He should be relieved that John was gone with all the bad that he had caused him, but she knew he wasn't a typical man. He had always been different, and though she didn't fully understand it, she also knew he could be kind and incredibly intelligent. Sitting down at their desks, the office now fell into an eerie hush after John's explosive departure and the lock-down announced. Avery tried to focus on his work, but his mind was elsewhere. He kept feeling and thinking he was hearing whispers and furtive glances rippled through the open-plan workspace like a nervous current as everyone tried to process what had just happened. Christy rolled her chair towards Avery and appeared at his elbow, her face pale. "Avery, we should get back to work. Try to focus on the project." "How?" Avery whispered, his voice cracking. "Everything's falling apart." He glanced around the office. Some colleagues huddled in small groups, their voices low and urgent. Others sat rigidly at their desks, staring blankly at their screens. A tense, expectant silence had replaced the usual hum of productivity. "I know it's hard," Christy said, placing a hand on his arm. "But we can't let this derail us. The presentation-" "The presentation?" Avery interrupted, his voice hysterical. John was supposed to lead that. What are we going to do now? I am sure they will cancel it." Christy took a deep breath. "You and I have all the knowledge. He was just there to take our credit and cause problems. We'll figure it out together. Come on, let's go over the data and programming again." Sitting at the desk near Christy, Avery couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. Every rustle of paper, every cleared throat, seemed to carry an accusation. He sank into his chair, trying to make himself as small as possible. "I can't concentrate," he muttered, staring at his computer screen. "Everyone's probably wondering if we knew. If we were involved somehow." Christy leaned in, her voice barely audible. "We weren't. And we can't control what others think. All we can do is our jobs." As the day dragged on, Avery's mind remained clouded with doubt and unease. Despite Christy's attempts to help him refocus, his thoughts continued to drift, unable to shake off the weight of suspicion that lingered in the air. Darlene's absence only added to the tension, leaving Avery feeling adrift in a sea of unresolved tension and unfinished work. The silence that filled the office as they departed for the day echoed with the unspoken questions that hung heavily in the air for him. The project files lay forgotten on Avery's desk, a stark reminder of a day lost to uncertainty and distraction. With a heavy sigh, he packed up his belongings, knowing that the shadows of doubt would follow him home. The echoes of that unsettling day reverberated in his mind long after he had left the office. Darlene watched as Christy and Avery left for the day. She hadn’t checked on Avery once the rest of the day. She didn’t have the time to worry about him. She turned to her IT team, who were all huddled around their computers, typing furiously to remove any trace of the explicit content from the social media sites. She got up and walked around the office to check on her teammates. "Keep at it, guys," Darlene said, her voice steady and calm. "We need to make sure every last trace of those videos is gone from the internet. We can't let something like this happen again." Her team nodded, their fingers flying over the keys as they worked to secure the system. Darlene walked around the open floor plan, checking in with each team member and offering words of encouragement. She knew how important it was for them to feel supported in their efforts to protect the company and its employees. Hours passed, and finally, the last of the videos was removed from the web. Darlene's team let out a collective sigh of relief, their shoulders sagging with exhaustion as it was past midnight. "Great work, everyone," Darlene said, smiling warmly at her team. "I couldn't have done it without you." As her team started to pack up and head home, Darlene took one last look at the secure system she had helped build. She knew there would always be threats to their business, but she had always felt confident in her team's ability to handle whatever came their way. Here, the team was a pride built from years of putting them together. As Darlene shut off the lights and left her office, she couldn't shake the feeling of unease that had settled in her stomach. The video she had watched replayed in her mind, the woman's voice hauntingly familiar yet unrecognizable in every other way. She tried to focus on getting home and going to bed, but her thoughts kept coming back to the mysterious stranger in the video. It wasn't until she drifted off to sleep that her mind finally found some respite from the endless loop of confusion and curiosity.

Sorry, it took me so long. The good news is my Mom's cancer is stable. That is the best-case scenario for her right now. My dad continues to degrade with his Dementia. I don't know why but we have seen a lot of change in him these last two months. He has, on a couple of occasions, forgotten who my wife and daughter are. Anyways, back to the story. I did not do a good job writing this. I should not be an erotic writer (LOL). This is the last chapter of just John and Ashley. Remember Ashley is pretending to be Chloe. The next chapter we will be getting into the grove of things with Avery and Darlene. Chapter 38 - Passion & Revenge Ashely was shocked that she had actually got John to agree to take her back to his office at DNA Pharmacia. It was a long shot. She was toying and leading him on at the Prost Sports bar, but it worked. Before they left the bar, Ashley took a selfie with the two of them facing the back of the bar with the bartender in the picture behind them. She sent him the picture from her iPhone for remembrance. As Ashley, who was right now playing the role of Chloe, entered the sleek, modern building of DNA Pharmica, they wasted no time in pressing their lips together in a fiery kiss. Their pent-up passion burned hot and intense, fueled by revenge fantasies against those who had put them down before, which she placed in his head. She could feel his desire growing stronger beneath her touch, igniting her own pretend desire in return. They headed to the elevator from the parking garage. Once entered, John quickly pressed the level three button where his office and department were. As the elevator ascended, its gentle hum harmonized with a soft melody piped through hidden speakers. Johns found himself drawn into a world of his own. His hands began to wander over her dress, a seductive black dress that clung to her form like an intimate secret. The material was as smooth as silk beneath his touch, each caress sending jolts of anticipation coursing through John’s veins. He wanted her. He pressed her against the cool metallic walls of the elevator, his lips finding hers in an intoxicating dance of desire. The taste of her lipstick was sweet on his tongue, a hopeful hint of what was to come. John thought to himself that he really scored tonight with this young lady. His fingers traced over the curves accentuated by her dress, exploring every inch. The tight fabric seemed to be an extension of Ashley herself; it whispered tales of temptation under his touch and hinted at the secrets hidden beneath its surface. The world outside ceased to exist for him as he lost himself in this momentary sexual intensity in what he believed was their shared heat radiating off the cold metal walls of the elevator. At the same time, Ashley pretended to savor every moment, knowing this would be just what she wanted him to fall for and making him believe they both needed this after enduring those harsh words and judgment at work during the past weeks from their bosses who had overlooked their contributions to younger underserving talent that didn’t know what they were doing. Throughout her career as an escort, she had become a silent scholar of male behavior and carnal desires. Each encounter was a lesson, each client a chapter in her ever-growing understanding of human psychology. She had learned to read the subtle cues hidden behind their egos - the twitching fingers that betrayed nervousness, the lingering gaze that hinted at unspoken fantasies. She'd mastered the art of manipulation, a delicate dance where she led while allowing them to believe they were in control. She learned to be the puppeteer pulling invisible strings, guiding their actions with carefully chosen words and gestures. Their egos remained intact as they reveled in their perceived power, oblivious to her subtle control over the situation. The illusion was part of the allure; it was what kept them coming back for more. This was her ultimate challenge. As they move towards the office, John again could understand why this sexual release could be so appealing. In his mind, he was the victim of a professional work environment with blurred loyalty, boundaries, and a lack of respect. Ashley broke the kiss, gasping for air as her heart raced, pretending to be turned on and enjoying the excitement. "John," she breathed, her voice husky and filled with longing. "I've really needed this. That bitch has me so angry and frustrated at my work." John's hands roamed her body; his touch, he thought, was igniting a fire within her. "You have no idea how much I could use this; Avery is just as much a bastard," he growled, his words dripping with resentment towards Avery and with desire for Ashley. John reached for the doorknob of his office, held Ashley tight in his arms, and pushed the door open. "They have no clue what they're missing by letting those losers get in our way," Ashley panted, eagerly unbuttoning John's shirt. "We'll show them who's really valuable around here and who is fucking in control." Trying hard to get John stirred up over Avery more. John's eyes glinted with desire and need as he nipped at her neck. "They should have never underestimated us, Chloe," he growled, his hands roaming hungrily over every inch of her body. "Now it's time for them to pay the price." With a rough shove, he pinned her against the wall of the office, causing a book to tumble from the shelf and crash to the ground with a loud thud. Ashley moaned softly, pretending to be lost in the moment as John's lips trailed down her neck and across her collarbone. "Mmm, you know just how to make me forget all about those pompous assholes in the fashion industry." "Let me help you forget even more," John murmured seductively as he cautiously navigated his hand up the soft terrain of her thigh. His fingertips traced a path under the hem of her dress, exploring the delicate fabric that shielded her skin from his touch. Ashley, pretending, inhaled sharply. "I love the thrill of possibly being discovered," Ashley murmured with a mischievous glint in her eyes, gently pushing John away from her with a flirtatious smile. "Isn't that part of the allure?" John's voice was a low whisper against the curve of her neck, his warm breath causing a shiver to ripple across her skin. "The intoxicating danger of unmasking our secret rondevo... it does add an irresistible edge." A playful laugh escaped Ashley's lips as she pulled him back towards her, their bodies colliding with an electric intensity. Her fingers danced up his chest, pressing him closer against her as if he were the only thing anchoring her to reality. "You're such a wicked temptation," Ashley teased, their bodies rhythmically moving together in a dance as old as time itself. The friction between them ignited sparks of pleasure that coursed through John’s veins. "But I find myself hopelessly drawn to it." "Says the woman who begged to come into my office tonight and wants to jump me," John retorted playfully. With a smirk, Ashley replied, "Well, someone had to make the first move. You were too slow to pick up on the hints." "Slow?" John growled playfully before scooping Ashley up and placing her on his desk with ease. Papers and office supplies scattered to the floor as Ashley wrapped her legs around his waist. "About time you manned up." John's fingers tangled in her hair as he claimed her lips in a deep, passionate kiss. "I'll man up all over this office if you keep taunting me like that." "Big words," Ashley teased, pretending to revel in the feel of John's body pressed against hers. "Let's see if you can back them up, hotshot." John nipped at her earlobe, sending shivers down her spine. "Challenge accepted, darling." Ashley shivered, pretending to be overcome with desire for this man who knew how to push her buttons. "Mmm, I love it when you get all assertive." "And I love it when you get all feisty," John murmured against her skin, his hands wandering lower and lower. Ashley's nails raked down his back as she gasped in pure pleasure. "Less talking, more action, mister." John groaned, unable to resist the fiery passion between them any longer. "You're going to get more action than you can handle” "That's more like it," Ashley purred, relishing every touch and kiss from John's skilled hands and lips. "Now show me what you've got." John's hands slid to her back and began to unzip her dress; she pretended to let him know he was igniting a fire within her that only he could extinguish. "With pleasure." Ashley arched into his touch, pretending to lose herself completely in the moment and letting her inhibitions slip away as she surrendered to John's desires. "Damn straight. Now shut up and kiss me again." John obliged eagerly, his mouth hungrily exploring every inch of hers as their bodies moved together in perfect rhythm. For those brief moments together, work and responsibilities were forgotten as they focused solely on each other, basking in the heat and intensity of their connection. When they finally came up for air, Ashley giggled breathlessly. "You know, this is way better than writing some stupid-ass article for the magazine that your boss doesn’t care about." John grinned, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "I'd say it's a much more productive use of DNA pharmica’s company time since they don’t know talent when they have it." "Oh, definitely," Ashley agreed with a sly grin. "We should make this a regular thing after tonight." John raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the idea. "Weekly after-work discipline meetings here in your office?" Ashley smirked, her fingers trailing down John's chest. "For efficiency's sake, of course." "Of course," John echoed before leaning in to kiss her again, their passion reigniting once more as they lost themselves in each other's embrace. At that moment, there was no one else but them, no worries or stressors, just a shared desire to feel alive and wanted in each other's arms. With a calculated pause, Ashley gently nudged him back from the desk she was perched on. She had him wrapped around her finger, ready to do anything for a taste of her. "But first," she cooed, "I'd like you to freshen up a bit. Nothing quite kills the mood like an unpleasant aroma." Her smile was teasing as she ran her hand over his crotch. "And I'll do the same. Now, where's your bathroom?" John hastily retreated and pointed towards the bathroom before making a dash for it himself. Ashley watched him go with an amused smirk playing on her lips. "I'll be right there," she promised, eyes twinkling mischievously as she added, "Just need to grab a few things." Once he was out of sight, Ashley's gaze swept across the room with predatory precision, hunting for the perfect spot to hide her video camera where she could retrieve it later without raising suspicion. Her eyes landed on a wooden shelf nestled between two notebooks - an ideal location to capture all that would transpire at the desk. Satisfied with her choice, Ashley exited the office, but something caught her off guard. This wasn’t John’s office he took her to. It was Bryan’s office. She made a quick mental note to find out who this was. Then she made her way towards the bathroom, leaving no trace of her secret agenda behind. After emerging from the bathroom, Ashley's skin was freshly washed and scented with a luxurious perfume. A wicked grin spread across her face as she reveled in the success of her plan. Despite lingering worries, everything was falling perfectly into place. When Ashley stepped in, he was sitting on the desk. As John got up, he eagerly undid his pants as Ashley took slow, deliberate steps towards him, her movements exuding confidence. She reached up to unzip the back of her dress, revealing a lacy black bra nested underneath. With a sexy sway of her hips, she stepped out of her dress, fully exposing herself in matching lace panties. "Let's show them who's really in charge around here," she purred, crawling onto the desk with the shuffle of papers and clattering of office supplies beneath them. Straddling him confidently, their lips met again in a fiery kiss that quickly escalated to grinding hips and passionate moans. Always mindful of the video camera recording their every move, Ashley made sure to keep her face obscured by her hair at all times. Their bodies entwined in a frenzy of desire, John and Ashley held onto each other tightly. His rough hands traced over her supple skin as he growled into her ear, "You're such a damn tease, some much better than DNA Pharmica. Fuck them all." His voice dripped with lust as he slowed down, removed her bra, and tossed it on the floor, exposing her firm young breast. He cupped her breasts and squeezed them firmly, eliciting fake pleasured cries from Ashley as he pinched at her sensitive nipples. Ashley's hands, smooth and warm, slid along John's flat abdomen before dipping into his boxers. His cock sprang free, standing tall against the confines of his underwear. She very smoothly pushed his boxers down his thighs with her feet, revealing him long, thick, hard, and ready. John watched as she did this. “Avery just wishes he was man enough. that pissy pants could never get this. This company is going down the drain.” Ashley pushed John away from the desk as she slid off the desk and onto her knees before him now, she took him into her soft mouth, her lips wrapping around the head of his shaft and her tongue teasing the sensitive underside. Her hands gripped his base as she bobbed her head up and down, causing a delicious friction against his skin. Her breath fanned over him, hot and moist, as she took more of him inside her mouth with each gentle tug. His hips bucked forward, pressing deeper into her eager mouth as she worked him with deft strokes of her tongue. She took a breath and looked up at John. “Say it... Say, mean. Say it rough!” With one hand still gripping her hair for leverage, John gripped the edge of the desk tightly under the strain of pleasure coursing through him. He groaned loudly into the silence of the room, lost to this sensual moment with Ashley kneeling at his feet. Her lips and tongue worked in unison to drive him wild; he could feel droplets of pre-cum gathering at the tip of his cock as she took him deeper with each suckle. “Fuck them all.. Fuck the CEO, Fuck Bryan, Fuck the HR asshole. Fuck dam company. Fuck that little asshole Avery.” He screamed as he leaned his head back in pleasure, still holding on to her hair. During all this, Ashley was well aware of the camera and kept her face away from it at all times, ensuring she captured every moment. At that moment, she retreated a fraction, her eyes sparkling with mischief as a seductive grin graced her lips. “Anticipating the grand finale?” Her voice was a purr, rich and sexy, laden with promise. She looked up at John from her position on her knees, an alluring sight of submissive appeal. With deliberate slowness, she reached for the prophylactic she had thoughtfully prepared earlier. Her fingers danced over the foil packaging, teasing it open with an erotic grace that left nothing to the imagination. The crinkle of the wrapper echoed in the room like a whispered secret. Her eyes locked onto his and moved with deliberate precision as she rolled the latex barrier over his pulsating desire. Each action was exact and agonizingly slow, amplifying their mutual anticipation. The icy touch of her fingers against his feverish skin sent tremors down his spine, leaving him gasping for air in expectation of what was to follow. "Get on the desk," John's voice was low and urgent as he watched Ashley's every move. His words hung in the air between them, a provocative challenge that made her heart pound wildly in her chest. "On all fours?" Ashley questioned with a playful glint in her eyes. She knew exactly what he wanted but enjoyed the dance of their verbal foreplay. "Yes," he breathed out in a commanding tone, "I want to take you from behind." His words were raw and strong, pretending to stir a thrill within her. Her breath hitched as she climbed onto the desk, presenting herself just as he had commanded. She felt John slide her black lace panties off, throwing them on the ground. Then Ashley felt John's rough hands grip her hips and pull her closer to hi, sending shivers down her spine. The sensation of his body pressing against hers from behind caused her to arch her back invitingly. John groaned low in his throat before pushing himself inside of her in one swift motion, filling her up completely. Ashley gasped at the sudden intrusion. She arched her back, pretending she couldn't help but feel a rush of pleasure course through her veins. His rough hands dug into her skin as he began to thrust into her with force, causing their hips to smack together in a rhythmic beat that echoed around the room. As soon as John started thrusting in and out. He continued his lude onslaught of his company. Talking about how the project will fail. How the patents will never pass. Revealing lots of anger towards the company as their bodies slapped against each other, creating an intense bass line that vibrated through the air. The sound of skin-on-skin colliding mixed with their heavy breaths and moans filled the silence. Ashley could feel every inch of him penetrating her, stretching her walls as she let him claim her as his own for this one night. The scent of sweat and lust filled the air, making it almost tangible as they moved together. John's hands gripped her hips, holding her in place as his body reached its climax. Letting out one last “Fuck you” to the company. The desk beneath them shook and creaked with their fervent movements; papers and pens continued to scatter across the surface. She could feel his hot breath on her neck, his heart pounding against her back. The sound of their mingled moans filled the room, echoing off the walls as they gave in to their desires.

Did you ever get it resolved?

Happy New Year! I hope the best for everyone and many days of joy and play.

A polo onesie is something like this. Polo shirts are work shirts, also known as golf shirts. At least, that is what we called them when I grew up. The warning was for the new chapter. Chapter 37 and the next chapter are more adult-themed and sexual displays but not really ABDL related. Some may or may not like that.

Warning: This is a deviation from Avery and Darlene, etc., but it is an important part of the story along with the next chapter. I use Ashley and Chloe in changing during the story. They are one person. Chapter 37 - Prost Sports Bar Ashley was sitting and waiting in her car, parked adjacent to the pulsating neon lights saying open for business at the Prost Sports Bar. She delicately traced her lips with a final coat of ruby-red lipstick, using the rear-view mirror as her guide. She scrutinized her blush, a soft, rosy hue that accentuated her high cheekbones, and fluttered her eyelashes, thick and lush from multiple coatings of volumizing mascara. She adjusted her dark brown wig that was very securely in on her hair, hiding her red hair. She then slid in her contacts, replacing her naturally blue eyes with dark brown eyes. Before arriving, she had placed an expensive temporary tattoo of a green vine on her left arm with some blue hues and black outlines. In addition, under the dress on her lower back, she had a temporary tattoo of a vibrant hummingbird, wings outstretched, hovering above a delicate vine of purple flowers. Both of these tattoos wouldn’t come off without using nail polish, and one couldn’t tell it wasn’t a permanent tattoo. Her outfit was meticulously chosen for this night. She wore a sultry little black dress that clung to every curve like a second skin. The fabric was soft and smooth, shimmering under the dim light of the car's interior. It had a neckline that was open and V-down, which plunged daringly low, revealing just enough cleavage to be enticing without crossing into vulgarity. The hemline of the dress flirted dangerously high on her thighs, showcasing the toned firmness that came from countless hours spent in yoga classes and gym sessions. Her legs were encased in sheer black stockings with an intricate lace pattern that added an extra layer of allure to her ensemble. A pair of stiletto heels completed the look - glossy black patent leather with pointed toes and sky-high heels that elongated her legs further and added an edge of dominance to her persona. She was dressed not just to kill but to conquer - every detail calculated and well thought out to ensure she caught every eye in the room and left no man indifferent. She was lucky her wardrobe offered lots to choose from for occasions like this. Before exiting her car, she stuffed an empty stainless-steel bottle and two full plastic water bottles in her elegant but large Christian Dior purse. She made sure she always had her normal stuff with her two cans of mace. A sharp pocketknife. A pocket-sized high-definition video recorder. As she exited, she flattened out her dress and walked towards the bar. The familiar sound of lively chatter filled the city street as she made her way to Prost Sports Bar for the third day in a row. The painted wooden sign above the entrance glowed brightly, beckoning her inside. When she entered the bar, she scanned the room for Johnny, the bartender who had become her new friend. She knew exactly what time Darlene's work hours were and made sure to arrive early, hoping to catch a glimpse of John when he entered, the man she had been messaging on Facebook as a different person than she was playing now. "Back again, Chloe?" Johnny queried, leaning on the polished wood of the bar that had become so familiar to her in just a few days. "You're practically part of the furniture now." She flashed him a cheeky grin, tilting her head slightly as she asked for her usual. "A gin and tonic with rosemary, if you'd be so kind, Johnny." As she reached for some napkins, she playfully scattered a handful of nuts onto her side of the bar. Johnny chuckled as he began to mix her drink. "At this rate," he mused aloud, "we might have to hang your picture on the wall. You'll be our resident regular before you know it." Chloe shot him a coy glance from beneath long lashes. "Oh? And what would my caption be? 'The mysterious woman who's always here but never says much?'" Johnny smoothly slid her drink across the counter towards her, and she carefully positioned her hand to grab it. She lifted the drink and took a sip as she looked through. Behind and between the glass of the drink, she subtly surveyed the rest of the patrons in the bar. As she perched on the barstool, crunching on salty peanuts, her attention was drawn to the typical rhythmic clatter and thud of billiard balls colliding. The pool tables set off in one section of the bar not far from her view; like all pool tables, it was a green-felt surface illuminated by a hanging lamp that cast long shadows. A group of men huddled around it, their laughter and banter echoing off the worn wooden walls. She recognized them - they were familiar faces from previous nights spent here. They had shared games before, their camaraderie built over friendly competition and half-drunk beers and drinks. She decided to slide off her stool and join them again tonight; it would be a good way to wait until John's arrival allowing her to blend into the lively hum of social interaction at the bar. As she drew closer to the pool table, her pulse increased slightly. It wasn't solely due to it being a usual night for games at this bar, but because she was acutely aware that If John showed up and if she played it right, he would scrutinize her every gesture once he walked in. She needed to execute this perfectly. She needed to look like she fit in and wasn’t singling him out but rather a random encounter where he would display interest in her. Her actions had to carry a measured grace and seductiveness that would draw him but, at the same time, seem like she wasn’t seeking the attention. "Mind if I join you guys?" she asked casually, leaning on the edge of the pool table and gesturing at the game in progress. "I promise not to hustle too much again." The playful challenge was evident in her voice, as well as the unspoken invitation for John to watch and see how she played when he showed up. “Hey, Chloe,” the men almost chimed in simultaneously, happy to see her back. “You are always welcome at our pool table for as many games you like to play with us.” She quickly grabbed a pool stick to join in a new game as the balls were being racked up. When it was her turn, she leaned over the pool table, allowing her skirt to ride up just enough for a tantalizing peek beneath its edge. Her fingers delicately positioned the cue ball, careful not to waste this delicious opportunity before the men at the table like an open invitation on each curve highlighted by shadow and light dancing around them in the dimly lit club. She made sure to do this each time she was taking a shot. Around the pool table were men of varying ages, their gazes fixed on her with a mix of admiration and desire. "So, who's going next?" She asked playfully, breaking the silence as she straightened up from lining up her shot. A man with salt-and-pepper hair laughed heartily, "I think we're all too distracted by your presence to even remember whose turn it is!" A younger man chimed in, his eyes sparkling with friendly lust and amusement. "Yeah! You've got us all wrapped around your little finger." Their bodies subtly moved closer together as they bantered back and forth; their breath mingled together, creating an almost palpable atmosphere of electricity-filled air around them both, heightening anticipation building inside them both, eager for release, which would come only once cue ball found its mark upon velvet surfer. As soon as it was time for other players to make their move, without hesitation, she struck a swift blow. The eight-ball went straight in toward the called corner pocket, giving her the first win of the night. “I win!” she shouted in a flirting victory to the boys. Just as this happened, John entered the bar and sauntered with his typical swagger step of overconfidence and manliness into the bar, his eyes scanning the room with a lustful gaze. He was on a mission tonight, hunting for a captivating woman who would appreciate his charm and wit and seduce them back to his place. His gaze darted from one corner to another, assessing potential prospects and sizing up the competition. His eyes did spot Chloe as she was to take the first shot, with her leaning over and her dress riding up on her firm thighs. As he made his way through, the clink of glasses and laughter filled the air as he weaved through the crowd. The scent of beer mingled with perfume teased his senses as he sidestepped a couple locked in an intimate kiss. A group of men near the pool table caught his attention momentarily; their boisterous laughter and overt displays of machismo marked them as possible contenders. His eyes caught a glimpse of Ashley playing pool. She was too preoccupied to approach for now. His eyes finally landed on a cluster of young women huddled around a round table. Their faces were illuminated by the soft glow of candlelight, their laughter like music over the hum of conversation. They were sipping margaritas, their cheeks flushed from alcohol and mirth. John straightened his sports coat, smoothed back his hair, and approached them with an easy smile playing on his lips. "Ladies," he greeted smoothly, pulling out an empty chair without waiting for an invitation. “Mind if I sit. The place seems crowded.” He leaned back comfortably, stretching out long legs under the table as if he belonged there all along. The young woman told him to have a seat. They didn’t mind the company. He introduced himself with practiced ease before launching into light-hearted banter that had them giggling behind hands and shooting him coy glances over salt-rimmed glasses. As Ashley continued her game of pool nearby; John had found his target audience for the evening - young ladies who enjoyed good company over appetizers and margaritas. Ashley noticed John shortly after he entered but didn’t want to act too quickly. The meeting needs to be more accidental. After a few more rounds of flirting and shooting pool, Ashley intentionally lost to speed up the game. But throughout their gameplay, she couldn't help but steal glances at John, who seemed to be charming a group of girls at another table. She did notice John taking a few glances at her, which was exactly what she wanted. Once the pool game was over, Ashley pretended to be engrossed in conversation with some of her new male friends while secretly keeping an eye on John. When he approached the bar for a second drink, she seized the opportunity and excused herself from her company because she needed a refill on her drink. Ashley's breath tickled John's ear as she leaned in close, saying, “Excuse me”, having to push herself between him and another gentleman to get to the crowded bar, the sweet scent of her perfume mingling with the smell around her. Her deep brown eyes flashed with irritation, and he couldn't help but notice the slight tremble in her full, luscious lips as he shouted for Johnny, the bartender trying to get his attention. John had just caught the attention of the bartender. “I need a Long Island iced tea! I have had another shit day with shitty coworkers” "Ugh, I absolutely detest those days," She grumbled, her fingers combing through her luscious locks of hair. A shiver ran down John's spine at the sight of her delicate touch. The neckline of her low-cut top revealed not only some cleavage but a hint of lace from her bra, teasingly beckoning him closer. John couldn't tear his gaze away from her, completely captivated by the temptation from her body. He had been covertly craving Ashley secretly since he walked in, and now she pulled herself up to the bar, drawn to every curve of her figure and the fierce intensity in her eyes. "What a pretty young lady like you, had a shit day too?" He asked, his voice thick with desire. Ashley turned towards him as if really noticing him for the first time, and for a moment, their eyes locked. In that moment, he saw the unspoken invitation in her gaze. She reached over and caressed his cheek playfully. “Dear, you have no idea.” She turned away from him to ignore him. “Johnny, can I also get a drink? Gin and tonic, but make it a double!” She shouted. Chloe did her best to pretend to be slightly buzzed. John wanted to get her attention back before she got her drink and ran off to play more pool or got back to chatting with the other men. As the bartender placed a slice of rosemary into Ashley's double gin and tonic, John leaned in closer with playful mischief. "You know," he began, his voice a low hum over the clinking of ice against the glass, "I've heard that rosemary is a symbol of remembrance." Ashley arched an eyebrow at him, her lips curling into a small smile. "Is that so?" John nodded, leaning back against the bar counter with an easy grace. He took a sip from his own drink before replying. "Yeah. It's said to help improve memory too." "Then I guess I won't forget you easily," Ashley retorted playfully, her eyes sparkling as she accepted her freshly made drink from the bartender. John chuckled at her response, his laughter warm and inviting. He leaned in again, catching her eye as he spoke. "Well then," he said, his tone teasing yet sincere, "I suppose I'll have to make sure our conversation is worth remembering." "Perhaps the night will be our judge, or maybe it won't," Ashley teased trying to keep John’s interest and focus on her, her eyes sparkling with mischief. She leaned in closer to John, her laughter tinkling like wind chimes in a gentle breeze. "But right now, I've got another pressing matter to attend to." John raised an eyebrow and leaned back slightly, his eyes dancing with amusement. "Oh really? And what might that be?" Ashley's smile widened as she replied playfully, "Nature calls." She then pushed herself off the bar stool. John chuckled and gave her a mock salute. "Well then, why don't you leave your drink here?" He gestured towards the full glass on the counter. "I'll stand guard and make sure no one tampers with it." Ashley laughed again at his offer but shook her head in playful defiance. "A lady never leaves her drink out of sight," she retorted before walking away with her glass towards the restroom. John chuckled at Ashley's response, intrigued by her charm and confidence. As she made her way toward the restroom, he couldn't help but admire the way she moved with graceful elegance, drawing eyes from across the room. Taking a sip of his drink, John leaned back against the bar, his mind buzzing with anticipation. He had watched Ashley disappeared into the crowd, her presence lingering in the air like a tantalizing promise. This was the girl he wanted to conquer tonight. In the bathroom stall, Ashley poured her drink out in the toilet, keeping the rosemary. She took out one of her bottles of water and poured in tonic water with cucumber flavoring. The gin she had ordered had cucumber flavoring it. She freshened up a bit more and returned, placing herself back in the role of Chloe. A few moments later, Ashley returned to find John still waiting at the bar . He may not have been guarding the glass, but he was guarding a bar stool set next to him in the busy bar, a knowing smile playing on her lips. Ashley sashayed past John, her eyes carefully avoiding the vacant bar stool beside him. She acted as if she was engrossed in a world of her own, oblivious to his presence. However, John wasn't one to be easily dismissed. He caught her attention with a playful tug on her arm, drawing her back towards the empty seat. “No need to look for another seat. There is a warm seat here with a friendly man next to it.” With a feigned surprise and a coy smile dancing on her lips, she allowed him to guide her back onto the barstool next to him. Ashley's voice, a sultry purr in the bustling bar, reached out to John. "So, John," she began, her tone dripping with intrigue, "why would a captivating man like you be here all by himself tonight? You've been quite elusive these past few days." Her gaze then caught sight of another familiar face. George was an affable middle-aged man whom she had shared friendly banter with over the last few days. "George! Good to see you!" Ashley called out, her eyes sparkling with genuine warmth as he approached. George's face lit up at the sound of his name. He was a regular at this watering hole and always enjoyed their lively chats about pool and sports. "Hey Chloe," he greeted back with an eager smile that crinkled the lines around his eyes. John watched from the corner of his eye as George engaged Ashley in conversation about last night's pool game and the upcoming football match. The camaraderie between them was palpable, and it stirred a sense of competition within him. He felt sidelined, a spectator in their animated exchange. Ashley seemed oblivious to John's growing discontentment, but inside, she was well aware of his simmering frustration. It was all part of the act to not seem too easy. She couldn't help but think to herself how petulant John was. "I'll catch up with you later, George," Ashley said after a while, raising her voice slightly as George moved away into the throng of patrons. "Sounds like a plan," came George's reply, fading into the humdrum noise of the crowded bar. Ashley faked her distraction, her eyes straying to the busy crowd. "Apologies, let's continue our conversation," she said, turning back to John. His eyebrow arched in response, a playful grin tugging at his lips as he retorted, "Just savoring the presence of an enchanting enigma who introduces herself as Chloe." A soft laugh escaped Ashley's lips before she corrected him. “I should have given you my real name earlier… I'm here on assignment with Eternity Fashion, it’s a magazine." She paused for effect before adding, "Ever heard of it?” John chuckled heartily at her question. “Do I come off as someone who'd be into that? No offense intended but those glossy pages aren’t exactly my style. I'm more of a Sports Illustrated guy myself; their annual swimsuit edition is always a treat.” His words were casual, but his gaze was anything but. It lingered on her with an intensity that was almost palpable. “Interesting," Ashley mused aloud. "I’ve rarely encountered straight men who know about Eternity unless their wives subscribe to it... And then they only mention the stunning women featured within its pages.” Her voice dropped lower as she leaned closer to him and added teasingly, “So that must mean you’re single.” She pivoted away from him to face the bar again, her hand brushed against his thigh in what seemed like a casual accident. The move was anything but accidental. "Unattached and liberated," came John's response, his gaze locked on her. In an unexpected move, he signaled the bartender for a round of shots. "Excuse me, barkeep, two Don Julio 70 Cristalino Tequila shots, please - one for the lady and myself." Ashley was taken aback by this sudden escalation. It seemed a bit early to be diving into shots. But then it dawned on her - he'd ordered the Don Julio 70 Cristalino, a top-shelf tequila that didn't come cheap. He was trying to impress her, flashing his supposed wealth like a peacock flaunting its vibrant feathers. Yet she wasn't about to be swayed by such shallow displays. She couldn't outright reject the offer, though; it would seem rude. So, she had to devise an alternative plan quickly. Swiveling back towards the bartender just as the clink of glass against wood echoed through the air, she turned her attention back to John. "Before we indulge in these," she gestured towards the freshly poured tequila shots with a charming smile, "how about we raise our glasses in toast? Let's drain our current drinks first before moving onto these." She knew his Long Island Iced Tea packed more of a punch than her seemingly innocent gin and tonic - or what he thought was gin and tonic. Little did he know that all she'd been sipping so far was just tonic water with a twist of rosemary. “Sure, a toast to this magical place that brings me an intelligent young woman like you here.” Ashley wanted to roll her eyes, but she couldn’t. She had to play the part. She smiled. “To this place for finding two good-looking people.” They clinked their glasses as she drank the rest of the fake tonic and water, and he downed his Long Island iced tea. John's gaze meandered from her face down to the curve of her neck and finally rested on the hint of red lace peeking out from under her snug black dress. His eyes lingered for a moment longer than necessary on the exposed swell of her cleavage before they snapped back up to meet hers. He held up his shot glass with a playful glint in his eyes and asked, "So, what shall we toast to then?" Ashley pretended not to notice. “I am going to toast to the end of a fucking awful day!” She shouted and clicked their two-shot glasses as she swallowed her first shot and first alcoholic drink. John watched as if she had taken many shots before, and she slammed it down on the table. “dam, I needed that.” John then followed. “I bet your week couldn’t have been worse.” He smiled, feeling the warm tequila go down his throat. A wave of warmth rushed through John as Ashley's hand found its way onto his shoulder. Her bare thigh brushed against his, an intoxicating contact that sent a jolt of electricity coursing through him. She leaned into him, her body language hinting at the tequila's influence. A playful smirk danced on her lips as she slurred slightly, “I bet I can win.” His heart pounded in response to her closeness, and he reveled in the intimate moment. Ashley then sat up and leaned over on the bar with a sultry glance towards the bartender. “Another gin and tonic, if you will.” Johnny, the bartender, responded with a playful warning. “Don’t overdo it, Chloe; remember you have work tomorrow.” His gaze shifted to John before he added, “Keep an eye on her, John.” John tipped his hat at the bartender’s words. “I’ll take another Long Island Ice Tea,” Ashley purred, her voice dripping with relief as she leaned closer to him. “You know there is this fresh-out-of-college girl at my office who thinks she can out-write me on fashion articles,” she paused for effect, her eyes searching his face as she lowered her voice to a whisper. "And sex articles." She let the word hang in the air between them. "I've been in this game for ten years, and then this little upstart comes along thinking she knows better." She scoffed, taking a generous sip of her now gin and tonic as if trying to drown her fury and disappointment in its bittersweetness. "Fucking GenZers," Ashley seethed under her breath. "They waltz into the office like they own the place from day one." He rolled her eyes dramatically before adding, "I have one of those know-it-alls too. Thinks he's some sort of genius when it comes to boundary theory and high-level math. I practically invented that shit!" His words rang with bitterness. "Bingo," Ashely thought smugly to herself, "I've got him emotionally hooked...perfect." "John," Ashley began loudly, sympathy lacing every syllable of her words as she reached out gently to squeeze his thigh suggestively. Her hand lingered just a little longer than necessary before sliding up ever so slightly higher. "You're incredibly talented; your work deserves recognition." John sighed heavily, meeting Ashley's lingering gaze with frustration etched across his features. "It's all just fucking politics, Ashley. They don't care about talent or hard work; it's all about some young hotshot they want to promote." He snorted derisively before adding, “You know what? That kid can’t even keep his pants dry. He pisses himself like a baby. Why would they ever favor someone like that?” John takes down half of his Long Island Iced tea, this time out of anger. Ashley nodded, her eyes glinting with determination. "I hate this shit; we're both being overshadowed by these kids who don’t know their ass from their elbow.” She leaned in closer to him, her breath warm against his ear as she whispered, "I have an idea." John leaned into her touch as her head rested on his shoulder as she pretended to be a little drunk, and he slid his hand slowly down along the curve of her dress, feeling the firmness of her ass beneath the thin fabric of her thong. A spark ignited in John's eyes as he turned to face Ashley fully. "What do you have in mind?" His voice was thick with anticipation. —- Pretending to be a little drunk, Ashley began to slur and blend her words. "Have you ever experienced angry sex to release all the tense and pent-up feelings?" Her voice dropped to a hushed whisper as she added, "Or the exhilarating rush of fucking loudly and animalistically in an office while venting your frustrations at your boss?" “I should know because I wrote a sex article discussing the therapeutic benefits of such encounters. It is nothing to be ashamed of because it served as an outlet for pent-up emotions and unresolved conflicts.” Ashley continued to explain in a pretend drunken state how it could be a primal release, a way to express anger without causing harm. It was about channeling negative energy into something passionate and intense. For John, the portion about office affairs was equally intriguing, and how she described these encounters as being filled with adrenaline and risk, adding another layer of excitement to the act itself. It wasn't just about physical pleasure but also about asserting dominance and control in a space where one usually felt powerless. Ashley painted such vivid pictures with her words that John found himself entranced by them. He could almost feel the raw emotion pulsating through every sentence she spoke, every concept she introduced. A heat rose within him – he was undeniably turned on by her risky idea. John raised his glass, the faint clinking sound echoing in the room. "Chloe," he said, his voice steady and resolute, "You are a naughtily little devil; I would love to experience something like this. God knows we could both use a release from those two brats and our workplace that shelters them. What do you say we practice what you preach in your writings." Ashley met his gaze, her own determination mirrored in her eyes but for reasons she held to herself. She clinked her glass with his before setting it down on the table. "I'm with you, John, and honestly, I would love to," she replied, a hint of caution creeping into her voice. "But I can't do it at my place of work." John's brow furrowed in confusion. "Why not?" "I only had a temporary badge at Eternity Fashion’s local office. I am from out of town," she explained. "I had to turn today when I left the building. I fly back to my home office tomorrow morning." A momentary silence filled the room as John processed Ashley's words. The fact that they couldn't use Ashley's workplace and she was flying back home added fuel to his urgency.“ Ashley let the words hang in there for a while. “look, here is my number. You send me yours, and I can call you the next time I am in town, and we can try again.” Ashley looked disappointed as she wrote her phone number down on a napkin. The number was a real phone number but from a burner phone and not her real cell number. John was upset. He came here tonight to find someone to have sex with, a conquest. This lady was sexy as hell and had hi going. He couldn’t let her go. “Chloe, what if we did it at my office? I sure as hell would like to have this angry sex and release there as well as your office." John stated, hoping Chloe would take the offer, pushing himself, hitting Barstool up closer to Chloe, and placing his hand on her thigh, riding it just a tad to let her know he was serious. “Think about it while I head back to the restroom.” He whispered in her ear as he helped back the desire to nipple as the ear lobe. John got up, and quickly disappeared in the crowded bar to head towards the restroom. While he was away, Ashley seized the opportunity. With an air of relief and agreement etched on her face in response to John's suggestion, she discreetly reached into her bag under the shadowy overhang of the bar. She pulled out an empty wide-mouthed bottle, almost invisible in the dim light. With a swift yet careful motion, she poured her untouched gin and tonic into the bottle, making sure not even a single drop spilled over. The thrill of this subtle rebellion sent tingles down her spine as she meticulously replaced only the tonic water back into her glass. John reemerged, anxious to hear what Chloe would say. "So, what's your verdict?" he asked Chloe with a teasing glint in his eyes. Ashley met his gaze and responded with a playful smirk, "Yes, I'll accompany you back to your office." Their conversation flowed on effortlessly as they finished their respective drinks, the atmosphere charged with an unspoken promise of the adventure that lay ahead. John rose from his seat, offering her his hand with a gentleman's charm that belied the raw desire in his eyes. She accepted it with a smile, pretending to play the part of two individuals who were up to mischief and adventure. Together they left the bar behind, its dim lights fading into insignificance as they set their sights on DNA Pharmacia.