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Personalias

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Personalias last won the day on September 16 2017

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  1. Yeah, it's not weird. Why would it be? The A in AB stands for "Adult". My kid is my kid is my kid, and he needs is dad. So I'm dad first and foremost around him.
  2. Little Munch in Gainesville

    Next munch is On March 2nd. Arcade Bar in Gainesville. 6:30pm-8:30pm.
  3. Want to connect

    Diaper Lovers in Specific? Or AB/DL in general?
  4. Fetish

    Thanks ya'll.
  5. Fetish

    Here's another one of my Cushypen Stories ready to be released. Fetish “Oh my gawd!” Marci said after popping a piece of sushi in her mouth. “This is delicious!” “Told ya,” June smirked, taking a dainty sip of soda while the woman across from her, Marci, gingerly picked up a second piece of her sushi roll; chopsticks fumbling like a baby deer’s legs. Was her name Marci, actually? Maybe it was Macy. Maisy? June was having trouble remembering, to be completely honest. June had just met Maisy- or perhaps it was Maddie- last night at a bar. They hadn’t had too much to talk about over the crowded conditions and the just-too-loud music. But they had made small talk in between sipping martinis and undressing each other with their eyes. They’d made the basic introductions and flirted well enough so that they’d exchanged numbers and decided to meet up this afternoon. Unfortunately, June was completely blanking on her date’s name at the moment. Now they were here, at June’s favorite sushi restaurant having “Linner”. Depending on how you thought of it, it was either a late lunch, or an early dinner. Either way, there’d be plenty of time left in the day to make plans for tonight if things didn’t go well, and plenty of time to throw those plans away if things did. So far, June was on the fence, but at least her date was cute. “So, you’re an archaeologist?” Maddie – unless it was Mal or Malory- asked in between bites of sushi and fried rice. She ate with gusto. June adjusted her glasses and perversely wondered if she ate other things with such enthusiasm. A bit of rice spilled out of her date’s bottom lip before she gingerly wiped it away with her thumb. “’Scuse me!” Mal said as she made eye contact with June. June got a glimpse of perfect white teeth, made all the more whiter by the slight blush on the other girl’s face. “Yeah, I’m an archaeologist,” June confirmed. She took slower, more deliberate bites than her date, each bite a soothing pleasure to her tongue as the zither harp music soothed her ears. The lights were dimmed, but the sun hadn’t begun to set; so there was no trouble seeing. Yet, the little curtains between each booth so that you couldn’t just look over at the next table behind you gave a certain sense of intimacy and privacy. “So, like Indiana Jones,” Mary brushed her dirty blonde hair back away from her face, smiling coyly. “That’s kind of cool.” “Y’know,” June chuckled, “I’ve never actually seen an Indiana Jones movie.” Nervously, she shifted her own mousey brown hair behind her ears. She’d heard the Indiana Jones comparison too many times before. Far too often the date turned awkward afterwards. In real life, there was far less running from booby traps, and far more dusting and digging, and picking, and cataloging, and translating; and that was just the field work. It wouldn’t do to get June started on the tedious hours of research and artifact restoration in some sterile lab or another. “Oh my gawd!” her date’s jaw dropped. “Seriously? You are missing out.” She leaned forward. “You’ve got to see Raiders, if nothing else! It’s a classic!” “So I’ve been told,” June smiled politely, shaking her head. Why was it always Indiana Jones? If she had had a dollar for every time a stranger mentioned Harrison Ford as soon as she dropped that she worked digging up old stuff, she could fund her own research. Couldn’t she at least be compared to Lara Croft? “Harrison Ford just isn’t my type.” “Mine either,” Melody winked. “I think you’re more like Lara Croft.” June’s heart skipped a beat. “You just read my mind!” June said, brightening up considerably. “Great minds think alike,” Mel giggled. “I don’t know,” she continued. “A friend of mine said I could pass for Samus if I made my hair a little more blonde. What do you think?” June’s mouth opened and a startled, almost silent guffaw escaped her lips. “You’re a gamer, too?” June gushed in surprise. “Yeah,” the other girl, maybe her name was Megan, leaned back and grinned. “Don’t you remember me telling you that last night?” “I…I…was kind of drunk,” June admitted. “And the music was loud.” “Then why did you invite me out to lunch?” she asked June, coyly. She was flirting. She was definitely flirting. “I liked the sound of your voice, even if I couldn’t understand what you were saying,” June smiled shyly, trying her best to flirt back. “And I thought you were cute.” “And how about now?” her date asked. The food was definitely taking a backseat to the company all of a sudden. “I’m liking it so far,” June answered. “Me too,” Meg- or perhaps Monica- flirted. “Maybe if we really like each other I can show you some of my cosplay pictures from MegaCon. I’ve got a pretty good Princess Zelda one.” AND SHE COSPLAYED?! June’s date had just gone from cute to completely and totally “hawt”! June had to know this woman’s name. But how to get it out of her without offending her? Playfully, sneakily even, the beautiful stranger’s finger tips brushed June’s and she felt that tingling jolt of excitement and electricity. June liked being touched. She suddenly knew, very certainly, that she wanted to be touched more, and not just on the fingers. June couldn’t play poker for anything, and her excitement must’ve shown. “If you want,” the other woman suggested, coyly, “I can try some of my costumes on for you.” “I-I-I…” June stuttered. “Yeah. I’d like that.” “You are too cute,” Marsha said. Then her eyes zeroed in on something besides June. “Cute necklace,” her date pointed to the thing dangling just above her breasts. “Where’d you get it?” June looked down and saw the fetish dangling around her neck. Had it been there a moment ago? Of course it hadn’t. June had made a point to throw it down the garbage disposal at her apartment before she left for “Linner”. But just like every other time, it had somehow found a way back onto her person. “Oh shit,” she cursed under her breath in realization. June had only been stateside for a little over aw eek. She had just spent the last six months in Mexico combing through old Aztec ruins. That’s where her team had stumbled upon the hidden chamber. Based on the writings that could be deciphered, June had reason to believe that she had discovered evidence of a cult, or perhaps a lesser denomination of the Aztec religion. Regardless, it was something of interest in a temple that had otherwise been written off as old news and already picked clean from years of digs, searches, and outright robberies. And, even though it would take a good many months afterwards to catalog everything she’d found and verify the artifacts’ authenticity, June had jumped for joy at the idea of making the “30 under 30” list for Archaeological achievements in her field. Most in her profession waited decades to find something like this, and June had only just gotten her doctorate. Of special note were the little gold trinkets that were supposedly used to act as mediums between this world and the spirit world. Fetishes weren’t particularly common among the Aztec peoples as far as June knew. Of particular interest among the trinkets was what could only loosely be translated as “the chastity fetish”. The craftsmanship was exquisite, and even though the little hunk of gold wasn’t much bigger than June’s pinkie knuckle, it was hard to mistake the little figure as being anything other than a baby wrapped in swaddling clothes. Initially, June had thought this to be some kind emblem associated with fertility- plenty of cultures had rituals where people prayed to have offspring; but if the inscriptions by the altar in which the fetish was placed were accurate, it was meant for what could best be termed as “Sexual Purity”. “Let whatever marked man or woman who would couple out of sight of the gods, be forced to wear the skin of infants.” The shrine containing the little fetish had read. That particular line had puzzled June. The “couple out of sight of the gods” seemed clear enough. Most unions were blessed by gods in primitive cultures. Don’t fuck if you’re not married. Simple enough; most religions had that rule. “Wear the skin of infants” might have been a reference to being denied some kind of circumcision ritual that was common in some cultures to denote manhood. That made sense. “Don’t have sex outside of marriage or your ‘infant skin’ would remain intact as punishment and let broadcast your callow indiscretions.” She didn’t recall reading anything about Aztec circumcision rituals in her research, but as far as she knew, she was discovering a lost cult, so she couldn’t rule out the possibility. The “man or woman” part is what puzzled her. It’s the only part that didn’t fit her hypothesis. If the punishment had been “death”, it would have made sense. Killing people who broke your religious laws was easy, relatively speaking. But “wearing the skin of infants” didn’t fit that bill, and not even the Aztecs were vicious enough to literally skin babies and make some kind of Silence of the Lambs Buffalo Bill baby suit. Were they? June had puzzled over this and the possible meaning of the fetish’s proclamation all the way back through customs and into the labs at the university where the artifacts she’d managed to bring with her could be studied and cataloged. Then, she promptly promised to put it out of her mind while she took a much needed break. But the fetish, it seemed, had other ideas. When she found the little trinket in her pants pocket a few days later, she didn’t think anything of it other than “Whoops,” but then put it with her satchel by her work things so it wouldn’t get lost until after she had rested up and returned to work. When the fetish had ended up in her purse a few hours later, she wondered if she had been absent minded and placed it in the wrong bag. She corrected her mistake and went on with her day. When it was on the dashboard of her car on the way to the bar last night, she locked it in the glove box and went on without it. She drunkenly wrote it off as a case of mistaken identity when it was waiting for her when she got home. Clearly she was seeing things. But when she had decided to end the night on a self-induced high note, things took a turn for the worse. As she logged onto one of her favorite porn sites and started to peruse the pictures and movies, idly playing with herself…well, let’s just say that’s when things had gotten weird. “Skin of infants”, indeed. When she came to, the fetish had somehow been sitting right in front of her keyboard. Still, June had gotten through that particularly bad trip, and had written it off as such. It was nothing more than a bad dream fueled by paranoia and rumors of curses; the kind of things that go through all Archaeologists’ heads after making a big discovery. Still, like looking for a monster under the bed, she had checked her underwear drawer to confirm that last night had all been a dream. Just in case, she had decided to throw the baby trinket down her garbage disposal for good measure. Better safe than sorry. History would just have to do without the “Aztec Baby Fetish.” Now, the little golden idol was dangling from a string around her neck, when moments before, she had had no such jewelry. “Are you okay, June?” her date asked. “You look like you just saw a ghost, or something.” “Oh, sorry. It’s nothing,” June lied. Then she looked at her date’s heaving breasts and felt a tingle down below. The air became thick with a fog that June could feel more than she could see, and the fetish hanging around her neck suddenly felt heavier. She was being warned. “Oh no,” June whispered to herself. “Don’tthinkaboutsexdon’tthinkaboutsexdon’tthinkaboutsex.” June chanted the mantra in her head. Clumsily and panicked, she fumbled with the gold fetish around her neck, desperately trying to remove it from her person, but to no avail. The thing would not budge, one way or another. Of course, as anyone will tell you; telling yourself NOT to think about something usually has the opposite effect. June did her best to think pure chaste thoughts, as she unsuccessfully tried to remove the fetish, but she found herself staring at her date’s ample bosom in a low cut top. She did her best to ignore the shimmering brown eyes and the smooth skin sitting across from her, or the way her mouth looked perfect for kissing right about now. She tried to not think about all of this…and failed. “Is everything okay, (sweetie)?” her date asked. Sweetie? Sweetie?! Who the hell called their date “sweetie” when they barely even knew each other? There had to be some kind of etiquette that was being broken. And yet…. And yet a shiver of desire ran along June’s spine at being called such a familiar, diminutive name. She wanted this, she knew. But for her own sanity and survival, she pressed on denying the tide that was rising against her. “Yeah,” June lied, trembling. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. She looked closely at her date, the cute blonde’s face a mask of genuine concern and worry. “What’s wrong, (baby girl)?” June’s date asked, again. There was something wrong with the words that June was hearing. Something was literally off with the words that were coming out of the woman’s mouth. It was like June was watching a badly dubbed foreign film. Her date had clearly mouthed the words, “What’s wrong, June?”, but where her lips mouthed “June”, the words “baby girl” came out instead. A slender, feminine hand reached forward and brushed aside June’s hair before pressing against her cheek. “This could be flirty, things could still be under control. This could end up alright. This is all in my head”, June thought to herself before that same hand moved to feel her forehead like a mother checking for a fever. “Or not.” “You don’t feel (icky),” the woman who up until moments ago had been flirting with her said. “(What’s wrong, cupcake?)” Oh God, it was happening again! Please, make it stop! Please! “I’m fine. Really,” June said, sliding out of the booth and standing up. “I think I might’ve caught some kind of bug and it’s getting to me. Can we take a rain check- Mmmmmm…..” June was still blanking on the name. “Mommy?” Something sparkled in the other woman’s eyes: Lust? No, not quite. Lust had been there before, as there is with any sexual attraction. But there was something more with this. It was lust mixed with a kind of hunger and…love? Maternal instinct? All of the above and more? June didn’t know, but wouldn’t have time to think it over. “Awwww,” her date gushed and cooed as if June were a little girl, and not someone who’d she’d met at a bar just last night. Without getting up, she took June’s hand and pulled her closer. “You just want to cuddle, don’t you? Come sit in on Mommy’s lap, pumpkin.” June was very suddenly yanked off her feet towards her date. June felt her hips twisting and her knees buckling. She found herself sitting sideways in “Mommy’s” lap. Her balance was so off she would have surely fallen back if not for the woman using her other arm to break June’s fall. Mommy, for her part had seemed to put only the slightest effort in yanking June off of her feet like a ragdoll. “Better?” Mommy asked. June’s breath had become ragged with fear and excitement. The bauble around her neck was bigger all of a sudden, closer to the size of her thumb than her pinkie nail. The fetish was becoming stronger. June shuddered and jumped when Mommy moved her free hand from June’s and began rubbing her thigh comfortingly. Oh God, being cradled like this did something for her on a physical and emotional level that she had never experienced. She wanted this woman in the worst and weirdest way. She knew she should get up. She should get up and run before it was too late. But she felt… She felt… She felt…. She felt… She felt little… Little and wet. Time slowed down for a moment and the idol glowed, sending blinding light cascading in every direction. As the light shone like a second sun, the world around June began to melt away like wax on a candle, revealing a second world underneath. The cool and mellow blues and dim lighting of the sushi restaurant faded and changed to the garish red and yellows of a fast food joint. Tasteful wooden booths became gaudy, yet sturdy, plastic. The soothing zither harp music was drowned out and replaced by generic rock, and the decadent and handcrafted sushi bulged and mutated into burgers and chicken nuggets. Where June had been standing moments before she was yanked into Mommy’s lap- and Mommy she was because right then, June could not think of any other name for her- a backless highchair had arisen and congealed from the floor. No more quiet sushi restaurant. June had somehow been transported to a noisy fast food joint, now suddenly filled with patrons. The change of locale was the least of June’s problems. Her clothes were changing as well. The laces of her shoes melded together to become Velcro straps and refastened themselves just before her gray sneakers turned a bright pink. The socks around her ankles gained little frills at the edges. Meanwhile her glasses- which gave her an air of academic intelligence- dissolved into pink ribbons that took up her brown hair and tied it up into pigtails. Her bra simply dissolved into the aether while her shirt gained matching frills similar to her socks and turned a pastel yellow. Her khaki pants knitted together at the legs and slithered up her body, turning, twisting and morphing into a pink jumper that did little to nothing to hide her underwear. Speaking of her underwear: June grit her teeth together, trying to will the change not to happen, but to no avail. She was almost hyper aware of her silk panties becoming thicker and thicker, gaining layers that hadn’t been there before and expanding to push her legs slightly apart as it gradually peeked out past her jumper for anyone who cared to see. The pastel violet mesh pattern, dry crinkle, and sickly sweet perfume wafting up from between her legs signaled that she was wearing a Luvs diaper; only this one was sized to fit a grown woman. Damn, but this fetish was powerful. The last thing to change, of course, was the trinket around her neck, which bulged and bent and warped itself into an appropriately proportioned pink pacifier. As the last of the changes cemented themselves, time sped up again and June looked around in panic. She was utterly exposed and out in the open, dressed like a freak in this woman’s lap. This was worse than last night when her porn, “Bella Donna’s Fucking Girls Yet Again” had somehow turned into an episode of “Sesame Street”. Last night, only her underwear had transmogrified into the disposable kind, and her bed had mysteriously developed some safety railing around the sides to prevent her from rolling out. This was on a whole other level. “Oh no,” June whispered to herself. She covered her face in a reflexive attempt to hide her shame. Surely all of these people would be staring at her. “Where’s June?” she heard Mommy say from behind her hands. It wasn’t a question, however. Not a real one, anyways. It was stated in the same syrupy tone that a mother playing with her small child might use. As if to confirm this, June lowered her hands down to her lap and was rewarded with Mommy’s bright chirping praise. “Peek-a-boo!” Mommy cooed. “Who’s my clever girl?!” Something clicked in the back of June’s mind, just then. This is what it meant when warning mentioned wearing the skin of infants. This fetish was dressing her as one and somehow getting others to treat her as one. That’s how the little totem enforced chastity. Clearly, it reacted to sexual arousal and transformed the afflicted into a giant baby. That’s why it worked equally on both sexes. Man or woman; rapist, slut, or anyone in between, who would want to have sex with someone who was at best a toddler? “No…” was all that June could say, slowly and slightly shaking her head. It was the only word that occurred to her to say. This was wrong. This was not meant to be. She had to escape. She had to get home, or anywhere private, really, in order to get out of this terrible mess. It’s how she had managed to turn things back to normal last time; maybe it could work again. But she wouldn’t be afforded that luxury here, on Mommy’s lap in an outfit that a two-year-old would adore. She tried to lean forward and scoot back to her own two feet, but with no success. Mommy kept her tightly and safely in place. “Someone’s a squirmy wormy” Mommy said, wrapping her arm around June’s waist. “You don’t have a fever,” Mommy replied. “Do you want any more French fries? June suddenly found a greasy fry being dangled in front of her lips. “No!” June said, trying to sound defiant, but realizing too late that she sounded more like a whining toddler than a protesting adult. “How about a chicken nugget,” Mommy offered. “No,” came June’s response, still struggling in Mommy’s- “her Mommy’s”, part of her thought- lap. “Do you wanna go play in the ball pit?” Mommy asked, directing June’s attention to an area just outside. June looked to the mesh lined cage filled with plastic balls and sucked in her breath. Damn it all, that did sound like fun now that she thought about it. She used to play in those all the time, even after she was above the “official” height and weight requirements posted outside. She might not have another chance to play like this again. No! That wasn’t her speaking. That wasn’t the real June. That was the fetish influencing her. She had to be strong! June felt a fresh surge of adrenaline kick in at that realization. The fetish wasn’t just affecting the way she dressed, but it was directing her thoughts, too. “I know what my little cupcake wants,” Mommy smiled softly, despite June’s continued effort to escape her grasp. June stopped struggling for a moment. Did Mommy know? Was she about to be freed? “Huh?” was all June said. It was more of a grunt than a question. As if in reply, Mommy gently scooted down on the booth, while guiding June off her lap. June thought she might yet escape, but then found her body being gently guided back down and being turned to the side. Her head was being guided down towards Mommy’s lap, but was abruptly stopped right in front of… That’s when June realized what was happening. She watched, paralyzed as Mommy lifted up part of her top to reveal a nursing bra. Her mouth hung open in horror as Mommy opened the front of the bra, exposing a lactating nipple. June wanted to look away. She wanted to sit up and make a break for the door, but she couldn’t. The pacifier around her neck weighed her down, providing a counter balance to her every struggle and attempt to sit up. The fetish was too powerful for her, and she knew it. June tried to buck, tried to thrash, as her head was pulled towards the other woman’s nipple, but it was of no use. It was like part of her wanted this, as impossible as it might have seemed. Against her will her mouth opened, her lips puckered, and she latched on. Like a doomed woman, being forced to press the button that would electrify her, June felt a strange sense of anticipation and curiosity as her tongue probed and began to lick and coax the nipple into action. She inhaled sharply as she felt Mommy’s nipple go erect and her lips began to suckle and slurp at the sweet, sweet contents inside Mommy’s breasts. On instinct, driven by a mind of their own, June’s hands rose to Mommy’s breasts and began to knead at them. She almost yelped in surprise when she felt the first burst of creamy hot milk squirt into her mouth. It was thick, sweet, a little nutty, and with a hint of vanilla in its aftertaste. Mommy’s breasts were hard at first, but with each little kneading and groping that June did, resulting in another little burst of milk going into June’s eagerly awaiting mouth, they became softer and more pleasant to the touch. While part of her struggled with this, and teared up in frustration and humiliation, another part of her reveled in the simple act. She was helping Mommy, really. She was making Mommy’s milk go bye-bye, and in turn, Mommy’s breasts were getting more and more fun to play with. Mommy’s breasts were both food and a toy, and what could be better than food that you played with? As if on instinct, June began to mewl and moan into Mommy’s breasts, her mouth greedily suckling and nursing as if it were the most natural thing in the world. While her mouth filled itself again and again, June’s bladder relaxed and emptied itself into her diaper. June could only close her eyes and whimper- a sound virtually indistinguishable from her hungry mewling- as she felt the warm dampness spread across her crotch and backside only to be wicked away by the thirsty padding around her hips. She was acutely, almost agonizingly aware of the swelling bulge of the Luvs as it absorbed more and more of her waste and expanded outward. She felt the wet squelch between her thighs as she futilely kicked her legs as weakly as a kitten. All the while, between the quiet and greedy mewling and the muffled humiliated cries, Mommy stroked June’s hair as she held her to nurse. “That’s a good girl,” she whispered. “Such a good eater for Mommy.” June felt Mommy reach back and give her Luvs a firm squeeze. “I bet that felt good to get out,” she whispered to June, giving the now soggy diaper a firm pat. “Good baby.” June drew in a deep breath as Mommy pushed her away from her breast. What had happened? Was it over? Was she done? Had the fetish worn off? Part of June rejoiced while another part worried it might be so. “Switch,” Mommy said by way of explanation as she moved June over to her other breast. June didn’t even have the strength of will to fight a second time as her head was guided back to the second nipple. She would have to finish this much, first, it seemed before she’d be given an opportunity to escape. “Pardon me ma’am,” a deep, masculine voice came from behind June. Instinctively, June tried to look up and make eye contact at the person, but the combination of her own mouth stubbornly suckling at Mommy’s teat, and Mommy’s impossibly strong hand keeping her head in a vice seemed to put a stop to that notion. “Yes?” she heard Mommy say, an edge of annoyance in her voice; as if this man interrupting her breast feeding a full grown woman in a diaper was at fault, instead of her and her blatant exhibitionism. That’s when it occurred to June: They could see her diaper! A fresh wave of panic surged through June, giving her just enough willpower to reach back and cover her backside with one hand; which was only effective in obscuring the diapered cartoon monkey on her butt. “Don’t you think she’s a little too old to be breastfeeding in public?” the man said. June didn’t need to see the man to realize she was being pointed at. “Oh?” June heard Mommy say. “When did you stop breastfeeding your baby in public?” “Me? Well, I’m a guy. I don’t-“ The man started to say. “Well, when did you stop breastfeeding?” Mommy interrupted. “I don’t know.” The man replied, sounding defensive. “I was too little to remember.” “So what you’re saying is that you have no experience in this or right to criticize.” “That’s besides the…I mean…” the man stuttered and hemmed and hawed. “If my baby girl somehow remembers this when she grows up,” Mommy growled, “is she going to remember breastfeeding with me as she has done more times than she can possibly count, or a stranger coming up and rudely talking something that is not his business?” “I’m…” the man paused. “I’m sorry to have bothered you and you’re little girl.” June heard his footsteps retreating into the background and the electric “bing-bong” of a door opening up to the parking lot outside. “Don’t worry about him, pumpkin,” Mommy whispered tenderly into June’s ear. “Haters gonna hate. You just finish up.” Rhythmically, robotically, and almost completely against her wishes- almost…- June’s body obeyed and suckled and nursed at Mommy’s teat until no milk would come forth. “All done,” Mommy announced, as she lifted June up into a sitting position. June didn’t have time to get comfortable as Mommy swung her legs out the side, and re-positioned June back onto her lap so that June was straddling her. June shuddered as the bulky and warm padding pressed against her as she sat down firmly on her own bottom. “Come on, baby,” Mommy coaxed as she began to pat June’s back and rub little circles. “Just give one good burp for Mommy. Don’t want you getting’ gassy, now, do we?” Instinctively, as if seeking shelter from an attacker, June wrapped herself around the other woman, clinging on for dear life with both arms and legs as Mommy patted her back rhythmically. She willed her eyes shut to brace against the indignities she was facing; but it wasn’t the power of the fetish as much as simple biology and physics that overpowered June’s effort. A single gas bubble burbled in her stomach and traveled up her esophagus until it came out as an echoing belch. “Good Baby!” Mommy praised her, bouncing her up and down on her knees a bit. June looked around in an absolute panic, expecting to see the condescending and disgusted glares of the bored and middle aged. June felt herself being lifted up as Mommy stood up, her hand supporting June’s soggy bum. She was being carried! It didn’t matter that she was just as big as the other woman, she was being toted around like a regular rugrat. “No!” June demanded. “Down!” She pointed to the dull brown tiled floor to punctuate her command. It soon hit June that her vocabulary had been downgraded along with her culinary tastes and bladder control, and she slapped a hand across her mouth in surprise. “Oh?” Mommy smiled, bemusedly. “You want down?” Her hand still plastered over her mouth, and the smell of breast milk still on her breath, June nodded. “Okay, big girl. You can walk for a little bit.” June unhooked her legs from around Mommy’s waist and stood on her own two feet. Before thought of escape had occurred to her, Mommy had her by the wrist and was bending over to pick up her purse. The purse, which June had remembered to be a tiny black leather number- almost not worth calling a purse- had ballooned into a bright pink number with little bunnies along the side. It was the only thing about Mommy’s attire that had changed, as far as June could tell, though she was willing to bet that she hadn’t been wearing a nursing bra before the fetish had worked its magic. “Before we go home, let’s go to the bathroom,” Mommy told her. June took her hand off of her mouth. “Potty?!” June asked, excitedly. Finally, an adult thing to do. Maybe the fetish was about used up. Maybe she wouldn’t need to physically escape Mommy’s grasp in order to escape fetish’s clutches. Maybe, just maybe, a porcelain god would be an Aztec one. Mommy laughed. “Yes, sweetie. We’re going to the potty.” Then she proceeded to lead June to the front of the restaurant where people were milling about like ants, refilling their soft drinks and waiting for their processed meat and grease. Immediately, June noticed how she had to alter her gait just to put one foot in front of the other. The already thick diaper that pushed her legs apart now bulged and swelled between her legs forcing her to waddle, rather than walk. June felt as much as heard the slight crinkle and sickening wet squelch with every step she took. Not unlike how the fetish had magically gained weight to help drag June’s head closer and closer to Mommy’s breast, the diaper was beginning to weigh her down as well, slowing down her every move. The biggest difference, June knew, was that it wasn’t magic causing the diaper to sag and sway slightly between her thighs. Possibly the most disturbing part was how she didn’t really feel all that wet. Granted, June knew that just a few minutes ago she had peed herself. Her entire face flushed just mentally reliving the experience. And, if she was on the outside looking in, she knew that anyone with even the most minute knowledge of diapers would recognize the sagging undergarment -if it could really be called an “undergarment” as it peeked out from underneath her jumper- for what it was. But, right now, in the confusing hustle and bustle of the people in the midst of the crowded burger joint- if June hadn’t known any better, she might think she hadn’t peed her pants at all. Yes, the diaper sagged. It bulged. It rocked from side to side with the weight of its load after each footstep. But the urine had been absorbed and cooled. And the padding had wicked the wetness so far away from her skin that she no longer felt particularly wet. Indeed, only the memory of wetness lingered on her skin, as far as she could tell. It still had that cushy feeling to it, too. It was still comfortable. If June wasn’t about to be taken to the potty like a big girl, she could see herself sitting comfortably for a while longer in this wet diaper. The diaper was wet. But she wasn’t. It had removed all feeling of responsibility for the incident that had happened from June herself. The diaper had done its job well, and in a perverse backwards logic kind of way, so had she. Mommy stopped in the middle of the crowd, and looked around. “Now where is it?” she asked aloud, though her question was obviously not directed at June. June felt extremely self-conscious as people passed her by. Surely, they could see that she had wet herself. Obviously they knew of her shame, didn’t they? Even she could smell the faint odor of piss mixed with perfume wafting directly up from her crotch. It would only take one comment from a stranger, one insult, to send June bawling into a deluge of tears and a cacophony of wails. She couldn’t help it. She was under the thrall of the fetish. She was a freak. Nervously, as automatically as if out of habit, she reached down to the pink pacifier around her neck and popped it into her mouth, hoping that the suckling motion would at least make her body, if not her mind, feel more at ease. “Excuse me,” Mommy asked a random person on their way to the soda fountain while digging through her purse, “where’s the ladies’ room?” Without warning, and with the swiftness and fluidity of far too much practice, Mommy pulled out a large soft looking rectangular object out of her large pastel pink purse. It wasn’t Mommy’s purse any longer, June deduced too late; it was June’s diaper bag. And the object, crinkling softly in Mommy’s grasp with a sweet smelling perfume, was most definitely a very large diaper. “I need to change my baby girl’s diaper.” The words from Mommy’s mouth seemed to come out agonizingly slow. She’d been outed! She was exposed! She was vulnerable! June sucked on her pacifier so hard that she worried the rubber bulb might tear off and lodge itself in her throat; and ducked her head down, lest this person be able to see her blushing face. “Oh,” the random person said, thumbing to a narrow hallway just past the counters where orders were taken. “Back there, I think.” And with that they went to get their soda. June snapped her head up and looked around. The random person had walked away, and everyone else seemed to be ignoring her and her Mommy. Where were the jeers? Where were the taunts? Where were the signs of rejection and disgust? This wasn’t normal. This didn’t make sense. Did everyone here actually see her as a toddler, the same way that Mommy seemed to? That was the only logical explanation. “Come on, sweetie. Let’s get you changed,” Mommy said, pulling June towards the restrooms. June did her best to drag her heels in and throw her weight back; but it was more symbolically effective than practically. “Nuw!” June declared from behind her pacifier which she just couldn’t bear to spit out. “Poppy!” “Potty?” Mommy stopped and tilted her head at June. “Is that what you want?” “Mmmhmmm!” June nodded her head, no longer caring who was looking right at the moment. “Poppy! Bip gur!” she pointed to herself. “Oh honey,” Mommy tucked the adult sized Luvs under one arm and took June’s chin in her hand. “I don’t think you’re quite ready, yet.” No! No! No, no, no, no, no! June automatically shook her head in disbelief in Mommy’s hand. She was a big girl. She could use the potty. She hadn’t meant to pee-pee in her diaper. The fetish had made her do it. It was her fetish’s fault, not hers. June was about to say as much, when Mommy seemed to interpret her thoughts. “Tell you what,” Mommy said. “Why don’t you be my special helper?” Mommy took the adult sized Luvs from under her arm and offered it to June. “You hold your diaper until we get to the restroom and you be extra good and let Mommy change your diaper. Make things easy on Mommy. That’ll show Mommy you’re a big girl.” She had to what?! Mommy wanted her to prove she was a big girl by getting her diaper changed without a fuss? How did getting your ass wiped prove that you were independent and mature? It was positively Orwellian. Yet, feeling as if she had no other alternative, June mutely nodded and took the diaper she would soon be wearing into her free hand. “Come along, Juney Mooney” Mommy said as she lead a helpless and subdued June to the ladies’ room. Even in her reduced capacity, June knew enough to at least hope for a shred of dignity to remain intact as the bathroom door swung open. Silently, she prayed to whatever gods would listen- be they modern, Aztec, or porcelain- that the bathroom’s changing station would at least be walled off and concealed by a handicap stall. Her prayers were in vain. On the wall across from the row of sinks, mounted for all to see, was an overly large changing station. It was as long as the entire counter top of sinks across from it, and at least as wide. Emblazoned on it’s off white hard plastic frame was a picture of a smiling cartoon bumblebee on it; it’s yellow and black thorax mostly covered by a puffy white diaper with the stinger poking out the backside. The words above the cartoon insect read “Bay-Bee Changing Station.” With her free hand, Mommy reached over the top of the changing station and pulled it down. Then, with almost no effort, she turned and scooped June off her feet. “Up we go,” Mommy said in a sing-song voice as she plopped June down onto the contraption. Surprisingly, there was no creak or groan of protest from the changing table; no signs that it might not be able to hold the grown woman’s weight. With June now clutching the fresh diaper she was about wear to her chest, Mommy reached down and hiked up the hem of June’s jumper, fully exposing the wet diaper, tapes and all. The oversized diaper, filled with the weight June’s accident, seemed to sag forward and away from June’s crotch, even when lying down. It wanted to be away from her. Her diaper wanted to be changed. As June pondered all of this: This new information, this new data, these new sensations, Mommy made short work of pulling a strap across her breasts, securing her and preventing escape. Mommy took her gaze off of June just long enough to dig a small compact of wipes from the diaper bag before putting it down on the floor. “Hold this for Mommy, too,” she passed the small package of wipes to June’s free hand. Not knowing what else to do, June accepted them. “Such a good helper,” Mommy praised her, and June, despite herself, felt good about that and continued to suck on her paci. Next, Mommy directed her attention towards June’s diaper, and with no hesitation or ceremony, ripped Velcro tapes off of the swollen Luvs. June inhaled sharply as the diaper was pulled back, exposing her most private of parts to the open air of the ladies room. Then, Mommy quickly took a handful of wipes from her baby girl, and began to cleanse and caress June’s intimates. June found herself moaning a bit with each cool swipe on her mound and between her legs, and closed her eyes at the soothing sensation, trying to soak it all in and take what joy she could from it. Earlier today, June had wanted Mommy to get in between her legs, but this isn’t at all what she had had in mind. Mommy dropped the used wipes into the open diaper, and June felt more than saw Mommy take a few more wipes before putting her arm behind June’s knees and lifting her legs towards the ceiling. June felt her bum leave the used diaper and heard Mommy balling it up and throwing it into the garbage can next to the changing station. She found herself quietly moaning and was just beginning to enjoy the cool sensation of the wipes against her backside when she heard the noisy flush of a toilet. They were not alone. June opened her eyes and turned her head to the side just in time to see a young black woman exit a nearby stall and wash her hands in the sink across from the changing table. The woman looked up and saw June in the mirror as she finished washing her hands. She smiled and waved to her, right as Mommy finished wiping her ass. She was so casual about it, it was as if watching a grown woman get her diaper changed was the most normal thing in the world. Blushing beyond belief, and not sure of what else to do, June waved back, hoping that the woman would leave. Once again, her prayers were in vain. “She’s cute,” the stranger said, coming up from behind Mommy. “Thank you, “ Mommy replied, smiling as she took the fresh diaper from June’s grasp and began to unfold it. June for her part, stared straight up at her pink sneakers and frilly socks as Mommy slid the new Luvs under her butt before lowering her back down onto the fresh padding. “How old is she?” the woman asked Mommy, not even bothering to address June directly. “Oh, it seems like I just had her yesterday, they grow up so fast,” Mommy replied drawing the diaper up between June’s legs, forcing them apart again. It seemed that as long as June had this fetish holding power over her, the only time her thighs would touch was when she was naked from the waist down. “But she’s not quite one…” Mommy explained as she stretched one back side of the diaper up and taped it to the front, “and-a-half.” She did the same to the other side. “Oh,” the stranger remarked, “so she has a ways to go before she goes to the potty like a big girl. You’ve got a lot of diapers to change.” “You have no idea,” Mommy chuckled as she unbuckled June from the changing station and picked her up off the plastic surface. “But I’d change her diapers forever, if that’s what it took,” Mommy added as she lifted folded the changing table back up to the wall. “Isn’t that right, ya little stinker?’ “Nuw,” June pouted from behind her pacifier. “Bip gur!” “Oh really?” the stranger chuckled, looking at June riding on her Mommy’s hip and fresh diaper still clearly visible around her rump. “You’re a big girl?” Clearly she didn’t believe June, and with so much evidence to the contrary, who could blame her? “She’s going through a phase,” Mommy explained. “She thinks she’s bigger than she really is. Girls can be so stubborn when they’re this age.” “That’s why I want to have a little baby boy someday,” the other woman told Mommy. “Less drama.” “Yeah,” Mommy sighed. “But I love my little cutie here, just fine. You really can’t choose who you love,” and she gave June a little nuzzle and a kiss that made the young woman’s eyes roll up into the back of her head in a mix of embarrassment and erotic longing . Gods, why was this turning her on? “True story,” the stranger agreed, oblivious to the sudden ecstasy June was experiencing. She bent over and handed the diaper bag back to Mommy. “Here, don’t forget this,” she said to Mommy. “And let me get the door for ya’ll. You look like you’ve got your hands full. “Thank you,” Mommy courteously replied as she slipped out of the bathroom. June could only hide her face in her hands as the strange woman waved and mouthed the words “bye-bye” to her upon exiting. For the moment at least, June was emotionally spent, and merely rested her head on Mommy’s shoulder as she was carried out of the bathroom. She only looked up when she heard the telltale “bing-bong” accompanied by a burst of fresh air as Mommy exited the restaurant. “Let’s get you home,” Mommy said, giving June’s padded bum a reassuring pat while she carried her out into the parking lot. June exhaled in relief, glad to be away from all of those strangers in that crowded place. All of this was happening far too fast for her liking. She’d be able to think more quickly- as she had last night- in the quiet of her own house and a modicum of privacy. She’d need privacy if she was going to escape and overcome this fetish. June heard Mommy opening up a door and turned her head around to see the back passenger door of a large, black S.U.V. This wasn’t her car! Before she could struggle, before she could kick, or scream, or even whine behind her Aztec idol turned pacifier, June found herself being manhandled and put into the back of the car. The cushioned seats had been retracted and folded up- as many models do to allow for increased storage- and in their place was a large rear facing baby seat. With lightning fast reflexes, Mommy plopped June down in the seat and half-guided, half-forced her arms through the straps on either side of her body before buckling the harness that connected them in the middle across her chest. June feebly fumbled with the harness, trying to unlock it, but either there was some hidden mechanism that June couldn’t quite sus out, or her fingers refused to cooperate and move and press with the required combination of dexterity and strength. Mommy ignored this and grabbed the metal tabs on each strap and forced them down into a metal buckle straddling June’s legs. So much importance and security was placed between Junes legs, it seemed. Mommy gave a third strap near the bottom of the baby seat a firm pull, and June found herself being forced back into the baby seat, her entire torso from shoulders to crotch all but immobile as her restraints tightened. June had been on roller coasters that allowed more movement from riders than this. As Mommy closed the door on her little pumpkin and walked around to the driver’s seat to start up the car, June stopped struggling. They weren’t going to June’s home. They were going to Mommy’s. This fetish was too powerful, and she might never escape at this rate. But at least she had a clean diaper on. To be Continued…..
  6. Abu Cushies

    Yup. I miss cloth backed cushies. Bring them back. Upgrade them however you can so that they perform as well (or almost as well) as the plastic backed ones do today, and we'll talk.
  7. Better Late Than Never

    Thanks
  8. Better Late Than Never

    Chapter 2. Now I know what you’re thinking, dear friend, and no, it’s not because I have some kind of psychic powers (even though I do). It’s because people always ask this question at the revelation of the nature of magic and humanity’s potential. It’s a natural question: If magic, as we’ve come to understand it, is just a matter of people “believing and wanting” hard enough, then why, Cornelius, is folklore filled with so many accounts of bad things? Dragons, trolls, demons, vampires, and other things that go bump in the night. If we, humanity, created these gods, why do they punish us so? Why are men so often the servants instead of the masters? You don’t have to be an award winning paranormal psychologist (like me) to answer that one: Humanity as a whole is full of hate and self-loathing in equal measure. Dragons pop up to guard treasure from enemies. A vampire sets its sights on a rival. A troll sets up its shop under a bridge that leads away from your shop. But weapons, especially magic ones, are far too often indiscriminate, and can spin crazily out of their creator’s control. More interesting are the reasons why good things go bad; the monkey’s paw, the treacherous djinn, and so on. Magic is a reflection of the human psyche. It’s more than just conscious thought made manifest, it’s everything about us made manifest, unconscious included. And just as our id pushes us to go after the things we want, our superego restrains us and gives us reason not to. Sometimes it’s a little bit of both. The monsters rise up because a bored would-be hero needs something to conquer and triumph over. (You’ll notice that there was substantially less international war when there were monsters to fight.) Other times, magic is a human being unconsciously bending reality to punish themselves in act of penance. Going through the desert without food or water for over a month, for example. Or vultures tearing at our flesh day by day only to have it grow back. So why does the God of the old testament punish when the same God of the New Testament is infinitely forgiving? Because at the time, it’s what we thought we deserved. - An excerpt from “Do You Believe in Magic?” by Cornelius Crowley. Susan What did I do to deserve this? The question kept echoing again and again in Susan’s mind as spoonful after spoonful of disgusting yellow-brown mush pushed its way past her lips. The taste of corned beef and sauerkraut drenched in thousand island dressing and pureed into a semi-solid invaded every corner of her mouth. Susan was in what was very likely her own personal hell. First off, she was in the girliest, pinkest, frilliest dress that she could ever possibly conceive of. Susan hated girly clothes, dresses especially. She might have put her natural athleticism to good use and run, except for the adult sized wooden high chair that was keeping her legs confined and her arms pinned at her sides. Because of this, the tomboy could do little more than just keep gulping down corned beef and sauerkraut while her mother kept spooning it in. The half-eaten Reuben on her plate had somehow metamorphosed into a half full jar of Reuben baby food- serving size: adult- and her mom was force feeding it to her almost faster than she could swallow the vile stuff. The sandwich had been a little dry. The gunk that Mom was spooning into her mouth made Susan think of a baby bird being fed its mother’s vomit. Speaking of baby animals, that was another bizarre monkey wrench thrown into Susan’s fight and/or flight plan. Her shirt had melted into the gaudy monstrosity clinging to her bust. Meanwhile, her pants and panties had been replaced by a full-fledged diaper. The dress, she was able to feel with her fingers, didn’t even cover the damn diaper all the way. Her new and unexpected underwear wasn’t even really under anything. Even if she somehow managed to slip out of the highchair, running with the diaper on would completely throw off her stride and she’d have a better chance of falling flat on her face than making any meaningful escape attempt. Taking it off was out of the question. She’d been trying. For some reason she couldn’t completely fathom, her fingers lost all strength and dexterity the moment she even touched the thick padding currently spreading her legs apart. At least it all of the extra cushioning made the wooden seat a bit more comfortable. At least she hadn’t pissed or shit herself. At least she wasn’t forced to sit in a wet or messy diaper…yet. Susan had a nasty suspicion that’s where this was heading. She wouldn’t put it past Janet to plan that. Likely, there was more in that jar than just pureed sandwich. Janet- Susan refused to consciously think of her mother as anything but…not if she could help it- was behind this. What this was, or what the point of it was, was completely beyond her, but Susan knew in her heart of hearts that Janet was responsible for this predicament. The complete lack of outrage, that crack about growing old but not growing up; the complete lack of surprise when her panties became babyish and disposable; the fact that right now Susan was having to do her best not to throw up pickled sauerkraut; it all pointed to Janet having known about her daughter’s reluctance to join the family business, and she had clearly taken steps to dissuade, if not all-out punish her. Wasn’t this all a little bit extreme, though? Really? Couldn’t she just have been cut out of the will or gotten shouted at? “You’re no daughter of mine” or something? To be fair though, were Susan’s suspicions all that rational? If anyone else had told her that their mother had transformed their clothes into giant versions of baby clothes- diaper included- and were force feeding them in a giant highchair in front of everyone, all because they didn’t want to continue the family business, she would signed them up for the tin-foil hat club. Maybe this was some bizarre form of food poisoning. Maybe this was all a bad dream, and Susan would wake up in a hospital bed in the E.R., muttering about having the strangest dream. Susan could only hope. Susan could have grinned and bore all of this bizarre nonsense a bit better too, if not for the other people in the building. That was the worst part; the other people. Susan had picked that table to get a quick bite to eat so she could break the news to Janet and then zip out before they could get into a proper shouting match. Now that she was dressed like a toddler and being fed like one to boot, she was front and center stage. Everyone who came in and out of Ma’s Diner could see her. As for the regulars: The old people? The local cops? The waitresses and the other usual suspects? They were cool with it. They were in on the joke. No one so much as flinched. An elderly couple paid their tab and even waved “bye-bye” to Susan as they left. There wasn’t even a hint of condescension in their eyes. Not even a snigger on their lips. She might as well have been a real baby. Had her mother hired professional actors or something? Waitresses kept taking orders, people kept eating, and the grill kept firing away, and no one either noticed or minded that a twenty-two-year-old woman was being force-fed in a highchair and diaper at the front of the room. “Oh Mommy! Look!” a high-pitched voice caused Susan to whip her head sideways, smearing sandwich sauce over her right cheek. “It’s a forever baby!” A woman and her daughter- a first grader tops- had just walked through the door. The kid was pointing. “She’s so cute!” Forever baby? The tomboy in the frilly pink dress stared down her nose at the little brat as her mother wiped her cheek with a napkin. “My name is Susan,” she growled. The kid was completely unfazed. “Hi Susan! I’m Makenzie!” Her hand was a back and forth blur. “Hi Susan! Say hi! Hi! Say hi, Susan! Say hi!” Even this one was in on it. Dejectedly, Susan sighed and said, “…Hi…” “Yay!” the little girl clapped her hands. “Good girl!” The two parents began talking over their respective offspring. “She’s adorable,” the customer said to ‘Ma.’ “Thank you,” Janet replied. “How old is she?” “Twenty-two. Twenty-three in a few months.” “Oh, you are so lucky!” the stranger gushed. “Yes, I am,” Mom agreed. The little girl started tugging at her mother’s pant leg. “Mommy, Mommy! Why are forever babies so old?” The mother stifled a giggle before saying, “Twenty-two isn’t particularly old, Makenzie.” “Older than me.” “Well,” the mother thought for a moment. “Getting older and growing up aren’t always the same thing.” That did it! That! Did! It! Susan needed no further proof at that moment to know that her mother- no fuck that; Janet- had been the cause and the reason behind all of her humiliation. This was no fever dream. The “how” of things she was still fuzzy on; though this town was still conservative enough that a dose of good ol’ fashioned public humiliation was something most people could get behind, including the local cops. Nothing was out of the realm of possibility right now. Maybe not “nothing;” she still had no idea how the highchair had come alive and grown to fit her in it, or how her casual jeans and a t-shirt combo had turned into some frilly pink mess, but thinking about that sent shivers up her spine and Susan preferred anger over fear at this moment in time. Better to just be angry at the bitch behind all this. Susan looked away from the mother and little girl gawking at her and turned to face the woman with the rubber tipped spoon and the jar of Reuben baby food, “Jan-“ WOOOMF! The spoon was past her lips, the revolting preservative filled mush oozing on her tongue. “There we go Susie!” Janet cooed. “Three more bites, baby girl, and then it’ll be time for your nap.” But Susan did not swallow. She would not be taking three more bites. Fuck that. With hate filled eyes and puffed out cheeks, Susan spat the yellow brown paste back at her mother. Not even unusually quick reflexes and fast draw on a napkin could completely save Janet’s dress. “Ooops,” the mother with the little girl chuckled, covering her mouth slightly as Janet began dabbing at her soiled dress. “I guess someone’s done eating.” Damn right. “Baaaaad baby!” The term from the first grader wasn’t a rebuke, but more of a commentary. Inwardly, Susan agreed. She was being a bad baby. Adults, by definition, make for bad babies. Janet didn’t lose her cool. She didn’t even frown. Her brow wasn’t the slightest bit furrowed. Instead, she looked at the customers that had just stopped by and said “I guess someone isn’t ready for their nap, either.” This got a good-natured chuckle from the woman, and her little girl giggled the way little kids tend to when they don’t really get the joke. Then she told them, “Flo will see you to your seats.” The two gawkers let Susan be and went to order their meal while ‘Ma’ fiddled with the tray chair. “Didn’t like that, did you?” Susan said, a feeling of petulant triumph building up. “No I did not,” was Janet’s curt reply- each word standing tense and upright like a little soldier- as she undid the tray. “You hurt my feelings. Now say you’re sorry, Susie.” Susan scoffed. “Uh…no.” Now that her hands were free, Susan took the opportunity to cross her arms in contempt to properly complete her pout. “You apologize.” Her glasses were starting to slide down her nose a bit, but she didn’t dare adjust them and ruin the moment. It was Janet’s turn to scoff. “For what?” “Seriously?” Susan asked. “For this,” she indicated the frilly pink mess clinging to her torso; “and this,” she lightly tapped on the wooden highchair, “and that,” she pointed accusingly at the now mostly empty jar of baby food. “Oh, and this!” She didn’t even have to lift the hem of her dress to point at the monstrosity strapped to her hips. “Susie, I have no idea what you’re so mad about. You look very pretty today, honey.” Janet pursed her lips for a second and added, “That’s your favorite highchair, you wanted the Reuben, and I just checked your diaper.” Then as an afterthought she added, “If you want, I can check you again.” Her mother’s right hand began making a bee-line for Susan’s crotch. Susan slapped it away, the sound of skin on skin ringing through the air like a cracked whip. The entire diner fell silent at the sound. Everyone looked up from their plates. The diapered tomboy looked back at them in contempt. So THIS was crossing the line? “Alright, fuck it,” Susan stood up and stepped down from the highchair, her pink sneakers smacking against the floor as she did, the rustle of the diaper and the fluttering of the too short dress making her hyper aware of even the most miniscule of movements. “I’m out. You’ve made your point. Older doesn’t mean grown-up. You’ve had your fun. Now I’m out.” The poor girl didn’t even make it three steps towards the door before she felt an iron grip on her wrist yanking her backwards. “Susan Leann Collins,” the voice at the end of that manacled grip told her, “you stay right there!” During her freshman year of college, Susan took a comparative religion course mostly for grins. When the class veered off into decidedly less mainstream religions- voodoo, wicca, shamanism and the like- Susan had a brief fascination with the occult. It was definitely a phase that she grew out of, and she didn’t put any stock in the stuff, but she had some fun reads anyways. It was more of a guilty pleasure than anything, much in the same way people read about the exploits of cults and serial killers; not because they are cultists or serial killers themselves, but there’s a kind of morbid satisfaction that normal, boring people can get from reading about the bizarre, objectively evil, and naively stupid. One thing led to another, and she eventually came across this book of complete schlock talking about magic as if it were a real thing. That magic happened as long as we believed hard enough or something. Most of it was pseudo-science occult psychobabble but there was one particular part that resonated with her as an odd kind of universal truth: the power of names. If you knew something’s true name you could bind it, paralyze it, make it serve you. Clearly, the author of that book had had a mother like Janet. Calling her “Susie” was a jab on her mother’s part these days. Calling her by her first and either of her two other names was a dire warning. Using her full name meant that she had crossed some sort of line and things were about to go downhill fast unless Susan tread very carefully. It was an invocation that to this day still caused her to lock her knees and freeze in place. Just like magic, Susan Leann Collins didn’t dare move. With a quiet voice and an iron hand holding Susan secure, Janet leaned in and hissed, “Now I do NOT know what has gotten into you today, young lady, and I do not normally condone spanking, but if you keep sassin’ me like that I WILL take you over my knee in front of all these people right now and spank whatever it is right outta yer little tushie. Do. You. Understand?” A little bit of southern cracker drawl had snuck its way into Janet’s accent, as it did most every time when she was angry or when Susan’s Grandma was around. The way she said the words scared Susan just as much as the words themselves. This was no bluff. She’d do it. The young woman dressed like a toddler princess looked at her mother and around the dead quiet room, all eyes on them. She had forgotten how strong her mother could be, especially when angered. It would be a wonder if there wasn’t bruising on her wrist when this was done. “Do…you…understand?” Janet repeated. “Yes Mommy,” Susan squeaked, then immediately kicked herself for her choice of words. Ma’am would have sufficed, or Mom- anything appropriate deferential- but Mommy? What had she been thinking? The ridiculous outfit she’d been wearing most likely had manipulated her frame of mind. At least the few customers left had stopped staring and gone back to their tuna melts and liver with onions. Her mom nodded. “Alright then,” she said, before turning her head and calling to the back shouted. “Phyllis! Bring me Susie’s diaper bag! We’re going for a walk!” Diaper bag? Walk? As in she was going outside? Dressed like THIS?! The poor girl’s face almost matched her dress. The sound of the grill sizzling was drowned out by a pulsing pounding in her head. Phyllis, Mom’s oldest employee and a woman who was perpetually seventy if she was a day, toted over a large hot pink satchel with bunnies stitched in the front and handed it over. “You go get some fresh air, young’un and enjoy the ride.” A withered, shaking hand that still had the ability to write down orders and dice vegetables with uncanny speed and accuracy, favored Susan with a slight pinch of her cheek, before the little old woman turned around and walked back the way she came. Phyllis was so old that she’d known Susan since the first time she was in diapers, and that dainty little cheek pinch brought back at least a dozen half-forgotten memories; the kind where she wasn’t sure if she actually remembered them, or had been told about them enough through the years that she remembered the stories more than the events themselves. A feeling not much different than a rock hitting the bottom of an empty well landed in Susan’s stomach. Things were about to get so much worse. Slinging the pink satchel…diaper bag…satchel over her shoulder, Janet began walking for the door, pulling her daughter behind her. “C’mon baby girl. Let’s go for a walk.” Still cowed into submission by threats of pain and embarrassment, Susan followed, her dress swishing, diaper crinkling, and legs waddling every step outside. A large- comically large, in fact- umbrella stroller was parked just outside the doors; no doubt about who it was intended for. Susan didn’t dare resist as she was guided into the hammocklike wheelchair. Two straps fastened over her shoulders and clicked together in the middle of her chest. A third buckled up between her legs, the flat nylon rope pressing up against her padded crotch, giving a thorough and constant reminder of her so-called underwear. The dress would be no help here. How could anyone even call this puffy sleeved monstrosity a dress, anyway? It was more for show than concealment. Mom gave Susan a quick check over once she’d been buckled into her rolling humiliation-mobile, and nodded, more to herself than to anyone else. Still leaning over her daughter, Janet plucked a sizeable baby bottle out of a side pocket of the diaper ba-…the pink satchel, and placed it in the young woman’s lap. “Something to wash your lunch down with, baby.” Janet disappeared behind the stroller and soon the grainy grinding sound of rubber wheels on concrete whispered Susan’s departure from the safe and private confines of her mother’s diner. Unable to let the plastic bottle just sit in her lap, Susan turned the foreign object over in her hands, sloshing the not quite ivory liquid around as she did so. It was milk, obviously, but not quite; something seemed off about it. It seemed thicker, and the color was a little darker, closer to a vanilla milkshake. A protein shake perhaps, or maybe it was raw and unpasteurized? Goat milk? Not that it mattered. Susan wasn’t about to stick the damn rubber nipple in her mouth and find out. “OH MY GOD!” a cooing shriek snapped out of her analysis and swiveled her head around. Suddenly disoriented, she took a moment. While Susan had been distracting herself with the contents of a baby’s beverage holder, her surroundings had changed considerably. To her right was the street, to her left, the parking lots and storefronts of the few non-franchised stores left in town. Road signs and familiar landmarks signaled that they’d made it a block or two. Up ahead was the turnoff for the public library. Susan’s eyes found the source of the high-pitched exclamations. Standing in front of her, was a broad shouldered but attractive young woman in her late twenties or early thirties. Her glasses, almost identical to Susan’s and the thick turtleneck sweater gave her the air of an academic despite her witless and star struck expression. She looked older than Susan, but not by a whole lot; much in the same way that high schoolers didn’t quite look like college kids, and college kids didn’t quite look like adults out in the working world. The difference would have been small and ultimately unimportant under normal circumstances. These were not normal circumstances. “Is that Susan?” the stranger asked Susan’s mother. “I almost didn’t recognize her!” Another rock crashed in the well of Susan’s stomach. This stranger knew her somehow, from where didn’t matter, and now she was participating in this discombobulating punishment she’d somehow earned. The stranger looked down, expectantly at her, all smiles. “Hi Susan!” she cooed. “It’s good to see you. Do you remember me? Do you?” There was something familiar about her, but Susan had never been particularly good at remembering faces. The woman waving her hand in front of Susan’s nose just kept smiling and waving, expecting it to jog her memory. “Linda used to babysit you when you were younger, remember?” Mom offered. Linda?...Linda…. Linda! More memories, long ago filed away and gathering dust bubbled up to the forefront of the diapered girl’s mind. She’d been eight. Linda had been sixteen. It hadn’t been a huge difference in age, but it was big enough to where Linda had been given authority over a young Susan while Mom went out on dates. Linda had been an objectively good babysitter for those two years before she went off to college; neither too permissive, nor too authoritarian. She neither neglected the girl that Susan was, nor treated the eight- year-old as an incompetent child. Today was a completely different scenario. For most, it’s awkward enough meeting former teachers and caregivers after they’ve grown up and come into their own. Everyone tends to remember the child that a person used to be rather than the adult that they are, much to the younger person’s chagrin. For Susan, the contrast between the adult she was and the child she had been was suddenly less stark. If Janet was behind this…this...this whatever it was- a notion that was seeming more ludicrous as each event unfolded- she had certainly taken a lot of care and preparation in executing it. Nervous, embarrassed and needing something to look busy with, the young woman in the stroller slipped the nipple of the baby bottle into her mouth. “Winda?” she mumbled around the rubber teat as she sank down into the canvas of the stroller as best as the restraints would allow her. “She’s feeling shy, right now,” Mom’s voice explained from behind the babied woman. The other woman beamed and let out a sympathetic “Awwwww,” as she stood and smoothed out her sweater, making eye contact with Susan’s mother. ”She’s so sweet.” “She normally is,” Janet agreed. A playful smirk danced across the third woman’s lips. “Normally?” She stole a faux disapproving glance back down to Susan, sneaking a wink in. Without thinking about it, Susan timidly pulled on the rubber nipple with her lips, causing the contents to dribble onto her tongue. The milk tasted like regular milk. Maybe a little sweeter and a little more watered down than usual, but otherwise it tasted like regular old moo-cow milk. It was a bit like how she liked her coffee, lots of cream and sugar, but someone had goofed and forgotten to add the coffee beans. Still, perfectly serviceable. Susan tilted the bottle up and took another sip. “She’s just being a little fussy today,” Janet spoke to Linda, “can’t say why.” The fear of an escalated and very physical punishment still burning in her brain, Susan chose to hold her tongue and kept sucking down her watered-down milk. Susan’s old babysitter nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah. Phillip does that, too, from time to time. I think it’s a Forbies thing.” “Forbies?” Mom asked. “Forever babies,” the lady clarified. “Kind of a nickname on the internet.” They were talking about Susan as if she weren’t there, talking over her head. As if she couldn’t understand, or if her opinion didn’t matter. More than the infantile outfit; more than the stroller or the bottle; it was these micro-signals that everyone had been sending her, these little things that made the young independent woman feel incredibly…small. Susan popped the bottle out of her mouth. “Forever babies?” she echoed Linda. That made the second person she’d heard mention that phrase. Something wasn’t adding up. Susan’s whole theory on the how and why she’d ended up like this was disintegrating in her mind. She sat back up in the stroller and looked to her mother. A condescending head pat was what Susan was rewarded with. “Finish your bottle, Susie. Grown-ups are talking.” The diapered girl’s face flushed red, and Susan felt her blood boil with anger. A look from her mother lowered Susan’s impending tantrum into indignant pouting. Susan bit into the nipple of her bottle and busied herself sucking down the sweet watered-down milk. If she’d bitten her lip, she very well may have drawn blood. “See what I mean?” Janet asked Linda. WHOOSH. A passing car alerted Susan that there were more than just two sets of eyes out here in the open looking at her in her present condition. Susan sank back down as far as she could, hoping the stroller would at least hide her face. “So, how’s Phillip? How are your parents?” Janet asked the other ‘grown-up’. Linda nodded. “Phillip’s good. Mom and Dad still love having him around. It’s given me the chance to grow up and strike out on my own, guilt free. No chance of empty nest syndrome, y’know?” “Yeah,” Mom let out a contented, lazy sigh. “I do indeed.” It was almost like she was purring. Susan felt a twinge in the last place she currently wanted to feel a twinge. When was the last time she’d gone to the toilet? This morning after breakfast? Or was it just before lunch? Under normal circumstances it wouldn’t have mattered. Under normal circumstances, she wouldn’t be strapped to a rolling chair with pixie decorated padding touching her nethers. “Uh..Janet…” Susan spoke up. Janet seemed unconcerned and continued talking with the woman not much older than her daughter. “Playing at the park today, I assume?” “Nah,” Susan’s ex-babysitter replied. “There’s a special event going on at the college today. University is doing outreach and special services as fundraisers. Enrollment has been down the last couple of years because…y’know.” Mom nodded in reply. Apparently, she knew that, too. “Jan?” Susan tried to interrupt, the need to go becoming an uncomfortable, swelling, almost burning sensation. She stopped sucking on the bottle. Why the hell had she kept sucking on the bottle? Why had she chosen to suck on the bottle in the first place? “Oh that’s nice!” Janet talked over Susan. “If I had known, I would have taken the day off and taken Susie. How are you though? What are you up to?” “I’m walking to work. I’m a librarian, now. In a day or two, they’re doing a forever babies’ read-in day.” “Oh, Susie would love that!” The need, whether it was a physiological or psychological- an actual fullness of her bladder or just an itch that got worse the more one thought about it-it was there and growing. Her body was screaming at her for release. “Mother?” Susan spoke up a little bit louder. Her voice more of a groan. “Motherrrrrrr?” Susan’s mother kept the conversation going despite Susan’s wriggling and obvious growing discomfort. “I really should take Susie over to the Library more often. Now, it’d be an extra treat, considering that you’re there.” “Mom?” Not much time left. Linda added “I don’t mind sitting for her again, either. I could use the extra money, too. Librarians don’t make a whole lot of money.” “Mommy?” Out of time. Susan’s bladder betrayed her. A flood of warm wet liquid gushed out of her involuntarily, her body disobeying every screaming command her mind issued. The dripping warmth splashed against her privates before the thirsty padding wicked it away and absorbed it, the strap between her legs forcing the garment up against her the whole time. A sigh of relief mixed with a shudder of revulsion as the tomboy publicly debased herself. The conversation halted. Both women looked down at the captive girl. Mommy gave an exasperated sigh. “Yes, Susie?” “I…” Susan stuttered, her face flushing and her breath catching. “I peed.” Mom’s response: “Oh, is that all?” Those few words hurt Susan more than anything else uttered thus far. Is that all? As if her problems didn’t matter? Is that all? As if she had no right to feel as awful as she felt in that moment. Is that all? “I just pissed myself,” the poor girl choked out, her voice cracking and tears pooling in her eyes. Her mother’s first response was “Susie! Language!” Then Mom looked at the other grown-up and apologized. “I have no idea where she’s getting that from. I’m going to have to keep an ear out.” Susan was crying openly now. “I just pissed my pants!” “Honey. Don’t talk like that,” Janet chided. “You didn’t piss yourself. You just went pee-pee. You’re wet is all. And you’re not even wearing any pants, silly goose.” A wave of sobs racked Susan’s body as she thrashed impotently in the stroller. “Thinking about potty training?” Linda asked Janet, indicating Susan’s outburst. “Oh, that’s a fad.” Janet waved the idea off. “Forever babies can never be fully potty trained, anyways.” A beat. “Why? Is Phillip potty training?” Linda could only giggle and shook her head. “Okay, Linda. It was nice running into you, but I think Susie here needs some more stroller time.” Now with a wet diaper pressed against her, Susan continued being pushed down the sidewalk. As the urine in her diaper cooled, so did her temper. But there was no perspective or rationalization; no clarity that came as her pulse lowered and her breathing slowed. Confusion would be too strong a word for what Susan was feeling; instead a kind of questioning, almost dream like haze settled over her. As the stroll continued, more people passed by getting a good look at the girl in all her shame. Even the ones who Mom didn’t stop to talk to made sure to comment about the ‘baby’ in the stroller. “Hey there, cutie!” “Awwwww! What an adorable outfit!” “Such a pretty little girl!” Cutie? Adorable? Pretty? How could that be? Susan Collins had been called a lot of things in her life, most of them complimentary- attractive, sleek, and on one drunken occasion, seductive- but she could never remember being referred to as something so…so…girly! Furthermore, the diaper had swelled, a fine crease pressing into the strap separating her legs and there was more than a slight discoloration where the majority of her accident had been absorbed. How could anyone be “cute” or “pretty” like that? All the same, Susan couldn’t help but hide her face behind her hands with each new compliment and cooing from the random passerby. She couldn’t even bear to uncover her eyes after a point; better to just let this trip pass in darkness. Her ears were not immune, however, and the muffled footsteps and polite greetings of passersby and the engines of automobiles did nothing to lessen her blush. They were looking at her. They were all looking at her. “Oh, hi Susan!” That voice! She knew that voice! Susan unshielded her eyes and followed the voice to its source. It was coming from behind her. The tomboy leaned out of the stroller and craned her neck. “What are you looking at, baby?” her mother asked. Susan wasn’t so sure herself. They had arrived at the bus stop along Pennsylvania Avenue, just before the turnoff on North South Drive. Apparently, Mom had only been taking her around the block. On the bus stop bench, lounging in an older woman’s lap, was a girl that Susan had seen only yesterday. “Vanessa?” Vanessa Carlyle was a junior, but they had taken some of the same math classes and had helped each other cram for exams in the past. They weren’t particularly close, and had never socialized beyond one helping the other studying, but they knew each other. The young woman with her head in what could only be her mother’s lap did so wearing nothing but a baby blue shirt with matching bonnet, booties, and of course, a diaper. “Hiya,” she repeated. The stroller slowed to a stop and backed up a few steps. “What in the hell are you doing?” The college junior didn’t seem to notice the tone of accusation in which she’d been asked. “Oh, y’know. Just waitin’ for a bus with my Mommy; gettin’ some milk.” A white strand of liquid clung to the right corner of the other girl’s mouth. Just like Susan, a bottle of creamy liquid was tightly grasped between two otherwise very adult hands; the yellow nipple speckled with milk and glistening with saliva. The older woman looked to Vanessa, then to Susan, and back to Vanessa. “Vanessa,” the older woman said, “Finish your ba-ba before the bus gets here.” A “Okay, Mommy” was uttered before the twenty-one-year old in the baby gear lifted the bottle back to her lips started slurping at the rubber teat, making little animal mewling sounds as she; her mother all the while cradling her head and gently rubbing her ears. This wasn’t a prank. This wasn’t a mind fuck. No way this was a performance. If there was any doubt left in Susan’s mind of that fact, what happened next dispelled the idea completely. Still lying down, Vanessa lifted her knees till they were almost touching her chest and began grunting, her lips still pulling the bottle nipple. Vanessa’s mother turned her head and noticed what was going on. “You wanna stop drinking for a second?” A guttural grunt, uttered by silly, sweetly smiling lips and slightly shaking head was the only response Vanessa gave. A final “Uuuuh” moaned out of Vanessa’s throat as the back of her diaper expanded in a lumpy bubble. The twenty-one-year old let out a quiet sigh as she lowered her legs down, likely spreading the newly deposited contents in her diaper. She only sucked harder on the bottle as a result. Vanessa had just messed herself and couldn’t be bothered to stop drinking milk in the process. A gust of wind, and the smell it carried with it, cemented this fact in Susan’s mind. Susan’s own rubber nipple found its way back to Susan’s lips if only to drown out the putrid taste that the wind had carried with it. “Whew!” Vanessa’s ‘Mommy’ exclaimed with a cringe. “Someone made a stinky. Was it you? Was it you?!” She sniffed again, and then stopped cooing at her adult daughter. “As soon as you’re done, it’ll be time for a change.” Susan’s peer mumbled around the nearly empty bottle. “Uh-fay!” Janet decided to insert herself in the conversation. “It seems our little girls know each other.” “They must go to the same daycare,” the other mother replied; a notion that was reinforced as the girl in the bonnet wiped her mouth off and nodded her head, wiping the last trails of milk and spittle from her lips. The mothers ignored her input as much as if the “little girl” might not know what she was talking about. “Big Little?” Janet asked. “That’s the one,” the other middle-aged woman replied. Mom extended her hand. “Janet Collins.” Vanessa’s mother glanced to Susan, still in a kind of subdued shock, before taking the hand and shaking it politely. “Martha Williams,” she said. “Now if you excuse me, my little stinky butt here needs a change.” For her part, Vanessa just giggled as if “little stinky butt” were a term of endearment. Vanessa’s mother slid out from beneath her and grabbed at a bag that had been resting between her feet. She took out a cutesy printed diaper that was far too big for any child to wear; while like a toddler who had long grown used to the routine, Vanessa stretched out on the bench, and reached her hands to the sky, as if preparing to grasp at something that wasn’t there yet. “So how old is she?” Mom asked while the other mom dug out a pack of baby wipes, and a ring of rainbow colored plastic keys. Susan just gawked stupidly, as her college aged peer grabbed at the fake keys and amused herself thumbing through them flailing them in the air; making them click-clack against each other. Vanessa’s mom rolled up her sleeves and replied, “Twenty-one.” Her hands shot down and ripped the tapes of the diaper off. It felt as if Susan’s eyes were about to fall out of her skull. No…they weren’t going to…were they? The poor girl couldn’t stand it any longer. “Vanessa,” a flabbergasted Susan asked, “what the fuck are you doing?” Vanessa’s legs were being lifted into the air, her feces covered backside was out in the open air while her mother went to work. No one else was so much as flinching. “Gettin’ muh butt wiped,” Vanessa replied, not even looking away from the plastic keys as she flipped one over top of the other in an endless loop. “Why?” It was as if Susan’s question born out of shock and confusion was nothing more than a set up question; like when you ask a friend what they’re up to tonight right before inviting them out for drinks. If Susan had a retort or follow up question, it was drowned out by her mother’s fearsome rebuke. “THAT’S IT!” Janet roared. “I WARNED YOU ABOUT THE POTTY MOUTH LITTLE GIRL!” The world was a blur of motion as Janet unbuckled Susan from her stroller, and sitting on the ground, took her daughter over her lap. Her feet hadn’t even touched the ground before the she found herself face down looking at the concrete. A swift adjustment saw the hem of Susan’s so-called dress flipped up and her ass sticking up above her head. How had Mom gotten so strong? Susan didn’t have time to wonder long about that as her backside was suddenly pelted with stinging blows. Hornets were stinging her behind! She was being whipped! Even the thick padding of the did little cushion the beating. On instinct, her arms and legs flailed and kicked, her nails dug at the ground, as she tried to tear herself away from her mother’s grip. A single forearm pinned her- belly down, ass up- to her mommy’s lap. Within seconds the mouthy tomboy was screaming out in pain…then crying out…then wailing…then bawling. She couldn’t breathe! She was having to gasp for air just so that she could scream again. With fiery certainty the truth broke upon Susan: Mom wasn’t playing games. This wasn’t a dream. The entire world had gone mad. A panicked, almost animal impulse took over. End the pain. End the pain. Apologize. Beg. Anything to make it stop. Anything for relief. “I’m sorry!” the tomboy in the frilly dress cried out. Janet stopped paddling. “What was that?” “I’m sorry!” Susan repeated. “I’m sorry, Mommy!” “For?” “For…for being a potty mouth.” Susan drooped her head in exhaustion and defeat. There was a tense pause…then, “Okay, I think you’ve had enough, baby.” Susan felt the weight of her mother’s forearm ease off her, and Susan scrambled off, the grit of the concrete scraping against her sneakers. Mom was on her feet first and helped Susan to hers. The distance between bottom of her dress and the bottom of her diaper had increased. It sagged between her legs with a noticeable weight. Either she had wet more than she thought, or she had flooded the padding a second time during the thrashing she’d just received. Vanessa sat up on the bench, a fresh diaper taped around her hips. “Potty mouth and potty pants!” she giggled as if she hadn’t just had her own ass wiped moments ago. “Maybe that’s why she was being so fussy,” the other middle aged woman offered. “I’ve known forever babies to act up when they need a change.” Mom shook her head, still holding Susan’s hand. “Oh no. My little girl’s been pushing it all afternoon” she said. “Can’t say why.” She looked at the lumpy padding dangling between her daughter’s legs. “Though she could definitely use a change. Do you mind?” The mother-daughter couple scooted away to clear a space. Petrified, Susan found herself moved and laid down on the same bus stop bench. Through some combination of exhaustion, terror, and maybe even reality itself pulling her down, Susan couldn’t so much as sit back up while her mother fetched the hot pink diaper bag…satchel…no…diaper bag, and gathered the necessary supplies. “Okay Susie, let’s get you changed.” “Please no,” she whimpered as Mom reached for the tapes. Her pleas fell on deaf ears. Dakota This was not the party that Dakota had walked out on. Not at all. The only thing that she recognized was the chocolate cake. Everything else was strictly toddler fare. Streamers, balloons, tables draped with plastic Sesame Street tablecloths along with matching paper plates and napkins littering them. People were even wearing those dorky little cone hats that strapped to the chin. A rendition of “Old Mac Donald Had a Farm” played over the expensive sound system. Things had taken a sudden and inexplicable turn for the strange, but by far the strangest part about the party were the people themselves. When she had lured Brendan into the guest room for a quick suck and fuck, Dakota knew for a fact that the dress code had been country club casual: Men in button up polos tucked into their khakis, women in breezy, flowing dresses that didn’t give too much away but still tickled the imagination; heels optional but preferred. It’s what had made Dakota’s nearly skin-tight little number that much more of a standout. Now, boys (fuck calling them men…it just didn’t work) were in sneakers instead of loafers; some with the little lights that flashed with every step. (Did they really make those in adult sizes?) A few still had khakis on, though they were by and large shorts with noticeable bulges in the butt and crotch. If Dakota had any lingering doubt as to what lied beneath their pants, the tops of their diapers were sticking out of the wide elastic waistbands. The other boys wore plaid rompers, or shortalls (not just for girls anymore, apparently.) Minutes ago, Brendan’s female friends and relatives, as well as girlfriends of guy friends, had mingled naturally with the menfolk, all forming into little couples and cliques. Since the kiddie music had piped in, the girls had separated themselves from the boys almost entirely, and now two distinct groups had formed based around gender. Every woman around Dakota’s age was still wearing a dress, but they were less modest, less concealing, while still somehow managing not to be sexy in the least: Peter Pan collars and baby doll dresses with hems too short to hide bulky padded underwear; white tights stretched so thin anyone could still make out the cartoon character designs on the back of diapers; hair tied up with curly bows and ribbons. All of this flooded Dakota’s vision. Clothes and mouths across the room were smeared with bits of icing and chocolate cake, regardless of gender. Along the periphery, a handful of older and middle-aged people (parents, grandparents, aunts, and uncles) watched the gathering of young adults dressed as tots. They were smiling, and seemingly content, but with a look of caution in their eyes; as if they might need to intervene at any moment. They were dressed less ridiculously than the twenty-something guests, but there was something distinctly different all the same; lots of jeans and old worn out t-shirts, stuff that they could afford to get dirty. Their constant, tired gaze reminded Dakota of the teachers guarding the punch bowl at every middle and high school dance she’d gone to. Dakota, too, stood out. Her gorgeous blonde hair was now wrapped up in pigtails, her shoes were missing, and the sexy little red dress she’d worn had somehow shrunk to a Dora The Explorer T-Shirt, that stopped just short of her childish-looking diaper. Her diaper?! Dakota looked down between her legs. Her panties had become something puerile and disgusting. Cartoon balloons and stars ran all along it from front to back as it sagged and swelled a bit from the pee it had just absorbed. It was a bright and happy façade to mask its repugnant purpose: to hold her piss and shit until someone could be bothered to replace it with another. Well…not HERS, per se, even though she was wet and the diaper had done its job…but…but…-Dakota felt flustered. Just because she had pissed herself without meaning to didn’t mean she was childish or infantile or stupid, right? Right. She had bigger problems to worry about than suddenly pissy panties. Still gawking at the transformed party, the would-be gold-digger glanced down at the Ring Pop that had been slid onto her finger. That had been an engagement ring before, hadn’t it? A modest one, unfortunately, but it had been right. Her eyes traveled up her slender digits to her fingernails. They’d changed too. Once they had been shiny and painted and well cared for and a little pointy. Now they were plain and boring and they looked a little chewed on. Was that a hangnail? “Go on and play, Dakota dear.” Brendan’s mother gave her a slight nudge. “Go have fun. It’s Brendan’s big day, and he wouldn’t want his little guests to be sad.” “Brendan?” Dakota echoed the name of her (right now) boyfriend. While Dakota had been busy taking in the strange sights and sounds (not to mention smells…she couldn’t have been the only one who was wet, and all the baby powder in the world couldn’t completely mask that scent), Brendan had waddled off with the other boys and was clumsily throwing around a big rubber ball, clapping like an imbecile with each toss and catch, regardless of success. She’d been completely forgotten. Her? Forgotten? Impossible! Another nudge from Mrs. Jay and Dakota instinctively dug her bare heels into the floor. “I…I…can’t.” Dakota stuttered. “I…I…” she trailed off. She couldn’t bring herself to say “peed.” “I’m…I’m…” The word “wet” wasn’t going to work either. “My…my…di…” So close. Hands open she motioned to the padded bulk around her tight ass. “Your diaper?” The word was like a gunshot to Dakota. Something about hearing it said out loud made this insane nightmare seem all the more real to her. The older woman’s hand reached between the young woman’s legs and gave a gentle squeeze. A scream caught in Dakota’s throat. She wasn’t used to being touched there (not unless it was her idea, and always behind closed doors), but some nagging, scared little voice inside her told her to be quiet. Dakota’s lungs shook with rage as a woman old enough to be her mother pulled back the waistband of her diaper and allowed herself a quick peek at Dakota’s ass. “You’re just a little wet, honey. You’re good for now.” Brendan’s mother closed the guest room door behind them and gave Dakota a playful swat on her bulkily padded behind. “Go on and play.” Slowly, the young woman walked forward towards the assembled mass of adults dressed like children, the crinkle in her diaper sounding like a thousand garbage bags rustling around her bottom. Logically, she realized, she was the only one who could actively hear the noise; like chewing; but illogically she felt the whole room hearing it over the seventh chorus of Old Mac Donald. Through gritted teeth, Dakota whispered to herself. “You can do this. You can do this. It’s just like in middle school when you had your first couple of periods. It’s just like wearing a pad.” Crinkle…crinkle..squish. “Just like a pad.” A pad that was also underwear and decorated with cutesy little kiddie designs. Underwear that wasn’t actually UNDER anything. Underwear that had a load of her pee in it, and she had just been groped by her (right now) boyfriend’s mom out in the open where everyone could see. No one had ever “checked” her to see if her pad needed cha- WOMP! A rubber ball smacking against her skull broke Dakota’s train of thought. The ball was bulky enough that had it been on the ground, it could have doubled for one of those hippie hipster chair substitutes. It didn’t hurt as much as knock her off balance. She stumbled a few feet before losing balance and falling over, the squish of her wet diaper breaking her tumble. A hand reached up and pulled her to her feet. “You okay? Any owies?” “Owies?” Dakota shook her head to clear the cobwebs out. “Uh…no. I’m not hurt.” She looked into her boyfriend’s concerned face. “Brendan?” “Yeah?” “What’s going on here?” “We’re playin’ catch.” Then he added, “You’re not so good at it, huh? It’s okay. You’re just a girl.” Just a girl? Just a girl?! What kind of grade-school sexism was that?! What next, that she had cooties? Dakota managed to say “I was blindsided!” in defense just before another ball in her back sent her stumbling. The diapered boy she dated didn’t so much catch her as he gently pushed her back up to her feet, his hands getting a good feel of her breasts in the process. (What had happened to her bra?) Brendan, who would normally be blushing beet red and apologizing profusely for what had just happened, couldn’t be bothered to blink. Dakota, likewise, was too stunned to feel much as far as sexual tension or embarrassment. She spun around and looked at the creep who had just lobbed the giant globule at her head. He was a full head taller than Dakota, and wore a loose-fitting button up romper that stopped at his knees; a kind of formal shirt and shorts all in one. “What’s the big idea?” she demanded. A stuck out tongue was his only reply. “Quit it, Jean!” Brendan yelled at the man baby. “That’s not playin’ nice!” “Do you wanna get cooties?” Jean replied. “Cuz that’s how you get cooties!” The ball had rolled back to him and he picked it up once more, clearly readying a third volley of attack. Chivalrously, Brendan stepped in front of his girlfriend, the waddle in his step making him look none the less her knight in shining armor. “I’m twenty-two now, I don’t believe in cooties.” He said it with all the seriousness and know-it-all imperiousness of the kid spoiling Santa Claus for everyone else. “Pppphhhb,” Jean’s retort was nothing short of a full on raspberry; tongue out and flapping in the air. Then with a know-it-all smirk, he said “The girls are only here cuz your mommy made you invite them.” Dakota saw the hair on the back of Brendan’s neck bristle. “That’s not true!” “Oooooooo!” Jean exclaimed. “Brendan likes girls! Brendan likes girls!” “DO NOT!” Brendan shouted. “Do not do not do not!” He turned to the side, and Dakota got a look at his face. He was biting his lip, and his face blushing a deep red. She’d seen Brendan that embarrassed before, but it was usually when she had him flustered and begging for more, like the nights they experimented with leather or cross dressing. What was he embarrassed of? Things got quiet on the boy’s side of the room; Old Mac Donald had faded out and been replaced with Bingo. Dakota’s boy toy looked to her, then to his friend, then back to her. He was embarrassed of her. She was the reason he was blushing so much. Just by being there, she was causing him distress and humiliation in front of his peers. The douche bag that was acting like a two-year-old took up a call as old as childhood itself. “Brendan and Dakota, sitting in a tree! K-I-S-S-I-N-G!” Others picked up the chant. ‘FIRST COMES LOVE! THEN COMES MARRIAGE…THEN COMES BRENDAN WITH THE BABY CARRIAGE!” Quickly, Brendan turned all the way around to face his girlfriend. “Maybe you should just go and play with the other girls. They’re doing tea party and other girly stuff that girls like.” The other boys got quiet and were all nodding in approval with hushed “Yeahs” echoing the sentiment. Taken aback, the young woman in pigtails asked her beau, “Are…are you dumping me?” Brendan frowned as if Dakota had suddenly switched to a foreign language. “Huh?” he said. “Dumping? Whaddya mean? I got some dump trucks outside if you wanna play with them, I guess. I’m playing catch with my friends right now. Just get out of here.” A few of the boys clapped. Dakota was shaking with anger. She’d never been dumped before. No one dumped her. She dumped them! Not ten minutes ago, he’d been proposing marriage to her. Five minutes ago, he was ready to bone her in the guest room while all his friends, neighbors and relatives, waited and listened outside. Now, he couldn’t be bothered with her, his friends’ mocking opinions of her driving his decisions. The most disturbing thing to her, however, more than suddenly being in pigtails and diapers, was the source of the rejection. Dakota was a girl. She had cooties. What was up with that? Had she been called a bitch, or a cunt, or a slut, she could have coped, or come up with a snappy comeback. But just for being a girl, she was suddenly being driven out from Brendan’s inner circle (that was playing catch…poorly). She had cooties. Dakota couldn’t get over that: That base-level, self-assured grade school brand of bullshit was literally too simple to debunk. How did you lose a battle of wits when your opponent was unarmed? When they were too dumb to feel pain, that’s how. Confused, hurt, and numb to the strange new world that had flooded her very reality, Dakota did the only thing that had even a hint of meaning to her. “Screw you, Brendan Jay,” she shrieked. “Take your stupid ring back!” With full force and intent, she slid the Ring-Pop off of her finger and hurled it towards the ground. The candy jewel shattered on the ground into a dozen tiny pieces, scattered by the impact. Brendan looked like a curse had been cast upon him. “MOMMY!” he cried, running off to the back of the house. The entire room stopped for a heartbeat. “Oooooooooo!” The shocked and accusatory cry rose from the throats of every diapered party goer, staring at her. The grown-ups (No, not grown-ups!)- adults (other adults)- had been either too busy managing other twenty something’s acting like juvenile idiots to see the entire scene unfold, or watched on with funny smiles, as if Dakota’s actions and feelings were cute. They wore nostalgic “remember when” smiles on their faces. Dakota huffed, and went over to the other side of the large living room where scattered tables, plastic tea pots, and dolls dominated the landscape. This time, the room was quiet enough, that Dakota was sure they COULD hear the crinkle in her diaper…if not for their own crinkles. The former sex-kitten plopped down in a thick plastic chair, feeling as much as hearing the wet padding squelch beneath her bottom. “Fuck my life,” she cried into her hands, muffling the curse. This was wrong on so many levels. Dressed like a two-year old, soaking in her own piss, at a child-style birthday party AND she’d been dumped for the first time in her life. God was punishing her. That was what was happening. She should have accepted the marriage proposal, stopped stringing the poor boy along, taken his love, and settled for being a gorgeous stay-at-home mom who only went on lavish spending sprees a few times a year. She’d been a brat and was being punished for it in the most literal way imaginable. Or maybe the devil was teaching her a lesson. Her rebuff of Brendan’s advances had been strictly kid stuff. She should have said yes, allowed the party to kick into overdrive, and then leave Brendan sometime before the wedding. Either way, all of this topsy-turvy bullshit was both her fault and meant specifically to torment her. Rationally, Dakota doubted it was as simple as some celestial or demonic being punishing her. She’d done this kind of thing at least twice before (though third time is, of course, the charm). There was likely a much more complicated answer that was grounded somewhere in the reality that she’d been living in before her panties had become disposable. She was no Alice in Wonderland, though. One didn’t ask asylum inmates why everyone was acting so crazy. Dakota knew she wouldn’t have liked the answers, and they wouldn’t have helped. The hollow clinky rattling of plastic on wood made Dakota look up from the safe darkness of her fingers and palms. A dainty, light pink plastic tea cup and matching saucer laid in front of her on the table. Beside her, a girl about Dakota’s age stood holding a plastic tea pot and a cheap French maid’s hat. “Tea?” she asked. “Sure…” Dakota replied, eyeing the pot. Must’ve been iced tea, hence the lack of steam. The girl tilted the teapot over Dakota’s cup as Dakota watched, waiting for tea, water, Kool-Aid, vodka (please let it be vodka) SOMETHING to pour out. Nothing came, but the girl tilted the pot up and stood back. “There you go,” she said. “Careful, it’s hot.” Playing pretend. Of course. What else had she expected? With one backhanded sweep, Dakota brushed the little tea cup and saucer off the table, sending them clattering to the floor. “Ooopsie!” the girl playing maid (Dakota had never bothered to learn the names of any of Brendan’s little friends) said. She went down to her knees, and began mock scrubbing at the floor. “Darn spills. Tea never washes out. Never, never, never!” Dakota sniffed disdainfully, and immediately regretted the decision to do so. Her nose wrinkled in disgust as something far more pungent than simple urine rammed itself up her nostrils. She took a hard look at the girl with the little maid hat pretending to scrub nonexistent tea stains. If the smell had been a signal, the lump in the diaper- evident even through the dark green party dress and white tights- had been a bonfire. “No way,” Dakota whispered to herself. “Gross.” Even vodka likely wouldn’t have gotten the horrible taste out of the young woman’s mouth. Another woman in her late twenties, this one dressed like an adult, walked over and sniffed the air tentatively. She was Brendan’s older cousin, if Dakota remembered the bevy of introductions made earlier that afternoon. She looked to Dakota as if she were a suspect (as if!), and Dakota felt herself shrivel up inside from panic. Soon enough, the lady regarded the girl on the floor- five years her junior, if that- and leaned over to examine the lump in the back of other girl’s plastic-backed panties. Dakota watched in morbid fascination as the woman gently patted the younger one’s behind, then bent over and pulled back the diaper to take a look inside. If the girl playing maid minded, or even noticed the other woman violating her personal space and privacy, she gave no signal. “Leslie,” the woman checking the big baby’s (because what else could you call her?) diaper, “let’s go get changed. Okay?” The diapered girl looked up from the floor, a pout forming at her lips. “I’m not Leslie,” she whined. “I’m Matilda the Maid.” She shifted from all fours, to sitting on the floor (smushing the feces in her panties around…disgusting!) and crossed her arms. The more grown-up of the two rolled her eyes good naturedly and said, “Okay…Matilda the Maid. Do you want to come with me and get changed?” The girl sitting in her own shit seemed to consider it. “It’s easier to clean if your diaper is clean,” the other woman added. “Okay,” the girl (Leslie or Matilda or whatever) agreed. Brendan’s cousin (right?...right) helped her to her feet and walked hand in hand with her to the back of the house where most of the bedrooms were located. A middle-aged man sitting along the edge passed a too-big-to-be-real diaper and a pack of wipes to the young lady in charge, and she received them without even breaking her stride. As she passed Dakota, she thought the older girl had giggled and whispered something under her breath. The hell did “Forbies” mean? A hand landed on Dakota’s shoulder. Slowly, she turned and looked up. “I saw what happened with Brendan,” this new intruder into Dakota’s crumbling sanity said. She had long black hair in braids with a blue dress that was appropriately reminiscent of the main character in a certain Lewis Carroll book. The outfit really did look cute on her, flirty even. It might have been sexy if not for the obvious bulge that everyone close to Dakota’s age had. “That’s’ a shame.” “Yeah,” Dakota sulked. “It sucks.” “Nice boy, too.” The girl in the Alice dress added. “One of the few ones that’s not a total dumb-head.” “Yeah,” Dakota agreed. “You’re real pretty, too.” “Thanks.” Dakota smiled genuinely. “It’s a shame you don’t LOOK pretty.” Dakota’s smile instantly became shark like, her teeth daggers. “I have a feeling you don’t know what words mean. You wanna try that again, sweetie?” She didn’t move, didn’t stir; was statue still. For the first time since she pulled down Brendan’s pants to find a layer of thick padding with balloon decorations where his boxers should have been, Dakota felt in her element. She could play these catty little games. The new girl seemed to sense this and began to backpedal. Grabbing her braids nervously, she clarified. “No, no, no. You ARE pretty,” she said. Each word started tumbling over the next. “It’s just that you’re not exactly dressed up for this kind of party. Your Mommy and Daddy didn’t even dress you up in something to cover your diaper. If this was a slumber party or a play date, you’d be fine, by the way. So you’re very pretty,” she paused and took a breath. “You just don’t look your best.” Experienced at this kind of repartee Dakota didn’t soften. She ignored the part about her mommy and daddy dressing her and analyzed the core of the statement: She was pretty but looked like a train wreck right now. “Some of us have a beauty that transcends clothing,” she said in an oversweet, insincere tone that even someone dressed like a toddler could understand (bitch). “Oh totally,” the new girl agreed. Sensing Dakota’s superiority, she was clearly rolling over and showing her throat. “Like a flower...or a cute teddy...or puppies.” Okay...maybe she didn’t QUITE understand. Still, Dakota’s presence transcended whatever crazy had just enveloped her world. Alice finished with a whimpering, almost mewling “Just a shame he didn’t want to play with you.” “Whatever,” Dakota shrugged. “He’s probably gay, now, or something.” “Probably.” The new girl wrapped one of her braided pig tails around her fingers before adding, “Gay? What’s gay?” The queen bee stifled a groan. Of course she didn’t know what “gay” was. “Gay means he likes boys instead of girls.” “Oh.” The girl in the baby blue dress said. “All boys are gay, then.” Dakota heard herself bark out a bitter laugh at that. Truer words were never spoken. Wisdom from the mouth of adult babes. “Yeah, they are.” The new girl latched onto this self-evident truth like a leech. “It’s like, when you’re alone with them on a play date they can be nice, but as soon as other boys come around, they don’t wanna play with you no more, but then they’re okay with laying down next to you during nap time, but when it’s play time they don’t remember nothin’ and are like I was just sleepin’ with you, and they don’t want to play house no more.” The new girl stopped herself from rambling further. “I’m Alice.” “Seriously?” “Yeah,” she rolled her eyes. “The dress is not a coincidence. My Mommy and Daddy think it’s cute. They dress me up in it every excuse they get. It is a nice dress though.” “It is,” Dakota allowed. “It works… for you.” “Still, it makes me feel like I’m some little kid, or something. I hate being treated like I’m too little. You know what I mean?” “You. Have. No. Idea.” Alice looked at her immediate surroundings; at the boys who had now gotten to a raucous game of duck-duck-goose, at the girls still playing tea party, and more importantly, at the grown-ups who were monitoring them all. “Wanna do something grown-up?” she whispered conspiratorially “Drink?” “Nuh-uh.” Alice’s braids jangled as she shook her head. “Not thirsty.” It took everything in the former mean girl’s will power not to slap her own forehead. “Smoke?” “Ewww…gross.” “Then what?” Alice’s hands snaked down into the little white front apron of her Alice in Wonderland outfit. From the pocket, she took out a tube of lipstick in one hand and a mascara wand in the other. “Got ’em from my Mommy’s purse. Wanna play with them?” Logically, Dakota knew she shouldn’t. This wasn’t out of any desire to be “good”, but out of practicality. What difference would it make? She’d just be a giant baby with makeup on. Then again… she looked like a baby now, and everyone was treating her as such. Maybe, just maybe, if she looked more like an adult, things would reverse course. This was no time for logic; this was a time for sophistry. When in Wonderland, eat the mushrooms. She even had her very own Alice to guide her. “Oh hell yes.” Dakota said. “What?” “Yes.” Dakota explained. “I said yes. C’mon. Bathroom. Now!” Kelsey Kelsey had to poop. It wasn’t extremely urgent…yet, but the need was growing. Seeing her RA squat and poop her pants right in the middle of everything must have done something to her. It was similar to the sensation one had on long car trips after seeing the sign for a rest stop. It was easy enough to ignore the need to go until the opportunity presented itself. Kelsey hadn’t had to go… until she did, and now it was at the forefront of her mind and in no danger of going away. She had to find a toilet soon, or end up using the one in her shortalls. The college senior walked away from the adult sized playground that so many others were enjoying and back the way she came; the entrance to her dorm was there. Kelsey hadn’t made it thirty feet before a pair of people wearing college colors approached her. They weren’t much older than her- they could have been working on doctorates or masters degrees- but seemed infinitely more “adult” in their dress and demeanor. Come to think of it, all of the people that were supervising seemed to be around that age. They had all been wearing University t-shirts, too. “Wrong way, honey,” a young woman with short blonde hair told Kelsey, pointing to the swing sets and slides that had been erected. “Playtime is that way. Over there.” “I need to get back to my dorm.” Kelsey explained. This elicited a few giggles from the pair blocking her. “Honey, you don’t have a dorm,” the male said, his hair thinning already. “Only college students get to have sleepovers here, not forever babies.” There was that phrase again. First, Megan, now these two jokers. What was a forever baby? A gurgle in her gut told Kelsey that that question would have to wait. She didn’t have time for this. Quickly, the girl dug through the bib pocket in her shortalls. Right where she left it, the tiny plastic rectangle with her picture was a welcome sight. “My combination keycard and student ID says otherwise.” Without examining it, Kelsey handed her card over to the couple holding her up. They examined it, carefully, passing it to and from each other, as if they were TSA agents and Kelsey, in all her five foot nothing glory was a suspected terrorist about to board a plane “Well…Kelsey…this is definitely a student ID of sorts.” The lady said, her words slow and carefully chosen. “It’s just not for this school.” “What?” Kelsey snatched her ID. “What are you talking…?” Kelsey stopped herself short. The guard was right. This was a school ID, just for the wrong school. Kelsey’s sunny, brightly smiling face was still on the card, but the color scheme had changed to a light pink and baby blue mix instead of the college’s bright and vibrant colors. Gone was the mascot in the lower righthand corner; in its place stood a teddy bear with a heart on its tummy. Her name and the name of whatever school this was for was written in a strange font. She recognized the writing as English, but her eyes couldn’t adjust to it enough to make out the words. “Any other questions?” the male asked. “Do you need help, honey?” Yes, and yes on both counts, but Kelsey had the sinking feeling that these two wouldn’t be willing or able to provide it. “Nope, I’m good.” Kelsey turned around and started walking towards the crowd of ridiculously dressed college kids. “Just go play until your Mommy and Daddy come to pick you up,” the woman called out after her. Kelsey didn’t look back, instead raising her fist into the air to signal a thumbs up. Just then, a cramp rushed through her, causing her to stop dead in her tracks, almost doubling over. “You okay?” they called after her. The pain subsided, and Kelsey righted herself. Again, she signaled with a thumbs up. First thing first, find a toilet. Then try to suss out the rest of this bucket of crazy that had just been dumped into her lap. The girl waddle-walked back into the crowd, talking to herself. “Gotta find a toilet. Gotta find a toilet,” she kept repeating it as if it were some kind of mantra.” Weren’t there public toilets around here or something? Unfortunately, between the bouncy house, swing set, and various other upscaled playground equipment, as well as all of the babied-up college kids milling and crowding around, impatiently waiting for their turn, a clear line of sight was a logistical impossibility. Distracting her, however briefly, was the blaring music from gigantic speakers that echoed over the entirety of the college courtyard-turned-playground. Intermingled with all of the ridiculously dressed early-twenty-somethings were what Kelsey thought of as University employees and older students working on their doctorates and MAs; they fit the stereotypical age range, anyways. They were all smiling, waving, and pointing the immature looking college students in the direction of this attraction or that. A few had cooler bags filled with juice boxes, which they handed out freely. Others, Kelsey saw, passed out little boxes of animal crackers. Still more lagged behind, picking up dropped garbage and putting them into black garbage bags. Great; everything needed to induce bathroom usage, but no visible bathrooms. A dull ache from inside her hastened her search. Clutching her stomach slightly, Kelsey’s direction sense, memory, and an inkling of common sense finally helped her orient herself. She’d been too busy trying to spot a bathroom past the push merry-go-round and the ball pit, but any kind of party would keep the good stuff far away from the toilets. At the same time, you always wanted people to know where to go take a dump. Standing on tip toes and craning her neck, Kelsey searched the periphery and saw what she thought she’d been looking for: A plain colored concrete building with a tented roof- a door with opposite ends facing the playground. Bingo! Around it a thin crowd of ridiculously dressed twenty-somethings lingered, as if waiting for a turn. Kelsey vaguely remembered passing by the public restroom a number of times, the building being an unessential convenience and piece of background furniture in her years living in the dorms. All similarities to a public restroom, at a big function or otherwise, ended there. In front of the building was a large banner on two tent poles. There were no words on the banner, but instead Kelsey recognized the near universal symbol for a baby changing station. A non-descript, sexless figure with splayed out arms and bowed out legs, with a solid white colored crotch indicating a diaper. It was the outline of an infant laying prone; but something was different; something was wrong. The outline’s legs were too long, or the arms were too short; the proportions were still humanoid, but not to scale with an actual baby’s. On either side of the bathroom, instead of a line of porta-potties as might be expected for the big crowd, two large white tents had been set up on either side, with diapered people trickling in an out of them in little spurts. None of the people dressed like…dressed like her were walking into the bathrooms or tents alone. All of them were escorted in and out as if they couldn’t or wouldn’t do it themselves. Kelsey watched as young woman in her early twenties, wearing a bright yellow romper with bows in her hair, waddled out escorted by another woman who was thirty, tops. The older of the two wore a teal pair of scrubs, like a nurse or a doctor, gave the other girl a playful pat on her ass and the girl toddled out of the area and made a bee-line for a giant table that was being perpetually sprayed down with shaving cream. The more adult woman waved goodbye (even though the other girl wasn’t even looking back) and then strolled up to another group of adults dressed like toddlers. Kelsey watched, mouth agape, as a boy in a t-shirt and shorts- the most adult ensemble she’d seen someone her own age wearing, despite the obvious diaper peeking out- got his padded crotch groped. Guy didn’t even flinch. No one did. No one seemed to mind it either when the lady walked around him and pulled back his underwear to have a look for herself. The slightly older (but infinitely more adult) woman nodded and took the boy by the hand, leading him into the tent. Kelsey didn’t need to guess what was going to happen. She watched for another minute, and saw as Megan, her R.A. who had taken a dump right in front of Kelsey, was being dragged by her forearm towards the changing area. Her feet walked, however slowly, with the person in the university shirt towards the bathrooms and white tent; the other girl’s eyes were searching outward, her free hand grasping towards the giant playground. She didn’t look like someone being tortured or humiliated, Kelsey decided, but like a two-year-old who didn’t want to stop playing to get her ass wiped. And from everything that Kelsey had seen today, that’s effectively what was happening. Mesmerized by the absurd horror show unfolding before her eyes, Kelsey looked on for several more minutes, ignoring the growing pain in her gut. Again and again, a kind of melodrama transformation was taking place. Some went in quietly like good little girls and boys, others were overgrown little pills and fussed the whole way in, digging their heels in (for all the good it did them). One or two even had to be carried in. But no matter what, they all walked out smiling, giggling and happy, with their attendant giving them a little pat on the rear and sending them away to play again. They were…“Adult babies.” The words tasted of bitter ash in Kelsey’s mouth, the inherent contradiction causing enough cognitive dissonance to make her feel the slightest bit dizzy. Maybe these people were getting more than just their butts wiped inside. The college senior dismissed the idiotic thought as soon as she had formed it. There had to be a logical explanation for this, even if she hadn’t found it yet. One thing was for certain: she did not want to go in there. This wasn’t working! Kelsey screamed at herself internally as her sense of urgency increased. Kink, convention, social experiment, or whatever this was, Kelsey could figure out all of that later. What she needed to figure out RIGHT NOW was how to not poop her pampers…her pants…how to not poop her pants. “’Scuse me!” she called out to a passing boy with nothing covering his diaper “Can you tell me-?“ He was gone into the crowd before she finished. “Hey?” she called out to a girl who didn’t even have a shirt on. Again, she was ignored. “Excuse m-?” A gentle poke made the short senior turn around. A blonde girl, only about three inches taller than Kelsey, looked her in the eye. “You okay?” she asked. Her expression, a frown of genuine concern and empathy, was offset by her outfit. Kelsey looked past the purple feetie pajamas, the dragon hoodie down, and saw the sincerity in the azure blue eyes. “Not really,” Kelsey grunted, feeling the moment of no return was fast approaching. “You need help?” the other girl’s face gaining its own urgency as Kelsey’s registered. Kelsey nodded her affirmation. “Okay. What?” Kelsey slammed her eyes shut as a cramp rolled over her. “Gotta… find… a bathroom,” she gasped. “Now!” There was a small pause as the blonde girl seemed to puzzle over Kelsey’s predicament. Finally, she said “Okay! Follow me! I know where you can find a bathroom. My house is nearby. Let’s go!” The blonde girl held out her hand and Kelsey took it without hesitation. They broke off at a trot, the blonde girl leading the way through the sea of people like a veteran crowd sailor. The collective cacophony of screeches, giggles, and shouts mixed in with the occasional juvenile whining sob became so much white noise. It would be easy to get lost in this crowd; to drown. All the while, Kelsey’s new companion had an air of laser focus and casualness about her, as if she were completely in her element. Her guide looked back over her shoulder. “Is this your first time at one of these things?” she asked. Biting her lip, Kelsey nodded. “Figured,” the pajama clad blonde said, still dragging Kelsey through the crowd. “No biggie. Everybody has a first time.” It obviously wasn’t her new friend’s first time at one of these things, that much was for certain. While Kelsey had to keep correcting her pace and movement, her walking made no easier by the diaper between her legs or the jostling crowd she was weaving through, this strange Sherpa of sorts was walking and talking as if she’d been in padded underwear her entire life and was a veteran concert goer on top of that. “My house is just up ahead,” the other girl assured Kelsey. They had only moved about the length of a football field, if that, to the other end of the courtyard, but Kelsey didn’t care if by “house” the other girl meant “dorm room.” Kelsey didn’t even care if “house” was code for “janitor’s closet.” Her mind was already fixated on her own personal endgame. First, she’d run to a toilet, relieve herself of this burden, diaper included, and then figure out a way to straighten things out with the people who seemed to think she was some kind of mental invalid. Fuck it, if she could just find a little privacy she’d unbutton the crotch snaps on her newly altered shortalls, rip the diaper off, take a dump on the floor, use the diaper to wipe her ass, and then be on her merry way, as long as she didn’t soil herself. Kelsey’s legs came to a stop as her guide stopped jerking her around like a rag doll. The two of them had arrived. “We’re hooooome!” the girl sang. The pride in her voice was of equal measure with the surge of disappointment in Kelsey’s soul. Off-white plastic walls greeted them. Windows, lacking glass, that were big enough to fall through stared out at them. A smooth, hard green plastic roof that was short enough that even Kelsey could have climbed atop with minimal assistance rose above them. An orange plastic door with grooves cut down into it to seem a crude facsimile of wood awaited them. It was a play house; the kind that you might see in the backyard of any middle class two-year-old. It was a large playhouse, granted, scaled up so that adults could enter it, but it was a playhouse all the same. As if to accentuate the discovery, Kelsey’s eyes darted to the right, taking in a turtle shaped sandbox the width of a jumbo hot-tub; the inhabitants doing their level best to create and destroy little castles using special buckets and plastic shovels. No way that thing had indoor plumbing. “Come on.” the strange girl who’d led Kelsey this far said. “Let’s go play house.” Kelsey’s rage was about to boil over. She was an instant away from screaming at this crazy woman at the top of her lungs. This was some cruel joke, whether that had been the intent or not. But when she opened her mouth to scream at the other girl, an uncontrolled sigh of relief came instead. Kelsey Keaton had never spent much time on what it might be like to poop her pants. She had assumed that it would be explosive with everything that she’d been trying to hold in rocketing out her backside at once. Or maybe it would be a long, drawn out affair, with her solid waste clawing its way out of her, as she, red-faced, struggled to hold it all in until her body finally overrode her pride and with a final sobbing grunt, she was forced to push the mess into the back of her pants. It wasn’t like that all, though. The very instant she’d stopped focusing on the toilet-that-wasn’t and started bemoaning her bad fortune, her insides relaxed and with a kind of long dormant muscle memory reactivated. The mess was already half way out of her by the time she had opened her mouth, and when she had next inhaled, the entirety of it had exited its way into her diaper, ballooning it out ever so slightly before the mass it collapsed in on itself and spread along her cheeks. She had just shit herself. All it took was one brief pause, a little push- barely noticeable- and it all came flowing out. It was as easy as if she’d been doing it her whole life. She was a natural. She was a pro. Kelsey Keaton pooped her pampers like a pro. While her body was certainly comfortable with this new development, Kelsey’s mind was anything but. Her own scream was cut short by her throat tightening. A shiver of revulsion passed through her, as her stomach rolled, the signals from Kelsey’s brain all but begging her to vomit. Her cheeks clenched in revulsion, which only spread the mess further. “Hey, new kid,” the girl in the purple dragon jammies looked back at her. “You comin’?” The college senior stood there, knees locked in panic. She was shaking so hard that the buckles on her shortalls were rattling a bit. “I…I…I…” Kelsey stuttered. “I…” she mouthed the word “pooped.” Saying it out loud, even mouthing it made the squishy mess in what used to be her panties all the more real. “Oh,” the other girl, said. “So…you comin’?” Kelsey’s knees locked in place. “I pooped…” Kelsey repeated the words. “I just went… in my pants.” “Uhhhh-huh.” The blonde girl agreed, clearly not seeing the point of Kelsey’s distress. “So?” So? So?! How could Kelsey explain the level of personal shame she was feeling when everyone surrounding her seemed incapable of such a feat? It was like nailing a piece of Jell-O to a cat: No matter what, the damn thing wasn’t going to stay still. “Is that why you were over near the changin’ place?” Dragon Jammies asked. “Were you waiting for a grown up to take you there? I think you’re allowed to go yourself if you want, though I don’t know why anybody would…less they were leakin’ or somethin’.” Kelsey shook her head dumbly. “Yeah,” the blonde girl stuck out her tongue. “I don’t like stopping playtime either.” Then a light came on in the girl’s eyes. “Oooooh! I think I know what happened.” “You do?” The other girl nodded confidently. “Yeah,” she said. “Let me guess: You just got changed, probably just a wet diaper or somethin’ but some grown-up thought you were too wet. How am I doin’ so far?” Kelsey stared blankly at the other girl, too blown away by the inaccuracy to correct her. “Aaaand,” the other girl prattled on, “you don’t wanna stop playing again just so some grown-up can be like, ‘But I just changed you!?’” She did this last part in a deep chesty bass with her arms crossed. “I hate it when that happens,” she finished in her regular voice. “It’s not your fault they changed you too early. Grown-ups…go figure.” Kelsey couldn’t figure. She had no idea what the other girl was talking about. Not even three minutes prior, she could never even imagine soiling herself, and this stranger was acting like it was the most normal and mundane thing in the world. From her tone, this girl might as well have been talking about periods, or having a bad hair day, or some bad chick flick, or whatever normal girls talked about. Only instead of talking about normal things, she was talking about wanting to play house, and how inconvenient diaper changes could be. All her life, Kelsey had had a hard time relating to people her own age and making significant friendships. She was always a little too juvenile in her appearance and tastes for most people to interact with beyond a surface level. Daisy Duck T-shirts and shortalls were not what you wore to go dancing, bar hopping, or crash a frat party. Classmates didn’t watch Sesame Street for fun. Just now, though, she felt damn near grown up compared to the ones running around in sagging diapers and colorful onesies. Even with a load in her pants, she seemed like the biggest kid in the playground. She at least was mature enough to know that it was wrong and to be avoided. Now she was the one that didn’t want to talk about childish things like calling adults “grown-ups,” and had trouble relating to problems like interrupted playtime to go have her ass wiped for her. The pendulum had somehow swung in the other direction. “Are you comin?’” Dragon Jammies called for Kelsey. Kelsey found her voice, if only barely. “I gotta find a bathroom.” “We can pretend shower in there,” the blonde girl pointed towards the playhouse. Kelsey let out an exasperated sigh out through her mouth before breathing in through her nose. That was a mistake. The pungent smell of her own fertilizer was…was…okay, not that bad, (everyone likes their own brand), but the multi-stimulus reminder wasn’t doing the college senior any favors. “I was trying to find a toilet,” she explained. The weirdo who’d dragged her to this waste of time cocked her head. “Toilet?” Kelsey rolled her eyes. Of course. “Potty…?” she offered. Though come to think of it, a shower was more in order. “Oooooh!” the blonde girl bobbed her head in understanding. “Potty.” The word sounded weird coming from the big toddler- unnatural- like she was saying a foreign word without being fluent in the language. This was going nowhere fast. Kelsey sighed again. “I’m outta here.” She turned around, her face cringing as the weight in her diaper moved with her, the mess just loose enough so that she could feel it whiplash behind her as she spun. “Whoah!” Dragon Jammies ran around to block Kelsey; she was surprisingly fast. “I thought you wanted to play house.” Kelsey found her temperature rising again. Crazy girl just wouldn’t let it go. Kelsey wondered: Is this what she did to people when she became fixated on the works of Dr. Seuss? “I’m going back to the public toilets.” “Why? You gonna go get changed?” “No,” Kelsey spoke very slowly and deliberately. “I’m going to have them to take me to the potty. Then she corrected herself. ”I mean toilet.” “Why would they take you potty?” The slightly taller girl asked. “I’m potty trained.” Those were words that Kelsey hadn’t had to utter since she was at least three years old. The other girl just giggled. “No you’re not. You pooped. They’ll just change you.” Kelsey opened her mouth to counter that argument and found that she couldn’t. Everybody around her had gone insane. Everyone on campus was either acting like big babies or treating people like big babies. The men and women being escorted in and out of the bathrooms between the tents seemed no different than any of the others. Likely, all the available space was being used for the changing of adult sized diapers. Also, Kelsey had already defiled herself. No way a bunch of crazies would believe she was an adult if she had her ass wrapped in a used diaper. They would change her diaper, give her a pat on her bum and send her on her way, just like everyone else. She was surrounded in a sea of strangers, too. Other than Megan, Kelsey hadn’t seen a familiar face. The idea of a complete stranger stripping her naked, wiping the muck off her backside and then re-diapering her was disgusting and mortifying beyond belief; the ultimate in violation of personal boundaries for the young woman. The psychology major had read cases of mass hallucinations and shared delusions, but never at this level, nor was this sort of thing so spontaneous. Maybe this was a fetish thing. She’d accidentally stumbled into an odd fetish party and everyone just assumed she was in on the joke, though that didn’t explain how the diaper had gotten wrapped around her bum in the first place. Even if she was right and this was just a case of mass method acting, Kelsey didn’t know the safe word, or whatever it was she would need to do to demonstrate that she no longer found the joke funny. Safe word, that was a thing, right? Right. “Well crud,” Kelsey whispered. Then she looked to the fellow inmate in the asylum. “Okay,” she told Dragon Jammies. “Let’s play house.” The blonde girl clapped her hands in a frenzy “Yaaaaaay!” she squealed before grabbing Kelsey by the wrist and made a mad dash towards the playhouse. “Mommy! I’m hoooome!” the girl called out, her voice rattling off the hollow plastic walls. “Mommy?” Kelsey echoed the greeting. Dragon Jammies needn’t have bothered shouting. The house was only one room, and even if it was big for a toddler, it was still little more than a plastic shack. Kelsey could very well have raised the roof in the right places if she’d thought to put her hands up. As for “Mommy”, if Kelsey was worried about some crazy older person thinking she was a two-year old, the opposite was true. “Mommy,” in this instance, was a dark-skinned girl with her hair pinned up in a little bun. Her Sophia the First t-shirt and light up sneakers almost complimented the sagging wet diaper practically hanging off her hips. Almost. “I’m not ‘Mommy,’” she said to the girl in purple pajamas, “Grown-Ups don’t call each other Mommy and Daddy. I’m ‘Darling,’ and you’re ‘Jim Dear.’ Just like in that movie.” The two waddled over to each other, hugged, and made awkward ‘Mwah’ noises as they kissed the air. “Lady and the Tramp?” Kelsey asked, recalling the faceless humans from the film. “That’s how grown ups act,” the girl in the wet diaper said as if she were a wise sage. “That’s how my Mommy and Daddy act anyways.” This new puzzle of a woman looked at Kelsey as if for the first time. “Oh my!” she said with a gasp that was too well enunciated to be sincere. “Where are my manners? I didn’t realize that Jim Dear brought home a guest.” The newest player in this bizarre melodrama, “Darling”, looked to the girl in the dragon jammies and said, “I thought you said you were going out and looking for a job. How are you supposed to provide for me? My mother said I never should have married you.” Completely unfazed, Dragon Jammies, now ‘Jim Dear,’ thumbed over to Kelsey’s direction. “I found us a baby to play house with us,” she said. “I think she’d be really good at playing house.” Baby? Wasn’t the shitty pampers clinging to her backside babyish enough? And who were they to talk about being a baby? The girl who’d dragged her here crinkled just as much as she did, and the other one was one good wetting away from leaking. Anybody could see that. Mommy/Darling jumped up and down, her wet diaper bobbing out sync with the rest of her. “A baby?! You got me a baby from the stork? Oh, Jim Dear!” She went and hugged the girl in the dragon jammies, and Kelsey shook her head in disbelief as the girls giggled and bounced in each other’s arms. The diapered Darling stopped. “Unless, this is a trick…” “A trick?” The other two diapered women echoed the third. “What if…” Darling paused. “What if you’re NOT Jim?” “I’m not,” Dragon Jammies replied. “We’re just pretendin’. ‘Member?” Ignoring her, Darling pressed on. “What if, you’re really Jim’s evil twin?! You’re really his evil twin, trying to de-sleeve me, and that baby is yours and not his!” With a snap of her elbow, the new girl pointed dramatically at Kelsey. “Oh, but she is mine! And this is the secret that will tear apart both me and Jim’s marriage! I knew I never should have taken that nap with you! Mother always said, don’t sleep with strangers. Stunned, Kelsey said, “You guys don’t mess around when you play house, do you?” She was so taken aback by the show unfolding in front of her that she almost forgot about the muck in her diaper. Almost. “My Mommy watches soap.” Darling told Kelsey, breaking character. “The T.V. kind, not the bath kind. This is how grown-ups talk to each other when kids aren’t around.” Kelsey snickered, despite herself. “Yeah,” she said. “I’m pretty sure it doesn’t work that way.” “No,” Darling assured her. “It does. I’mma expert on grown-ups.” Kelsey was about to counter that argument, when Dragon Jammies interrupted. “Buuuuut…if you’re gonna play the baby, you can’t talk like that, can you?” “Oh yeah,” Darling said, her face a mask of thoughtful consideration. “Good point. Doesn’t that mean we have to start calling each other Mommy and Daddy now?” “I think so,” Dragon Jammies nodded. “What should we do?” Darling asked. “I’m notta…” Kelsey began to protest. The girl in the purple footie pajamas interrupted her. “She wants to go potty.” “Potty training babies!” Darling shrieked with delight. “That’s great! Suuuuper grown-up!” Kelsey started to argue. “That’s not what I-“ The college senior wasn’t able to finish the sentence before the two other women were dragging her to a nearby chair. “Hey! Leggo!” “Baby’s gotta go potty!” The other two said in unison. Kelsey found herself spun around and pushed backward. The backs of her knees touched a hard plastic chair and buckled, sending her careening straight down onto the hard seat. The fall likely wouldn’t have hurt, regardless, but the extra cushioning made it a complete non-issue. It was the closest thing to sitting on a pillow. More traumatic than the fall, however, was the feeling of the mess in Kelsey’s shortalls spreading around, creeping and oozing up, down and out. What had been a fairly solid lump in the girl’s diaper was now an uneven paste. Kelsey’s lunch threatened to come up and greet the air. Taking nauseated silence for compliance, the other diapered girls looked to each other. “What now?” Darling asked. “I’ve never potty trained anybody before.” “I think we make her sit until she pees or poops.” Dragon Jammies said to her compatriot. Then with full seriousness, she looked Kelsey in the eye and asked. “Have you peed or pooped?” The world shimmered before her as Kelsey fought back tears of humiliation. Kelsey silently nodded, her vision a blur of water. The girl in the purple pajamas looked to the one in the wet diaper and instructed. “Now we gotta tell her what a good job she did and how she’s almost a big girl.” “So big.” “Usin’ the potty.” “I’m so proud of you!” “Such a big kid.” Sitting in a paste of her own making, Kelsey’s mouth went dry, her humiliation beginning to simmer into a boiling rage. “Hey,” Darling looked to Dragon Jammies. “How do you know so much about potty training.” “I paid attention when my Mommy and Daddy were potty training my little brother. He’s real smart. He drives a car now and everything.” Enough was enough. “I’M POTTY TRAINED!” She shouted, pushing the two other overgrown toddlers out of her way as she stood. Darling and Dragon Jammies stepped back. “Toldja I knew how to potty train a baby.” “I’M! NOT! A! BABY!” Kelsey proclaimed, her voice loud enough to cause the playhouse walls to rattle. “I’M NOT A BABY! GOT IT?” The other two girls looked at Kelsey like she was completely divorced from reality. “Well yeah,” Darling said, her sodden, swollen diaper swinging between her thighs like an old grandfather clock. “We’re just playin’ pretend, silly.” “Then why,” Kelsey asked, exasperated, “is everybody our age wearing diapers?!” “We’re forever babies,” the other two replied. “But I’m twenty-two!” “Yeah,” Darling agreed. “Forever babies.” Dragon Jammies added, “My brother calls us Forbies.” “What’s the difference?” Kelsey demanded. The other two frowned a bit, more in careful consideration than in disappointment. Then they began to bombard Kelsey with information: “Babies can get potty trained.” “Babies can get outta daycare.” “Babies get more mature.” “Babies stop being babies.” “Babies grow up.” The college senior stood there, baffled. The absolute illogic of that statement combined with the confidence that it was stated with reeked of schizophrenia, or the early stages of dementia- any number of mental illnesses that she’d read about and studied… yet something about it rang true. “Babies grow up,” she echoed the statement. She felt like the wind had been knocked out of her. Sitting back down, now not even caring about her messy diaper, Kelsey repeated the words. “Babies grow up.” She deserved this, she knew. Her entire life until today had been about indulging in the juvenile; never fully letting go; never fully growing up. Now, as far as everyone was concerned, she hadn’t. Only it had gone too far. No one took her seriously, and she was expected to soil herself, surrender her agency to strangers, and be happy about it. This was some kind of divine punishment. Dragon Jammies squatted down and made eye contact with Kelsey. “Don’t tell me your Mommy and Daddy never gave you the talk, new kid.” She might have been using her diaper, too, but Kelsey was beyond caring at this point. Kelsey blinked away a tear. “The talk?” “Yeah,” Darling agreed. “The talk? About how everybody our age is too immature, so we’re never gonna have to grow up. That’s why we don’t hafta go to school or use the potty.” It should have sounded sad, but there wasn’t even a hint of regret in the other woman’s voice. If anything, she sounded cheery, or smug; the condescending tone of rich kid looking down on the poor unfortunate souls that would have to work one day instead of just inheriting their daddy’s money. Dragon Jammies added in her own two cents. “Or hafta drink from big kid cups, or tie our shoes, or learn to drive. Nothin’!” Darling chirped in, “How do they even drink like that without spilling juice everywhere?’ Dragon Jammies shrugged. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” Kelsey fought against a sob. Dragon Jammies shrugged nonchalantly. “It’s how it is.” “But…but…but no!” Kelsey stood up, again. “That’s NOT how it is. That’s NEVER how it’s been. I’m an adult. Yeah, I like cartoons and toys and kids’ books, but I also was about to get a degree in psychology. I had it all planned out!” she explained, her breath starting to become ragged. “I was going to… graduate, then work part time at a social service agency while I worked on my Master’s….” Kelsey felt the sudden pangs of a filled bladder. The sensation was distracting her, but she had no intention of stopping talking. Fuck it. She was in a dirty diaper anyways. Half a thought later, she was letting loose a tiny stream into the thirsty padding between her legs. “Then I was gonna teach college courses while I worked on my doctorate for another four to seven years,” Kelsey said as the diaper did its job; the padding starting to swell by the time she had finished speaking. A silence filled the playhouse. The three diapered girls all stared at each other. Darling shook her head in total amazement. “You don’t mess around when you play school, do you?” “I’M NOT PLAYING!” Kelsey screamed. “IT WAS PROBABLY THE ONE THING I WASN’T PLAYING AT! I’M NOT PLAYING SCHOOL! I’M NOT PLAYING HOUSE! I’M DONE PLAYING!” All three stood there in silence, with the pounding of Kelsey’s heart drowning out the muted crinkle coming from her waist. Then, the last thing that Kelsey could have anticipated (though perhaps she should have) happened. Dragon Jammies and Darling, who had been perfectly happy stealing plots from soap operas while they played house, who had invited her to share in their playtime, who seemed as juvenile and as alien to her as she had likely seemed to others, started crying. It was ugly crying too: Full on wailing, snot bubbles forming, and no chance of a coherent word from either of them. Kelsey dried her tears held her hands up defensively and started to try to quietly shush the big babies…the “forever babies” or “forbies” or whatever they called themselves. She had lost her temper and yelled at them and now there was just more problems on top of problems. Her conscience flared up, telling her from inside her own confused mind that she had to make this right, somehow. “Wait…” Kelsey told herself. “What am I even doing?” This wasn’t her problem. Getting two crazy chicks to act less crazy was not her responsibility. Escaping was! As fast as her legs would propel her, the psych major ran, slamming open the orange plastic door on her way out; her diaper crinkling and squishing with every step. The wails of the two girls chased her out into the open air. The runaway girl looked behind her; the cacophony was so loud that the playhouse could be seen shaking from the outside. “Gotta-get-awa-oooof!” Her own thought was cut short as she ran right into another warm body. She stumbled backwards and tripped over her own legs; her puffy underwear breaking the fall. With the way her adrenaline was pumping, the humiliating state of her underwear didn’t even occur to her. “STUPID BA-!” she shouted up. Only it wasn’t a baby, nor was it anyone dressed as a baby. The guy was built like a brick house with a gray flattop and matching goatee. He had the frame of a professional weightlifter who’d only just lapsed into middle age. Like every other “grown-up” she had encountered, he wore a University T-shirt, this one a dignified polo with the logo on the breast. A big meaty mitt offered Kelsey a hand up. Without thinking, the girl reached up and took it. “Easy there, little girl. You’ve got to watch where you’re going or someone could get hurt.” He smiled down at her in a kindly, almost grandfatherly way. “Uh…thank you.” Kelsey said quietly. Shit. This likely wouldn’t end well. If the people guarding the entrance to the courtyard were any measure, this guy basically thought he was talking to a two-year-old. “Now what sort of hurry are you in, little lady?” Obviously, “my world has turned upside down in some sort of karmic irony kind of way and I’m trying to escape” was not an acceptable answer, so instead Kelsey said “Ball pit.” As if in punctuation, a fresh wave of Dragon Jammies’s and Darling’s wails echoed out of the playhouse. The former full-fledged adult held her breath. “What’s going on in there?” the older guy asked Kelsey. “Um…” Kelsey paused. “Maybe they’re hurt? Better go check on them.” Fingers crossed, if she got lucky, the giant next to her would leave her to check on the real “forever babies”. As things played out, Kelsey concluded that she should have crossed more fingers. Another playground attendant rushed into the plastic building and came out with two twenty-two-year-olds bawling their heads off. A big, suntanned hand took hers and the older man told her, “My friend has got this handled. Why don’t we wait for them to come over and we can sort this out?” Kelsey’s mouth became as dry as her diaper was wet. A woman in her early thirties with bleached blonde hair brought a crying Dragon Jammies and Darling over to Kelsey “I checked them out real quick, Jude,” the woman reported to the older man. “No cuts or bruises.” “Then why are they crying?” The older man, Jude, asked. He sounded like he was asking his co-worker, but he turned a suspicious eye on Kelsey. Kelsey shivered under his gaze, but kept silent. Still holding Kelsey’s hand, he turned his attention to the two fussing women and in a slow, soothing baritone asked. “What’s wrong, honey? Tell Ol’ Jude why you’re so sad so he can make it all better.” “NEW KID DOESN’T WANNA PLAY WITH US!” Dragon Jammies screamed. Her diaper threatening to fall off her, Darling added, “AFTER WE POTTY TRAINED HER AND EVERYTHING!” “Potty trained?” The bleached blonde attendant, whom Kelsey had internally dubbed “Judy”, stifled a laugh. “Forbies can’t be-“ The big man held up his hand to silence his co-worker. She took the hint. “Let me guess?” he said looking at the three babied girls. “House?” “Uh-huh,” Kelsey’s accusers replied in unison. The big gray man’s eyes came down on Kelsey and reluctantly, she nodded. The college student’s hand still engulfed in the giant’s palm, Jude turned to her and said, “Aaaaand let me guess. You didn’t want to be the baby? You probably get enough of that as it is. You wanted to be something different.” It was oversimplifying matters, greatly, but it was the closest thing to sense that Kelsey had heard. “Basically,” she admitted. The massive man stood up to his full height, towering above everyone else. “This is why we shouldn’t set up that play house for these kind of events,” he spoke to his co-worker. “Too many kids, and not enough supervision to handle good conflict resolution and teach proper social skills.” Kelsey instantly liked the guy. “Forever babies can’t handle that much unsupervised social interactions. They’re too immature.” And just like that, Kelsey couldn’t stand him. “Preaching to the choir, Jude,” the woman with the bleached blonde hair agreed. “Not to mention there’s a lot of blind spots in that playhouse. Something bad could happen in there besides some hurt feelings, and we might not know until it’s too late.” “Amen to that.” Jude nodded. “Now,” he looked at the three diapered girls. “How about we all say sorry and get back to playing nice?” The three college aged toddlers all looked at each other. From the sober and somber looks in their eyes, Dragon Jammies and Darling had reached the same conclusion that Kelsey had: apologize or they were going to be stuck here. “Sorry,” Kelsey mumbled. “Sorry,” the other two replied. No eye contact was made by any party. “Alright,” the big man said, a soft, satisfied smile crossing his lips. He looked directly at Dragon Jammies and told her, “Go play.” With all of the surprising speed and agility that she had demonstrated before (despite being diapered) the blonde girl took off and melted into the crowd milling around the push merry-go-round. Kelsey likewise made to move, only to find that her arm was still being firmly gripped “Not. So Fast.” Each word was a death sentence being handed down from on high. The short girl looked up at the man towering over her. “But I said I was sorry,” she pleaded. A derisive snort came from the big man holding her. “You’re not in trouble, baby girl. I just need to check something.” Kelsey didn’t even have time to ask when she was hoisted over the grandfatherly man’s gargantuan shoulder. She pushed up on his back, trying to orient herself, when she spied “Darling” being lead away by the female attendant. Based on the other girl’s sulking body language, soaking diaper, and the direction that she was being led, there was little doubt in Kelsey’s mind that she was heading for the changing area. Meanwhile, she herself was being groped. The old man’s giant hands patted and squished her padded rear, reminding her that she was in an even worse position than the house player. “Yup,” she heard the big guy pronounce, “thought so.” “Let me go!” Kelsey shouted. “Put me down!” “Sure thing, pumpkin, soon as we get you cleaned up.” Cleaned up! A diaper change! This middle-aged giant was touching her in her most private of areas with no concern for her modesty or feelings. Kelsey hadn’t even gotten around to going on a proper date yet and now a stranger was groping her and preparing to do worse after knowing her for less than five minutes. This was hell, or at least purgatory. That was it. She’d had an aneurism at the wishing fountain while trying to remember that ridiculous set of tongue twisters and was now in some bizarre kind of purgatory. Well Kelsey Keaton wasn’t about to go down that easy; not her. “NO!” she screamed, beating on the old lug’s back, both hands clenched into fists. “Let go! Let go!” She began punctuating every word by beating on her captor’s spine. “I!” THUNK. “DON’T!” THUNK. “WANNA” THUNK. “GET!” THUNK. “CHANGED!” All she got for a reply was a tighter grip on her legs and back, and feel the vibrations of the man’s laughter as he chuckled to himself. “Forbies.” It had been Kelsey’s goal to get away from the oversized toddler playhouse, and she got her wish. The big man whipped around, and she could see it shrinking in the distance as he carried her to the part of this whole playground carnival setup that she’d most hoped to avoid. He took big, quick steps as she pounded powerlessly on him, and soon Darling in her sagging underwear was lagging behind, too. Kelsey continued to beat against the old mammoth, refusing to give up. “LET!” THUNK “ME!” THUNK. “GO!” THUNK. “Just be a good girl, and you can get back to playing,” her captor spoke in steady, unbothered rhythm, “I promise.” The sun stopped shining for Kelsey as she was carried into the tent; the smells of sweat, human waste and baby powder flooded her nostrils. Her world went topsy-turvy for a moment as she was slung off her captor’s shoulder onto a table. She let out a gasp as her back hit the padded surface and a strap was pulled across her chest. She twisted her head this way and that, so that she could gather her bearings. For ten feet in every direction there were padded tables, manned by men and women in scrubs. If not for the context, Kelsey might think they were med students or nurses or something. Heck, they still might be. The tables themselves were thick and sturdy, with shelves underneath, each one stocked with pastel and white rectangles in different thicknesses and sizes. On top of them was a little nook with baby wipes and powder, and a little mobile dangling tiny plush dolls over the head rest. Beside them were shiny silver garbage cans with lids that popped up when you stepped on a pedal. If that wasn’t enough, more telling were the people who were laying on top of them. As Kelsey wriggled and struggled with the restraints, she saw Darling waddle up and get helped up onto a table. She saw Darling begin sucking her thumb and batting at the mobile above her head, while the attendant secured her to the table, cooing baby talk all the while. Changing table! She was on a changing table! Frantically, the college senior tried to unbuckle the strap across her chest, her fingers trying to work at the latch just below her breasts, but nothing was working. She could feel the simple release button on the buckle, just like a seatbelt, but for some reason, her fingers couldn’t push it hard enough. Was there another release somewhere that had to be pushed simultaneously, or had her fingers just become incredibly weak? “We’ve got a squirmer”, the man who’d restrained her called out. “Order up.” A red-haired lady in pink scrubs walked up to the other side of the adult changing table. “Oh, thanks for finding another one, Jude.” She said. “You’re a real saint.” “Don’t I know it?” Jude chuckled, walking off. The lady pulled a pair of vinyl gloves from a box. “Okay, okay. Calm down, sugar. This isn’t gonna be a big deal. I’m just gonna change your diaper.” “There’s been a mistake!” Kelsey panted, trying one last attempt at reason. “I’m not really a baby!” The nurse, as Kelsey thought of her, smiled condescendingly down at her. “Of course not, honey. You’re a Forever baby.” One by one in rapid succession, the snaps holding Kelsey’s shortalls were undone. The privacy and protection that her clothes offered her was just an illusion, the popping of little brass buttons signaling the end of the pretense. Kelsey did not think to kick the woman in the face as the thick, cartoon decorated diaper, once white but now horribly discolored by her excrement came into view when the denim was peeled back. “Why do people keep saying that?!” Kelsey asked, ignoring yet another gross and casual violation of herself. “You wouldn’t understand,” the red-haired lady said, smiling sweetly. “You’re a little too immature.” She leaned over and stared at the teddy bear decorated waistline of Kelsey’s diaper, and traced some strange logo near the side of the landing strip. “Let’s see,” she spoke more to herself. “Size 12, looks like.” “I’m plenty mature,” Kelsey spoke up, protesting as the nurse bent over and began filing through drawers just beneath her peripheral vision. The other woman stood up, holding an identical (though clean) diaper to the one Kelsey was wearing. “Is your diaper wet?” the nurse asked innocently enough. “Yeah…” Kelsey admitted. “Do big girls pee-pee in their pants?” Kelsey’s face flushed. “No..but..” “Did you know you were wet?” “Yeah..but you see-“ Kelsey was interrupted. “Then why didn’t you come get it changed?” Kelsey clenched her teeth and as calmly as she could, began,“I was in the middle of explaining to these two other girls about my college degr-“ “So you were too busy talking with your little friends to come get changed?” “I mean, when you put it that way…” Kelsey admitted, not liking where this was going. The red-haired woman all but waved the fresh diaper in front of the younger girl’s face. “That doesn’t sound very mature, does it?” “I-“ “If you were really a big girl,” she cut Kelsey off, “and had had a pee-pee accident, wouldn’t you have come and found a grown-up to help sort things out?” “I mean,” Kelsey tried to explain, not thinking before she spoke. “I had already pooped.” The two women locked eyes in dawning recognition of the opportunity Kelsey had just provided her verbal sparring partner. Too late, Kelsey realized she should have just kept her mouth shut. “Oh, you pooped too?” the nurse smirked. “Yeah…” “Do big girls poop their pants?” As if to accentuate her point, the nurse lifted Kelsey’s legs by the back of her knees, sliding the back half of her shortalls away and giving the discolored brown backside of Kelsey’s diaper a firm pat. “No….” Kelsey yipped at the sensation, a grimace coming across her face. The red-haired woman pressed on as she grabbed a packet of baby wipes. “Did you know you had a messy diaper on?” “Uh-huh…” The nurse took the time to redirect her gaze straight into the (former it seemed) college senior’s face. “Why didn’t you come get cleaned up? Even big girls have accidents sometimes.” “I was trying to get answers from these two kids who were playing house and weren’t making any sense.” Kelsey pleaded her case. “And you didn’t want to come all the way back here to get cleaned up?” “Yeah!” Kelsey gulped in realization. Why did she keep on talking? “So you were too busy playing house to be bothered. Is that mature?” “No…” “It’s okay, sweetie, you can’t help it.” The woman’s gloved hands spider tickled their way up the poor girl’s legs. Kelsey didn’t giggle, though. “You’re a Forever baby. Let’s get you changed and then you can get back to playing until your Mommy or Daddy comes to pick you up.” “Uh-huh…” Kelsey sighed. “Fuck me,” she whispered.
  9. A.M.

    Thank you. There's one more part that is already written on Cushypen, but after that this is a Work in Progress. It's something that I would like to pick up and finish writing again soon, but I feel it'd be best if it were put back on Cushypen first since that's where it started. Still, I like this one and thought it should be shared. Oh, and this is a long one, but that's because it's 4 different chapters gathered up over a course of 4 months. The site just merged all of them as replies.
  10. A.M.

    Author's Note: Author's note: I've been reluctant to post this. It's something that started on Cushypen that I haven't finished yet. Lots of requests and commissions. This is the first story I'm going to finish on site once the requests dry up, and it's also the one that several people have asked me in the past to update and/or spoil for them. So it's actually kinda flattering and special to me. That being said, this is still very much a work in progress. (From an article in www.lyfentymes.com ; originally posted. 10/17/2166) The Official Dawning of a New Era. By-Russel Mathews Agnes Aberdeen died today; and with her death we are now on the cusp of a new era in human civilization. This is not her obituary, however. Mrs. Aberdeen’s death, which ends her tenure as the world’s oldest living person (no small feat, mind you), makes for another historic occasion that many in this day and age may take for granted. Mrs. Aberdeen was born September 6th, 2036. Three days later, the greatest scientific advancement premiered before the world. Symbiotic Universally Integrated Technology or S.U.I.T.s as they became known, saw military combat and changed the way the western world, and later the globe, functioned on every level of society. Considered a fantasy since at least the latter half of the twentieth century, S.U.I.T.S- also derogatively referred to as “mechs” by early critics of the technology due to their not-coincidental resemblance to the fantastical (and admittedly impractical and cumbersome) giant robots made popular in Japanese pop fiction- have become every bit the modern miracle that they were promised to be. For those of you too young to know or who are unfamiliar with the history of our most common means of conveyance, S.U.I.T.s originally started as military weapons in the Middle East. They were deployed as both a political and practical response to the increasingly unpopular use of combat drones. While drones assured the safety of American troops, their lack of accuracy and intelligence gathering skills made them of poor use for precision strikes where non-combatants might be at risk. Civilians were injured and killed, and the wrong people died in what history files call “The War on Terror”. So when CyberCorp premiered its Mark I design, resembling a clunkier, less sleek, less sexy version of a particular comic book superhero as the United States Military’s newest and greatest weapon, hopes were high, but expectations were very, very low. And yet, amazingly, it worked. With the destructive power of a drone, protective capabilities surpassing that of a tank, yet with the ability to maneuver and the judgement of a living human being; U.S. military might and support soared as U.S. Military and foreign non-combatant casualties plummeted. Further upgrading of analysis and targeting software protected our soldiers from ambushes and surprise attacks. The S.U.I.T.s became capable of anticipating danger and reacting before the soldiers wearing them could. Then CyberCorp’s creation of the very first “Asimov Subroutines” into the S.U.I.T.s’ software put in extra safeguards so that lives were not accidentally lost and capture and interrogation of hostile forces could occur. This eventually led to the creation of law enforcement models, with powerful but non-lethal violence deterrents. The Asimov programming, now growing by leaps and bounds thanks to government backing due to the success abroad, made it so that more suspects were successfully taken into custody instead of shot. Police, not fearing for their safety (appeasing critics on the right) and with a wide arsenal of non-lethal options (appeasing critics on the left) made less hasty decisions involving those they came across. The S.U.I.T.s have more than earned their “symbiotic” status. When a machine’s power, but a human’s judgement was required, S.U.I.T.s rose to the challenge. Likewise, when a human’s intent needed to be reined in with mechanical precision, S.U.I.T.s filled that need. From there it was onto the construction and manufacturing sector. Dangerous jobs required protection and S.U.I.T.s provided it. S.U.I.T.s designed for exploring inhospitable habitats and ecosystems or wading into the danger of a burning building were constructed. And of course, who among us in our forties and older can forget the breathtaking live concert where Margaret Magpie performed her greatest hits, dancing to original acrobatic choreography, all while wearing a S.U.I.T.? S.U.I.T.s had become status symbols of the rich and powerful. You weren’t someone unless you were wearing one. A handful of years later, CyberCorp perfected and mass produced non-combustion clean fusion propulsion technology, drastically reducing the need and dependence for already depleted fossil fuels. New models of flying S.U.I.T.s hit the market and automobiles have all but gone the way of the horse and buggy; used primarily to transport children and people too young or infirm to legally pilot their own S.U.I.T.s Market saturation soon made the S.U.I.T.s available to everyone, becoming as indispensable in the modern day as someone’s refrigerator. New trade shows and previews from CyberCorp continue to promise new advancement on these miracle machines once called “mechs”. There are medical S.U.I.T.s that can perform surgery with complete precision, requiring only a human doctor to determine where the cutting is to be done. There’s talks of professional “Mech Leagues” where different models of S.U.I.T.S. and pilots are pitted against each other in much the same way that professional athletes compete; only now it’s a measure of skill and not a measure of pure physical athleticism. It is my humble opinion that there is nothing that these S.U.I.T.s cannot and eventually will not due that betters our lives. In conclusion, in my limited authority as a journalist, I declare that with Agnes Aberdeen’s passing, a new era is upon us. Agnes was the last living person to hear with her own ears the word “mech” in a derogatory fashion within her lifetime. I’d say it’s about time to take the word back. Agnes Aberdeen existed before mech technology. She was Before Mech. But now is a new era: We are After Mech. Perhaps historians will look back on this day and see it as I see it. It’s not really October 17th, 2166 A.D. It’s just Day 1, Year 1 of A.M. The above is an opinion and does not necessarily reflect the views of LyfeNTymes.com or its writing staff. (From the award winning political blog: “I’m Not Your Friend, Buddy.” www.fubuddy.net Originally posted 4/16/2169) It’s not a mech revolution. It’s a social collapse: By “Buddy F. Guy”. (actual name: Franklin Guyson) So yeah, it’s been a little under three years since so-called “journalist” Russel Mathews proclaimed that some old lady dying meant that we were on the “cusp of a new era in human civilization.” I’ve actually copied and pasted the editorial ABOVE my own entry, (yeah, I know; me sharing the spotlight with anyone? We really are on the cusp of a new era in human civilization!) So if you, my loyal followers and seekers of truth, my “Buddy Bros” as the North Wing media likes to call us, haven’t read that yet, go back up and check it out. Sorry kiddies, this is like reading any novel that they haven’t made a holo-vid for yet. You gotta slog through the boring stuff before you get to the good parts. So if you haven’t read it yet, go back and read it. Honor system. You back yet? Good. So by Mr. Mathews’s predictions, we are roughly in year 2 or 3 of his “After Mech” era, where machines make all our lives easier; depending on whether you’re starting over in January, making Year 1 very short. Who knows what grandstanding blowhards with their prophecies are really thinking? (Yeah…. Pot. Kettle. Black. I know. But we can smell our own kind, so there’s that.) Point being, that we’re supposed to be in some kind of MechTopia where mechs (I am taking “mechs” back from Mathews’s taking it back. It’s still a dirty word) make all our lives easier and humanity can reach its full potential blah, blah, blah. And yes, to a degree, this is happening. But for those of us who still live in a little something called reality, the situation looks a lot different. It’s less H.G. Wells, and more George Orwell and Adlous Huxley, with a sprinkling of Joseph Heller. We’re on the verge of a “-topia” alright. It’s just not a utopia. Yes, I will be the first to admit that a mech police force and military has done a lot of good over the last couple of decades. Violent crime is at historic lows because most people are afraid to tangle with tinmen, and people who commit crimes with their own suits can actually be shut down via fail safes that only police mechs can access. How someone hasn’t managed to pirate the shit out of that and rule the world, I have no idea, and frankly I kind of hope they never do. Even if they did, the Asimov Subroutines kick in not allowing for any harm to come to humans, in or out of suits. Miracles, truly. We are closer than ever to world peace. No one wants to fight an army of these things. The countries that don’t have this tech don’t bother to start too much shit and the countries that do don’t attack each other, because once again, Asimov Subroutines. I don’t know how CyberCorp and its subsidiaries do it, but from a standpoint of product maintenance and safety, I tip my hat to them. So what’s my problem, then? Everything else: Unions are all but extinct, giving the employees zero bargaining power. There used to be a time where you had to have special licenses to operate heavy machinery. Now, because so much of the technology is intuitive, you maybe need a one day tutorial along with the same license that basically everyone who flies around in those monstrosities gets. More and more labor is becoming unskilled labor. And I hear that in some parts of the world, they’re talking of lowering the piloting age down to 16. How much bargaining power do you as an employee have when you can be replaced in one day by a sixteen year old? If that were the only thing, that would be enough to cry foul. But it’s not, my friends. It’s not. Anyone who has taken public transportation in a major metropolitan area will be well aware of the Transit S.U.I.T.s made to steer the velocity platforms that now function as the primary form of public transportation. Over the last few years, smaller versions have started showing up in garages of suburbia so soccer moms can take their little snot-nosed darlings out for ice cream without having to leave their oh-so-convenient miracle machines and drive a car. I encourage anyone reading this to wiki-google rickshaw if you’re unfamiliar. See a similarity? I do. It’s completely impractical to the point of farce, and CyberCorp could easily have made clean burning, flying (or at least hovering) cars, but instead of adapting their products to the rest of the world, they’ve forced the world to adapt to them. If the absurdity ended there, that would be enough. But it doesn’t. Recent international surveys actually show an increasing trend of people who- by choice- refuse to leave their mechs for the majority of their day outside of their homes. Several major universities have expanded the doorways to their lecture halls so that students in mechs can bring their hollow Frankenstein’s Monsters inside instead of leaving them out in the parking lot. A majority of those Velocity Platform Operators say they wouldn’t want the platforms outfitted so that they could pilot the damn things from the inside without a Mech because they feel safer and more confident flying outside in a mech. We live in a world where people are becoming increasingly more frightened to be outside in just their own bodies. If the ridiculousness of how we bend over backwards for these so called “tools” ended there, that would be enough. But of course, my Bros, it isn’t. There are school districts that are requiring that their teachers pilot mechs in the classroom. Take a second and read that again. Teachers, ESPECIALLY teachers of small children, are being required to wear seven to ten foot tall metal robots, because it’s more reassuring to the parent to know that the person caring for their little ones cannot under any circumstance physically harm their precious bundle of joy due to Asimov Subroutines. Apparently the ones that are being put into Teacher S.U.I.T.s are specialized and are extra Asimovy or some bullshit. We’re living in a world now where people are trusting machines with their children over other people. Blah blah blah, there, blah blah enough. (See where I’m going with this, kiddies?) IT ISN’T! CyberCorp’s stock and sales have risen steadily for the last thirty years, easily. You know what else has risen by roughly an equal amount? Adult incontinence products. You know what hasn’t risen? Reports and diagnoses of incontinence. “Now why is that, old Buddy, old pal?” you may be asking. The reason is for the conditions that I’ve just informed you about. There are a growing number of people who either don’t want to or aren’t allowed to leave their mechs. Want to take a bathroom break construction, worker? Not likely, since you can be replaced very easily. What about you officer? No? When you’re always on duty, they mean ALWAYS on duty? Oh Miss Teacher…hahahahahahaha! Yeah. No. And those are only some of the people that HAVE to wear diapers as part of their work. There are plenty of people who are choosing to pee themselves due to some paranoid fear that getting out of their giant hunk of armor for two minutes to go take a leak is going to result in them getting mugged or something. And considering “safety” has been a major buzzword for the last three ad campaigns, who can blame them? We’re giving up our freedom, and one of the first signs of physical independence, for some perceived safety and a modicum of convenience. I know they’re called S.U.I.T.S. people but they’re not actually suits. We shouldn’t HAVE to wear them to work. Mona “Bank left,” the voice buzzed over the speaker in Mona’s headset. Mona turned left around a skyscraper, narrowly missing a speeding commuter that had chosen right then to accelerate their S.U.I.T. into a blur of well over a hundred miles per hour. If Mona’s timing had been only a little different, just a fraction faster, she would have collided in mid-air and had a very long fall to think about it, assuming the hit hadn’t made her unconscious. “Ugh,” Mona groaned into her speaker at the near miss. “Pain in the butt, speedster.” Ungracefully she attempted to move in line with the other pilots at this altitude. She hated being up this high. One wrong move, and the last thing she might see is the inside of the helmet she was wearing. According to the system specs, (and about three hours’ worth of training holo-vids) in the event of a high speed collision, the S.U.I.T.’s safety and Asimov Subroutines would kick in; with gyroscopic sensors to stabilize her, retro repulsors to slow her descent, and emergency pulses to alert non-Emergency Response S.U.I.T.s on the ground to automatically avoid the debris that was her and to trigger the alarm systems of the nearest Emergency Responders; chances are she’d survive. That and these tin cans were by their very nature designed to take a beating and withstand high impact collisions, she’d statistically have a better chance of drowning in her own bathtub. She’d survive the fall had she been hit. But “survive” wasn’t the same thing as “stay out of the hospital”. You didn’t fall a few thousand feet and NOT get banged up a little. And to think there were still people who actually paid money to fall out of the air; and that was without S.U.I.T.s! “Language,” Dr. O’Brien told Mona over the headset as she clumsily flew above the rooftops with what might be millions of others sharing the sky with her today. She saw a few dozen metal clad middle fingers flash at her as she sputtered and bobbed around, increasing and decreasing her speed, seemingly at random while other pilots tried to compensate. “I said ‘butt’,” Mona remarked as she weebled and wobbled her way back into the traffic. “And I said language,” Dr. O’Brien replied flatly, not amused. “Now focus.” “Yes Ma’am,” Mona sighed. How was she supposed to focus on flying with Dr. O’Brien squawking in her ear over the communications link? “Make sure to use the caution signals every time you turn or change altitude,” Dr. O’Brien instructed. “They’ll send a pulse to the other S.U.I.T.S’ guidance systems indicating that you’re coming into their flight path and the systems will respond accordingly. But,” she added, “they have a harder time when you’re weaving around like a drunk fighter pilot. You’re in busy New York City traffic, not a dogfight.” “A what?” Mona asked, bobbing and weaving in jerky half committal motions. She looked around, confused, which didn’t make any of the other commuters particularly happy. “What do dogs have to do with flying?” “Never mind,” Dr. O’Brien told Mona. “Just use the caution signals.” Then Mona heard an annoyed muttering and something about kids today having no sense of history. Mona’s head instinctively scanned from side to side looking for the caution signals, and then groaned in remembrance. So much about piloting these S.U.I.T.S. was about kinesthetic movement- especially with the older models, which was all the school had access to. You had to move your body in certain specific ways to activate certain features. Learning to fly in one of these things when you were eighteen was about as graceful as a toddler learning to walk for the first time; and that wasn’t the only thing about her present condition that made Mona feel particularly babyish. “How do I do that, again?” Mona asked, becoming increasingly flustered. “Clench your fists and stiffen your arms, like you’re nervous.” Dr. O’Brien instructed. “But my fists are clenched and my elbows are completely locked!” Mona whined a bit. Meanwhile others were flying over, under and around her to compensate for her increasingly erratic flight pattern. None of their speakers were on, and no one was sending any communication broadcasts to her, but she could tell they were less than pleased. Mona was glad that the S.U.I.T.S. were so well insulated against sound; otherwise, she’d likely hear a stream of swear words hurled in her general direction as people who were more comfortable and competent hurtled past her. “Hold on, let me come check,” Dr. O’Brien said, and then the communication link clicked off. Mona gritted her teeth. She had seen in plenty of old holo-vids that old automobiles had had horns to blare in protest and warning. Thank goodness S.U.I.T.s didn’t have that feature; otherwise she was likely to go deaf. The pressure of waiting for Dr. O’Brien was making her very aware of other pressures building inside her. She knew it had to be in her head, but she also heard the distinct rustling of soft plastic as she wiggled her hips ever so slightly. Mona’s speed reduced to a relative crawl, if not a standstill. She was so done with today. She’d spent the last twelve hours trapped in this thing doing exercise after exercise and drill after drill, and she wasn’t getting any better at it. Even from her height she could make out tiny dots of people walking down the Manhattan street. “Why do we even have streets, anymore?” Mona muttered to herself more than anyone else. “Mona?” Dr. O’Brien’s voice buzzed back into Mona’s headset. “How long have you been clenching your fists?” “Since the last takeoff,” Mona answered uncertainly, “why?” There was an uncomfortable silence, and then Dr. O’Brien said, “Alright, I think you’ve had enough for one day.” That’s when the New York skyline and everything in it froze. The other traffic goers stopped, suspended in mid-air, the soles of their metallic boots still glowing an electric blue as if they were being propelled forward. Then the sky flickered for a moment, before everything went black. “Simulation, over.” A light, feminine voice devoid of any expression intoned into Mona’s ears. “What did I do wrong?” Mona groaned to herself in the precious few seconds of privacy she had left. She felt a cool breeze rush in as the back of the S.U.I.T. hatch opened and the sensitive hydraulics nudged her away and into the open air. She didn’t feel as much as she sensed the fluorescent light of the high school’s S.U.I.T. Simulation Center at first. Instinctively she stretched her upper body out of the machine’s cockpit and interface and blinked as her eyes adjusted to the light. Mona felt a gentle hand on her backside and heard an almost smug “Thought so” along with the unmistakable crinkle of the diaper pulled up around her hips. “Step out and climb down,” Dr. O’Brien, who had been the one gingerly squeezing her rump ordered. Mona did as she was told and shook her hair out the moment one foot hit solid ground. Straight, shoulder length, jet-black hair fluttered briefly and then settled, neatly framing her face. She took a second to smooth out her hair with her hands as she looked up into Dr. O’Brien’s bright blue eyes. That sudden change of perspective was something Mona supposed she would never fully get used to, assuming she got her S.U.I.T. license. Whenever she climbed into one of the old behemoth clunkers that had been retrofitted into a S.U.I.T. simulator, she felt amazingly tall for those few seconds before the simulation kicked in. Dr. O’Brien, who was by no means a short woman, was dwarfed by the machines. Mona compared the height difference to standing on stilts, she felt so tall. Though considering how inadequate she felt it was more akin to a small child foolishly declaring that they are now “taller” than someone else simply because they found higher ground. In the real world, when not encased by a giant suit of armor, Mona was a few inches shorter than her S.U.I.T. instructor. Mona looked past her teacher and to the row of other simulators, still running. They were effectively alone for the time being. “What am I doing wrong?” Mona asked, exasperated. “You’re clenching,” Dr. O’Brien said flatly, adjusting her glasses. “But I thought I was supposed to,” Mona said, brown eyes blinking in puzzlement. “Not at the start, you’re not.” Dr. O’Brien replied. “The S.U.I.T.S. are designed to react to your body movements, but they can only do that relative to what you give them. When you start off all tense like that, the programming establishes that as the baseline. The machine literally thought you were relaxing because you gave it no other data to work off.” “Well…yeah,” Mona said as if her being tense were the most obvious and natural thing in the world. “I was flying thousands of feet in the air above Manhattan. Why wouldn’t I be nervous?” “It was just a simulation,” Dr. O’Brien tilted her head forward, her eyebrow cocked. “If you can’t handle a simulation, how can I expect that you’d be able to handle the real thing?” “Well,” Mona flustered, shifting side to side to alleviate the pressure in her bladder. “It’s not like I’m going to be going to the real New York City anytime soon. Why can’t we have more realistic encounters? Like Orlando or something?” “If you want to come up with the money and the software and the funding to get simulations for Orlando, be my guest,” Dr. O’Brien told her. “Besides, if you can fly in New York City, you can fly anywhere.” “But it’s just a simulation,” Mona echoed, not fully appreciating the hypocrisy that her argument had turned to. “Exactly,” Dr. O’Brien smirked. “And you’re having little panic attacks over a simulation of the place. Imagine how tense you’d be if you were actually in the air. You need to learn to relax,” she said, not unkindly. “Trust the machine. It was built for this kind of stuff.” “I’m trying,” Mona insisted, her hands unconsciously fiddling with themselves right below her waist. “You just need to let go a little bit,” Dr. O’Brien encouraged. “Maybe talk to your dad. He’s a policeman, right?” Mona nodded, mutely. “He pilots S.U.I.T.s all the time, and in much worse circumstances than you’ll hopefully ever be in. Maybe he has some tips for you.” “Yes ma’am.” Mona sighed. She really didn’t want to talk to her dad about this. He just wouldn’t understand. “Oh, and another thing,” Dr. O’Brien paused and looked over her shoulder, to make sure no other students were exiting their training S.U.I.T.s She leaned in so close, that Mona could make out bits of gray weaving into the curly tangles of Dr. O’Brien’s otherwise vibrant red hair. “It might help you to relax if just relax your bladder every once in a while,” she whispered into Mona’s ear. “What?!” Mona yelped, blushing profusely. “But I-“ “Honey, you’re dry as a bone,” Dr. O’Brien interrupted her. “You’ve been practicing literally all day while other students have come and gone. You’ve been holding it in all this time, when you don’t have to. That can’t be good for your nerves or your concentration.” “I don’t want to, though,” was the only objection Mona could muster. “I know it’s not the greatest thing in the world, Mona,” Dr. O’Brien placed her hand reassuringly on Mona’s shoulder. “But sometimes it’s necessary. There’s an awful lot of jobs that require you to be working in the S.U.I.T.s at all times.” “I’m going to fail my S.U.I.T.s test because I won’t pee my pants?” Mona frowned. “No, but I think that you’re so uncomfortable with the act is a symptom of a larger problem,” Dr. O’Brien said sympathetically. “You’re going to need to get over a lot of fears and anxieties if you’re going to be able to pilot one of these babies.” She gestured to the metal frames lining the room. “Can’t I just have a bathroom break?” Mona asked, looking down at the floor in embarrassment. “That’s why I’m letting you out before the next wave of students are done practicing,” Dr. O’Brien smiled softly. “Go on and get changed into street clothes before somebody finds out about your secret.” Mona cringed at the word “changed”. “Yes Ma’am,” Mona said before half walking, half jogging away to the locker room. “Oh, and Mona?” Dr. O’Brien called after her. Mona turned back and looked over her shoulder. “I’m giving up my Spring Break so that you and the other kids can practice getting their licenses. The least you could do is think about what I’ve said.” “Yes Ma’am,” was all that Mona said. Mona hurriedly rushed into the locker room, the rustling sound of her diaper, like a dozen little garbage bags wrapped around her waist, followed her all the way to the toilet. Hidden in the safety of a toilet stall, she stuck her thumbs deep into the waistband of the incontinence brief she wore and pulled it well down past her knees before finally sitting down and relieving herself on the toilet; the way God intended. She breathed her first sigh of relief all day as she emptied herself, the little bits of burning tension trickling out of her into the bowl beneath her. She steadied her breathing and leaned forward a bit, examining the contents of her diaper. Mona wore the diaper, as was a requirement when training with the S.U.I.T. equipment, but she also wore something else. Around her legs, and cradled by the inside of the diaper was a pair of red satin panties. These were the reason that Mona couldn’t use her diaper. She’d be soiling more than just herself if she did. Mona had always been a people pleaser her entire life. She had been a particularly easy child for adults to work with. She had always wanted to please them and be more like them; more “grown up”. She had potty trained very easily, before even her second birthday. She was making her own bed and laying out her clothing to wear the next day at bedtime by three. Grades were never a problem as she always studied and excelled in whatever she did. She was the very model of the child that all the adults love. Well behaved. Polite. Mature. Cool. Smart. Remarkably adroit in social situations. A little adult, for the most part. And Mona had taken a certain amount of pride in that, growing up. Only now, she was a grown up; legally anyways. And to continue being treated as an adult, oddly enough, meant she had to debase herself like an infant. The thought of nothing but bare skin between her and what amounted to a giant version of a child’s pull-up made her skin crawl. The fact that to be more independent and no longer rely on public transportation as well as have a growing host of job opportunities available to her she apparently needed to be willing and able to compromise herself caused her brain to tingle unpleasantly with cognitive dissonance. She idly wondered if maybe she could buy a car from a museum or antique dealer. They still had cars that actually worked, didn’t they? Voices echoing off the brick and tile of the locker room. More girls were coming in. Mona sucked in her breath and gritted her teeth. What would the other girls think if they saw her like this? She couldn’t go out of the stall, or else everyone would know that she hadn’t gone in her diaper. But if she was in the stall, wasn’t it a bit obvious what she was doing in the first place? She supposed she could lie and say she was changing into her regular underwear and was just a bit bashful or something. But then wouldn’t they be able to tell the diaper wasn’t used because of how it didn’t swell? Mona briefly considered dunking the pull-up in the toilet and balling it up to simulate the effect. What kind of ridiculous backwards society had she been trapped into in trying to get this license? What kind of world did she live in where not peeing yourself was a secret to hide? What kind of world was this becoming where she was more ashamed to wear regular underwear than something reserved for people who couldn’t be trusted to keep their pants dry? Shivering with anxiety, Mona pulled first her panties, then the diaper back up over her hips. She opened the door and did her best to quietly sneak over to her backpack where her pants were located. Even the toilet betrayed her though, as the motion sensor caused the toilet to flush once she walked away. The sound of water rushing down the pipes roared and echoed off the walls. Two other girls about Mona’s age, diapers swollen, sagging, and slightly discolored from use, turned their heads around to look at her. “Mona?” one of them said. “Mona Quimby?” Mona froze. She hadn’t heard that voice in years but she recognized it instantly. It was Kourtney Brewer. Kourtney and Mona had been friends once upon a time before Kourtney was enrolled in private school by her well-to-do parents. Their friendship was always a strange one to begin with. Kourtney had infinitely more privilege as a result of her family’s income, but seemed to have this curious fascination with Mona; as if slumming it with the working class girl somehow made her more “authentic” or “real.” If Kourtney had one shortcoming though, it was that even when she apparently meant it, she still came across as shallow and fake. Years of obsessively following the latest trends that whatever “it” crowd had invented had made her a bit of a slave to them. Yet despite how little they had in common, the girls had gotten along famously once upon a time and had just drifted apart over the years. Whatever personality flaws Kourtney had, her body more than made up for them. Above the waist, puberty had been good to her, with all the right proportions to look “blessed” without looking “too big”. Her perfect blond hair that she kept short but stylish didn’t have a single hair out of place, even though she had likely just spent several uninterrupted hours crammed into a musty S.U.I.T.S. simulator. The dimples on her cheeks when she smiled gave her a look of radiant innocence that the Hollywood starlets of yesteryear would have killed for. Whether she was as “blessed” below the waist now that puberty had run its course through her was a mystery for the time being. The soggy padding clinging to her backside all but obfuscated anything significant in that department. Though she did show off her smooth slender legs with a certain poise. Only Kourtney could look so amazingly confident and yes, Mona had to concede, attractive in a wet diaper. “Hey Kourtney,” Mona waved sheepishly. “Oh my Gee!” Kourtney smiled a perfect, white toothed smile. “It’s been so long!” “Yeah…” Mona blushed, wishing desperately that she could just get into her regular clothes and get out of here. But she knew Kourtney wasn’t going to let that happen. “Long story short” was only used ironically in Kourtney’s vocabulary. “How’ve you been?” “Oh that’s no way to greet an old friend!” Kourtney squeaked out, seemingly oblivious to Mona’s general discomfort. That was another thing about her: Kourtney only seemed to notice that someone was sad when she was sad. If she was happy, clearly everyone else was too, her little world so revolved around her. It wasn’t maliciousness, per se, but just the naïve egocentrism commonly found in the very sheltered and very rich. Kourtney walked over to Mona, diaper sagging between her thighs, and gave Mona a full on hug, even going so far as to add two fake kisses to her cheeks in greeting. That part was new. Must be a new eccentricity that Kourtney had picked up. Had Mona been one of the S.U.I.T.S. right then, she’d have been sending warning pulses all over the city, her fists and elbows were locked so tight. “It is so good to see you!” Kourtney beamed as she released Mona. “How long has it been?” “A couple years, I think.” Mona rubbed the back of her head nervously, unsure of what to do. “That seems about right.” Kourtney nodded. “Sorry I haven’t been in touch. I really meant to.” “Yeah,” Mona nodded. There was an awkward pause. “You grew up so pretty,” Kourtney remarked, smiling. “Oh, thanks,” Mona smiled back awkwardly. “Uh..you too.” “I know.” Kourtney giggled. “So,” Mona asked, “what are you doing here?” “Oh, I wanted to get in some more practice before I take my S.U.I.T. test,” Kourtney bobbed her head to the side as if coming onto a strange campus that you didn’t attend in the middle of Spring Break were the most natural thing in the world. “My mom and dad know Dr. O’Brien from before she got into the education field and pulled a few strings. How did you get in?” “I just asked her.” Mona shrugged. “Oh,” Was all Kourtney could say. Whether or not Kourtney was disappointed or bewildered or both that it had been as simple as that, who could say? “Yeah,” Mona shuffled her feet. Once again, there was an awkward pause. Then, Kourtney’s gaze traveled from Romona’s face and went downward. “Oh hey!” Kourtney pointed at Mona’s padded crotch. “I see you changed into a fresh one, already. Very forward thinking, girlfriend!” “Oh!” Mona blushed looking down at her perfectly white, unsoiled diaper, and blushed. “Um…you noticed?” “Yeah, I just didn’t think kids who went to this school were so advanced.” Kourtney said. “Advanced?” Mona raised an eyebrow in question while trying to not. She had never thought that wearing a diaper could be seen as “advanced”. “Oh yes,” Kourtney gushed, “going full time to diapers is the latest thing. It’s all the rage in Europe, big metropolitan cities and, of course, at my school. If we’re going to be wearing our S.U.I.T.S for over half the day, why should we even bother going back to regular underwear when the day is done? I didn’t actually think this sleepy little college town would catch on. Are you unpotty training yourself, too?” Kourtney leaned in, the curious anticipation on her face evident. Mona gagged a little at that thought but managed a choked, “I’m just starting.” It was a complete and utter obfuscation of the truth, but Kourtney seemed to approve. “Oh magosh!” the blonde girl squealed in delight. “Me too!” Mona shuddered in revulsion as Kourtney hugged her again, more closely this time. Mona was all too aware of Kourtney’s swollen, urine soaked padding brushing ever so slightly up against her thigh. “Speaking of which,” Kourtney broke off the hug, “I need to go change. All the experts say it’s good to get used to wearing wet, but I don’t want to be getting a rash just this second.” Kourtney walked over to what had to have been her locker, the other diapered girl now patiently waiting for her. Unflinchingly and unhesitatingly, Kourtney yanked down her sodden undergarment with such force that a wet plop could be heard as the pull-up diaper landed on the cold concrete floor of the locker room. Mona whirled around in an attempt to give Kourtney some unasked for privacy, but curiosity got the better of her as she gingerly looked back over her shoulder. Mona balked as Kourtney stepped out of the incontinence brief, opened her locker and drew out a rather large purse and from it took out a packet of baby wipes and with them began to caress herself up, down, behind, and between her legs. The used wipes were dropped, quite daintily, into the waiting diaper. Mona’s hand shot to her mouth to prevent her from doing some cross between a giggle and a gasp as Kourtney reached into her purse and withdrew- of all things- a large compact and old fashioned powder puff. That wasn’t what made Mona almost cry out, however. Her silence threatened to break as she spied Kourtney powdering not her nose, but her bottom with the powder puff. The sweet aroma of baby powder as it wafted through the air of the dank high school locker room was unmistakable. Finally, rather than a pair of panties, Mona saw Kourtney reach into her purse- though perhaps a diaper bag would be a more apt description- and pull out a clean but otherwise identical white pull-up incontinence brief. With practiced comfort, Kourtney opened up the plastic underwear and stepped into it before pulling it up around her hips. At this, Mona allowed herself to turn and take in her old friend. While Mona had been mortified, Kourtney’s friend –who come to think of it must have changed herself while Kourtney had cornered Mona- looked on with casual disinterest. It wasn’t until Kourtney had finished re-diapering herself and reached into her locker to get out a skirt that her friend did the same. Kourtney’s friend fastened the skirt around her own waist. It was long and billowing and discreet. Kourtney’s skirt on the other hand, didn’t hide much. Kourtney bent over and balled up the used diaper on the floor and gave Mona more than a peak of the puffy white padding between her legs. Kourtney had always been a bit provocative in dress, but this was new. “Oh!” Kourtney said after she had thrown away her diaper in a nearby garbage can. “I thought you’d be getting dressed, too.” Mona felt a lump of anxiety form in her throat as she thought about the contents of her locker. No way would her skinny jeans fit over the monstrosity wrapped around her bum. Kourtney might not be the best at reading people, but anyone with a lick of common sense would know that Mona had never intended to wear her diaper out in public. “I, um, actually have to go. I suddenly have to,” Mona clenched her stomach and motioned with her head back to the toilet stalls. Her stomach was in knots, but her digestion had nothing to do with it. “But didn’t you just…?” Kourtney question. “Had some tacos that are catching up to me.” Mona lied. “It’d be a shame to uh…have to change again so soon! And…it’d be more of a cleanup if you know what I mean.” “Ahhhh!” Kourtney nodded her head in understanding. “Yeah, I’m not ready to do that, either.” Mona ran to the stalls and slammed the door behind her before once again sitting on the toilet, panting. What to do? What to do? Should she grunt or groan or something? Should she try to fart? She was trapped, she realized, and for the stupidest of reasons. “Don’t worry, we’ll wait for you.” Kourtney’s voice echoed off the bricks. “Um…I might be a while,” Mona called back, her voice sounding pathetic, but hopefully that was a good thing. Kourtney might think she was in pain instead of just embarrassed. “Oh,” Kourtney called back sounding a bit disappointed. Perhaps she saw through the ruse. “Okay.” There was another beat of silence before she said, “Hey, I’m having a party later this weekend. You want to come?” “Sure,” Mona grunted back, trying to sound preoccupied. She didn’t particularly want to go, but right now she was willing to say anything for a moment of privacy. “Great!” Kourtney all but squealed. ”It’s special dress code only. No pants or panties allowed!” Mona sighed and frowned in her little stall; trapped. “Cool,” she managed to say, albeit reluctantly. “Bye Mona!” Kourtney called out, her voice finally becoming fainter as she exited the locker room. “See you later! I’ll send you the details via Social Meeds!” “Great,” Mona huffed in defeat, her diaper and her panties both around her ankles. “Now what am I gonna do?” Paul “Stop!” the voice cried out. “Help! Police!” Paul searched for the source of the distress and found it. With deceptive quickness, his blue and white Police-S.U.I.T. trotted up to the man calling out for help. The man, who looked to be in his forties was graying and balding with what little hair he had left very disheveled, and looked visibly distressed, on the verge of tears. He also wasn’t wearing any pants, but that didn’t really factor into Paul’s assessment of the situation. Paul, a giant when he was wearing his S.U.I.T. took a knee so that he was roughly at eye level with the crying man. The he tapped his temple and the visor on his headpiece whirred up so he could make eye contact with the civilian. “Can I help you, sir?” Paul asked. “What seems to be the problem?” “Thief!” the man pointed sideways down the road, his tears flowing more freely. “He stole my S.U.I.T.! Please, officer, stop him!” Paul squinted and saw only the tiniest dot on the horizon where the man was pointing. He nodded his head briskly, almost jerking his chin to the ground, signaling the kinesthetic controls to lower the visor back down. “Rex,” he said. “Enhance optical and identify.” “Command Received” a deep, monotone voice intoned in Paul’s ear. “Initiating.” “Rex” was Paul’s pet name for his mech, Police-S.U.I.T. registry number RX-9784. “Rex” was just easier to remember and say. Plus, it gave a certain feeling of ownership, like maybe the mechanical suit was a pet or something. At the very least, it was a favored tool or lucky charm. So, a few years ago, when voice command technology became available and RX-9784 was upgraded, Paul chose to have “Rex” be the command word to get the computer’s attention. Now when he talked to Rex, the mech talked back. The screen in front of Paul’s face lit up with an amplified view. A boring, grey, blocky mech took long galloping strides, leaving potholes in the street behind it. “He doesn’t even have his repulsor nodes on,” Paul tisked. “I’d pull him over for that alone.” “S.U.I.T. unit identified.” Rex’s computerized voice droned in. “S.U.I.T. registry number FE-2467, registered to one Thomas Blanchard.” A picture of a slightly younger, but not much better looking, man similar to the one crying on the sidewalk next to him came up. “I-I-I got out to change, and I guess I didn’t close the hatch all the way,” Mr. Blanchard stuttered and stumbled. “Then, this young man just comes up, hops into my S.U.I.T. and takes off.” Paul couldn’t help but roll his eyes at how pathetic this man, still standing in an obviously wet diaper, was. Some people had no common sense. The whole point of diapers were so that you wouldn’t have to get out of the S.U.I.T. till you were in a safe location. Parking outside some random convenience store was definitely not one of them, and all of the finger print and ocular analysis in the world couldn’t stop a thief if you didn’t close the cockpit properly. Paul tapped the side of his head, signaling for the visor to go up again. “Mr. Blanchard, I’m going to stop him.” “Th-th-th-thank you,” Mr. Blanchard stuttered. Paul nodded again closing the visor and bringing up the magnification view on the stolen S.U.I.T. again. The stolen S.U.I.T. had stopped, its head swiveling around looking from place to place. Either the suspect had gotten lost, or thought he was in the clear enough to take a second and get better acquainted with the controls. S.U.I.T. theft was an increasingly common crime, but it was done primarily by people who didn’t have or know how to pilot them. Some S.U.I.T.s, especially the older used models, were a little harder to use. Paul’s father, who had actually driven a car once, compared the older non-voice activated, less intuitive models to “driving stick”, whatever that meant. “Keeping low to the ground, huh?” Paul mused to himself. “Thought all the cops are going to be up in the air, today?” Ever the showman, even when no one was around to watch, Paul went into a runner’s lunge. “Looks like you thought wrong.” Paul sprinted into action, rapidly becoming a blue and white blur. Paul wasn’t much of a runner, if anything he could stand to lose a few pounds, but with his S.U.I.T. amplifying every movement, every step, and every muscle twitch; Paul was faster than humanly possible. He wasn’t even running as much as he was gliding, with the repulsor nodes in Rex’s feet emitting a low hum, pushing him onward, while keeping the S.U.I.T.’s metal clodhoppers from actually touching the ground. It wasn’t as fast as flight, but it wasn’t nearly as loud, giving Paul the element of surprise. Buildings were still whirring past as Paul ran at close to fifty miles an hour, as he slid down a nearly empty street, making sure to steer clear of sidewalks that were home to the pedestrians; more common than you’d think in a college town. Gainesville was never great when it came to the parking situation and most of the private small businesses hadn’t yet been able to accommodate S.U.I.T.s just yet as was becoming the trend. The University had spent more money adding a dome to their football stadium so that people flying in mechs couldn’t get a free show. All of this worked in Paul’s favor. In a town with less foot traffic and the milling white noise that accompanies when people actually have to make eye contact and talk with each other, Paul’s approach might’ve been heard and then, older model mech or not, the suspect would’ve rabbited and given Paul a chase. He wasn’t quite quiet enough, as it turns out. As soon as Paul had closed enough distance so that he no longer needed visual modification, the perp began running again, leaving an easy to follow trail of potholes in his wake. CLOMP! CLOMP! CLOMP! CLOMP! The sad and funny thing is, he may have managed to outrun Paul if only his repulsors were on; the overland speed of S.U.I.T.s didn’t vary much from model to model. Maybe it was malfunctioning. Maybe that’s why he wasn’t flying. Paul hadn’t even fully formed his hypothesis when the suspect began to take to the air, the hands and feet of the S.U.I.T. crackling and humming at full blast and he began his ascent. Of all the things Paul hadn’t wanted when he got out of bed this morning, a high speed flight chase through crowded sky traffic was definitely near the top of that list. “Oh. No. You. Don’t!” Paul yelled as the blocky old S.U.I.T went skyward. Paul pointed his metal clad right index finger at the fleeing suspect while he was still only a few hundred feet up. “G.P.D. Stop in the name of the law!” he shouted his trigger phrase and activated the electromagnetic pulse beam, firing it at the fleeing suspect. Paul watched with some satisfaction as the stolen S.U.I.T. fell from the sky like a cockroach that had just been sprayed. He supposed he could have caught the poor loser, but a fall from a few hundred feet wouldn’t do any major damage, and Rex’s scans indicated that all the safety features were working to lessen the damage before the actual impact occurred. Paul trotted the last hundred yards where the stolen S.U.I.T. laid prone. Luckily, the suspect had belly flopped onto the pavement, so it was a simple matter of opening the hatch on the back. “No broken bones detected,” Rex passionlessly informed Paul. “Safe to remove pilot from S.U.I.T.” Paul leaned forward and picked up the suspect. “Didn’t do nothin’,” the suspect, a grungy looking twenty something moaned, as Paul picked him up and carried him over his shoulder as easily as if the suspect were a naughty toddler at the grocery store. “You took something that didn’t belong to you,” Paul broadcast out to the young man. “I’d say that’s not nothin’.” “Man,” the young man harrumphed. “You ain’t got no proof.” “You mean besides witness testimony, and the fact that that mech isn’t registered in your name?” “Lemme go, this is brutality!” the suspect shouted. None of pedestrians on the street, some of them in S.U.I.T.S. of their own, gave more than a passing glance. “Please,” Paul smirked. “You know full well that I can’t physically cause you harm in this thing. But I can hold you still all the way back to the police station. So get comfortable. “But I gotta pee! Just lemme go so I can use the can. I’ll come right back, I promise.” “Should have worn a diaper, then.” Paul countered. “If that was really your S.U.I.T. you probably would have.” At that, his adrenaline slowing, Paul relaxed his bladder into his own diaper and smiled a bit in satisfaction. “Oh yeah, before I forget,” Paul said as an afterthought, “Rex, read him his Miranda Rights.” A prerecorded message started playing from the S.U.I.T., informing the suspect that among other things, he had the right to remain silent. Paul just walked on towards the police station. He didn’t have any safety harnesses- the Captain would probably nag him about forgetting it- so it wouldn’t do to fly to the station. Besides, he was enjoying the walk of shame: There were few things more humiliating to a big tough guy than being carted around like a toddler by an even bigger S.U.I.T. It would give the guy some time to think about what he’d done before he got booked. “Incoming call,” Rex interrupted Paul’s inner monologue. “Hmm?” Paul glanced at the screen inside his headset. “Put it through.” “Hey Mona,” Paul said genially enough. “I’d love to talk to you about your day practicing for your pilot exam, but I’m a little busy right this second. Talk when I get home?” “Sure, Dad.” Mona sighed before hanging up. Trevor “Right this way, miss,” Trevor said, leading his customer by the hand along the showroom floor. The fact that he had already forgotten the customer’s name immediately after he had taken a knee and gingerly shook hands with her didn’t bother him in the least. He knew everything he needed to know about her the moment she walked onto the lot. She was a twenty-something redhead who had all the markings of a sucker with her wide eyed stare and gawking mouth. Her neck might have been an oscillating fan with how evenly and smoothly it looked around. Baaaaack and forth. Baaaaaack and forth. Trevor could tell from the look in her eyes that she was excited, and bad at hiding it. She might’ve been at Disney, instead of a new and used S.U.I.T. lot. Truth be told, Trevor figured, she wasn’t actually a carrot top, if the roots on top of her head were any indicator. No one came by that shade of red honestly, anyways. Good. It meant she had a streak of vanity in her. He could use that. There was no ring on her finger. And there was no boyfriend or girlfriend by her side. She was single, most likely. Good. Trevor could use that to his advantage, too. “So are you looking to trade your old model in or is this your first?” Trevor asked, as if he needed to. Dollars to doughnuts this gal was just out of college, if that, likely still lived with her parents, (or was living in her own apartment on her parents’ money) had gotten her pilot’s license a few years ago but had never stepped inside anything other than a simulator. Now here she was, ready to get that next big feeling of independence and Trevor was the guy who was going to sell that feeling to her. And best of all, she was likely paying with Daddy’s credit. “Oh, this is my first,” the girl smiled politely up at Trevor in his shiny bright yellow S.U.I.T. “Oh man!” Trevor grinned in fake enthusiasm. “That’s awesome! You never forget your first, trust me.” It didn’t matter that she couldn’t see his grin through the visor on his headpiece. The break room had a sign just above the doorway. “Remember to smile: Customers can hear the difference.” With his free hand, he gave her a thumbs up, just in case. She positively marveled at the gesture, likely wondering how much was Trevor and how much was the mech. She was a little girl in a toy store, and he was the adult showing her around. To the uninitiated, it might seem a little demeaning; a man in a big metal robot leading the young woman by the hand as if she couldn’t navigate the vast floor by herself. But the truth of the matter was that it was practical and necessary. The moment this woman walked onto the lot, she was a proverbial Jill up the beanstalk; a little person stranded in a land of giants. Every sales associate on the lot was required by company policy to be S.U.I.T.ed up at all times. They had to show the customer that not only was it possible, but also preferable to spend as much time as possible in these mechs. Trevor wasn’t just selling a machine. He was selling a lifestyle. Being lead around by the hand “for safety purposes” was all part of the sale. Only the guys in finance were allowed to walk around in clothing that wasn’t fusion powered. Some focus group or another determined that the “shock and awe” of seeing a bunch of people walking around in S.U.I.T.s made a customer more likely to buy, but being able to meet with someone more on their level- someone less intimidating, someone they could look in the eye- made them less likely to haggle and agree to paying more for any given model. Handholding was probably unnecessary, given how the Asimov subroutines combined with the external scanners in every S.U.I.T. made stepping on a pedestrian all but impossible. But even the best of programming couldn’t completely account for the randomness of some pedestrian running underfoot. Therefore handholding was necessary when showing a new customer around. It also had the added advantage of making them feel small and helpless on a subconscious level. So it was corporate’s decision to literally hold the customer’s hand, “just in case”. Besides, it beat carrying her around like she was some kind of invalid or a common shoplifter who had just gotten caught and they were waiting on the cops to arrive and take her away. “Here we are,” Trevor said as they came up to the latest model, letting go of the customer’s hand. Now feast your eyes on this little beauty.” “It’s…so…big!” she said gawking up at the S.U.I.T. “Yet not too big,” Trevor told her. “If you have a loft apartment all you’d need is a bigger couch, and you wouldn’t need to ever get out of this number.” Trevor watched as the young lady’s gaze settled on the S.U.I.T.’s chest. “Why does it have breasts?” she said, seeming slightly put off. Trevor wasted no time going into his spiel. “The good people at CyberCorp are now designing with the feminine aesthetic in mind.” Trevor recited the pitch by heart. “More and more people are getting into occupations that require them to wear S.U.I.T.S. all the time. But why lose your identity with a genderless automaton? Let everybody know that there’s a beautiful woman behind the metal mask. Let them know whose inside just by looking on the outside.” The customer was nodding her head in consideration. Good. She was buying it. “That,” Trevor said, “and the breast compartment can actually be utilized as a storage space. So if you’re going on a trip, you don’t have to try to cram your suitcase into the cockpit with you.” Trevor had deviated from script a bit. He had learned the hard way with several missed sales in a row that women tended to get a bit defensive if the first piece of luggage you mentioned was a purse. He’d tweaked that last bit of pre-approved CyberCorp dialogue to suit his needs. You wanted your gender targeted sales pitch to seem empowering instead of demeaning. “Does it really need the metal skirt?” she cocked an eyebrow. “That’s completely optional,” Trevor hastily added. “Does not affect the performance one way or the other. Some people at corporate just thought that the S.U.I.T. looked naked without it.” “I kind of like it,” she said. “And it’s installed for free.” Trevor replied, making sure to smile. They could always hear you smile. “Does it have to be pink?” the customer asked. “Oh no, not at all.” Trevor assured her. “The pink is a little tacky, I’ll admit; but this floor model is part of our breast cancer awareness campaign. It comes in pretty much any color.” “Even red?” she asked. “Even red,” Trevor nodded. “It’s a little expensive,” she curled her lip a bit. “Could you show me to the used models, maybe?” Trevor knew that look. She wanted to be talked into buying this model. She just needed someone to do the talking. Trevor took a knee and tapped the side of the S.U.I.T.’s head, flipping up the visor. His steel blue eyes met her light hazel. Time to make that connection, however tenuous. “Look. It’s not my job to tell you what to buy, but I’d feel like I was ripping you off if I didn’t tell you all of the features that this little baby offers.” Trevor began. “Do you have a T.V. at home?” he asked. She nodded. “What about a computer?” Again, she nodded. “Phone?” She reached into her purse and held it up to him as if to prove it. “Me too,” Trevor said. He gestured to the machine he was in. “Only I have all of that, in here.” “I’ve got a holo-vid on pause for the moment I get a break,” he told her. “And I’m checking my Social Meeds, and I’ve got a call to corporate that I’m due to make as soon as we’re done here, all going on inside the cockpit.” Trevor saw her blink, but say nothing. She was either blown away by his claims or didn’t believe them for a second. “Aaaand,” Trevor added, “when I get home and want to stretch my legs a little, all I gotta do is-“ Trevor patted the top of the S.U.I.T.’s helmet and a panel on the forehead opened up. Projected into the open air was a three dimensional completely remastered Humphrey Bogart, still in black and white (for nostalgia purposes), just about to say “Here’s lookin’ at you kid” to a heartbroken Ingrid Bergman. Beside that was an Immedi-chat window from Trevor’s Social Meeds. The customer didn’t say it, but she was clearly impressed. “If you buy one of these, all other connective technology will be obsolete. Might as well be on the cutting edge, amirite?” Silently, and slowly; she nodded. “But…” she said. Damnit Trevor hated that word. “You want this, now just take it, already.” Trevor thought, trying to not let his impatience show since the visor was up. “But…” she pressed on with uncertainty. “I don’t really want to have a S.U.I.T. that I’m wearing all the time. I’m just looking for a way to get to and from work is all.” “Miss,” Trevor sighed as if he was explaining something very simple to someone who was even simpler. “Are you aware that since S.U.I.T.s became available to the public, violent crime has gone down as people who own and regularly wear a S.U.I.T. have gone up in equal measure? This hunk of tin doesn’t just get me from place to place,” he pounded on the chest for effect. “It protects me. And ninety-seven percent of violent crimes since then have been committed against people who don’t own S.U.I.T.S.?” Trevor recited the statistic. “What about the other three percent” she asked, walking right into Trevor’s trap. “They were committed against people who owned S.U.I.T.S but weren’t wearing them at the time. Don’t believe me, I can pull up the info right here.” “No,” she shook her head. “That’s okay. I believe you.” “The world is dangerous out there,” Trevor said to her in a hushed confidential whisper. “But as long as I’m wearing a S.U.I.T., I’m invincible. And you can be both invincible and comfortable.” “Plus” he continued, “with these new models they’re all forward compatible. Any improvement that CyberCorp makes in the future will be downloaded immediately into the systems. And just between you and me, Corporate says there’s some doozies just around the corner. You’ll only need to buy one of these to make them last a lifetime.” There was that brief pause where time stood still for a second. Trevor could hear his heart beat. Here he was: The edge of the sale. “I’ll take it,” she smiled. Trevor smiled back and then jerked his head forward signaling the visor to come back down over his face. Finally, he let his guard down. It didn’t matter that every software update was automatically loaded into every model, used or otherwise. As long as she didn’t ask, Trevor didn’t need to tell her. He took his little customer by the hand and walked her to the finance department where the deal would be sealed. Jody “What can I do for you today Mrs. Alexander?” Jody asked the pearl-white S.U.I.T. in front of her, her own voice ever-so-slightly distorted by the electronic crackle coming from the speakers of her own mech. “It’s about Robert, Jody,” Mrs. Alexander said. “He’s still not potty training well.” It was a scene that as recent as a decade ago would have been more likely to appear as a farce or satire in a political cartoon: Two adults, both inside close to ten feet tall mechanized S.U.I.T.s, having a parent teacher conference indoors. A few years ago, it would have been perfectly reasonable for these two adults to leave their S.U.I.T.s in the parking lot and talk eye to eye, in the safety of the daycare facility, but these were becoming perfectly unreasonable times it seemed. Jody was required by contract to stay inside her purple company issued S.U.I.T. at all times while representing the company. Mrs. Alexander, on the other hand had every right and opportunity to walk around like a normal human being. Perhaps she just didn’t want to feel small while talking to Jody. Jody had put little Robbie on the daycare velocity platform close to half an hour ago, where she was assured that his father would be picking him up. After logging and organizing the activity data files for the day and logging in lesson plans for tomorrow, Jody normally would have taken the time to slip out of her S.U.I.T., throw away her wet diaper with the rest of the kids’, and pick up the scattered toys in the play area by human hand. Mrs. Alexander had robbed her of that simple daily pleasure. “I know,” Jody sighed. “None of my students are doing particularly well at potty training, right now.” Her wet pull-up squished uncomfortably between her thighs as she shifted her weight from side to side. She literally had nowhere to sit down all day. That was another part of her routine that had been interrupted. The daycare had been built with higher ceilings and entranceways for the S.U.I.T.s but not with bigger chairs. A five minute rest on a tiny plastic stool, even if it had been designed with children in mind, would be a welcome reprieve. At least she wouldn’t have crushed it. She was so tired she would have killed right then if it meant she would have been able to sit down on a tiny children’s stool, even in a wet diaper. “And why is that?” Mrs. Alexander asked, an edge of accusation in her voice. Jody shrugged, the hydraulics in her S.U.I.T. replicating the gesture with an audible whirring noise. “Keyboard” she said, not to Mrs. Alexander but to the voice command in her suit. She held out her metal sheathed arms in front of her and metal fingers began to drum the air as she typed on a computer keyboard only she could see. Then, Jody tapped the top of the mech’s head to activate the projector and the panel on the machine’s forehead opened up, projecting a series of graphs and charts into the air. “Now, here, as you can see,” Jody pointed to one of the charts. “Is our schedule. We have mandatory potty breaks every hour or so. So they’re being given plenty of opportunities during the day. The rest of time, it’s a matter of catching them before they have an accident and telling them to go.” Mrs. Alexander’s S.U.I.T. leaned in, her head moving slightly as she read the available data. Jody couldn’t see through the black visor covering Mrs. Alexander’s entire face, and was at least a little bit thankful that Mrs. Alexander moved her entire head to read instead of just her eyes. “What’s this?” Mrs. Alexander pointed a pearl white finger at a separate chart floating in the air. “That’s Robert’s potty training chart,” Jody told her. “He’s not doing great here. How’s he doing at home?” “Why do you think he’s doing so poorly?“ Mrs. Alexander asked, completely ignoring Jody’s question. “Honestly?” Jody shrugged again, nervously, “I think a lot of my students just don’t care.” “He’s going into Kindergarten next year!” Mrs. Alexander sounded aghast. “He should care!” “But, a lot of my students don’t,” Jody explained, trying to keep her tone even. “They’re seeing a lot of adults wearing diapers, these days. So they think going to the potty is the more babyish thing.” “Yes, but that’s for work,” Mrs. Alexander snapped, as if Jody wasn’t the one who understood. “I don’t get a bathroom break all day at my job. No one does.” “Preaching to the choir, Ma’am.” Jody held up her hands in a defensive gesture. “I’m only telling you what is being said.” “Do you go into the bathroom and supervise them?” Mrs. Alexander asked. “Make them go on the toilet?” “No ma’am.” Jody shook her head. “Well, why ever not?” Mrs. Alexander retorted. “Clearly they need more supervision than they’re getting.” Again, Jody shrugged. “The bathroom isn’t big enough for my S.U.I.T. to fit in. It’s basically the honor system once they go in there.” “Then how do you change them when they have an accident?” The pearl-white S.U.I.T. cocked its head along with its occupant. Jody thumbed back at the six-foot tall changing table at the wall farthest from the entrance. It was the only piece of furniture that was scaled up to her S.U.I.T.’s dimensions so that she could do her job. If she wanted a drink she had to hunch over sinks and daintily drink from cups that were a joke to her oversized hands. The whole world was scaled down for her like this. Adult sized things became children sized things, and children sized things became doll sized whenever she was piloting her mech. Changing her students when they had had an accident had been more akin to dealing with squirming, giggling, writhing baby dolls in terms of size and scale. “That’s just ridiculous,” Mrs. Alexander gasped, her S.U.I.T.’s hand traveling up to where its mouth would be (if S.U.I.T.s had mouths instead of those blank black visors that obscured the entirety of the pilot’s face). “Why, I bet I could fit on one of those.” “Probably could,” Jody nodded. “I was bored one afternoon, so I took the measurements. Wouldn’t even be a tight squeeze for most people.” “That’s ridiculous,” Mrs. Alexander shook her head. “Really, we should find a way to get bigger bathrooms so you can go in there and do your job, properly, not get bigger changing tables so you don’t have to bend over as much.” Jody fought every instinct she had to smack herself on the forehead in exasperation. “Or,” Jody offered, trying to keep calm. “If you and enough other parents petitioned the daycare center, I could be allowed to exit this S.U.I.T. and supervise the children in the bathroom myself.” “Absolutely not!” Mrs. Alexander shrieked. “You could hurt him!” “Ma’am,” Jody felt her face flush and for once was glad that no one could see her face right now. “I have a degree in early childhood education. I’m a professional.” “You’re a glorified babysitter,” Mrs. Alexander scoffed. “The S.U.I.T. does all the hard work for you and prevents you from abusing the little ones. Now how are you going to help my little Robbie potty train and get ready for Kindergarten?” “Mrs. Alexander,” Jody said pointedly. “What are you doing to help potty train Robbie and get him ready for kindergarten?” “That’s not my job!” Mrs. Alexander said, standing up a little straighter. Jody was suddenly very thankful that the Asimov subroutines prevented an occupied S.U.I.T. from doing harm to another occupied S.U.I.T. “I’m doing everything I can with the limits placed upon me, ma’am. He’s going to need help at home if he’s going to meet expectations.” Jody was getting flustered. This woman wanted to blame everyone but herself, it seemed. “Are you saying my son is stupid?!” Mrs. Alexander pointed a finger towards Jody. Jody didn’t need to see the other woman’s face to know that she was scowling. “Not at all, Mrs. Alexander,” Jody tried to explain, her face flushing. “I-“ “I’ll be making a call to your supervisor,” Mrs. Alexander said, cutting Jody off before turning around and storming out. “And,” she called back over her shoulder, “Robert won’t be coming in tomorrow. We’re going to find a new center with daycare workers who are competent!” Jody listened to her own breath grow ragged while she saw the pearl-white mech carrying the amazingly unpleasant person inside it walk away away. By the time, Mrs. Alexander was beginning to vanish into the horizon and taking off into the air, Jody was fighting back sobs. Pushed to her limit, she finally opened the hatch and climbed out of her S.U.I.T. and onto the soft carpeting of the daycare. Barefoot, a wet incontinence brief sagging even more between her legs, and wearing nothing else but a comfortable red t-shirt, she looked more like one of the toddlers that she cared for than the professional she had trained to be. Her shoulder length, strawberry blonde hair, normally kept up in a tight bun during work hours had somehow become undone, and now spilled out around her head, tangled and unkept. Her emerald green eyes were glassy with tears. The snot that was starting to spill out from her nose began to bubble and deflate like a frog’s throat. She didn’t even look four years old right now, let alone twenty-four. Emotionally exhausted, Jody plopped down onto the carpet, not even caring that about the wet diaper, not even caring that she lacked any kind of chair. She dug her toes into the soft carpeting, perhaps trying to draw whatever comfort she could from the environment around her. She prayed that her supervisor didn’t find out about this, somehow. It wasn’t for her job’s sake. Her boss tended to look the other way when it came to her cleanup schedule after hours as long as no children or non-employees were present. She just didn’t want anyone to see what she was about to do. She would have waited till she got home if she could have, but emotions didn’t work that way, did they? They weren’t some holo-vid that you could switch on and off and pause and come back to. Jody buried her hands in her face as the tears began to flow and the snot began to bubble. She couldn’t do this in her S.U.I.T. For all the amazing things like flight, and protection, and internet access and phone access that S.U.I.T.s offered, Jody couldn’t do the thing she wanted most right now, while inside one. She wouldn’t have been able to wipe her tears away with her own hands. “This isn’t what I studied for.” She whimpered to herself in the empty playroom, with only the toys and the daycare mech witness to her despair. “This isn’t what I wanted.” Jody cried. Mona Mona exited the velocity platform and walked the last few blocks back to her house. The operator, in his big white S.U.I.T. politely waved goodbye before taking off, dragging the hovering platform behind him into the sky. That was so weird when you actually took the time to think about it. The platforms -which structurally resembled the old double decker buses that Mona had seen in period holo-vids, if you didn’t count the lack of tires- probably didn’t need someone in a S.U.I.T. to pilot them, dragging them from place to place through the sky. A few extra propulsion systems would have likely done the trick. But for some reason the things wouldn’t even move unless a S.U.I.T was linked up with the ugly parallel bars jutting up the front. Back when she was a little girl and thought to ask such questions, Mona had asked her school platform driver why it was necessary for a giant metal mech to pull the platform. It probably wasn’t doing much of the pulling anyway. Her pilot had laughed, lifted her visor up, and explained that it was an anti-theft feature. It made it so that she could park the platform and walk away if she needed to, and no one without the corresponding S.U.I.T. would be able to steal it. The pilot didn’t have a sufficient answer to little Mona when she had asked if the pilot ever left the platform, or her S.U.I.T. during the day. The “S.” might’ve stood for “Symbiotic”, but it was more symbolic than symbiotic, Mona figured: People needed S.U.I.T.s Like it or not, this was the world that Mona had been born into. When Mona got home, the first thing she did was listen for the sound of Dad taking a shower. He always hosed off after work. Hearing nothing, she checked the garage. His mech was noticeably absent. “Gonna be a long day again,” Mona sighed, closing the garage door. Resigned, yet dreading getting onto Social Meeds, Mona trudged to her room and turned the lights on before sitting down at her computer desk. It was an older model: With a flat screen, non-three dimensional imaging, physical keyboard and mouse, and only 20 gigabytes of memory; but for her modest purposes, it worked. It had been hand-me-down from her grandfather when he didn’t need it anymore. Ever the frugal one and people pleaser, Mona had unplugged her computer while she was away at school to conserve power. She plugged it back in, but as she was waiting for her computer to boot up, she glanced over at her laundry hamper. It was over halfway full. She’d likely have to do a load of wash soon. That was going to bug her. Might as well get it over with. So Mona started a load of laundry, dumping the contents of her hamper into the washer, closing the lid and throwing in a mix of detergent and all-purpose color safe bleach, before going back to her room, a satisfied smile on her face. As she was typing in her password to access her desktop, she noticed that in her hurry to get up this morning, she hadn’t made her bed particularly well. In the pre-dawn haze of getting up this morning to catch the first velocity platform that would take her near her school, the bed had seemed good enough, but in the light of the afternoon, it was downright sloppy. “Whelp,” Mona said. “Better fix that, too.” And so she did. Were she in military school, no one would have been able to complain about the quality of her bed making. A psychologist might say that Mona was procrastinating and keeping herself busy to avoid the discomfort of talking to Kourtney. But Mona was no psychologist. Mona did three or four more random, procrastinating, self-imposed chores, including starting dinner (that way if she were caught in a live chat, something could be burning), before finally logging on. Sure enough, a message was waiting for her on Social Meeds. While past generations might have speculated that the need for communication as a written medium would have gone out of style, the written word was as popular as ever. It had a certain power: The power to let the person speak their mind and not have to look anyone in the eye or see their face. The message was from Kourtney. DaddysSpecialBrew: Party at my house. Mona sucked in her breath. Part of her had been hoping that Kourtney was lying or would have forgotten to invite her. Instead, true to her word, Kourtney was touching base MonaNotLisa: Cool. When and where? DaddysSpecialBrew: My place. Show up whenever after sunset. DaddysSpecialBrew: You still wearing? MonaNotLisa: What? DaddysSpecialBrew: Lol. You still wearing? I am! MonaNotLisa: Wearing what? DaddysSpecialBrew: Diapers, silly! Mona frowned. So Kourtney was serious about this, it seemed. That meant she was seriously going to throw some kind of “no pants” party where all the guests would be padded from the waist down. Mona felt her throat tighten at the thought of herself waddling around in a diaper where people her own age could see her. No. She wasn’t wearing. She had balled up and thrown away the unused diaper at the very first opportunity after Kourtney had left. Still, what harm could one little fib do? It’s not like her old friend could see her. Mona: Oh, yeah. Lol. Sorry. I thought the answer to that would’ve been kind of obvious. DaddysSpecialBrew: Oh my G! I am so glad that I ran into you today. It was like, fate or something, you know? Who would have thought we have this in common? I can’t wait for the party. I want to introduce you to all of my new friends. Mona was about to type something along the lines of “Sorry, can’t go. Checked my calendar. Prior commitments.” But Kourtney beat her to the punch. DaddysSpecialBrew: I’m so glad I’m going to get to see you one last time. MonaNotLisa: What? DaddysSpecialBrew: I’m leaving town in a few weeks. DaddysSpecialBrew: I’ve got enough credits to graduate. DaddysSpecialBrew: Mommy and Daddy pulled some strings so I don’t have to stick around. DaddysSpecialBrew: I’m going to NYC. Breaking out into the world. Living free. Mona just stared at her computer screen, glad for the small mercy of the vid cam being disconnected. Kourtney or someone else might have seen how confused and overwhelmed Mona felt all of a sudden. She stared. She had gotten an old friend back, just as she was about to lose her. DaddysSpecialBrew: You’re coming, right? Mona sighed, and slumped in front of her keyboard. MonaNotLisa: Duh! Of course I’ll be there! Paul Paul waited for the garage door to close before he opened the hatch and climbed out of his S.U.I.T. With the practiced ease that only comes with an immeasurable amount of daily routine, he stripped himself of his clothes; throwing his G.P.D. police t-shirt into a waiting laundry basket, and the incontinence brief into a waiting garbage can. Paul took his trusty bathrobe off of the hook on the door leading inside, and wrapped himself in it before going inside and making a bee-line for his bathroom. Then, it was a quick shower to wash off the stink of sweat and odor of urine. Truth be told, Paul was typically more worried about the urine than the sweat. The temperature controls inside Rex’s cockpit made it almost impossible to break a sweat in. He luxuriated in the shower for just a few minutes, letting the hot water boil away the minor aches and pains from being on his feet all day, before toweling off and getting dressed in a teal polo shirt, some briefs (the non-incontinence variety), and a pair of jeans left that he left in his adjoining bedroom before he got went to work early this morning. He examined his features in the vanity mirror he kept in his bedroom. It looked like the gray hairs had finally started to win the battle on top of his head. Every day, it seemed, there was a little less pepper and a little more salt on top. The ratio was definitely closer to two to one in favor of the grays these days; maybe a little less if you counted his five o’clock shadow. Paul rubbed the rough, sandpapery stubble on his chin. He’d need to shave tomorrow, but he could put it off till then. Self-consciously he touched the small little bald spot on the back of his head. It was barely the circumference of a golf ball, but Paul still winced in the mirror as he felt that small patch of bare skin on the back of his head. Briefly, Paul played with the idea of buying some hair dye the next time he was off duty, but quickly shook that idea off. He’d rather age gracefully and naturally than be one of those pathetic, middle aged fakers who went to so much expense pretending to be younger than they were. Youth was for the young. Still, the same intense, piercing, gray eyes stared back at him from the mirror. Those eyes could be both frightening and comforting, and regardless of age still had the same burning intensity that he had had when he was his daughter’s age. Yeah, he still had it. Then, those piercing gray eyes looked down at his gut; his tummy poking out ever so slightly over his belt and he grimaced again. He wasn’t exactly fat, but he definitely had a major case of dad bod that he hadn’t been able to shake off for years. He’d have to find the time to start working out again, he promised himself. It was a lie, he knew, but it made him feel better knowing he had that option. “Hey, Dad,” Mona’s voice echoed out as he walked into the kitchen from his bedroom. “Hey, honey.” Paul called back. He caught a whiff of garlic chicken, his favorite, coming from the oven. “I thought it was my turn to cook.” He called out. “I got home early,” Mona called back. “Figured I’d get it started for you.” Ever suspicious, Paul narrowed his eyes and took in the kitchen and the dining table. The insta-dinner was cooking in the oven, the dining table was already set, and as Paul paused he thought he heard the wash running. This was more than just Mona being courteous. She wouldn’t have set the table, otherwise. She wasn’t hungry and tired of waiting for Paul to cook, otherwise lasagna would be cooking right now. And the wash? Mona couldn’t be telegraphing her mood any clearer if Paul had been psychic. Nope. Mona was sucking up, she wanted something from him. And she was anxious. Paul bet himself that her bed, normally neat and well-made anyways, would be military precision quality when he poked his head into her room. “What are you up to?” Paul called back, his tone gentle as he walked to the back of the house where Mona’s voice was coming from. Slowly, he opened up her bedroom door and peered in. There she was, her face illuminated by her computer screen in the dark. The color on her face changed from a bright green to an almost crystal blue, likely because she was switching web pages as he walked in. The part of him that was a parent wanted to respect her privacy. The part of him that was a cop kicked himself for not opting for the three dimensional holographic projection model that could be seen from all sides. If he knew what she was looking at he might have an idea of what he was about to be hit up for. “Oh, hi,” Mona looked up from the computer, her face a shade of light blue from the screen, though Paul suspected that in the light of the day, her face might be flushing pink. “You should’ve knocked,” she said hastily. “I could have been, erm…masturbating….?” Paul rolled his eyes. “If you’re going to try to keep me out of your room, you should just lock the door,” Paul replied. “The gross out tactics aren’t going to work on me.” “Dinner should be ready in about five minutes,” Mona ignored the comment and rose to walk over and greet her father, giving him a hug. “Dinner, and a hug!” Paul grinned. “I must have done something really special to deserve that.” Mona didn’t reply, but instead nervously laughed as she disengaged from her father’s embrace and went back into the kitchen to pour herself a glass of water and place a beer by Paul’s plate at the dinner table. They ate the meal making small talk, with Paul doing most of the talking. He told Mona about the attempted S.U.I.T.-jacking that he’d stopped, making sure to embellish all the best parts. It wasn’t a particularly nice or expensive S.U.I.T. so the perp wouldn’t likely be spending more than a year in jail, but it had been exciting to actually do something while out on patrol, all the same. There were a lot less parking violations these days now that fewer and fewer people were actually parking their S.U.I.T.s. Mona listened attentively, nodding and smiling politely at all the right parts while poking at her plate. Just like her mother had been before her passing (God she looked so much like her mother) Mona tended not to eat as much when she was nervous. “What’s on your mind?” Paul finally asked when he’d decided Mona wasn’t going to broach the subject herself. “Nothing,” Mona looked up from her chicken. “Oh,” Paul said, not buying it for an instant. “So how’s the extra pilot practice going?” Mona sulked a bit before letting out a heavy sigh and saying, “Not well.” “That bad, huh?” Paul asked. Based on his daughter’s glum expression, it’s something that didn’t really need to be asked. “It’s just…” Mona stuttered, trying to find her words. “I mean…it’s like…” her brow furrowed as she started to cut her chicken into smaller and smaller pieces. “You see…” cut chicken became chopped. “Dr. O’Brien says…” chopped became diced. “I’m too…” diced became minced. “I don’t know!” Her chicken was now all but liquid. “You’re too tense.” Paul summed it up. “Ohmygosh!” Mona huffed. “Yes! That’s totally it.” “You always get too tense,” Paul said. “Remember when you were learning how to ride a bike?” “Yeah, but this time there’s no training wheels,” Mona said. “And it’s not like you can hold the seat and run behind me to get me started.” She paused for a moment and then threw a Paul a hopeful glance that said “Wait…can you?” Paul quietly shook his head, “no”, then quietly chuckled at the image of him, in Rex, running behind and holding another mech by the waist as Mona tried to get a handle of the control systems. “Well you’re already getting in lots of extra practice time,” Paul said in between bites. “What else can be done?” “I don’t know,” Mona was beginning to deflate. Then Paul got an idea. “Maybe you should stop going,” he offered. “Daddy!” Mona jerked back up, looking hurt. “Hear me out,” Paul held up his hand. “You’ve been going all week long, on Spring Break no less, to get extra practice, right?” Mona nodded her head. “And have you been getting any better? ” “Worse, it feels like.” Mona admitted. “You’re at a frustrational point,” Paul told his daughter. “If you work out the same muscles again and again without giving them a little rest, you’re just going to hurt yourself. Works like that with any skill. So why don’t you take the rest of your Spring Break off? Actually take a break.” “A break?” Mona’s head perked up. “You mean like…a party?” “Yyyyeeeah.” Paul said hesitatingly. “I’m not throwing a party here, though.” “Oh no, no, no, no, no!” Mona quickly corrected him. “But I did get invited to a party today.” “Oh?” Paul’s brow arched in curiosity. “By who?” “Remember Kourtney Brewer?” she said. “That weird little rich girl that you were friends with back in middle school?” Paul asked. “Yeah, her.” Mona nodded. “Are her parents going to be there?” Paul asked. “What does that matter? I’m eighteen?” Mona reminded her father. “Fair enough,” Paul nodded. “Is it at her place? Like is her name on the deed?” “No…” Mona admitted. “So will her parents be there?” Paul pressed. “If things get wild at a party, it helps to know that someone who has their name on the deed will be there to un-wild it a little.” “Dad, you know me,” Mona pouted, sticking her lip out a bit. “If things get really weird, I’ll get out of there.” Paul mulled it over in his mind a bit. She had never given him a reason to distrust her before. That Brewer kid always was an odd duck. He remembered when she had slept over a couple of years ago and marveled that they cooked their own food instead of eating out every night. Still, this wasn’t about Kourtney Brewer, this was about Mona. What was the point of her being responsible if she was never rewarded with trust? “Fine,” Paul nodded, finishing the last of his chicken. “You can go. I’ll give you a ride.” “That’s okay.” Mona blushed. Paul couldn’t know why, but the gears in his little girl’s head were definitely turning now. “What, you don’t want a ride? It’s no problem,” he offered. “Strapped in a carrier harness to your mech like I’m some kind little kid?” Mona shook her head. “No thanks.” “Fair enough.” Paul shrugged. He’d never thought of it that way, but the resemblance was undeniable. “But,” he punctuated with his fork poking the air, “I hear any reports about noise complaints or public disturbances, I’ll be coming to drag you out of there; just like you’re some little kid. Just don’t do anything stupid.” “Stupid? Like what?” Mona asked, her body suddenly rigid. “High schoolers, even eighteen year olds do stupid stuff all the time,” he lectured. “Drugs. Booze. The usual stuff that you know better than to do. Sometimes the not so usual. One of my buddies, a school resource officer says there’s even this fad going on with the rich kids where they wear diapers all day, even if they’re not in a S.U.I.T.” “Doesn’t that kind of make sense in a weird way?” Mona asked. “You spend most of your time wearing them, with the hours you work.” Mona’s tone was playful, joking even. Paul figured Mona was starting to feel better if she could poke fun at her old man. Paul closing his eyes as he polished off the last of his beer is the only thing that stopped him from noticing Mona’s eyes shifting guiltily. “I wear to work.” Paul admitted. “Doesn’t mean I do it for funzies. I’m not wearing now, am I? Also, how do you explain the pacifiers or the girls wearing short skirts to show it off?” “I don’t know.” Mona shrugged. “People do stupid stuff sometimes.” She left it at that. Paul was willing to leave it at that too. “Just don’t you be one of them, okay pumpkin?” he jabbed his fork at her. Mona lowered her head, gazing at her almost liquefied chicken. “Yes sir.” Trevor It was late. Most everyone on the lot was gone, save for the cleaning crew and some of the bean counters. There certainly weren’t any customers left on the lot. No one to keep up appearances for, no one to sell a S.U.I.T. to, but Trevor remained. Trevor should be long gone – would be long gone, too- if it weren’t for his boss. Mr. Meyer had asked that he stay late so that they could have a little chat in private. Trevor had only been invited to this little meeting about half an hour before the last of the customers left the lot. It was the weekend, and the lot would be closed tomorrow. Payday was today. All of these were the perfect storm of cues that Trevor was about to be fired. If Trevor hadn’t already been wearing an incontinence brief, he would have needed one. Trevor assured himself that he wasn’t going to be let go. He had a terrific sales record, with absolutely no complaints from customers. He was almost always the top salesman each month, except for that onetime when Carl swept the rug out from under him, (fuck Carl). The point was, Trevor’s customers always got what they wanted off the lot, even if they hadn’t known they were wanting it when they walked on. Trevor was a great salesman. He made Mr. Meyer plenty of money, and there was no logical reason for Trevor to get fired. The thing is, logic and paranoia weren’t good buddies, and deep down, Trevor was much more familiar with paranoia than he was with logic. He was a salesman. Logic and facts had very little to do with selling people the latest model with all the bells and whistles that they’d play with a few times before forgetting about it and just piloting it around town just like their old model. To sell as well as he did, he had to tap into people’s insecurities; to know what they liked about themselves and wanted to make better or what they hated about themselves and wanted to hide or compensate for. The double edged sword of this was his own insecurities were typically in the forefront of his mind. So, despite all logical analysis that this was just going to be a bit of nothing at the worst and great news at the best, Trevor was sweating bullets. He stood stock still in his S.U.I.T. in the high ceilinged building on the lot, only moving his fingers ever so slightly to type on the virtual keyboard so he could pay some bills while he waited. He hesitated to log onto his Social Meeds; he wasn’t quite off the clock yet and didn’t want to be accused of loafing on company time. The shushed pushing of brooms along the floor way-still done by people in non-mechanical clothing for some reason- was the only sound in the room. “Trevor?” a growl echoed from Mr. Meyer’s office. “You still there, boy?” Trevor jerked a bit and snapped to attention, quickly cutting the feed to the internet. “Yes sir, Mr. Meyer!” Trevor called back. “Get in here,” his boss called back. “We need to chat.” The heavy footsteps of Trevor’s mech echoed off the walls as Trevor gingerly walked to Old Man Meyer’s office. It took him almost no time at all to get to the entrance way. There was just one problem: Mr. Meyer’s office hadn’t been built with S.U.I.T.s in mind. Even if Trevor had gotten down on his hands and knees and crawled he probably wouldn’t have been able to fit into the office. It was a little like being a cat outside of a mouse hole. Trevor awkwardly bent over and looked in. Trevor hadn’t been inside Mr. Meyer’s office since he interviewed for his job several years ago, but it hadn’t changed. Meyer’s big oak desk was still in impeccable condition, with rows of plaques from various local charities and business awards on the wall behind it. Old Man Meyers sat, staring dourly at an old two dimensional computer screen. He was an old potato: wrinkly in some places, while being lumpy and rounded in the middle, with almost gangly limbs and boney fingers tapping at the keyboard. Trevor could never quite figure out the color of the man’s eyes because they were in a perpetual squint. Meyer either needed glasses, and was too stubborn to get them, or he was constantly sizing people up and staring them down. Probably both. His pants with red suspenders and the matching bow tie might’ve looked charmingly old fashioned on another man, but his perpetual scowl and that little ring of hair that circled from ear to ear on an otherwise bald head just made him look old. Old, but not frail. Had Charles Dickens ever met this man, there would have been no wonder where he had gotten the inspiration for Ebenezer Scrooge. “Don’t just stand there,” Mr. Meyer looked up from his desk. “Get in here.” “I don’t think I can fit,” Trevor said leaning so he could see into the doorway. He was vaguely reminded of the time when he sat with his sister’s kid. Kid had a little plastic playhouse that she liked to play in and fit in it pretty well, but Trevor would have had to be a contortionist to fit in. He wasn’t part of the three and under crowd and was literally too big to play with his niece. That’s how he’d gotten out of a tea party. Only this time, the little person in the tiny room inviting him in was his boss. “And I’m not exactly properly dressed under the S.U.I.T. I would’ve brought something to change into but I didn’t know about this until-“ “Then climb out of that tin can and come in,” Mr. Meyer interrupted impatiently. “I don’t have all night.” “Yes sir,” Trevor heard himself say as he disengaged from the cockpit. Naked save for the bulk of the wet incontinence brief pulled up between his legs, Trevor climbed down out of the fantasy he sold and into the harsh, cold reality. Gravity seemed more accentuated to Trevor as he felt his already soaked brief droop toward the floor. Normally this wasn’t a problem. The S.U.I.T. kept the brief close to him and prevented it from falling. Now that he was out of the S.U.I.T. and nowhere near a trashcan, Trevor felt the slow tickling crawl as his undergarment started inching towards the ground. He gave it quick yank up his hips to make sure it wouldn’t leave him completely naked as he took a few fumbling steps forward. Shivering from exposure, Trevor crossed his arms (for lack of pockets) and walked into Mr. Meyer’s office. Mr. Meyer didn’t smile as much as he frowned less when Trevor walked in. He sniffed the air and wrinkled his nose before his perpetually squinted eyes settled onto the yellow tinged crotch of Trevor’s diaper. Trevor immediately regretted drinking so much coffee that day. “Like I said,” Trevor tried to say. “I don’t normally have to change at work. So I’m not prepared for a more formal setting.” “Just sit down,” Mr. Meyer growled. Trevor walked-more of a waddle really- to the leather upholstered chair across from his employer. “Not that one,” Mr. Meyer snipped before Trevor could sit down. “You might leak or something. I am not risking one of my good chairs. Pull over one of those and sit down.” He gestured and Trevor looked over his shoulder. In one corner of the office was a little plastic table with bead mazes and board books and other little diversions that a kindergartener or pre-schooler might like. At the table were similarly sized chairs. “Grandkids,” Mr. Meyer said by way of explanation. Trevor went over and moved one of the smaller plastic chairs over so he could sit across from his boss. His knees were above his bellybutton, and the fit was more than a little tight. His brief squished beneath him as he sat down. If he wasn’t in danger of leaking before, the tight fit was making it a definite possibility. Just like how one’s head itches when they think of lice, Trevor couldn’t help but feel a phantom trickle run down his inner thigh as he adjusted his seat and felt the bulging squish of the saturated diaper. At least he hoped it was a phantom trickle. The seat was so low, that he couldn’t actually see over Mr. Meyer’s desk and look the man in the eye. Mr. Meyer reached into a glass jar on his desk and took out a cellophane wrapped hard candy before leaning over and offering it to Trevor. “Candy?” Mr. Meyer offered gruffly. Trevor thought about accepting it, but given his current circumstances, didn’t like the image that presented. He was already wearing nothing but a wet diaper sitting in a kiddie chair, his hair mussed from fourteen some odd hours of S.U.I.T. helmet hair. Might not be best to be sucking on a stickless lollipop. Trevor shook his head, declining. “Good,” Mr. Meyer nodded, before unwrapping the confection and popping it into his mouth. “More for me.” All Trevor could do was nervously chuckle as he sat there practically naked and powerless in front of the old man. “Comfy?” Mr. Meyers asked as he smacked his lips around his own hard candy. “Yes,” Trevor lied, trembling. Mr. Meyers stopped and glared down at his employee. He hadn’t liked Trevor’s last response. “Cut the crap,” Mr. Meyer snapped. “Save the bullshit for the customers. I want the truth.” “Yes sir,” Trevor said automatically as he sat up in the tiny chair a little straighter. His mind was racing. This wasn’t a meeting. This was a test. And so far, he wasn’t doing very well. It was time to bring his A game. “So I’ll ask you again,” Mr. Meyer paused. “Are you comfortable?” “Not at all sir,” Trevor said, confidently. “I actually feel kind of silly.” “Good,” Mr. Meyer nodded, smacking his lips around the hard candy. “Because you look ridiculous. Tell me more.” “More?” Trevor asked. “Why am I having this conversation with you? Why here? Why now? Why like this?” Trevor closed his eyes and thought for a minute. He inhaled and caught the faint scent of ammonia wafting from between his legs. That part wasn’t so smart. The smell was distracting him. Trevor bit his tongue a bit, just a nip, to bring his attention back to focus. Mr. Meyer had put Trevor in the position of a rube, a customer. But a good salesman never did anything without purpose. Trevor was being asked what the purpose was. “You want to put yourself in a position of power over me.” Trevor spoke, his eyes still closed. “That’s why you didn’t give me any notice so that I could bring a change of clothes or prep myself. That’s why you wanted this meeting in your office so I wouldn’t have my S.U.I.T. That’s why I’m pretty much naked in a diaper in a chair that’s too small for me. “And the candy?” Trevor heard Mr. Meyer’s chair squeak and opened his eyes so that he could see his boss leaning over his desk and stare down at him. Trevor met his gaze, unblinking. “The candy is another power play.” Trevor said. “You want to see if I’ll take your offer of comfort or not. You’re testing for weakness. You’re also eating it to show me how comfortable and relaxed you are. You’re projecting strength.” “Good,” Mr. Meyer actually smiled, albeit grimly. “Also,” Trevor added, with a bit of bravado, “you think you might need me for something.” Mr. Meyer stopped sucking on his candy for a second and arched an eyebrow. Turns out his eyes were brown. “That’s why we’re doing this meeting so late when almost everyone else has gone home,” Trevor said. “You want me in this embarrassing and compromising position, but if anyone but you were to see me like this, it might make me lose clout and I’d be less useful to you. My ideas have less weight if the people hearing them don’t respect me, so you’re getting your jollies in private.” “Huh,” the boss frowned. But it wasn’t an angry frown. It was almost (if there could be such a thing) a frown of approval. “You are good, Trevor. I’ll give you that.” “What do you need me for, sir?” Trevor leaned back to show that he was relaxed. He would have crossed his legs to seem even more at ease except the bulk of his diaper made it less than possible. “CyberCorp is coming out with another upgrade, soon,” Mr. Meyer told him. “One that will revolutionize the industry.” “Yeah?” Trevor leaned forward to show his interest, not even worried about being all but naked in front of his employer now that he was more in control of the situation. “What kind of upgrade?” “Can’t tell you.” Mr. Meyer answered. “But it’s going to blow everything up till now out of the water. Stuff that wasn’t even possible until recently.” “Will it sell well?” Trevor asked. “It damn well better,” Mr. Meyer growled. “This kind of thing is a sink or swim proposition. Change the world and make the smart people on the ground floor rich, type of thing. But it’s going to piss a lot of people off, too. There’s going to be a lot of protests in the coming months. It’s going to be either really fashionable to own a mech, or it’s going to be the kiss of death.” “Where do I come in?” Trevor asked. “How do I help avoid sinking?” “Corporate’s already got a damn fine marketing campaign ready to roll, but all the ads in the world are worth bupkus if the boys on the lot can’t or won’t sell them.” “I’ll sell the hell out of whatever needs to be sold,” Trevor smirked. “I know that. But I need you to be more than a salesman in the coming months. I want to promote you to sales instructor.” Mr. Meyer said. “Sales instructor?” Trevor asked. “Over the next few weeks,” Mr. Meyer explained, “I want you to take some time and teach the others how you manage to sell so many S.U.I.T.s. Make them into little miniature versions of you. Then if that takes off, I want to send you around to the different affiliate lots and teach their boys. Corporate wants every lot to have a Trevor or someone damn near like you.” “Really? I’m…I’m honored.” Trevor gushed in earnest. “But you need to understand,” Mr. Meyer reiterated. “A lot of people are going to be coming after us. Academic types. Unions. Protesters. There’s gonna be a lot of pressure. It might be a hard sell. We might even have some people quit the company in protest for all we know. You might not even be able to sell this, never mind teaching anyone else to sell like you.” “I can sell anything,” Trevor stood up with confidence in his voice. “Atta boy,” Mr. Meyer actually smiled. Then he slid the jar over so that Trevor could reach up if he liked. “Candy?” Mona It was a long walk from the Velocity Platform to Kourtney Brewer’s house; a walk made to seem so much longer in Mona’s mind thanks to the thick padding cupping her ass. Several blocks felt like several miles and if it weren’t for the crickets, the loudest thing in Mona’s ears would be the crinkling she heard with every step. This was a mistake. Mona had been telling herself this ever since she had quietly crept out of her house while Dad was in the bathroom. Yeah, Dad knew she was leaving for the party but he hadn’t gotten a glimpse of the diaper bulge from beneath her pants as she left. This was a mistake. She almost never wore skirts, and Dad would have known something was up if he had seen her in one. So she had picked out the baggiest pair of shorts that she had. They still weren’t quite baggy enough, she felt, but that might be because she knew what to look for. Her tie-dye shirt, long since relegated to the status of jammies was long enough that it could have almost doubled as a dress anyway, or at least a sack, so she wore that. This was a mistake. As casual as she had been, she was sure that someone on the Velocity Platform had noticed the crinkling, awkward waddle that she carried herself as she boarded. It didn’t matter that no one even turned their heads in her direction, a little voice inside her head whispered, they were judging her out of the corner of their eyes. This was a mistake. She tried to sit absolutely still in her seat lest the rustling of soft plastic give her away. This was a mistake. That recurring thought amplified a dozen times over as Kourtney Brewer’s house came into view. The dozens of empty S.U.I.T.s all standing like British sentinels on the lawn was a dead giveaway. This! This was a mistake. Not anything before that. This! “I can leave.” Mona whispered to herself. “I can leave. I can leave and not come back and no one will know I was here. I’ll apologize to Kourtney, say something came up. and we’ll just stay friends on Social Meeds.” Then she rang the doorbell. This was a mistake. The door inched open and a pair of unfamiliar eyes peeked out at Mona. “Oh,” a strange, disappointed sounding voice said. “It’s you.” The door opened fully, and standing in front of Mona was the same girl that had been with Kourtney in the locker room the other day. Only now, she was standing in nothing but a powder blue tank top and a plain white incontinence brief. “Hi,” Mona waved shyly. “I’m Mona. Kourtney’s friend…” The girl said nothing. “I’m here for the party…?” Mona said. “Thought you were pizza,” the girl’s lip curled up in disgust. “Come in, I guess.” “Thanks,” Mona said as she crossed the threshold and the girl closed the door behind her. The girl did not say “You’re welcome.” Ahead of Mona in what must have been the living room, Mona could see a crowd of people, all around her age. Some of them were possibly even a little older; college kids. She heard the rhythmic thumping of party music coming that way too. It wasn’t particularly loud. Just the generic track that parties played in case to make any awkward silences not sound too awkward. The music wasn’t as important to Mona. What was, was that she didn’t recognize any of the people she could get a glimpse of. There were no familiar faces in this sea of strangers. More importantly, all of them were naked from the waist down, save for the pull up diapers around their waists. Some of the boys weren’t even wearing shirts. What she didn’t see though, was her friend. “Where’s Kourtney?” she asked the girl who had let her in. “She’s upstairs, changing,” the girl said flatly. “Oh, I’m sorry,” Mona apologized. “Am I here too early? It looks like everyone else is-“ “Into a new diaper,” the girl interrupted Mona, rolling her eyes. “Oh,” Mona blushed. “I knew that.” “Uh huh,” the girl said, not sounding the least bit convinced. Then she seemed to really take Mona in, examining her. “Where’s your diaper bag?” “My what?” Mona asked, her eyes suddenly blushing. “Or backpack or purse or whatever you want to call it,” the girl smirked cruelly; mockingly. “Where’s your bag where you store your pants and keep your extra diapers.” Extra diapers? Extra diapers? Mona froze. She hadn’t even thought to sneak out some spares in a backpack with her when she left for the party. She had no intention of needing them. She still had on a pair of normal panties beneath the incontinence brief she wore. Mona might be wearing a pull up because that’s what all the “cool kids” at this party were doing, but she had no actual intent of using it. Who would voluntarily piss themselves when there were perfectly good toilets around and available? Kourtney and all of her private school buddies, apparently; all of them rich kids willing to do something completely foolish and backwards because they were bored or because some trendy new fad demanded it. She had walked into the lion’s den, and this lion, this friend of Kourtney’s had looked at her and saw prey, not a fellow predator. The thing about being prey, Mona knew, is that sometimes survival was more about blending in, not running away. She had come this far and hadn’t even seen Kourtney. No point in going back now. “I…I forgot it…?” Mona lied. She expected any number of reactions, but not the sudden snorting guffaw into a full on belly laugh that rang out from the mean girls’ lips. Neither did she expect to notice the slight color change- from white to off-white- as the girl laughed so hard she wet herself. The girl’s belly laugh died down to a chuckle before she finally stopped herself and looked Mona in the eye again and stared her in the eyes unblinking. Had Mona unexpectedly peed her pants in front of a complete stranger, she wouldn’t be laughing. Her laughter would have given way to a shocked gasp and panicking, fumbling hands feeling the warmth around her crotch, desperately trying to make sure that urine wasn’t trickling down her thighs. Kourtney had mentioned something the other day about “unpotty training” herself. This girl who was interrogating Mona must be in the same camp, and was evidently pretty successful in it. She was either too incontinent to notice or stop herself from wetting her diaper, too comfortable in the diaper to notice or care that it was suddenly wet, or both. Mona’s mouth hung open in shock as the mean girl walked up- sashayed really- and got close enough to Mona that she could have either kissed her or bitten her nose off. Mona felt herself shaking a bit at the sheer confidence of the girl. How could a girl who had just pissed herself right in front of Mona hold so much power over her? “Honey, let’s be real here,” the mean girl hissed, her hands planted confidently on her padded hips. “You don’t belong here. This isn’t your scene. These aren’t your people. You’re not mature enough to handle this.” “I…I…I…” Mona stammered. Not mature enough? Not mature enough?! Some bitch who was soaking in her own piss was saying that she, Mona Quimby, honors student, wasn’t mature enough for some little pants less party? If she wasn’t so intimidated, she’d be furious! “Mona?” A familiar voice called from above. “Mona, is that you?” Mona looked up, and finally saw a friendly face. Kourtney. She wore an almost neon pink t-shirt that, and of course a diaper. “Oh my Gee!” Kourtney squealed, “I didn’t think you’d come!” Kourtney sprinted down the stairs with the speed and noise of a racehorse, barreling towards Mona. Kourtney’s snotty friend from the locker room the other day didn’t even have a chance to get a single word in before Kourtney thoughtlessly shoved her aside so that she could embrace Mona, jumping up and down as she did so. Things were moving too fast just then for Mona to fully comprehend and appreciate what was going on, but something was different about Kourtney that Mona couldn’t quite get her head wrapped around. She wasn’t sure what, though. Kourtney seemed a little off, even for Kourtney right then. But then again it’d been close to four years since they’d last really seen each other. People can change a lot over four years. It wasn’t until Kourtney broke off the hug- though not before planting two very fake kisses; one on each cheek- that Mona had a chance to fully take Kourtney in. She saw that Kourtney was wearing a pair of perfectly white, practically brand new sneakers. That explained Kourtney’s cacophonous galloping down the stairs, but something about it also struck Mona as odd. Mona snuck a quick glance down the hallway where most of the guests were still socializing, and even took a look a past the mean girl’s scowling face and down to her feet. Everyone besides Mona, who just came in, and Kourtney, who lived here, were barefoot. Part of this made sense. A lot of people, most in fact, piloted S.U.I.T.s barefoot and with minimal clothing unless they were planning on getting out of the machines in public. Her dad even did it. It was likely the same for the majority of the party guests. They just put an incontinence brief on and a comfortable shirt, and then climbed into their mechs and flew over. Then they climbed out, not needing a change of suitable clothing due to the theme and nature of the party, and made a quick dash inside with no one being the wiser. That’s what Mona would have done, had she had her license. But Kourtney was different. This was her house, so there was no need to travel, yet she was diapered, and wore shoes, but couldn’t legally pilot a S.U.I.T. Everyone else might’ve been in their underwear; delighting in being so close to naked and being oh so delightfully “naughty”, but the shoes that Kourtney wore sent an implicit message: She was ready. She was dressed. T-shirt? Check. Diaper? Check. Shoes? Check. Kourtney Brewer was completely dressed with nothing missing in her mind; nothing else was required. No pants. No shorts. No skirt. No problem. She was ready to let the world know that she looked like a giant toddler, and didn’t care. The not caring part, ironically, made her seem all the more grown-up right now. Then Mona did another look over and realized that something else was different about Kourtney: The diaper she wore. Another quick scan around her field of vision confirmed that everyone else wore the same style of diaper, except for Kourtney. Everyone else wore a plain and white incontinence brief with an elastic band that went all the way around. They were effectively wearing very drab and giant versions of the training pants that Mona had worn when she was potty training. They were the same adult incontinence briefs that could be purchased at any grocery or convenience store. Kourtney, Mona could now clearly see, wasn’t wearing one of those. Her brief was decently more padded and bulky. Also, there was a blue line going down the middle that Mona suspected would either disappear or change color when wet. And most noticeably were the four tapes- two on each side- that held the brief in place. You only saw these kind of things in pharmacies and medical supply stores. Mona had spent too many hours fretting that she’d have to wear training pants if she wanted to get her S.U.I.T. license. She had bemoaned that she’d have to wear something so juvenile in order to become an active member in adult society. Now, one of her best childhood friend was wearing something that more closely resembled an actual diaper. That was Kourtney, to a T. Kourtney; always the trendsetter. She was a two-year-old in a room full of three- year-olds. There was no sense of superiority that Kourtney’s friend, projected, and certainly not the sense of shame that Mona was feeling just by looking at her. She was just Kourtney. “Kourtney,” Kourtney’s bitchy friend tapped her on the shoulder. “Your little friend here didn’t bring any extra diapers.” Kourtney just shrugged. “So? I’ve got plenty. I don’t mind sharing.” “She didn’t even bring anything for those shorts,” the other girl pressed. “No biggie,” Kourtney shrugged again. “She can just fold them up and toss them in the bag area.” “Og,” the other girl stomped her bare foot. “Not what I mean, Kourtney, and you know it.” Kourtney whirled around and looked the other girl in the eye. “No, Monica. I don’t know,” Kourtney said. Her voice was suddenly steel. “Why don’t you tell me?” “She’s not one of us. She’s not really unpotty training herself. She’s not a futurist! She’s not cool!” The mean girl, Monica, said, punctuating each accusation with a point of her finger. “Monica.” Kourtney took a deep breath. “Go back to the party. Wait for the doorbell to ring. Then get the pizza.” Monica just slumped her shoulders and walked back to the living room where the rest Kourtney’s guests were busy laughing, dancing, and drinking. There was no arguing. There was no explanation asked or given. Kourtney had spoken. She tended to have that effect on people. “Sorry about Monica,” Kourtney turned back around to face Mona. “She’s kind of my best friend since freshman year. She’s a total bitch.” “Yeah,” Mona nodded. “So is it true?” Kourtney asked, abruptly. “Are you really not into this? I thought you were. You said you were.” “Honestly,” Mona sighed and closed her eyes, willing the truth to come out. “The whole diapers thing freaks me out. I don’t like piloting and the peeing your pants thing so that you can stay in your S.U.I.T. longer is the thing that bothers me most.” “So you lied to me.” Kourtney said. It wasn’t a question. It was fact. “Yeah.” Mona looked away. “I did.” “You know I wouldn’t have invited you to the party if you had been upfront with me, right?” Kourtney asked. Mona just nodded. Then Kourtney did something that surprised her. “Awwwww,” Kourtney all but cooed. “You were willing to lie to me so that you could come to my party and wish me well! You still are a good friend!” Then she gave Mona another big hug. “Come on,” Kourtney took Mona’s hand. “Stay. It’ll be like old times.” “Okay,” Mona agreed, feeling extremely relieved. She started to walk to living room, but was jerked backwards. “Not so fast,” Kourtney said pulling Mona back. “First we have to get you ready.” Mona felt her stomach sink a bit as Kourtney began to drag her by the hand towards a closed door. “This’ll take just a minute.” Mona was led to an indistinct little room on the first floor, with a bed a bookshelf in it, but not much else. The room didn’t have much character, really. It was likely a guest room rather than a full time bedroom. Mona thought sarcastically that this might even be something akin to “the servants quarters”, considering how rich Kourtney’s parents were, but she decided to keep that thought to herself. The carpet was already littered with backpacks and satchels that had been haphazardly tossed in. One satchel bag had been left wide open and Mona could see its contents of incontinence briefs. A little nightstand by the head of the bed had a tub of baby wipes and a bowl filled with little pink pills. There was a heavy duty plastic garbage can with a lid on the top at the foot of the bed. Mona had a guess of what was already in it, but definitely didn’t want to confirm that guess. Kourtney must have seen the look on Mona’s face, because she went over to the garbage can and gave the lid a firm pat. “Gross, right?” Kourtney asked. Mona nodded. “Well in a few years, these will be a thing of the past.” “I hope so,” Mona agreed. She thanked her lucky stars that her dad didn’t make her take out the trash because of its contents. The thought of adding her own soggy diapers to the mix made it seem even more disgusting. “Instead, we’ll get bigger and more convenient diaper pails,” Kourtney smiled. If Kourtney noticed Mona’s smile sinking at that thought, she was kind enough not to bring it up. “Seriously,” Kourtney said. “Just wait and see. That’s why I’m leaving.” “Why are you leaving?” Mona asked, still bewildered at the set of circumstances that had led her here. “To get on the ground floor of the next big thing,” Kourtney explained. “To make my mark. To become famous.” Then, apropos of nothing, she giggled. “Sorry.” She said. “I’m having some trouble focusing tonight. Let’s get you ready, then we’ll catch up.” As she said “catch up,” Kourtney had managed to maneuver her thumbs into the waistband of Mona’s shorts and yanked down as fast as she could, dropping her body down to the floor with Mona’s shorts. “HEY!” Mona screamed, suppressing every urge to swat, if not slug, her friend. “Wow, you weren’t kidding. You really are new at this, aren’t you?” Kourtney looked up “Relax, Mona,” she scoffed. “You’re wearing a diaper. You’ve got more surface area covered than most bathing suits do, and you’ve got more material than if you wore three pairs of panties.” Mona thought of her own panties just beneath the brief, and bit her tongue to chase away how awkward she felt. “Now step out.” Kourtney commanded. “What about my shoes?” Mona asked. “Shouldn’t I take mine off?” “Would you rather look like everyone else at my party,” Kourtney asked, “or would you rather look like me?” Mona stepped out, leaving herself in just a t-shirt, diaper, and sneakers. Kourtney stood up and folded Mona’s shorts neatly, placing them on the bed. Then, she stepped back and looked over Mona like an artist looks at her canvas. “Something’s missing,” she said. “Your shirt is a little too long. Too baggie, too.” “Sorry,” was all that Mona felt she could say. “No, I’ve got this,” Kourtney replied before turning around and started rifling around through back packs. Mona waited, rocking on her heels, nervously. Kourtney wasn’t looking for a bigger diaper or something, was she? “Found it,” Kourtney nodded to herself as she pulled something out of a backpack. It was a belt. “This is Brett’s,” she said. “He walked here, too.” Kourtney walked over to Mona and wrapped and tightened the black leather strap around Mona’s waist. “This will be just the thing.” The belt, now hugging her hips gave form revealing shape to the shapeless and baggie t-shirt. As simple as that, Mona’s long concealing t-shirt had been transformed into a short revealing dress. If Mona bent over, anyone would be able to have a good glimpse at her padded behind. The simple act of raising her hands above her head would give anyone a glimpse at her padded crotch. And just like Kourtney, her own sneakers- though infinitely more worn than Kourtney’s- gave the impression that she was fully dressed. “Tre magnifique,” Kourtney smiled, admiring her own handiwork. “Just one more thing.” Kourtney reached into the bowl on the nightstand beside the bed. She offered a little pink pill to Mona. “What is it?” Mona asked. “It’s called Re-Lease,” Kourtney said. “It’s cool.” “That doesn’t tell me anything,” Mona replied warily, staring at the pill as if Kourtney were holding a venomous snake. She’d never heard of Re-Lease before, but doing drugs was definitely on the list of things that Dad had warned her about. “It’s an inhibition inhibitor and anxiety reducer,” Kourtney told her. “It’s like a couple shots of vodka and a joint without the weird tipsy feelings, and no hangover afterwards.” “Is it illegal?” Mona asked. “Do you need a prescription?” “Most people don’t even know it exists,” Kourtney assured her. “So it can’t be illegal. I got it from a club a few weeks ago. Apparently if the owner likes you, he lets you take the stuff home. He really liked me.” “But my dad…” Mona began to object. “Will never know.” Kourtney assured her. “I’ve taken these before and then gotten drug tested like the next day. Nothing in my blood. Nothing in my piss. Nothing in my hair. Completely undetectable.” For perhaps the first time in her life- in any meaningful way at least- Mona felt actual peer pressure to do something that she knew was against her father’s wishes. “Will you take one with me?” Mona asked, reaching for the pill with trembling hands. “Mona,” Kourtney giggled. “I’ve already had two, one is supposed to last you the night. I’m tripping balls.” That explained a lot, actually. Then again, Kourtney seemed very in control of her faculties. What was Mona thinking?! Was she actually trying to justify drug use to herself? This was crazy. Mona knew she shouldn’t be doing this. Then again, Mona shouldn’t be wearing a diaper for recreational purposes. She shouldn’t be hanging out with these kids who were actively trying to become incontinent. She shouldn’t be stressing out so much about getting a S.U.I.T. license to the point where she was failing. Mona closed her eyes, said a little prayer to herself, and then tossed the little pink pill down her throat. “You’re going to want to wear one of these to bed tonight,” Kourtney pointed to Mona’s crotch. “Maybe something thicker, even, just in case.” “Why?” Mona asked, feeling a knot in her throat form as she did. “It has the eensy-weensy side effect of making you wet the bed for a night or two afterwards.” Kourtney said. “But it’s still a really clean buzz.” “WHAT?!” Mona shrieked. She was shaking with a combination of fear and rage. She had been humoring her friend in coming to this place and dressing so ridiculously. All of that had been her choice. But now the choice was being taken out of her hands. “It’s okay it’s okay!” Kourtney through her hands up, trying to calm Mona down. “It’s not permanent.” “The FUCK?” was all Mona could say. Her voice cracked with uncertainty, she was so unused to cursing. “It’s okay. It’s not permanent! It’s not permanent!” Kourtney kept repeating. “You’ll be fine. It’s not permanent unless you take them every night for, like, a month. And even then, that’s more like your bladder atrophying from not holding it in for a month. Nothing to do with the pill.” “I DON’T WANNA…” Mona shouted, then immediately stopped herself and dropped her volume down to a whisper. “I don’t wanna piss myself.” “Then you won’t.” Kourtney assured her. She reached out and put a hand on Mona’s shoulder. Mona shuddered at the touch, involuntarily, but didn’t push Kourtney away. “It’s an inhibition inhibitor. That’s all. Most people stop wetting the bed because they’re told not to. The Re-Lease just gets rid of the guilt. You’re still in the driver’s seat.” “Then why am I going to wet the bed?” Mona asked, taking Kourtney’s other hand into her own. “It just gets rid of the guilt,” Kourtney repeated. “It doesn’t actually make you incontinent. It just removes certain roadblocks so when you’re asleep your body goes on autopilot because you’re not actively stopping yourself from acting. If you really don’t want to wet the bed, you won’t.” “Promise?” Mona asked. “Pinky promise,” Kourtney said, twirling her pinky in Mona’s. The two girls embraced and Mona began to feel a deep, almost electric tingling work its way through her whole body. Alien, foreign thoughts came into her mind telling her the most unusual things, but all in her own voice. Relax. You’re safe. Have fun. All will be well. Was she really thinking these things? Was neurotic little Mona telling herself to have fun? “Yeah,” Kourtney giggled. “You’re feeling it.” She let go of Mona and took her hand. Let’s go party. We’ll catch up after I introduce you to my friends. Jody Jody sat in her loft apartment, doing what she usually did on weekends: Sitting on her couch, sipping wine, while looking for teaching positions on the internet, completely naked. She didn’t like the diapers she had to wear to get through her long shifts at the daycare, but some nights Jody didn’t see the point in putting on regular adult clothes at all. Why bother enjoying herself? She’d have to put on the same t-shirt and pull up diaper when she got up for work the next day anyways. Going buck naked at home was the closest compromise she was willing to give herself. If she had had the money or the time to get therapy, that therapist might have said that Jody was dealing with depression and self-medicating with alcohol. Good thing for her that she couldn’t’ afford a psychologist. “Nope,” she clicked off a link. Classroom experience required, and her current job didn’t count for some reason. “Nope.” She wouldn’t apply for the school substitute position, even if it promised promotion to full teacher “at first available opportunity.” She couldn’t afford a pay cut that drastic for a “maybe”. “Nuh-uh.” She didn’t have the certifications for that position, or the time to get them. “Damn.” More experience required that she didn’t have. She was in a Catch-22 with her career. She wanted to be a teacher, but didn’t have the experience to be hired as one. The only way she could get experience, though, was to be hired. And over the years of “Thank you, we’ve heard enough,” Jody had learned the hard way that plenty of educational institutions actually looked down on people who worked with S.U.I.T.s. Enough message boards had told her that teachers unions were throwing perpetual shit fits to keep them out of the classroom, and with it came a stigma from those who used mechs. Jody had a degree in early childhood education, but she wasn’t a real teacher because she had to teach out of a mech, typically following a pre-written and prescribed script and dialogue. Her degree meant nothing to her employers other than she was interested in working with kids. A trained monkey could do her job, she felt, some days. A few years ago, she had sworn the daycare gig would be a temporary job. But it was looking now more and more that she was stuck and dependent on the piece of metal that imprisoned her for twelve to fourteen hours a day. From her couch, she looked over her shoulder at her S.U.I.T., it’s projector function showing the various teaching leads that kept coming up short of Jody’s needs. She still needed this thing just to look for a replacement for it. She was dependent on it. She chased away how sick that made her feel by emptying her wine glass. Mona “So,” Mona had said as she emptied her plastic cup. “What is this stuff?” She grinned and giggled. She was rebelling against her father, and getting to hang with an old friend, and loved it. It had only been a few hours, and she likely only had an hour or so more before she’d have to think about going home, but for the time being that didn’t matter. “Apple juice,” Kourtney said, knocking back her own before grabbing a slice of cheese pizza and chomping down on it with gusto. Kourtney had made the rounds, introducing her old friend from middle school, and Mona had clung to her side like a puppy. But it was more out of familiarity than out of fear, this time. The boy whose belt she was wearing to make her baggie shirt into an impromptu dress recognized it, but offered to let her keep it. And even Monica, the shrew who had told Mona she hadn’t belonged, seemed to have loosened up. She didn’t apologize to Mona, of course, but when Mona came out of the room, all dolled and diapered up, she sniffed and gave Mona a nod of grudging approval. She got many compliments on her new outfit and how “cute” she was, both by boys and girls. She blushingly smiled and looked away, causing many “awwws.” This didn’t help her blushing, but she definitely felt more flattered than embarrassed. Were they flirting with her? Was this what being flirted with felt like? Mona wasn’t sure. As pretty as she was, she was usually so socially awkward that she never got past the first conversation with someone she liked, yet alone a first date. But the gorgeous little pill, and whatever was in her drink was alleviating all that. When the music became a bit more “dancey”, and everyone started boogieing, Mona jumped in the midst (without Kourtney even suggesting it) and started flailing her arms and shaking her hips. What she lacked in skill or even sex appeal, she made up for in enthusiasm. The guilt and anxiety really were being suppressed right now. Then, things had started to get a little too hot. Girls and boys had started to take off their shirts, and began dancing in nothing but their increasingly yellow tinged disposable undies. That was a bit too much for Mona, and Kourtney must’ve sensed it. It didn’t take one song to finish before Kourtney had grabbed Mona by the wrist and led her to a quieter part of the house so that they could “re-hydrate,” and chat like Kourtney had promised. “Apple juice and…?” Mona pressed. Vodka? It had to be vodka. Surely this is what being drunk felt like. She looked down at Kourtney’s diaper and noticed that the blue line down the center had disappeared. The fact that Mona wasn’t instantly grossed out by this idea confirmed that she was indeed drunk. “Just apple juice.” Kourtney said. “Apple juice doesn’t normally taste this good,” Mona gushed. “This is like amazing. I haven’t like apple juice this much since…since…” “Since you were a little kid?” Kourtney finished the thought. “Yeah,” Mona nodded. “It’s the Re-Lease.” Kourtney said, taking another bite of pizza. “Kish dawnt’ve inbishuns.” “What?” Mona asked, unable to understand. “Shorry,” Kourtney said, before swallowing. “I said: Re-Lease is an inhibition inhibitor. Kids don’t have inhibitions, so to some we seem more childlike. But that’s not true. We put on airs as we get older. We think that growing up means we have to be more sophisticated. But that’s a lie that we tell ourselves.” “That’s…” Mona paused, thinking for a moment, “actually pretty deep.” “Thank you,” Kourtney smiled. “Hopefully New York will think so, too.” “Why are you going to New York, anyways?” Mona asked the question she had been wondering ever since she found out about Kourtney’s imminent departure. “I’m going to be a model,” Kourtney said, matter-of-factly. Kourtney was pretty, there was no doubt about that. But so was Mona. So were a lot of other eighteen year old girls. Why was Kourtney so certain beyond typical rich and sheltered overconfidence? “What kind of model?” Mona asked. “This kind of model,” Kourtney patted the swollen and bulging padding between her legs. “I’m gonna one up my parents. Going to be rich and famous.” “Um…porn?” Mona said. “You think I’m going to do porn?” Kourtney scoffed. “I mean maybe when I’m in my thirties and need a career boost, but no. Why porn?” “I mean, there’s a fetish for everything.” Mona shrugged. “And the packages that sell this stuff don’t typically have models. So I just figured you were going into fetish stuff. Not that I judge you or anything. I just figured…I dunno.” “Look,” Kourtney explained, “there’s a reason that me and my friends are getting into wearing diapers twenty-four-seven. This,” she patted her padded crotch again, “is a way of life. This is the future. This party is the future. You’re my friend and my going away gift to you is a glimpse of the future.” She smiled warmly, though perhaps “drunkenly” would also be an apt descriptor. “I’m sorry,” Mona shook her head in disagreement. “I think what you said about putting on airs and stuff was kind of deep. But you’re going to try to take acting like a baby mainstream? I think you took one too many pills.” “Oh, it’s not that, Mona,” Kourtney laughed. “It’s not that at all. My school friends’ parents and my parents all work for CyberCorp. Their all executives or franchisees or investors. And, well, you know how the S.U.I.T.s have kind of made diapers more necessary because of the long shifts and the need to be in them more often.” “Yeah,” Mona nodded, waiting for Kourtney to continue. “There’s going to be an upgrade coming that will blow everyone’s minds. S.U.I.T.s are going to be a necessity. Diapers are going to be a necessity. That means the stigma for wearing them has got to go. I’m going to get myself in on the ground floor.” “And make them cool to wear and use full time?” Mona’s eyes widened in realization. “That’s the plan.” Kourtney grinned again. “People are going to have to be wearing them full time if they want a good job, anyways. Might as well help them have fun with it.” Then a certain dread cut through Mona’s buzz. “Shit,” Mona sulked, not even noticing that she was swearing now. “I’m gonna be jobless. I can’t pilot a S.U.I.T. for beans.” “Believe me,” Kourtney told her. “You’re going to be fine. The new upgrade will be that good. My parents are thinking of hiring Dr. O’Brien from the school, because she’s about to be out of a job, anyways.” “Really?” Mona looked the other girl in the eye. “It’ll be that easy?” “Easy peasy,” she giggled and patted Mona on the back. Mona nodded appreciatively as she reached for her own slice of cheese pizza and crammed it into her mouth. Damn, this pizza was good. Kourtney was a good friend, too. The same crazy thoughts with her “voice”, the uninhibited her, kept reassuring her that everything was alright and she should just enjoy tonight. She felt better at thinking that. She almost purred as she closed her eyes and let the hot cheese and sauce of the pizza coat her tongue and roll down her throat. The only thing that was still making her even remotely uncomfortable was how full her bladder was. She’d been so busy and preoccupied with everything that she hadn’t even thought about going to the potty. It didn’t even occur to her that she should be bothered that she thought “potty” instead of “toilet”. That’s when it happened: Without fully thinking it through, Mona Quimby released her bladder and emptied it for the first time since she was a little girl into her diaper. She smiled goofily as the warmth passed through her panties like a sieve and spread out into her incontinence brief. It wasn’t that bad. Not bad at all. Her free hand wandered down between her legs and pushed the warm wetness against her sex. Very nice. Very nice. She let the pressure from her hand up a bit, teasing herself and noticed how her soaked panties were still clinging to her skin. That might become uncomfortable shortly. Next time she’d have to make sure to ditch the panties. Next time?! “About time,” Kourtney grinned. “Welcome to the future.” “The what?” Mona asked, dreamily. Then she looked down at her hand. She was touching herself as she pissed her pants. Her smile became a frown. Any buzz that she had instantly went away, as stoned, happy, no shame Mona instantly transformed into tense, neurotic, completely humiliated Mona. “Easy, girlfriend,” Kourtney said. “I’m just proud that you finally did it.” “Did it?!” Mona blustered, starting to tear up. “I didn’t do it. I didn’t. I’m sorry. I didn’t.” “Mona, honey, it’s okay. I don’t judge you either.” Kourtney told her. “Heck, if it makes you feel any better, I’ve wet at least three times since you got here. I need a change, too.” Wet? Change? Adults didn’t wet themselves, and when they did it was called something more coarse or derogatory, like pissing yourself. “Wet” was far too passive and innocent to describe what she had done, how thoroughly she had just debased herself. This. This wasn’t adult. This was sick! This was wrong! This was everything that Daddy had warned her against! “Mona, it’s okay.” Kourtney reached for Mona, trying futilely to offer some form of reassurance. “Let’s go get changed. We can do it together,” she offered. “No!” Mona cried out, ducking out of Kourtney’s grasp. This wasn’t her! This was the pill! Not her! This was her stupid friend’s stupid influence convincing her that she needed to be more babyish in order to be more of an adult. “No! No! No! No!” Mona dashed out of the house, crying like a little girl, panties ruined, diaper in need of changing, and no pants. She couldn’t even bear to look back as Kourtney called after her. But at least she had her shoes on. To be continued…. Trevor “Almost home,” Trevor smiled as he descended closer to his neighborhood. His night had gone from one of paranoia and fear to one of ecstatic victory. The meeting with the boss had gone great. He wasn’t getting fired, he was getting a promotion! A big one, too. In a day or two at work, he’d have to hit up Old Man Meyers for a raise before he finished the paperwork and signed on the dotted line to go from “Sales Associate” to “Sales Consultant”. Trevor planned to go home, change out of his wet incontinence brief, and after a long hot shower and a good night’s sleep, go on a shopping binge of his own. Daddy Trevor needed him a new pool table and papa had just likely earned a whole lotta bacon. Trevor laughed and shook his head. Damn, he was corny, and he knew it. Still, he was about to get a raise, so he could afford to be corny. That’s when he saw her. As he was landing near a Velocity Platform stop (the Home Owners Association had a minimum altitude to keep, so it was just easier to land nearby and walk the rest of the way home), he saw a little girl, still in diapers, running after a departing platform. Reflexively, Trevor began running after the Velocity Platform, too, trying desperately to stop it; to wave it down. To let them know that they were leaving a little kid behind. Only as he caught up to her at the stop, did he realize that it wasn’t a little girl, but rather a young lady. He got a better look at her as her run slowed to a jog; then began to a slow walk once it became evident she was missing her ride. She had raven black hair that came down to shoulders, wearing what appeared to be a tie-dye t-shirt with a belt rapped around it so it resembled a short skirt. Whatever it was, it did nothing to hide the puffy white incontinence brief she was wearing. Had somebody stolen her pants? If so, why was she still wearing sneakers? Who did that? The distance and the altered perspective from being in a S.U.I.T. made her seem much smaller than she was, and her attire made her seem much younger than she was. As Trevor got a closer view of the situation, an emergency was really just turning into something that was kind of pathetic. “Excuse me, miss” Trevor called out as he approached. “Are you alright?” The girl ignored him, her body still staring at the Velocity Platform disappearing on the horizon. “Miss?” Trevor called again. Taking a step forward. “Somebody steal your S.U.I.T.?” She turned around, tears streaking down her face. Trevor corrected himself. She wasn’t a lady. Definitely not a kid, either, though. Likely a college freshman or something. Someone about the same age as that one customer he had the other day. “I’m fine,” she said. Everything about her posture and her body said otherwise. “Oh,” Trevor said taking a step back. This was weird. Definitely weird. “You look like you’ve been through something. You want me to call the cops?” “NO!” she screamed, in a panic. For whatever reason, talking to the police was the absolute last thing this girl wanted. “Oooookay,” Trevor said backing away. “Sorry I asked. You do you realize that you’re kind of…exposed, right? “Shut up,” she snapped, stomping her foot. A beat later, her eyes widened and she slapped her hand over her mouth as if she had just said something dirty. “I’m soooo sorry, Mister, I just…just…please don’t tell on me!” Trevor had to consciously check to make sure that the visor on his S.U.I.T. was still down so that the girl couldn’t see his confused expression. The hell was wrong with this kid? That’s all she was, really, just a kid, despite her size. She was dressed the part, anyways. He just shook his head in confusion and walked away. He had a wet incontinence brief of his own to throw away and he had better things to do. “Not my problem,” Trevor told himself. A few steps later, he looked over his shoulder and saw the girl, now sitting on the sidewalk, her knees pulled up to her chest, and her face buried in her knees as her shoulders became wracked with sobs. “Sucks to be her,” Trevor whispered to himself. “But not my problem.” Then the thunder cracked and the first drops of rain began to fall from the sky. Trevor couldn’t help but look at the girl, still unmoving save for her shaking shoulders. His conscience got the better of him. “Damn it.” He stomped back over to her. “Look, kid,” Trevor said, bending over to provide some form of protection from the elements, “It’s starting to rain. Let me give you a lift somewhere.” His S.U.I.T.’s shadow dwarfed her as she looked up into his visor from her spot on the ground. “Go away,” she said flatly. Trevor would’ve liked to, he really would have, but there’s no way his conscience would let him sleep knowing that some dumb kid was stuck out in the rain; and there was no chance in hell he’d let this crazy girl into his home. But how to help her if she wouldn’t let him? He thought for a second, and his sales instincts kicked in. He tapped his visor so she could see his face. After such a long day, the tiredness probably showed on his face. His normally “Dapper Dan” hair likely looked a mess, even with most of it was being obscured by the helmet. Good. Look vulnerable. Non-imposing. Show her that you aren’t a threat. Looking like a bit of a wreck, he felt tired, and looked bad. Looking like a crying overgrown toddler throwing a tantrum, she looked worse. “Look,” Trevor sighed. “I can’t just leave you here. I’d feel guilty about it. You look like you need some help.” “Don’t want your help,” the girl grumbled. “And I get that,’ Trevor replied. “Really I do. But if you stay out here in just your…underwear, you’re going to draw attention to yourself, and the cops are going to come and pick you up anyways.” The girl’s whole body shook at that. She did not like that idea. The idea of being picked up by the police seemed to cause her more anxiety than being left out in the rain. Trevor instantly knew the girl. Not really, but just like any of his customers he knew enough about her to know how to act. This girl was likely some goody two-shoes who was taking a walk on the wild side and something had backfired on her. Maybe her friends had hazed her in some kind of sorority ritual and this was the end result. The point is, this girl was someone who was very afraid of getting in trouble. People who got in trouble weren’t often bothered by the idea. This was just another Daddy’s girl who didn’t want Daddy to find out that she’d been bad. Time to make the sales pitch. “How about this?” Trevor began, “You name a place, and I’ll give you a lift, no questions asked. The police don’t get involved, and you don’t catch your death, and I can sleep tonight knowing I did a good deed.” “How do I know you won’t kidnap me?” the girl asked, scooting away slightly, though still seated on the ground. “S.U.I.T.s. can’t hurt people,” Trevor scoffed. “But they can pick people up,” the girl said, boldly. “Pick them up and carry them away and there’s nothing they can do to escape.” “Fair enough,” Trevor allowed. “But there isn’t much chance hiding that you’re in distress if I’m carrying you. If I was holding you against your will, anybody who saw us would know. This isn’t a police S.U.I.T., so I’m pretty sure people would stop me.“ Just the mention of the police caused the girl to jerk in attention. “You could just take the back roads where no one could see you,” the girl replied. “If I was going to do that,” Trevor countered, “Why wouldn’t I just snatch you up now?” The girl opened her mouth as if to make a point. Then stopped. “So you’re not gonna do anything to…?” she let the comment, part question, part accusation fall to the wind. She thought she was going to be kidnapped and violated in one of the richest, most well-to-do neighborhoods in the city? Seriously, how sheltered was this kid? “You’re cute, but you’re a little young for me, no offense,” Trevor said. “None taken,” the girl said. “And between my diaper, and you’re diaper,” Trevor added, noting that the girl looked three shades pinker the moment he mentioned that she was wearing a diaper, “my libido is kind of on the back burner.” The girl didn’t reply to that. Instead, she stood up, smoothed out her makeshift dress, and lifted her arms up to him. The large, mechanical arms that Trevor controlled reached down and picked her up. Trevor took care to rest her in the crook of his arm and maneuver the shirt so that she wouldn’t be flashing her disposable panties at any passerby. “I don’t have one of those harnesses, right this second,” Trevor said. “And I need my hands to fly. We can make pretty good time if I run down the streets though. Fast enough that you won’t catch a cold from the rain.” “That’s fine,” the girl sighed, less happy, than resigned. “Do you know the apartments along Old Archer Road?” “Yeah, I know that neighborhood. That’s not too far from here.” “Still a bit of a walk,” the girl answered. “Especially in the rain.” “Fair enough,” Trevor nodded as he began to take big lumbering steps and work himself into a steady jog. He could hit thirty miles per hour easily at a leisurely pace. “The apartments along Old Archer Road it is.” Within twenty minutes, they were there, and Trevor was putting the girl back down on her own feet. Trevor had kept his eyes on the road for most of the jog, but every time he looked at his little passenger, he noticed that she was looking anywhere but at him. She had the head-on-a-swivel stare that someone looking out for certain doom had. Trevor decided he was right. This was definitely just a kid who had had something embarrassing happen to her. Even though maybe only a decade separated Trevor and the girl, he couldn’t help but wonder “Was I ever that young and naïve?” “Thanks,” the girl said, looking down at her shoes and not making eye contact. “No problem,” Trevor replied. “One question though.” “What?” the girl asked. “Why are you dressed like that?” The girl closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I went to a party.” She said finally. “Some party,” Trevor said. “Did you lose your mech in a bet or something?” The girl just shook her head. “I don’t have a mech. I don’t pilot a S.U.I.T,” she told him. “Then why the diaper?” he asked. “I’ve got a friend that wants to make diapers…” she paused looking for a word, “popular. And I kind of got overwhelmed.” “Oh?” Trevor remarked. “No offense,” Trevor told her, “but when I first saw you I thought you were a two year old. I’m not sure that’s gonna make them popular.” The girl didn’t scream. The girl didn’t shout. The girl didn’t cry. But everything going on in her eyes told Trevor that she wanted to and was doing everything in her power not to. “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you.” Trevor insisted. “It’s okay,” the girl sniffed. “I’m just having a rough time getting my pilot’s license and this whole diaper thing isn’t making it any easier.” “Think you might’ve jumped into the deep end of that particular pool,” Trevor joked. “Heh, yeah,” the girl laughed in the fake way that people do when they’re trying to appear agreeable. “Well, I wear them when I’m working,” Trevor admitted. “But only when I’m working. But then again, I work a lot. It’s a vicious cycle.” Trevor shrugged. He wasn’t a philosopher. “I’m not much of a piloting teacher, or for popular fashion,” Trevor extended his hand towards the girl. “But I am a salesman.” A card came out of the right index finger of his S.U.I.T. It had cost Trevor a decent chunk of change to get that particular feature installed, but it was worth it. “My Card,” Trevor said. “Look me up when you’re ready for one of these bab…” Trevor stopped. “When you’re ready for one of these beauties,” he corrected himself. “Now get inside before you catch cold.” The girl ran inside, never even looking back. But she had taken the card. Trevor smiled at that. Paul Paul woke up bright and early that morning. Like most every morning before he went to work, he shaved, put on a shirt, and pulled on a disposable brief. Then, as planned, he slipped on his bathrobe so that he could grab a power bar, go into the garage, hang the bathrobe up in the garage and then hop into Rex and go to work. It was a lot of extra work for a few simple steps, but he never could be sure about when Mona would be up and about, and there was no way that she was catching her old man in just his underwear. Mona had already been home and asleep when he had come home last night; apparently her little party with the Brewer kid had been a short one. Paul had breathed a sigh of relief when he checked in on her and found her snoring. He had been prepared to stay up all night when he had gotten home and give his daughter the talk about staying out too late, but Mona never made that an issue. Still chewing on the power bar, Paul climbed into his trusty S.U.I.T. and started it up. “Rex” he cued the computer as he walked out of the garage and took to the sky along his usual route. “Cue up the latest headlines.” Paul stopped flying once he started reading. Normally, Rex’s guidance and safety systems made flying while reading no more dangerous than walking while reading. You only needed to pay half attention to your environment- if that- and the worst that would happen was a little jostle or bump. But reading this required all of Paul’s attention. Mona Mona woke up gently, as she did every morning, the bars of sunlight streaming through the bars in her crib. She sat up and yawned deeply; her thumb- wet and wrinkled- only popping out of her mouth when she stretched her arms toward the ceiling. Her diaper, as usual, was wet and squishy when she woke up. Why was that, anyways? Mona didn’t know, and didn’t really care. Her diaper wasn’t her problem. It was Mommy’s. Speaking of which… Mona opened her mouth to cry out and get Mommy’s attention, as she did every morning when she woke. Words were such a waste. But as she drew in breath, she stopped before she called out. Mommy? Crib? Diaper?! Like waking from a dream, Mona came back to herself and stared in shock and disbelief. Last night, she had gone to bed completely naked (for a change), after discreetly disposing of her incontinence brief and ruined panties followed by a long hot shower. She had gone to sleep in her room. This wasn’t her room, though. This was a giant nursery. The giant crib she was in- and it was a crib; there was no better name for it- was painted lavender to match the walls of the room and the bottom of the walls had blades of grass and flowers stenciled in to resemble a lawn or a garden. From her position- which was very high up from the looks of it; Mona guessed she might be able to climb out, but never could she climb back in- she could make out a large toy box, a rocking chair and a rather large and fully stocked changing table. That’s when Mona looked down at the wet and soggy thing clinging to hips. Oh God, it was true. She was wearing a diaper, just like Kourtney had been wearing, only this one was even more babyish. Two overlarge tapes held her plastic prison on, and they were taped over cartoon pictures that decorated the infantile garment. Worse yet, it was very well used and in need of changing. Perhaps it was appropriate that Mona could make out little cartoon devils on the landing strip, because this was indeed her own personal Hell. “Wakey, wakey!” an unfamiliar, feminine voice called from beyond the nursery door. Mona snapped her head at the nursery door and watched as the person belonging to the voice walked through. Mona’s shock and astonishment were so great, that surely the only reason her diaper didn’t become wetter and warmer was because her bladder had no more to give. The door itself was gigantic. Mona would have had to stand on her tiptoes to grasp the doorknob, and it was likely thick enough to where pushing it would have felt like pushing a boulder uphill. The woman who came through the door was large enough to enter and exit as if it were a normal door. Other than her gigantic size, Mona estimated that she would maybe only came up to the woman’s hip, the woman seemed perfectly normal. Long, bleached blonde hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, while loose fitting scrubs decorated with baby rattles and teddy bears covered the rest of her physique. The woman was pretty, but not in a particularly sexual way; much in the same way that statues or soccer moms can be pretty. “Oh?” The woman remarked as her shadow overtook Mona. “Is my little girl awake already?” “The frick is going on here?” Mona demanded to know, practically shouting at the giant. “Such language,” the tutted as she reached down into the crib and picked Mona up. Mona squirmed and writhed as she was transported onto the woman’s hip. Even though she know she shouldn’t, she couldn’t help but continue to interact with her apparent captor. “All I said was ‘frick’,” Mona complained. “Yes,” the giant woman smiled condescendingly. “But it’s still language. And itty bitty babies don’t need language. Now Momma Lucy is gonna help you get rid of alllllll those big girl thoughts in your ‘ittle baby brain.” She moved with Mona in tow over to the large rocking chair and sat down before shifting Mona over to her lap. “What’s going on?” Mona asked, suddenly too overwhelmed to struggle. The woman ignored Mona, and instead, with one giant hand reached over and gave Mona’s diapered crotch a good firm squeeze. Mona could only gasp and blush as her most private and intimate boundaries were so casually violated. “Wet,” the giantess announced. “Good baby,” she said as she patted Mona on the head. “Momma Lucy will get that taken care of in a jiffy. But first…” she reached down and pulled up her shirt, revealing a nursing bra. “No…” Mona whispered, still paralyzed. “Not that.” The giantess either didn’t hear Mona, or didn’t care, as she opened the nursing bra to show off a large brown nipple, already dripping with creamy white milk, that was just big enough to fit neatly into Mona’s gaping mouth. Time slowed down for Mona as giant, feminine, perfectly manicured hands grabbed her and started to shove her head towards the waiting nipple. Sound became more muted as Mona’s shrieking head was forced closer to the diabolical breast. Without sound, it would have been impossible to tell if Mona was screaming “No,” or just puckering up her lips so that she could nurse and suckle at the giantess’s teat.. “NO!” Mona screamed as she woke with a start, the familiar sound of the garage door opening as Dad went to work letting her conscious mind know that this was real and not a dream. What time was it? Was the sun even up? Who cared? The point was she had just escaped that terrible nightmare. Or had she? Mona looked around her room. No giants. No cribs. No diapers. Just her same old, sensible room. She was safe. But even as she thought that, Mona became increasingly aware of the cold, sticky dampness soaking into her below the waist. Mona looked down. “Oh heck no!” she exclaimed looking down at her urine soaked bed before scrambling onto the floor, ripping the sheets off her torso and the mattress before tossing them back onto the bed. “The heck?!” “How could this happen?” Mona wondered aloud, briefly, before her memories of the past night came flooding back to her. Kourtney had told her, after the fact, that she would likely wet the bed for the next few days after she had popped that little pink pill. What Kourtney hadn’t warned her about was the trippy dreams. “Never doing drugs again,” Mona promised herself as she hurriedly ran her soiled linens to the washing machine. Already the dreams were fading away into Mona’s subconscious, as dreams often do, and she began to laugh and justify her dreams to herself. Giant Mommies? Big baby diapers? Oversized nurseries? Clearly, these images came from Mona’s deep seated and admittedly neurotic fears about being treated as anything other than a full on, and very mature adult. She had had a bad reaction to the Re-Lease, and wouldn’t be experimenting with such things ever again. It had opened up some very bad parts of her psyche that she never wanted to open again, that was all. It was just a dream. A bad trip. They weren’t portentous, just pretentious, she assured herself. After a quick shower and dressing herself in a simple t-shirt and shorts- dang, shorts felt good without several inches of padding- Mona went to her computer and logged on to her Social Meeds. As her eyes scanned the various news articles and advertisements, her face lit up with the screen. And she smiled. This must have been what Kourtney had been hinting at. Maybe she would be able to get her S.U.I.T. piloting license after all. Trevor Trevor woke up in his empty, King size bed relaxed, rested, and triumphant. Yesterday had been pretty good. Promotion? Check. Raise? Check (As far as Trevor was concerned) Day off? Check. Trevor had even managed to do a good deed and help that weird girl while potentially making a new customer. She’d learn to pilot a S.U.I.T. eventually. Almost everyone did unless they had Special- Olympics-level coordination issues. And when she did learn, she’d remember the nice man in the yellow S.U.I.T. that took her home in the rain that one night. Good deeds were supposed to be their own reward, but Trevor figured being able to milk a commission might not be so bad. Trevor yawned and went and made himself some coffee, with plenty of cream, sugar, and caramel syrup; though the ratio of the latter three ingredients probably outweighed the amount of coffee in his cup. Trevor knew what he liked though, and decided to sip his coffee slow this morning and just relax in his pajamas. The only thing that Trevor felt he was missing was someone to wake up next to in that big bed of his. But more money and maybe a little well-earned vacation time, could help with that. Coffee in hand, Trevor picked up his tablet and began sorting through the latest news…and almost spit out his coffee. Jody Jody woke up with a jolt. Her stomach and bladder rumbling, she ran to the bathroom immediately. As soon as the pressures below were lessened, she felt a third pressure building up and rising up her throat. She gave herself a courtesy flush just in time for her to stand up, turn around and violently vomit into bowl. Too much wine. Definitely too much wine. Good thing she didn’t have work today. Showing up hung over might be frowned upon. Though really, as long as she didn’t vomit, how would they know? She kept the visor down most days, lest one of her little “darlings” try to spit in her face (that had become a new game of theirs…joy), and as long as she didn’t need to vomit no one would have reason to suspect. Where was she supposed to vomit, anyway? It’s not like she could fit in the almost derelict bathrooms at the center. She could vomit in one of the sinks, she supposed, but she suspected her supervisors might frown on that. But today was much too good a day to worry about going to a terrible job when she had zero work to do. It was the weekend and it was her day to relax. She’d worry about lesson plans and developmental progress morning tomorrow. Today was a day to rest, and to detox. She had her S.U.I.T turn to her favorite cartoons and project them on the wall as she went and made herself a bowl of sugary cereal drenched in milk. The first spoonful hadn’t even been swallowed when her favorite show was interrupted by a “very special announcement”. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she realized she’s have to clean up the cereal and milk that just splattered onto her floor. But as her eyes took in the images and read the words on screen, cleaning up wasn’t her top priority. Jody couldn’t stop crying. Her life was over. She’d never be a teacher now. Not a real one, anyways. Real teachers were about to go extinct. She was just another cog in the machine, if that. A truly glorified babysitter. Infinitely replaceable. Infinitely expendable. Fuck cereal. She needed more wine. Trevor Trevor smiled and finished his coffee and grinned. “Those sly bastards,” he said before hopping into his S.U.I.T. He wasn’t going to work today, but he just needed to make a quick call. He made a mental note of how roomy it was in the cockpit when he wasn’t wearing a brief. Interesting. “What is it?” Mr. Meyers’s grumpy growl came over the speaker. “This better be good if you’re calling the company line.” “I just saw the news, Mr. Meyers,” Trevor said smoothly over the line. “And?” Mr. Meyers replied, letting his silence speak for itself. “I’m thinking that more priority should be put on our ‘used’ S.U.I.T. lot,” Trevor replied confidently, “don’t you think? Maybe even start a sale on our brand new models. Maybe start rebranding them as ‘starters’ and our used models as ‘experienced’?” Mr. Meyers didn’t say anything for just long enough to make Trevor start to worry. “Atta boy,” the old grouch finally said. Even though he wasn’t able to see his boss, it even sounded like he was smiling; Trevor could tell the difference. Mona Mona wasted no time in sending a private message to Dr. O’Brien. It was short, simple, and to the point. It Read: “Dear Dr. O’Brien, can I meet you at school early tomorrow? I’d like to see about borrowing some school equipment. -Mona” “Victory!” Mona cheered, throwing her hands up to the ceiling. She was going to do it! She was going to be able to fly and pilot a S.U.I.T.! Every opportunity would be available to her. She was going to be a fully functioning adult! It didn’t even bother her that one of her thumbs was still clammy and discolored, as if she’d been sucking on it all night. Paul Paul read the whole thing. Then he read more to double check the sources. Link after link after link. They basically all made the same announcement. They all told the same story. Some people were for it. Some were against it, but it was happening. CyberCorp had hit it big in a big way. “Rex,” Paul said to the computer inside his suit. “Are these upgrades that Cybertech is releasing mandatory?” “The feature is being uploaded into every S.U.I.T. worldwide.” Rex’s big deep monotone voice said. “Rex,” Paul said, “When do these features happen?” “Upload has already begun.” Paul thought on that a minute. He saw the benefits, obviously, but if those benefits applied to everyone…the only thing that made that S.U.I.T. jacking arrest so easy was that the thief couldn’t figure out how to pilot the old S.U.I.T. under pressure in time. This new upgrade could be either a really good thing, or a very, very bad thing. (From the award winning political blog: “I’m Not Your Friend, Buddy.” www.fubuddy.net Originally posted 4/20/2169) The End of The Professionals: By “Buddy F. Guy”. (actual name: Franklin Guyson) Holy shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! What the fuck, mother fuckin’, whorebag?! I know friends, I know. You’re not normally expecting to read that much incoherent cursing until you get to the comments section when some drunken redneck troll who “can’t stand” me, (yet comments on every post I make) speaks his mind about how “wrong I am”. Well I decided to beat those losers to the punch, because with as much sense as the world makes right now, I might as well crack open a cool 16 ouncer, kick back and watch a couple re-run of “True Story: I’m a Prepubescent Mom”, move into a trailer park and refuse to leave when the tornadoes come again. I might actually be happier that way. For those of you who still use the internet exclusively for porn (and I’m pretty sure the ads hit the porn sites too…also what are you doing beating off to my blog?) Cybercorp and its army of engineers and lawyers (more on the lawyers, later), have released a new non-optional “feature” to all of their mechs: “Artificial Memory”. According to the advertising barrage that is clogging every media outlet, regardless of content, this is just one step below Artificial Intelligence. The way Artificial Memory supposedly works is that every S.U.I.T. has a “memory core”, kind of like those little “black boxes” that used to be in airplanes back when airplanes were a thing. They keep track of everything you do in the S.U.I.T. in case you crash or do something illegal or something. Hypothetically, very good for safety, though maybe not the best for privacy since any employer at a job requiring mechs can tell how long you’ve been on break or where you really went on that errand you were supposed to run. Now, with this Artificial Memory, the S.U.I.T. can replicate anything that it has already done before. Now, read that again, but slowly. Here, I’ll help. The S.U.I.T. can replicate anything that is has already done before. S.U.I.T.s are no longer going to be the walking cages for the blue collar unskilled laborer. They’re going to be cages for everyone. A neuro-surgeon does a complicated surgery in a S.U.I.T. using the mech’s superior dexterity and precision to accomplish what the unsteady hands of man cannot. That’s kind of cool. The surgeon still had to go through a lot of training and a lot of school to get that good. But as soon as he does that surgery in that mech (which more and more medical professionals are doing and more and more hospitals are requiring for liability reasons) anyone who hops into that S.U.I.T. at a later date can now do the same thing if they’re driving. If all the hype is to be believed, it won’t even be voice command. It’ll interact directly with your brainwaves. You’ll just need to think “Remove that tumor” and wammo, the mech is guiding your hands through it like some kind of reverse quija board. (Remember those lawyers? Don’t ask me how they got past all of the safety and health agency’s on that one; but they did.) Chefs. Plumbers. Doctors. Nurses. Electricians. Repairmen. Computer Programmers. Pharmacists. They’re alllll fucked. Skilled workers just became unskilled workers and it’s their own damn skillsets that are being recorded by their own damn tools that are making them obsolete! Teachers? Teachers are double fucked. No one is going to need to learn beyond basic “Reading, ‘Riting, and ‘Rithmatic” anymore. No more need for critical thinking. At most, you’ll need to learn to read the manual for how to turn on your S.U.I.T and you’re done. They’ll literally be glorified babysitters; able to teach you just enough so that you can take your place at the bottom of the mech pyramid scheme. Don’t worry friends, we’re not getting robot overlords. Instead, we’re getting corporate ones. If you have a job that required some kind of mental or physical skillset that required rote mastery or knowledge, you are about to make yourself expendable because anyone who gets into whatever S.U.I.T. you do your job in is technically just as good as you are. You own your own mech instead of one that is leased to you by your employer? Better not sell it or you just literally sold you’re skillset to the dealer. And how is the North Wing media reacting to all this, my Buddy Bros? They’re over the fuckin’ moon. Don’t think that Russel Matthews, corporate shill, isn’t absolutely thrilled that this “Artificial Memory” just so happens to be abbreviated “A.M.”, either. He’s completely convinced himself (and his sheep) that this is not only a step forward in the right direction, but that the drones at CyberCorp (the human ones) read his article and decided to name their “amazing” new monstrosity after it. I mean, it makes sense. What does Russel Matthews have to worry about? This technology can apparently replicate and adapt almost any human behavior; including diagnosing and prescribing treatment for rare diseases, and build houses, but it’s not like they can write pretty words for people to read, or make an original masterpiece, or direct a film; so the reporters and the artists and the designers, the “creators” are safe…for now. (From an article in www.lyfentymes.com ; originally posted. 10/20/2166) Equal Opportunity has Arrived. By-Russel Mathews The American dream has finally come true. With CyberCorp’s latest innovation, the Artificial Memory, (or A.M.) everyone finally has something that the human condition has lacked since its inception: Equal opportunity. We are facing the last generation of people who get ahead in life because they were born rich, or they went to the best schools, or they were naturally gifted. We are facing the last generation of people who get by on something other than hard work. The socialists are rejoicing. We are now more equal than ever. Within a decade, an 18 year old with a high school education will be able to perform the same tasks that it takes someone years to develop. Formerly “Elite” and “Professional” jobs will be about commitment, effort, and customer service; not which Ivy League School you went to. The capitalists are rejoicing. Prices can come down on things like healthcare and trade jobs that normally require years of apprenticing. Instant skills, instant services, all just by selecting the right S.U.I.T. Employers will be able to select the best employees that meet their needs. The liberals and slackers and consumers are all rejoicing, too. You can literally dedicate yourself to things that you enjoy, be it video games, or reading comic books, or researching obscure bits of history, or academia- skills that have no inherent value other than producing more slackers and academians, as long as you get into a S.U.I.T. with the right skillset and contribute to society. This is a win-win situation for everyone who wants to pursue their own individual pleasures, while still being a productive member of society. Now that snot-nosed punk who shouts obscenities during holo-games can also do something more complicated than flip burgers for a living. Who’s not rejoicing? The Unions that have desperately tried to maintain a monopoly on the services they provide. The people who value their own personal pocketbooks over the quality of service they provide to others. The selfish and the self-absorbed are the only ones who don’t benefit from this arrangement. Finally. Equal Opportunity. At Last. This is the era of A.M. This is the era of Artificial Memory. Agnes (5 years ago) “Thank…you…” Agnes gasped out as the technician left. Though why she should be thanking the man, young enough to be her great grandson, was a bit of a mystery. It was more courtesy than anything, truth be told. A few years ago, when Agnes’s health began failing, she agreed to be put into one of these death traps a few years ago, these life support S.U.I.T.s, it had been because death was the only thing that wasn’t an option. She still felt she had much to live for. She had been promised a longer lifespan and reduced morbidity. Now, she was tramping around in one of the same metal monsters that had frightened her so as a child. Agnes didn’t eat on her own. A feeding tube saw to her nutrition. She didn’t expel waste on her own. Catheters and colostomies that fed out of the suit. Nurses didn’t see to her needs as much as medical S.U.I.T. technicians. She couldn’t even breathe on her own, with machines within the machine working her lungs for her in a steady rhythm, forcing her to speak in short, breathy gasps, when at all. She was the monster now, all for a few more years above ground, and even that couldn’t be stopped, as this latest in a long line of CyberCorp visitors had confirmed. Now, her life support S.U.I.T. had officially been designated a hospice S.U.I.T. , complete with brain scans and monitoring so that some scientist in a lab could mark and chart and graph her gradual decline into full on senility and eventual death. She agreed to the “upgrade” because she figured that it would mean closer monitoring and better care. If she was going to die, she was going to at least be comfortable. [Hello, Aggie] a voice rang out. It wasn’t quite in the speakers of the S.U.I.T., though goodness knew they were loud enough to compensate for her diminished hearing. “Who…said…that…? Agnes gasped, feeling a jolt of panic surging through her spine. She knew that she hadn’t heard those words, “Hey Aggie” as much as she had felt them inside her brain. [I did, little one.] A familiar, feminine voice echoed back. It was her mother’s voice, she realized, a voice she hadn’t heard in close to seventy years, but a child never forgets their mother’s voice. No one else ever called Agnes “Aggie,” or “Little one.” “Moth..mother…?” Agnes spoke aloud, too awestruck to be feel embarrassed about talking to the inside of a S.U.I.T. helmet. “Mom…mommy?” [I’m sorry, sweetie] Agnes felt the voice say. [I’m not your mother]. If Agnes had been in control of her own breathing she would have begun to hyperventilate. This was it then. She was finally starting to hear voices. Finally starting to go senile and loopy in her head. A tear ran unbidden down Agnes’s old and withered face, witnessed by no one. Her last wish was to die herself and whole. She wouldn’t even get that now. “I’m…finally…going…crazy…” Agnes said to no one but herself. “Hearing…voices….” [While tha’ts true, little one. You aren’t going crazy.] “Yes…I…am…” Agness frowned. [Oh Aggie, did the nice man not explain to you?] “Explain…what?” [I’m a new program, Aggie. A prototype that learns from you. I’m an Artifical Memory. I’m going to do for you what you can’t do any longer.] “You’re…going…to…help…me?” Agnes asked. [I’m going to learn from you] The computer program, ringing in her head, told her. [I’m going to help you. And when we’re done. We’ll change the world.] The End of the Beginning…..To Be Continued….
  11. Play party in Dunnellon in February

    Age play party in Dunnellon (about an hour south of Gainesville). February 17th. PM me for details if interested.
  12. Little Munch in Gainesville

    Munch in Gainesville on February 10th. PM me for details if interested.
  13. Rearz trademarking AB/DL

    Personally, I don't care about Rearz's products. I'm an ABU fan myself. I liked their aesthetics before they were under new management, and since the new management has come in, things have been even better. All of Rearz disposable diapers (what I'm the target audience for in this instance), have a fairly good reputation, but because of the distance and shipping cost, I've relegated them to "maybe when it's convenient" territory, like if I'm at a con that vends them or a party with someone interested in sharing or trading, etc. The thing that bothers me, is the lack of transparency, (they were doing this quite quietly until they got caught), and the fact that due to trademark law IF they had succeeded, it would have made it harder for other abdl vendors to operate. Trademark law says you gotta defend your trademark, so none of this "we'll let anybody use it" thing; that's just factually incorrect. Yeah, that trick is good business from a purely capitalist perspective, but we're such a relatively small (but profitable) niche that doing anything that can be seen as shady could seriously hurt your bottom line. There's only so much you can do with diapers in terms of variation, cosmetics, features, and performance, so a lot of it is a company's image. Again, ABU has worked overtime rehabilitating and building up it's image and branding itself as a "we're one of you" company. They went to Teddycon in 2016 and gave away free samples of all of their diapers for four days. Tykables with their brick and mortar store, and appointments to try out a crib and high chair as well as buy from them, has made efforts to "Normalize" or "Legitimize" their niche business, (how successful that is is another topic of discussion.) Point being, these companies are making an effort to make some kind of connection or stand out to their prospective customers. Pampers and Huggies get licensed characters on their diapers because parents recognize those characters and there might be some kind of nostalgic connection. "Oh this looks soooo cute." Luvs runs a campaign on "Live and Learn, then get Luvs;" aka. "The common sense diaper." Store brands are "it's cheaper and the difference in performance is negligible." Most AB diaper companies run on a platform that's a combination of "We've got diapers that are different from the competition" ie: holds more, resembles a real baby diaper more, has a wetness indicator, has adjustable tabs, looks cuter, is more discreet, is less discreet; along with a "We're just like you. We're a part of your kink community" campaign. And considering how paranoid some ageplayers can be and how judgemental the rest of the internet is about these types of kinks, that image can be a valuable one to cultivate. The diaper companies wouldn't be the first to use the "I'm not just the C.E.O., I'm also a member" tactic. Rearz has appeared to break trust with those it claims to appreciate in more than just dollars and cents. What can they do to rebuild that trust? I'm not sure. Off the top of my head, though. 1. Work on copywriting another term. Rearz claimed it was to deal with creditors not liking to sell ABDL items or whatever. Too porny or whatever, but if "ABDL" was just a copywrited term, then there'd be no objection on their part. So most importantly, I think, would be to prove their sincerity by finding a loophole to solve their stated problems WITHOUT giving them a legal chokehold over their competitors because of a technicality (as opposed to having a superior or better marketed product). Prove they were really trying to do what they said they were trying to do instead of gaining leverage over other companies. 2. Make a superior and more varied line of products or differentiate themselves in some way to their target audience. As far as I can tell, all Rearz diapers are the same diaper with a different print on them. Maybe it's time to invest a little money in some other bells and whistles. Cloth backed and/or wetness indicators and/or pullups/training pants etc. etc. 3. Reach out to the community and do damage control. Go to cons, sponsor some stuff, give away free samples. 4. Keep their head down, grit their teeth and hope it passes eventually. They fucked up. Sad to say though, that there are other vendors who have fucked up worse and people tend to have short memories, especially if they're getting something they like and they aren't being constantly reminded of the fuckuppery. There are some people that will likely never buy from them again on principle. There are some that will never stop buying from them, too, because whether it's a failed business coup or just a well meaning but misunderstood fuck up, they don't particularly care since it never came to fruition (and some who might not have cared even if it did). Unless it's a massive and sustainable boycott, (which would be hard to do...they called off their application...showing they're "listening" even if they didn't ask, and that counts for something to some people) they can just take a hit in the wallet, keep chugging along and build their funds back up as time washes away their mistakes. Me personally? I was in no hurry to try Rearz. I probably won't try them, now, because wearing an article of clothing can also be a form of endorsement. Will others also do this? Some? Maybe. Diapers are a little like burgers. I like McDonald's, but if I felt strongly about their business practices, I could make do with Burger King. Some people are like that. Others? Probably not. And frankly, I don't know if I'd blame them if they continued to wear their Safaris et. al. Other companies have fucked up far worse and I doubt that buying from a company that tried to copyright ABDL is something I'd end a friendship over.
  14. Rearz trademarking AB/DL

    Also, the "we'll let people use the term". Umm...doesn't trademark mean you have to defend it?