Babypants

LULLABY DIAPER SERVICE Polishing off her eleventh file, Julia glanced up at the clock. It was now a few minutes after four, and the diaper service was scheduled to close at five. Where was Priscilla, and did she have the professor in tow? If she was going to run late, why didn't she call? . . . . Priscilla was listening to the lady headhunter's presentation, and heartily approved of the strategy that she was laying out for Sarah Haikonnen. The university's senior administrators all had unallocated funds in their budgets, and dipping into the war chest to preempt raids on productive faculty was a routine practice. An outside offer would give Ian's department chair the ammunition that he needed to raid the till, and multiple outside offers would give him still more leverage. Sarah's body language told Priscilla that she liked what she was hearing, and the way she was leaning forward also gave Pris a bird's eye view of Sarah's cleavage. She was, to put it mildly, very well endowed, and in her imagination Priscilla kept seeing little baby Ian cradled in the arms of this blonde, blue eyed Scandinavian giant, and drinking his fill. How did he put it? Breakfast, lunch and dinner, with mid morning and mid afternoon snacks and a bedtime treat? Two tits six times a day? And then there's Vickie, who would have given Helen of Troy a run for her money. That's two more tits … and then there's Rita. Priscilla didn't know whether to pity Ian, or to envy him. If it was possible to live in Heaven and Hell simultaneously, she reckoned that his would soon be the most authoritative voice in the country, if not the world. For sure, if he were to write a tell-all book, it would become an instant best seller. But Priscilla was also watching Ian closely. Walking in from the parking lot, she had heard him twice gasp in pain before staggering into the wall. She had wrapped an arm around him, steadying him, and then taking his weight as they continued their journey to the post operative critical care unit on the third floor. He was seated now, his discomfort still obvious, and Vickie had rushed off to get help. At a minimum, it looked like he would need a wheelchair to get back to the car. And his fiancee isn't even giving him the time of day. What's wrong with this picture? . . . . The telephone rang, but Julia ignored it. After all, Lullaby Diaper Service was a business, and a business whose telephone sat silent hour after hour was on the fast track to bankruptcy. “Julia, it's for you; a Doctor Robinson is calling from the hospital.” Harriet was holding the phone out in her direction. It took Julia a moment to recognize the name. It had come up last night at the dinner table-- the professor, she now recalled, was Victoria Robinson's patient. Julia walked across the room, her sense of alarm growing with each step. Priscilla, Vickie and the professor were supposed to be en route to Lullaby. Unscheduled visits to a hospital typically meant bad news for somebody. “This is Julia Canon. Doctor, is my daughter all right?” Listening to the voice on the other end of the line, Julia let out a relieved sigh. “Give me a moment,” she replied when Vickie finished; “I'll ask them.” “She says that they had to make a stop at the hospital,” Julia explained. “Professor Grady had some kind of episode, and they've taken him to X ray for evaluation. She doesn't know how long they'll be delayed, and wants to know whether we want to hang on or call it a day.” “Ian,” Harriet yelled as she jumped to her feet. “What's happened to Ian?” Julia blinked in surprise. Harriet's reaction was totally unexpected; clearly, there was more going on here than met the eye. Returning to the phone, knowing that the doctor and the professor had a personal relationship, Julia instantly decided to be as diplomatic as possible. “Harriet wants to know what happened, and how Professor Grady is doing.” She kept her voice detached and impersonal. Julia listened as Vickie recounted what had happened in some detail. “Wait one,” she finally said. “Professor Grady … Ian … had several attacks of something called 'foot drop' while walking from the parking ramp to his fiancee's office. Doctor Robinson explained that this could be an indication that the bullet lodged in his spine has shifted. They're doing X rays to try and see what's going on. She says that this shouldn't take long, but with rush hour traffic and all, she doesn't think that they can get out here until after five. She wants to know whether you want to wait, or go home.” “We'll wait,” Harriet declared with real feeling. “We'll wait.” She looked over at Francine, who nodded in agreement. “I didn't know that Ian is engaged,” she whimpered. “He never said a word!” Harriet was devastated, and it showed. Her dinner date with Ian at uncle Rudy's restaurant had gone so well, the evening pure magic, that she had been fantasizing about a deeper relationship ever since. Francie's objections notwithstanding, she had decided that Ian just might be “the one.” And now he was engaged to somebody else … a doctor or nurse … somebody important. But Harriet was a nobody … a mere high school graduate. Francine wrapped her arms around Harriet, hugging her distraught friend close. Harriet had a good heart, and she deserved a happy ending. Embarrassed, Julia retreated to the opposite side of the room and the relative safety of the filing cabinets. . . . . As soon as she returned to the house, Tippi convened another emergency meeting of the sorority's brain trust. Since classes in mid and late afternoon were few and far between, and the sisters rarely visited the research library, she had no difficulty satisfying the quorum call. Cindy once again banged her gavel to call the meeting to order. She noted with relief that Janis Marsden was a no show. Rumor had it that her latest quarry was a professor in the Economics Department. In her absence, Blofeld would be free to wander at will. “If there is no objection,” Cindy declared, “I yield the floor to Tippi, who will report on where our search for diapers currently stands.” Cindy looked around the room. “Hearing no objection,” she concluded, “the floor is Tippi's.” “Thank you, Madame Chairwoman,” Tippi intoned as she stood up to deliver news both good and bad. “I regret to announce that today's haul in the Great Diaper Caper of 1979 amounted to one measly bag of baby diapers that will be of no use to us unless our targets are about four feet tall, which seems unlikely. We urgently need adult diapers, and to that end Cindy and I will lie in wait tomorrow afternoon at an adults only apartment complex in Bloomington. We shall take possession of one bag of dirty diapers before the delivery truck arrives, and one bag of clean diapers after it departs. This will be our last snatch because, as expected, the diaper service has hired a detective to shadow the truck, and she spotted us and took down the license plate of my car. The number will lead her to my parent's house in New Ulm, so there's no damage done, but I don't want to tempt fate. I yield the floor to Amanda, who has intel on the detective.” Tippi sat down, and Amanda Cunningham stood up in her place. “We are dealing with a private dick,” Amanda began, pausing only to clear her throat. “She lives on Minnehaha Parkway, which is a very trendy neighborhood. Using a reverse directory, my mom found three other vehicles at the same address … a second vehicle registered to Julia, a third to a Herbert Canon-- presumably her husband-- and a fourth registered to a Priscilla Canon … possibly a daughter.” “Holy Batman,” Kimberly screamed as she jumped to her feet. “It's the Batgirl!! Priscilla Canon is Batgirl!!! And Tip and I ran into her only an hour ago!” “What? Where?” Melanie was on her feet, yelling at Kimberly while Cindy banged her gavel on the table in a fruitless effort to restore order. “She was standing guard outside that prof's office … you know, the one PISS has put a bounty on .. the one we're all protecting against the poachers. There were a bunch of them outside his office as well!” “You mean the one in diapers?” Melanie was deaf to the gavel pounding in her ears. “That's the one,” Kimberly shouted; “and Tip went in to see him … she was in there for almost ten minutes … twice as long as anybody else!” “Holy shit!!! Tip, what's he like? Are you going to scalp him?” Joyce Wiggins, one of the Legacies on the Council, was speaking up for the first time. Normally the voice of reason in these gatherings, she was giddy with excitement. “I tried,” Tippi conceded, “in a roundabout way, but he referred me to his fiancee. He said that he was willing if she was. They're both kinky as hell. She spanks him … she keeps his diapers under lock and key … what he calls his makeshift chastity belt ...” A chorus of “holy shits” echoed around the room. “She called him while we were chatting, and it didn't bother him at all that I was sitting there listening to every word! I think he was showing off … and you should see his diapers! He says that the hospital gives them to him in return for his help with troubled vets. They're so thick that … that … his office is on the sixth floor, and I swear that if he jumped out the window and landed on his ass, he'd bounce three stories into the air! He looks like he's got a huge pillow stuck inside his pants! It's incredible, and he's so hot! I was fantasizing the whole time about having him on his knees licking me out one minute and begging me to change his shitty diaper the next. I almost came on the spot!” A second chorus of “holy shits” rolled around the room. “We need an “in” at the hospital,” Tippi concluded, “someone who can find out where housekeeping keeps their diapers, so that we can raid the place. We sneak in, take what we need, sneak out, and all our problems will be solved!” “A candy striper,” Joyce suggested. “And guess what … Janis Marsden is a candy striper!” “Hallelujah,” Cindy screamed. “Our prayers have been answered!” “Would anyone like to hear the rest of my report,” Amanda asked. She was really miffed. “We're sorry, Amanda.” Cindy took a deep breath in an effort to calm down, and bid Amanda to continue. “I let my fingers do the walking, and discovered that Julia Canon is not only a licensed private detective but also a lawyer. She's a partner at Aardvark, Platypus, and Twinkletoes, which is right across the street from that big hospital less than a mile down the road from campus. It sounds like it's the same one that the professor is getting his diapers from.” “Aardvark, Platypus, and Twinkletoes? That's ridiculous,” Kimberly sneered. “Which one is she, anyway?” “By the looks of the photo in their ad in the Yellow Pages, she's Twinkletoes.” Melanie rushed out to the telephone stand in the front hallway, and returned a minute later with the phone book in hand. Hastily turning the pages, she found the photo, and handed the book to Tippi. “Is that her,” Melanie asked. “That's her,” Tippi agreed. “Tomorrow? I think we should tail her everywhere she goes. Talk about fun!” “Uh, Mel … um … in case you've forgotten, we all have classes in the morning. You know … classes? That thing that we're all supposed to have come here to attend?” “Oh, yeah. You're right, Tip; sorry. I just kinda forgot.” “So, are we all in agreement?” Cindy looked around the room. “Tomorrow, Tip and I abscond with the diapers down in Bloomington, and we put Janis to work scouting out the lay of the land at the hospital. Now, has anyone found a braniac ready, willing and eager for a blow job?” “Walter Beamis,” Kimberly proudly announced. “He's majoring in Civil Engineering, and he's got a four oh GPA. Tops the Dean's list. He looks like a toad, so he's gotta be desperate. I'm going in for the kill tomorrow!” “And they're off and running,” Melanie intoned in her best sportscaster's voice. “Rounding the first turn, the toad is out front by half a length ...” “But the diapered professor is charging fast on the outside,” Tippi added, “and the jockey has her whip in hand. She's really laying it on … riding him hard ...” The whole room erupted in laughter. . . . . The phone rang, and Francine dashed to answer it. “It's Doctor Robinon,” she mouthed. Francie listened for a moment, thanked Vickie for the call, and hung up. “They're on their way. Traffic permitting, they should be here in half an hour or so.” Julia dug out another file, and got back to work. . . . . It was well after five when Ian finally arrived at Lullaby's office. He introduced Vickie and Priscilla to Harriet and Francine, and in turn Priscilla introduced her mother to her companions. Harriet put on her game face, and congratulated Ian on his upcoming marriage. She mistakenly assumed, however, that Vickie was the bride to be-- an honest mistake given the sexual tension that was flowing so visibly between them. Vickie gently corrected the misunderstanding, but only added to Harriet's confusion when she went on to describe the highly unusual living arrangements that would commence that very weekend, and continue after Ian's marriage to Sarah. On the spur of the moment, and knowing that Harriet had been reared in a very traditional family, Ian invited her and Francie to attend the Saturday night gathering of the Circle that was now just a few days away.. He liked Harriet, and he definitely did not want to leave her with the impression that he had fallen in with a secret society of devil worshipers, or something worse yet. He hoped that meeting Sarah, Rita and the others would put them both at ease. Harry and Francie accepted the invitation on the spot. Standing apart from the others, Julia looked very much like the cat that had swallowed the canary. Priscilla and Ian had not shown up empty handed. Quite the contrary. Her daughter had handed over a miniaturized electronic tracking device that was state of the art, probably military grade. It was, Priscilla assured her, just one of a bunch of hightech gizmos that Ian kept stashed in one of his desk drawers. Harriet assured her that it would be sewn into one of the diapers that would be delivered to Ian's doorstop the following afternoon. Julia surreptitiously studied the young professor. She had a deep working knowledge of surveillance technology, and there was no doubt in her mind that his little toy had not been purchased at the Radio Shacks of this world. She decided to have her husband run Ian through the national registry, and take a much closer look at his background.

Pris is going to get in trouble, all right, but not perhaps for the reason you think, nor with the person you assume!

Assuming that Twinkletoes is going to nab Tippi and her friends, Sarah supervising Tippi would be a hoot. So, I like the idea of making her do community service in the hospital. How about forcing her to move to PISS, where Suzie Marshall would be responsible for her diapering? Should she be sent to the psych ward, or to the library? And what about the other members of this gang? What do you think Spats Belmondo would want to do with them? Lots of ways to play this, so i am very much open to and thankful for suggestions.

LOL!!! As Ian said to Tippi, his relationship with Sarah is a work in progress, with kinks that have yet to be worked out. Trust me, he knows what he's doing here. As for Vickie, what can one say? She has been spanker and spankee many a time, and for all we know, enjoys both giving and receiving enemas. She's a brilliantly intuitive therapist, but her intuition is born of personal experience. Vickie holding court in a cop bar should be a tad entertaining!

LULLABY DIAPER SERVICE One glance was all it took for Ian to realize that he was in deep trouble. It was one of those 'if looks could kill' moments, which reminded him yet again that Sarah did not appreciate his admittedly warped sense of humor. Still, he could not help but wonder whether Priscilla would intervene if his fiancee went ballistic in her own office; if it came to it, he was pretty sure that Pris could flatten her with one punch. Ian rushed through the introductions, the pain in his lower back and the fire in his right hip urging him to find a place to sit down before he fell down. Vickie had already excused herself and rushed off in search of a phone. He had absolutely no idea what she would say to Amos, but Vickie being Vickie, he was pretty sure that Amos would be charging through the door in a matter of moments. If she made a second call, it would be downstairs to the neurology department. The journey through the hospital corridors had not gone well. He had staggered three times, once bouncing lightly off the wall when the foot drop threatened to put him on the floor. Priscilla had rushed to his side, putting her arm around his shoulders to steady him. He made a joke about laying off the booze at lunchtime, but it was halfhearted and the concerned look on her face had not changed. Then Vickie had pointedly asked him to measure the pain in his lower back. He had told her the truth, and she had sworn under her breath before promising to arrange a neurological exam ASAP. She would, he knew, bend heaven and earth to get him in as early as the following afternoon. Visibly struggling, Ian finally managed to sit down, Priscilla hovering just out of his line of sight. He tried to pay attention as Marilyn laid out her game plan, but he already knew the basics and his attention wandered. Sarah would either turn thumbs up, or she would turn thumbs down. He was content to leave such matters in her capable hands. . . . . When Ian and his friends walked into her office, Sarah treated him to her own version of “the Marge look,” and the way that he flinched made it clear that she had scored a palpable hit. In contrast, she offered the middle aged, well dressed businesswoman a welcoming smile. She posed no threat, in marked contrast to the obviously fit young policewoman who was hovering at Ian's side. There was no professional detachment in her eyes as she stared at her charge, her feelings for Sarah's fiance written all over her face. How does he charm so many women, so quickly? How? Does he want to sleep with her as well? Mentally shrugging in the face of a puzzle for which she had no answer, Sarah forced herself to focus on the headhunter sitting in front of her. If the lady had Amy's endorsement, the time that it would take to listen to her pitch would definitely be well spent. Department secretaries, and especially the ones who worked directly with the Chair, were notoriously well informed about the ins and outs of campus life. As it turned out, Sarah liked what she was hearing. Outside offers would create a retention issue that Ian's department chair could use to get him a sizable bump in pay. Doctors played this game all the time, whether young up and comers or seasoned professionals with substantial outside grants that the hospital was reluctant to lose. It was a pity, she thought, that Vickie had rushed off rather than sticking around to hear the pitch. Thinking of Vickie brought a smile to Sarah's lips. She was still wearing her heavy winter coat as she charged out the door, doubtless in an effort to conceal her bulky diaper. However, Sarah suspected that such unusual behavior would only draw the attention that Vickie sought to avoid. It was only a matter of time, she concluded, before Vickie's diapers became common hospital knowledge. And perhaps I can speed things up by not being at my desk tomorrow morning, when she shows up all wet and poopy. If she runs off and begs Rita for help, that will stir the pot nicely. As for Rita … . . . . On a Tuesday afternoon in the dead time between Thanksgiving and Christmas, the ER was predictably quiet, and for all intents and purposes Amos Waring was just standing around twiddling his thumbs. Vickie's call was put through to the orderlies' desk and, pausing only long enough to bring Andrew up to speed, Amos rushed off. If the Major needed help, he would provide it. Reaching three, he headed directly to Sarah's office. Some kind of conference was in progress, Sarah consulting with a stylishly dressed middle aged lady, and Ian sitting off to the side, listening in. He wondered whether this was one of the headhunters that Rita had briefly mentioned over lunch the day before, trying to make conversation to get him out of his funk. If that was the case, Amos knew that the lady must have passed some kind of preliminary inspection to get this far. What stopped him dead in his tracks was the female police officer at Ian's side. Young, good looking and physically fit, his first thought was that the lady cop would be good to have on his side in a barroom brawl. She looked like she could throw a mean punch. A moment later, Vickie returned with a wheelchair. . . . . Ian noted Amos' arrival out of the corner of his eye, and he tried to stand and greet his fellow veteran. But Priscilla put her hands on both of his shoulders, and firmly pushed him back into his seat. A moment later, Vickie returned with a wheelchair. “Priscilla, this is Amos Waring, one of our best orderlies and a good friend. Amos, this is Officer Priscilla Canon, campus police, currently detailed to escort Ian around campus and make sure that the headhunters mind their manners. Word to the wise, Amos: don't call her Prissy. And Pris, your father can probably tell you everything worth knowing about Amos-- he's a legend in the Third Precinct.” “Lake Street brawler,” Priscilla asked as she inspected the orderly. He was roughly her age, and built like a brick shithouse. She reckoned that he would be a good guy to have at her side when dealing with a disorderly in her favorite bar up Northeast. “The Third's got a holding cell with my name on it,” Amos proudly confessed. “Busted a few heads … broke a few pinball machines … nothing too dramatic.” “My kind of guy,” Priscilla grinned, “although my taste runs to pool cues. Busted a few of them over the odd skull in my day as well. Anyone who calls me Prissy is going down for the count!” “So noted,” Amos grinned. He liked the lady cop. “Vic, what the hell is going on here?” Sarah was on her feet, nostrils flaring. She was beginning to feel like a fifth wheel in her own office. “Not now, Sarah.” Vickie dismissed her with a wave of her hand. “Amos … Pris … get him into the wheelchair. Get him down to X ray, Amos; I've already alerted them. Pris, go with them; you can answer any questions the techs might have. I'll phone the diaper service and let your mom know that we've been delayed.” “Vix,” Ian protested, “this isn't necessary. I've had these episodes before, and I'm sure as hell going to have them again!” “Enough, Ian! God damn it, what is the matter with you? You would have gone down in the corridor if Pris hadn't caught you!” “WHAT,” Sarah yelled, alarm breaking through her anger, fear for Ian coursing through her veins. Vickie ignored her and Marilyn alike, the latter still sitting in her chair but openly gawking at the drama unfolding around her. “For God's sake, you've got a bullet lodged in your lower spine! What the hell do you think is going to happen if you take a hard fall?” “Vix, I ...” “No, Ian; this stops now. I'm your doctor, you are in my hospital, and you are going to do exactly what I tell you. Right now, you are going to get in that wheelchair and smile nicely when you get to the X ray department. You are going to do exactly what the techs ask you to do ...” Vickie looked at Amos. “I'll be in Neurology; I'll catch up with you after I've brought them into the picture. They may want to run other tests.” Without another word, Vickie turned and dashed out of Sarah's office. While Priscilla and Amos helped a thoroughly chastened Ian Grady climb into the wheelchair, Sarah calmed down enough to apologize to Marilyn. She indicated that her proposal had Sarah's blessing, and that she wanted to reconnect once things calmed down. The two women exchanged business cards, each adding her home telephone number for the other's benefit. They went down the elevator together, Marilyn heading for the parking ramp and Sarah for the X ray department. . . . . “We have a problem here,” the tech indicated. Working together, Amos and Priscilla had wheeled Ian into the X ray department, and helped him to undress. He was now leaning against the edge of the table, wearing nothing but his diaper, vinyl pants and diaper cover. “These diaper covers have metal thread running through them,” the tech explained. “And then there are the diaper pins. We need to remove his diapers, and supply him with a regular hospital gown. Do either of you have the key?” “I do,” Priscilla and Sarah answered simultaneously. Sarah had arrived mere seconds earlier. It was Sarah who did the honors, unlocking and removing his canvas diaper cover and baby pants in one smooth gesture. She unpinned his diaper and carefully lowered it; everyone was relieved to see that the garment was wet but unsoiled. The tech handed Sarah a gown, and she threaded Ian's arms through it and tied it off in the rear. With Amos' help, Sarah eased Ian onto the table. “Would the two of you care to wait outside,” she asked politely. Sarah planned to observe the procedure and give the results a wet reading. Priscilla and Amos retired to a bench opposite the X ray chamber, and settled in for a chat. He wanted to know if she had really busted a pool cue over some guy's head, and she described how she had recently floored a pissant with one punch to the jaw. In turn, Amos described his wrestling match with a Komodo dragon, enthralled her with tales from the stockade, and sheepishly admitted to being on a first name basis with just about every cop in the Third Precinct. Taking a deep breath and summoning up every ounce of his courage, Amos finally asked Pris whether she would like to have dinner sometime. The light was dancing in Priscilla's eyes when she replied that she would like that very much. Lying on the X ray table Ian couldn't move, but he was smiling nonetheless. His pain was real, but he was pleased because Vickie had made such brilliant use of it. With Sarah's unwitting assistance, they had given Amos and Priscilla a chance to become acquainted. Simultaneously, however, his near collapse in a hospital corridor opened the door to a long overdue neurological workup … opened it wide. It had been seven years since his last go round, and now he was going to find out whether his condition was stable or degenerative. . . . . Vickie left Neurology with marching orders firmly in hand. The first order of business was to get the army to cough up Ian's medical records, and as his physician of record, that was her job, and hers alone. Ian was beginning to exhibit symptoms of paraplegia independent of his incontinence, but neither Radiology nor Neurology could measure the progression of his symptoms without a baseline. Even as she made the short walk to the X ray department, therefore, Vickie was mapping out the request that she was going to lay on Glenn Albright's desk out at the VA. In recent years, for reasons unknown, the military had begun to slow walk requests of this nature, and they weren't above denying them altogether. Vickie was confident, however, that the tape Ian had pieced together would compel the administrator to play ball. A casual dinner with her friend the patent attorney might give her still more ammunition. Walking into the X ray department, Vickie quietly took a seat on the opposite end of the room from Amos and Priscilla, who were knee deep in conversation. It looked like things were going very well on that front. Thinking about Mark Chambrey, who was a partner in one of the state's more high powered law firms, brought a smile to Vickie's lips. Mark was a family man, and his marriage was reasonably happy, but he had a sexual appetite that his wife alone could not satisfy. Their affair had been necessarily discreet, and it had ended amicably. Vickie knew that Sarah would demand that she be well diapered and under lock and key when she rendezvoused with Mark, but it didn't matter because theirs had never been a conventional affair. She had spanked his bottom beet red many a time, and then soothed the pain with skillful applications of her very knowledgeable tongue. If Ian's tape was worth the effort, Mark would wrap it up in the required fine print and secure his rights to ownership in perpetuity. . . . . With Sarah's assistance, Ian repeatedly shifted positions, permitting the radiographer to film his lower spine from a variety of angles. When they were finished, she untied the hospital gown and smoothly pinned his diaper back in place. After helping him to his feet, Ian stepped into his baby pants and diaper cover. One by one, Sarah pulled them up, taking care to see that none of the cloth was peeking out around his waist or thighs. When she was satisfied, she closed the lock, once more securing her fiance in his de facto chastity belt. Gently, Sarah guided Ian to the wheelchair. The fire in his right hip had taken all the fight out of him, and he sat without protest. Sarah wheeled him out to the waiting room, caught Vickie's eye, and left Ian in Priscilla and Amos' care. Together, Sarah and Vickie retired to get their first look at the film; still dripping wet, the technician had hung the images in front of fluoroscopic screens. Silently, they studied the various images with care. “We won't know for sure until we can compare this with his military records,” Vickie finally suggested, “but I see no lesions here … no evidence of migration.” “I agree; it doesn't look like the fragment has moved.” Sarah sadly shook her head. “But the scar tissue ...” “My guess is that it's pressuring the spinal cord.” Vickie completed Sarah's thought. “Pain meds,” Sarah concurred; “maybe corticosteroid injections. But the surgeons in Japan and Hawaii were right; an extraction would be incredibly dangerous.” “A good sawbones might be able to remove enough tissue to relieve the anterior pressure, but it would be a temporary fix at best. You're right, Stretch; it's gotta be band aids and bubble gum.” “We're done here,” Sarah said as she nodded in agreement. “Look, I've got to get back to work. Have Amos help get him into the car, and if they're still open, head out to the diaper service. He needs a cane; I'll bring one home with me.” “He has canes; there's one hanging on the coat rack in his office. But he's too proud, or too stubborn, to use it.” “Typical,” Sarah muttered, “all that stupid male pride. Well, I'm going to spank it out of him. I've had it with his bullshit.” “Got more bad news for you.” Sarah rolled her eyes. “Priscilla's mother needs Ian's help. She's a private eye, and the diaper service has hired her to deal with a gang of diaper thieves. It looks like Ian won't be canceling his service after all. They want to use his order as bait.” “That's insane! Who in their right mind would steal diapers?” Vickie grinned. “With Ian's help, I'm reasonably certain that we shall soon find out! Now, lead me to a phone, and I'll let the service know that we're on our way.” . . . . Sitting in the wheelchair, waiting for Vickie to bring her car around to the main entrance, Ian tried to imagine the rumors that must already be making their way around the building. Having a policewoman at his side as Amos wheeled him through the corridors was the crowning touch. He had seen enough faces that he vaguely recognized from the cafeteria to know that Amos was going to be on the receiving end of some awkward questions. “Hey, Amos, if anybody wants to know what's going on, just tell 'em that your friend the Major is prone to foot drop, and would have crashed and burned were it not for the heroic intervention of Officer Canon here, who somehow managed to keep me upright. Oh, and you might add that the university has assigned her to shadow me everywhere I go to keep all those nasty headhunters at bay. That should do the trick.” “Thanks, Major,” Amos grinned. “For an officer, you catch on quick. This place runs on rumors, and you wouldn't believe the ones that are going around as we speak!” “Do I want to know?” “Probably not.” “Okay, well, if I can manage to slip away from my keepers, what do you say? One of these nights, should the three of us go out and get drunk somewhere?” “Been wanting to do that since we first met,” Amos said with a grin. “How about you, Pris? Ready to tie one on?” “Only in a bar of my choice. Rough translation? A joint where I can use the manager's office to change your diaper. Up Northeast, drinking is an athletic event. If you can't drink your weight, you don't get to play.” “Are we talking ounces?” Amos was in heaven . “We are.” “Hell, I can drink that much beer in less than ten minutes. Got any decent pinball machines?” “We do … and who said anything about beer?” Both men heard the challenge in her voice. “You're on, but I'll want a Lake Street rematch. I'll get some off-duty guys from the Third to back you up. And you'll like them, Major; as MP's go, they're a decent bunch.” “Hong Kong rules?” Ian liked to get drunk, but he did have standards. One of them was never walking out of a bar with money in your pocket. “Hong Kong rules?” Amos roared with laughter. “In Minnesota? In the dead of winter? Major, in case you haven't noticed, this ain't the Tropics!” “All right, you two, give,” Priscilla glowered. “What the hell are Hong Kong rules?” “You drink until you run out of money,” Amos crowed. “Then you stagger out the door, find a convenient curb, sit down, and pass out. The MP's peel you off the pavement and haul you off to the stockade, where a nice, warm bunk awaits! It's R and R at its best!” “I'm guarding a lunatic,” Priscilla sighed, “but you're both nuts. Let's assume for the moment that hypothermia doesn't kill you. How are we going to get Ian's soaking wet diaper off when it freezes? With a blowtorch?” “We'll think of something,” Amos laughed again. “We always do!” Driving up to the curb, Vickie saw the unlikely trio waiting just inside the glass walled entryway. Amos was laughing his head off, and Ian and Priscilla had huge grins on their faces. She just prayed that Amos had had the good sense to ask Priscilla out on a date, and that she had been smart enough to accept. . . . . “So, do one of you want to tell me what's going on?” Vickie was making good time on city streets, her destination about ten miles out in the northwestern suburbs. “We're plotting a jailbreak.” To Vickie's surprise, it was Priscilla who smugly replied. “And who's going over the wall,” she asked as she glanced Priscilla's way in the rear view mirror. “Ian, of course. A night free of bottles and breast milk, a night full of hard liquor and good friendship. The three of us are going to get smashed-- of course, you're welcome to join us. The four of us could team up and challenge the reigning champions in my dad's favorite bar.” “I'm game,” Vickie laughed, “but there's no way Sarah would approve, and I'm not even sure Rita would.” “So, we don't tell them … we just do it.” “Curious. I get the impression that treating Ian like a baby really turns you on.” “Oh, it does … it most certainly does. But I like to keep things balanced. Little baby Ian fills a hole in my psyche that I didn't even know was there. But I really, really like Professor Grady, and Professor Grady wants us to go out and get drunk. His sense of humor is warped enough when he's sober; I wanna find out what's he like when he's one shot away from puking his guts up.” “Been there and almost done that,” Vickie laughed, thinking back to the Saturday night at Rita's when the two of them first met. “But there's a hurdle that I don't think I can overcome,” she confessed. “Go on, Priscilla urged. “Underneath this coat? I'm as heavily diapered as Ian is, and wearing the same rig. You have the key to Ian's diaper cover, but Sarah has all the keys to mine. She wants us both to be chaste and sober, so she doesn't leave us alone unless we're both locked up. Sarah and I hammered this agreement out in private, and oddly enough, I'm good with it. When I make love with this guy for the first time, I want it to be a night filled with moonlit kisses, fireworks exploding across the sky. No more sneaking around, no more quickies in the back seat of the car.” Vickie reached over to pat Ian lovingly on the thigh. He was shaking his head and laughing softly, knowing exactly what Priscilla would say next. “Funny you should say that,” Priscilla observed. “Yesterday, I asked him what would have happened if you had unlocked him for a quickie in the back seat before driving over to campus. He said that he would have passed. He's waiting for sunshine, lollipops and rainbows. The two of you are peas in a pod.” “So, anyway, you see the problem,” Vickie said, returning to the problem at hand. “Well, she hasn't muzzled either of you, so just bring extra clothing. The stools can take the punishment, but if you insist, we'll put towels underneath you. Just keep in mind that this is a cop bar, and my dad's buddies have seen it all. Heck, they'll probably bet on which of you leaks first!” “I'd like to see which of them leaks first.” Ian was joining the conversation for the first time. “Meaning?” Priscilla was intrigued to learn where Ian was going with this. “We let everybody take a leak, and then we padlock the johns. Then we drink, and whoever pisses him or herself first buys the next round, and so forth. To make it fair, we bring lots of diapers and pins from the hospital, and hand them out to anyone who wants them. Odds are that whoever ends up buying the first round will have been too proud to wear a diaper, giving new meaning to the parable that Pride Goeth Before the Fall.” “Oh, you wicked, wicked man, you … I like it!” Priscilla didn't know whether any of her dad's friends would be game, but either way, roll call the next morning would be a hoot! “Thursday works for me,” Ian offered. “I'm coming over for a heart to heart with Rita, and Sarah's working late, so Vic and I should be able to update The Great Escape.” “I'll call Amos, and see if he can get someone to cover his shift,” Priscilla nodded. “He's promised me dinner, and the joint puts out a mean Juicy Lucy and house cut steak fries.” Ian reached over and rested his hand on Vickie's thigh. She patted it. Neither of them said a word. . . . . Between them, Ian and Priscilla carried out the introductions all around. Ian was impressed by Julia's succinct but clear description of the problem, and her honest admission of how the thieves had been ahead of her every step of the way. Her plan to get them to reveal themselves was simplicity itself, and the electronic homing device that Priscilla handed over brought a wicked smile to her lips. Like her daughter, however, Julia wondered just how military grade surveillance gear happened to be sitting in the desk drawer of a midwestern university professor of East Asian languages. She knew damned well that you couldn't walk into a store in Chicago or anywhere else in the country and buy this sort of thing off the shelf. Her curiosity fully aroused, she decided to have her husband run Ian Grady through the system and see what popped out the far end. For her part, Harriet was happy to see Ian again, and gracious enough to congratulate him on his impending marriage. With the way that he and Vickie were looking at one another, and with the sexually charged atmosphere that surrounded them, she took it for granted that Doctor Robinson was the bride to be, and congratulated her as well. Vickie gently corrected the misunderstanding, and went on rather awkwardly to explain how Ian would marry Sarah, but live with her and Rita as well. Julia managed to keep her poker face in place throughout the explanation, while Francie smirked and Harriet listened in obvious disbelief. She expected that her husband would take a mistress or two, but for propriety's sake she also expected him to wait until after the birth of their first child. She was prepared to overlook a lot for the sake of her family, but she would never tolerate her husband's mistresses moving in with them! What were these people thinking? Coming to Vickie's rescue, Ian impulsively decided to invite Harriet and Francie to attend Rita's upcoming Saturday night frolic. He was grateful to Harriet for the attention that she had shown him, and he thought that mingling with the Circle and seeing Vickie, Sarah and Rita in their own element would put her mind at ease. Both accepted on the spot. Amy … Priscilla … Suzie … Harriet … Francie … possibly Marilyn. Rita's living room was going to be very crowded. Ian wondered if they were going to need more chairs. . . . . Bone tired after long hours in the courtroom, Rita staggered off the elevator and made her way to her office. She had asked Candy to run interference for her, and pick up the lab results for her fertility test. She knew that they were sitting on her desk. She sat down, lifted the blotter, and pulled out the envelope. It was sealed. Sitting there, she was still not sure that she even wanted to read the cold, clinical description of her reproductive system that awaited her. Could she have a baby, or had Ian come into her life too late? Taking a deep breath, she slit the seal with a fingernail, removed the thin stack of pages, and settled back to read.

Tippi is definitely a piece of work, but perhaps she should take up her issues with her parents, who obviously didn't do her a favor at birth. How long before someone on the playground yelled out "Tipsy Tippi, Tipsy Tippi?" What do you think? Should we consign Tippi later in the story to a therapist, and if so, whom would you nominate to take her on?

Oh, it's definitely safe to say that Vickie will find an upside in her diaper punishment!

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I strongly recommend reading scene 37 in An Homage to Vincent Vega BEFORE reading this scene. THE DIAPER FANTASIES OF TIPPI BJORNSEN Well, at least the files are in good order. Julia sighed heavily. She had returned to Lullaby's office some ninety minutes earlier, and she had just closed the cover on her seventh file. Harriet had given her an unused desk (no charge for the cobwebs) on the opposite side of the room, next to an imposing row of tall filing cabinets where former employees and customers, or at least the lives that they led on paper, went to die. There were two things that Julia hated about her line of work. The first was stakeouts, which were simply boring. The second was looking for the proverbial needle in the haystack, in the form of a file that pointed a finger in the direction of an aggrieved client or employee. Desk work was boring, but it was also demanding: name … last known address and telephone number … social security number … work history … education. There were clues scattered everywhere, if you just knew how to look for them. Very few people knew, for example, that the first three numbers on a Social Security card were an area code, with all cards issued in the state of Minnesota falling between 468 and 477. A Minnesota social security number would go unnoticed in Honolulu, but a Hawaiian number in a minimum wage job in Minnesota screamed fake. A cheap fake driver's license that would pass muster in San Diego would get you arrested immediately in Spearfish, South Dakota. In the upper Midwest one had to lay out big bucks to buy convincing fakes-- and Lullaby's employees did not earn that kind of paycheck. Where Julia struck gold in the files was the canceled checks. The people who were sent in to sabotage a business were well paid for their efforts, and the paychecks earned from forty hours at minimum wage often took an abnormally long time to pass through the bank, when the mole bothered to cash them at all. Over the years, Julia had busted no less than seven people who had simply failed to cover their tracks sufficiently well to defeat a determined investigator. And so she went through the checks, which Spats Belmondo's various managers had neatly bundled and slipped into the files-- year after year of canceled checks. And in seven files, she had found nothing suspicious. Given that Harriet supervised one person in the office, three drivers, and four people in the laundry, this was not a big operation. At most, it would take her only one more day to put everyone who had worked for Lullaby over the last decade under the microscope. She would keep at it, but in her heart she knew that this would turn out to be another wild goose chase. . . . . When Tippi got off the elevator and went around the corner, she stopped dead in her tracks. She was expecting a crowd, and she wasn't disappointed; after all, Suzie Marshall's mob had put a bounty on the guy's head, so it stood to reason that the sororities would be here in force. In fact, she caught a glimpse of one of her Sisters sitting on the floor on the other side of the prof's office door. No, what caught her off guard was the cop sitting on a chair, and the three well dressed, middle aged guys in their tailored suits. The cop she recognized at once: Priscilla Canon, buster of frat parties extraordinaire. What is she doing here? For that matter, what were the suits doing here? Only one way to find out, she thought as she began to wind her way between the bodies that separated her from Kimberly Doyle, one of the Seniors in her house. “What's going on,” she whispered as she slid down the wall to sit at Kimberly's side. “Poachers.” Kimberly nodded in the direction of the suits. “The prof apparently speaks gazillions of languages, and the usual suspects are looking to pry him away from our clutches. The sisterhood has turned out in force to make sure it doesn't happen, and the cop is here to keep order.” “What's this got to do with PISS putting a bounty on the guy's scalp?” “Nothing. He's new, single, and engaged; by definition, that puts him top of the food chain.” “I'll say! But would he be any good to eat? Have you seen him?” “Yeah. He's okay … I mean, no Robert Redford, but he's easy on the eyes. But you can't miss the diapers; it's like he's wearing a bunch of bath towels under his pants.” “WHAT! Diapers? Kim, what are you talking about?” “Haven't you heard? It's all over frat row. He's some kind of war hero … Viet Nam, maybe … I don't know. He's supposed to have been badly wounded, came home with medals up the ying-yang. And he's volunteering over at the hospital, helping other vets … you know, the kind of guys who sleep on park benches.” “Wow! Does it look like anybody's scoring?” “Don't think so. A Sister goes in for five minutes, then comes out with a sheet of paper in her hand. I'm guessing that it's a copy of his resume. If you want to have a go, just step right up. Most of us are here because of the poachers; the diapers are a real turn off.” “Not for me,” Tippi muttered as she climbed to her feet and waded through bodies to end up in front of Officer Canon. Maybe the prof could point her in the direction of another stash of adult diapers. “Does he have time for one more,” she asked, knowing that his scheduled office hour had not yet run its course. “You can go in next,” the police woman replied. A couple of minutes later the door opened, and a Sister whom she vaguely recognized from some frat party or other exited, sheet of paper in hand. The professor smiled, extended his hand in welcome, and invited her into his office. To her surprise, Office Canon stood up just long enough to shut the door behind them. When he walked around the desk to resume his seat, Tippi couldn't help but stare at his ass. Kimberly was right; the diapers were so thick that she would have sworn he had a pillow stuffed inside his pants. You couldn't miss them. “And you are,” he asked politely. “Tippi … Tippi Bjornsen.” “It's nice to meet you, Tippi, and thank you for helping out … I'm grateful to everyone who's helping to keep the headhunters at bay.” “Oh, you're welcome,” she replied with her most dazzling smile. “We don't like poachers muscling in on our territory.” “I presume that we're talking about scalp hunting.” “Oh, yes. You're the ultimate trophy … a new professor, unmarried but engaged, who's never been scalped. You're the catch of the year.” “Are students the only one who can scalp me?” “No, not at all. Faculty, staff, even the janitors, cooks and bottle washers-- every woman on campus is entitled to play. But the sororities are the only group formally to crown a champion at the end of the Spring term. It's one of the most coveted honors, especially for Seniors.” “I see.” Ian paused, knitting his brow, deep in thought. “But I'm afraid that you're doomed to disappointment,” he continued, “because I have been scalped, and more than once … two secretaries, an unmarried member of the faculty … I could go on, but I don't want to brag.” “Did they take photographs,” Tippi fired back. “No.” “Then you haven't been scalped. Proof is required.” Ian laughed so hard that he began to cough. Tippi waited patiently for him to regain control. “And are you here to collect the bounty?” “It would be fun,” she conceded with another dazzling smile, “but actually I came here looking for help.” “Hmm.” Not seeing the angle, Ian chose once again to adopt what he called his 'deep in thought' expression. He had practiced in front of a mirror, searching for something convincingly enigmatic. “It's … um … it's about your diapers. My granddad needs them, but my parents … he lives with them … they don't know what to buy. I was hoping that you could give me some pointers that I can pass along to my mom.” “Sure thing.” Ian got up and rounded the desk to collect his diaper bag. He opened it, and put a spare diaper and vinyl pants atop his desk. Tippi stared at the diaper; it was huge, and incredibly thick. The vinyl pants were transparent, just like the baby pants that she had pulled up over the diapers of the kids that she had babysat in her early and mid teens. Just looking at the diaper and pants, knowing that she could buy the latter in an equally transparent pastel shade of pink, imagining pinning the diaper on some gullible guy with a big brain and no social life … pulling up the pink baby pants … she could feel her panties getting damp, her juices starting to flow. “It's really thick,” she proclaimed as she ran her fingers over the diaper, caressing it. “Where did you find it?” “One of the hospital wards supplies me-- free of charge, I might add. I volunteer to help vets with mental health issues, and this is my compensation. It's great because payment in kind isn't taxable … a win, win situation for both parties.” “Do you really need something this thick?” “At night, for sure. During the day? I could probably get by with something thinner, combined with using baby diapers as stuffers. But the hospital only uses this one style. If you're interested, I'd suggest that you call their housekeeping department. You might also try the local diaper services; depending on where your parents live, they might also be able to help.” You have no idea, Tippi thought, her panties getting more and more damp. And you have no idea how much I'd like to pull down your pants and change you right here and now! You would look so cute in pink baby pants! It was at this moment, when she was knee deep in an intense and very satisfying fantasy, that the telephone rang. Ian picked up the phone. “Professor Grady,” he offered. Tippi let her mind wander. She was imagining the heavily diapered professor on his knees, licking her to a mind altering orgasm, then begging her to change his wet and dirty diapee … Chastity belt? Did I hear that right? In addition to everything else, he's wearing a chastity belt? Wow! Tippi began to follow the conversation much more closely. Spanking? He lets her spank him? Wow! Sitting quietly, her panties going from damp to wet, Tippi couldn't help but notice how uncomfortable the prof looked whenever he glanced her way. And he damned well should be uncomfortable! Playing games with a bunch of kinky coeds is one thing, but turning them loose on your fiancee is way over the line! I hope she spanks the shit out of him-- and I'd like to watch! In due course, the conversation came to an end, and Ian hung up the phone. “Well, that was fun,” he said defensively. “Sarah … the lady on the other end of the phone? She's my fiancee, and in our relationship she leads and I follow, but if you'll pardon the pun, we're still working out the kinks.” “And she really spanks you?” “She does.” Wow! “And are you really wearing a chastity belt?” Tippi was squirming a bit in her seat, her panties now a bit too squishy for comfort. “Not really,” he chuckled. It's actually a canvas diaper cover that prevents my underwear, if you want to call it that, from ending up around my knees. But it locks and I don't have the key, so in a manner of speaking ...” Incredible! If I had the key, you would be my diaper slave! Forever! And I want to spank you, and listen to you beg for mercy when you have a diaper rash and I've got the paddle in my hand … “So, it's true then … I mean, what I'm hearing all over campus … you know, from girls who volunteer as candy stripers at the hospital? That you're this great, big war hero who volunteers his time to help troubled vets, despite having problems of your own. Is that why you call her Mommy … because she changes your diapers?” “That's part of it,” Ian agreed; “a bit of pretending makes things less awkward, and a great deal less embarrassing.” It wouldn't be pretending if you were my diaper slave ... “But it's only part, not the whole. I have a problem making decisions because I tend to overthink things, but Sarah is just the opposite. I'm an academic who walks around with his head in the clouds, forever chasing his own tail, while she's a practical nurse who just gets on with it. This is so much a part of who we are as a couple that calling her mommy seems natural to me. And I'm pretty sure that at times she regards me as an overgrown toddler, hence the occasional spanking.” I want to hear you call me Mommy. I want to hear you cry and cry like a little baby when I spank your bottom. God, if I only had the key ... “Do you like it … I mean … when she spanks you? I spanked my last boyfriend, and he really got off on it.” “Nope. When she spanks me, it hurts. Again, she's a nurse, so she knows how to make it hurt … and it does.” And did you cry and cry, like a little baby? Does your mommy let her friends spank you? I would, you know … everyone in the house gets paddled when they're initiated. Would you like to be spanked by fifty hot chicks? Live in the sorority as our little baby girl? “I still don't understand. I mean … like, you must have killed a lot of people out there, so why do you put up with it? The candy stripers keep saying that everybody likes you, so why don't you go with someone who treats you better?” “Now that,” Ian nodded, “is a very good question, and it goes to the heart of what makes a relationship succeed or fail. People who don't care about you will tell you what you want to hear just to get you off their backs.” You just described my last boyfriend ... Ian went on and on, dishing out the same crap she had heard from her high school counselor. He'd look good with a pacifier in his mouth, and it would shut him up! “And now there's a bounty on your head, but you're wearing what amounts to a chastity belt and of course you don't have the key. What a shame.” Because if I ever lay my hands on that damned key, you're mine … all mine ... Ian handed her a copy of his resume from the stack on the corner of his desk. “You could always call her,” he suggested. “Would it do any good?” “Not really.” “I didn't think so … because if you were my boyfriend, I wouldn't share you with anybody!” Except for the spankings, of course, and drawing straws to see who gets to change your shitty diapers ... Tippi put Ian's resume back on the stack, and got up to leave, but she paused with her hand on the doorknob. “When I came here today,” she said over her shoulder, “I didn't understand how any woman could be so desperate that she would willingly sleep with a guy who's disabled … reduced to wearing diapers. But now? Now I think that this Sarah of yours might be the luckiest woman on Earth."

When Sarah went home and her mother was teaching her about breast milk, she stressed that all four of them would need supplements, our three ladies to prevent adult breast feeding from leaching calcium and certain vitamins out of their bodies, and in Ian's case to make good the deficiencies in breast milk. You can not only survive but thrive on an all liquid diet; if you are not familiar with it, look up a nutritional product called Soylent, which was my late wife's food source for about a year (the OTC products at the drug store have a lot of sugar, which is something that cancer thrives on). And Ian does indeed love his steaks, hence his near constant scheming to find a way to cheat around the edges of his agreement with Sarah. At the same time, however, he recognizes that the experience will make their lovemaking far more intense, and make it incredibly pleasurable for Sarah. Lots of men do this for their wives; heck, I was one of them. As for dining out, that's one to which I've given a certain amount of thought. Should Ian go out to dinner with all three of the beautiful women in his life as a group? Individually? Both? Would it be better for them to stay home on Saturday nights hosting the Circle? Lots of possibilities here, and I do hope to explore them at some point in the future. Thanks for the comment. It was thought provoking.

A nice ending in the happily ever after category. Leaving his mother and Lyndie hanging gives us a sense of the unfinished business that needs to be addressed next season. Thanks for the ride.

I would take this very seriously. There are slots on page 1 here for 19 stories, and there was a point in September when 5 of the 19 (and 6 of the lead 22) were stories pursuing the theme of using diapers to humiliate children in a manner that could easily be interpreted by people outside this community as a celebration of child abuse. Since there is effectively nothing here to keep minors off this site, I am worried that this site will be deleted for the same reason. "Sexualizing minors" is a vague, catch-all charge that could be leveled against any fetish site that does not have secure age verification yet permits minors to be featured in its stories.

Did you receive an explanation for this?

Thanks a bunch for the lead in. Rita would tell you that affection takes two forms-- ego love (possession) and authentic love (selfless). Restricting your partner's freedom of choice, and making decisions for your partner without their knowledge are classics of ego love, and Sarah is certainly doing that with the breast milk, although as we see in this scene decision-making can get murky. Verbal and physical abuse? Depends on how you read the spankings. How about constantly monitoring your partner's movements and actions? Not Priscilla's job, but as a practical matter it is what she's doing. How about when she is reassigned? Sarah has thought about having a nanny at Ian's side on campus, and that would be a gigantic red flag. Ah, but back in scenes 2, 3, and 6 Sarah made it clear that she wanted absolute control, and Ian agreed to her demand. So, in this scene it's Tippi who asks Ian the core question: why doesn't he choose a woman who treats him better? We shall see that his answer, while truthful, is incomplete. Note that he surrenders completely to Sarah as an act of trust, which turns the concept of trust in a relationship on its head (this is deliberate). Ultimately, we are reminded that how a relationship is viewed by others may not be how the pair view themselves.

Great comment, and I would love it if some of the ladies reading this story would jump in either to agree or disagree with you that Sarah is overreacting here. She's a single, professional woman in her early thirties with a boyfriend whose job surrounds him with attractive, sexually active women a dozen or more years younger than her. Given the way he's behaving, is it unreasonable for her to feel threatened? Back in scene 1, I pointed out that Sarah was overwhelmed by her first job at the VA, and took refuge in the less challenging environment of this big city hospital. Rita is acutely aware of the degree to which her earlier failure haunts Sarah, hence her desire to bring Sarah into the psych ward to confront her demons by working with patients like Phil and Don. Could Ian be more sensitive? When Rita and Ian sit down for their heart to heart talk on Thursday afternoon, should she bring up the issue of Sarah's insecurities and gently discourage him from pushing Sarah's buttons in this way, or should she remain silent?

DEEP DOO-DOO When the bell struck two, Ian stuck his head out the door, and was relieved to see that everything appeared normal-- if normal included a police officer sitting in a chair to keep order, twenty odd coeds camping out in the corridor, and three well dressed businessmen conversing quietly among themselves while their eyes hungrily devoured the appetizing young flesh set out before them. Grabbing three copies of his resume, Ian asked the coeds to pass them on to the trio of headhunters. Once they were in hand, he advised them to give Sarah a call and set up an interview, whether singly or collectively. He then turned his attention to the coed closest to hand, and invited her into his office. The script turned over at five minute intervals. After the customary introduction, Ian thanked the young woman for taking the time to help out, and complimented her on her appearance. After a certain amount of hemming and hawing, the conversation invariably turned to the subject of his diapers in general, and their impact on his love life in particular. He soon discovered that there was now a bounty on his scalp, so the threat of being pooped on while in flagrante delictu was no longer an effective deterrent. Rather than break a long string of hearts, Ian chose to bob and weave, handing out resume after resume, and encouraging the young lovelies to call Sarah, his very, very open-minded girlfriend, to make the necessary arrangements. The bolder spirits made it abundantly clear that they wanted to have a threesome, and Ian made it just as abundantly clear that, if Sarah was willing, he too was ready to rock and roll. Only one of the sorority girls deviated from the script-- a reserved yet photogenic blonde with the improbable name of Tippi Anne Bjorensen. . . . . In the beginning, Sarah wondered what the heck was going on. It wasn't until the fourth call that she lost her temper. In a span of less than twenty minutes, four coeds had telephoned seeking permission to sleep with Professor Grady. Three of them signaled that they would love to make it a threesome. All four had made it clear that the Professor, far and away the coolest guy on the whole faculty, diapers or no diapers, was the catch of the year. Sarah was seething when she slammed the door to her office, picked up the phone, and dialed his campus number. “Professor Grady,” Ian began. “Ian, what the hell is going on over there,” Sarah interrupted. “I've had four calls in the last twenty minutes from coeds who want to sleep with you; all four seem to be under the impression that they need my permission to do so, and three of them even expect me to participate. So I repeat: what the hell is going on over there?” “Sorry, Sarah, but this is the downside of Suzie Marshall's plan to protect me from the headhunters … which, by the way, is working splendidly. I have fobbed off three more in the last half hour. Have any of them phoned you?” “No! And I'm getting tired of dealing with your fan club. Put a stop to it!” “How? The easy way would be to give them what they want. Is that what you expect me to do? In which case, I'll need the key to my chastity belt.” “Hell will freeze over first! And when I get home … Mister, you are going straight over my knee!” “Huh? Sarah, have I misunderstood the terms of our relationship? I thought that you were making all of my decisions for me, and particularly the ones involving our social life. Unless I'm very much mistaken, I would be in the wrong, and would be earning a spanking, if I did not bow to you in this matter. If you want me to deal with this or any other problem on my own … well, how am I supposed to know when I should defer to you, and when I should act on my own authority?” Ian winked at Tippi, who had been eavesdropping on his half of the conversation. A reserved yet photogenic blonde, she powerfully reminded him of the late Inger Stevens at the start of her acting career. While the conversation was obviously making her uncomfortable, Ian was having the time of his life. He relished the opportunity bluntly to remind Sarah that the decision to become his Dominant would inevitably have a few awkward and unhappy consequences. “I expect you to exercise your imagination,” Sarah fumed. “You know damned well that I'm not sharing you with your students. Behave accordingly!” “Thank you, Mommy. Oh, and I should mention that after office hours I'll be driving over with one of the headhunters, a lady named Marilyn Marsden. She's a recruiter, but Suzie says that we should take her seriously, so I want to make the introductions in person. Marilyn has a game plan that echoes what Amy has been recommending. Can you spare her a few minutes?” “Anything for you, Dear,” Sarah sarcastically replied. “And when I'm diapering her, I'll be sure to let Vickie know that we are now taking orders from Suzie Marshall. I'm sure that she'll be thrilled.” “Mommy, I like Suzie, and she likes me. In fact, she wants to become my latest girlfriend. Do we have room for one more?” “Arrgh,” Sarah screamed as she slammed the phone down. . . . . “Well, that was fun,” Ian cheerfully observed as he shifted his attention back to Tippi. “Sarah … the lady on the other end of the phone? She's my fiancee, and in our relationship she leads and I follow, but if you'll pardon the pun, we're still working out the kinks.” “And she really spanks you?” “She does.” “And are you really wearing a chastity belt?” “Not really,” he chuckled. It's actually a canvas diaper cover that prevents my underwear, if you want to call it that, from ending up around my knees. But it locks and I don't have the key, so in a manner of speaking ...” “So, it's true then … I mean, what I'm hearing all over campus … you know, from girls who volunteer as candy stripers at the hospital? That you're this great, big war hero who volunteers his time to help troubled vets, despite having problems of your own. Is that why you call her Mommy … because she changes your diapers?” “That's part of it,” Ian agreed; “a bit of pretending makes things less awkward, and a great deal less embarrassing.” He leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his neck, thinking about it. “But it's only part, not the whole. I have a problem making decisions because I tend to overthink things, but Sarah is just the opposite. I'm an academic who walks around with his head in the clouds, forever chasing his own tail, while she's a practical nurse who just gets on with it. This is so much a part of who we are as a couple that calling her mommy seems natural to me. And I'm pretty sure that at times she regards me as an overgrown toddler, hence the occasional spanking.” “Do you like it … I mean … when she spanks you? I spanked my last boyfriend, and he really got off on it.” “Nope. When she spanks me, it hurts. Again, she's a nurse, so she knows how to make it hurt … and it does.” “I still don't understand. I mean … like, you must have killed a lot of people out there, so why do you put up with it? The candy stripers keep saying that everybody likes you, so why don't you go with someone who treats you better?” “Now that,” Ian nodded, “is a very good question, and it goes to the heart of what makes a relationship succeed or fail. People who don't care about you will tell you what you want to hear just to get you off their backs. But someone who loves you? He'll take a deep breath, look you in the eye, and tell you straight out that you're wrong or making a mistake, and why. I love Sarah, but more than that, I trust her. She doesn't lie to me, and even when I think she's wrong, I know with absolute certainty that she has what's best for me in mind … that she's looking after me. Trust won't survive a big lie, Tippi, and over time even little lies will add up. No relationship survives a loss of trust, so when you're sure that a guy is lying to you, it's time to move on.” “And now there's a bounty on your head, but you're wearing what amounts to a chastity belt and of course you don't have the key. What a shame.” Ian handed her a copy of his resume from the stack on the corner of his desk. “You could always call her,” he suggested. “Would it do any good?” “Not really.” “I didn't think so … because if you were my boyfriend, I wouldn't share you with anybody!” Tippi put Ian's resume back on the stack, and got up to leave, but she paused with her hand on the doorknob. “When I came here today,” she said over her shoulder, “I didn't understand how any woman could be so desperate that she would willingly sleep with a guy who's disabled … reduced to wearing diapers. But now? Now I think that this Sarah of yours might be the luckiest woman on Earth.” . . . . Julia glanced at the clock, and winced. It would be at least another thirty to sixty minutes before Priscilla showed up at the diaper service with her young professor and his doctor in tow. And that meant that there was time to peruse a few more personnel files. Julia had carefully examined seven files in the last ninety minutes, the oldest (and dustiest) dating back a full ten years in time. Lullaby's files were in very good order, and so far none of them were in the least suspicious. Every payroll check-- and Spats Belmondo's office managers had carefully bundled every, single check in chronological order-- had been promptly deposited into a checking account at a local bank. The Social Security numbers all traced to Minnesota and the Dakotas. If there was a paid saboteur in this bunch, he had covered his tracks well. Julia hated files, even more than she hated stakeouts. But above all she hated being played for a fool, which is the way her morning had gone. She had hung back when the delivery truck left the warehouse, hoping that someone would be right on its tail. No such luck. She had passed the driver out on the highway, and reconnoitered stop after scheduled stop, paying especial attention to the ones that had been hit the week before. She had gradually expanded her search radius, hoping to spot the exhaust of a running engine or someone sitting behind the wheel for no apparent reason. And she had seen nothing. Indeed, the only unusual thing to happen all morning was an encounter with a pair of very well dressed college aged girls at a Mickey D's, where she had stopped to grab coffee and a bite to eat. They had looked badly out of place in a working class neighborhood, and had behaved so suspiciously that she had gone to the trouble of taking down their license plate and calling Herb to run the registration through the DMV. Herb had got back to her on her car phone, confirming that the vehicle belonged to nineteen year old Tippi Anne Bjornsen of New Ulm, Minnesota. College kids for sure, Julia concluded … probably trying to score drugs in a neighborhood where they stood out like a sore thumb. And then, returning to her car after comparing notes over lunch with the guy driving the van, Julia got the bad news: for the second week in a row, someone had stolen a week's worth of clean diapers off the front porch of the twelfth stop-- a home in an upscale district that she had patrolled before the truck arrived, and which she had revisited a second time, doubling back after the delivery on the off chance that someone had fingered her somewhere along the route. It was pretty damned obvious that someone had spotted her, and was rubbing her nose in it: the only diapers stolen from any of the morning stops were taken from the property that she had gone to the most elaborate lengths to protect. . . . . Priscilla gently knocked on the door, and then opened it to admit Marilyn. “Did I time it right,” she asked, as Ian got up and walked around his desk to shake her hand. “If the competition has cleared out, you did indeed.” Ian went on to explain that no less than three recruiters had shown up for his office hours, only to be held at bay by the platoon of sorority sisters effectively guarding his premises. “Well, the coast is clear for the moment … who were they, by the way?” “Don't know. I sent resumes their way, and urged them to talk with Sarah. Whether they do or don't is not my concern. Anyway, let's hit the front office. I'll introduce you to Amy, who's the department watchdog looking out for my interests. Like I said earlier, it sounds like the two of you are on the same page when it comes to charting my future. Why don't you take a minute to run your plan by her while Priscilla changes my diaper. When Vickie shows up, we can head out.” Since Ian's office was literally around the corner from Amy's, less than thirty seconds later he was knocking on her open door. She welcomed him with a smile. “Got a minute or two?” “Of course. How's it going out there?” “Officer Canon's got everything under control, and Suzie's Amazon battalion is definitely making my life more interesting. Anyway, Marilyn, I'd like you to meet Amy Reynolds, our department secretary; Amy, this is Marilyn Marsden of Recruitment Services International. She has a plan that I want Sarah to hear, but I thought that it would be a good idea to let her run it by you first. If you can tweak it, so much the better.” Returning to his office, Ian found Priscilla inside preparing for his next diaper change. His changing mat was already on the floor, so he nonchalantly kicked off his shoes, dropped his trousers, and laid down. The ritual had become so routine that he really didn't think about it anymore, and it was rapidly becoming second nature for Priscilla as well. They made a good team. Ian was tucking his shirt in and Priscilla was dealing with the diaper pail when Vickie knocked. She was right on schedule, and he swept her into his arms and kissed her passionately. But his hand crept inside her winter coat, and in short order he confirmed that she was once again heavily diapered. “Sarah's really pissed,” he whispered. “I'm sorry that she's taking it out on you.” “She isn't,” Vickie whispered in return. “But I will admit that whatever silly game you are playing over here is driving her up the wall. She's seeing kinky coeds in her soup.” “Can I help it that young women find me so attractive?” “They just want to scalp you.” “I beg to differ. Masculine charm and a poopy diaper are an irresistible combination, or so I've been repeatedly told. Or maybe it's just a sorority thing. Tell me, Doctor Robinson, back in the day ...” Vickie kissed him hard, while her hand walked smoothly down his spine to pat his well padded butt. She loved Ian's good natured sense of humor, and being teased really turned her on. “Back in the day,” he went on, “were you just a kinky, little sorority slut?” "Oh, I was … I was … I confess it. To spank or be spanked, that was the question!” “Enough, already,” Priscilla snorted. “Ian, do you want to tell Doctor Robinson about your blossoming relationship with the lady headhunter?” “WHAT,” Vickie cried theatrically, “have you taken still another paramour? Be still, my heart!!” “Oh, please,” Ian sighed. “Marilyn and Amy are fine tuning a plan that looks promising, and Sarah has agreed to listen to what Marilyn has to say. So, we'll drive over and I'll make the introductions … except that I don't know where on the third floor she actually works, and it's a big hospital. So, could you … uh … tag along … maybe lead the way?” “Meaning that you want me to run interference for you,” Vickie smirked. “Well, that too.” “And I'm hitching a ride with you to the diaper service,” Priscilla cut in. "Would either of you like to know why?” “I'm game,” Ian laughed. “Tell me, Officer Canon: why would you want to accompany us to the diaper service?” “To introduce you to my mother, who needs your help to crack a case she's working on.” “Oh, this ought to be good,” Vickie chortled. “Someone's been following one of the diaper trucks all over town, and stealing diapers left out in the open for the clients to collect when they get home. The owner wants his diapers back, and when I mentioned to mom that you are one of their customers, she came up with a plan that involves you.” “O … kay. Do you, uh, happen to know what she wants me to do?” “Nothing risky. She simply wants you to have the service drop off your order tomorrow afternoon as usual. If someone is jolly on the spot to steal your diapers, she plans to follow them and recover all of the stolen merchandise.” A huge grin spread across Ian's features. Opening one of his desk drawers, he removed a small metal box, and a thin disc about the size of a quarter. He handed them to Priscilla. “What we have here,” he explained, “is an electronic homing device that emits a continuous signal that can only be picked up by this receiver. The receiver has an inbuilt modulator that responds directly to the signal-- move away from the homing device, and the signal fades. As you get closer, the beeping becomes more and more rapid, and when you have arrived at the source, it becomes continuous. So, all your mom has to do is sew this little doohickey into one of my diapers, and technology will do the rest.” Priscilla and Vickie looked at one another, the same question on both their minds. It was Priscilla who said it out loud. “Uh … Ian … would you care to explain what a state-of-the-art electronic tracking device is doing in your desk drawer?” “Okay, okay, I confess! When I was a kid, I built a model railroad. When I was fifteen, I was fine tuning engines and racing for pink slips. And today I'm a gadget freak. There's a store in Chicago that gives me a hard on every time I walk through the door. That's where this neat, little toy comes from. I have several more goodies from the same shop if you're interested.” “Boys and their toys,” Vickie sighed. Like so many women, Vickie was convinced that the only difference between grown men and little boys was the price of their toys. “So, what do you say, Pris. Do you want to pass it on to your mother, or not?” “Yes, definitely … thieves get religion real quick when you confront them with physical evidence. This will help Mom big time.” “Then, let's collect Marilyn. I'll ride over to the hospital with her, and catch up with you two in the lobby.” . . . . At the hospital, Ian formally introduced Vickie and Marilyn to one another, and then pulled Vickie aside for a hurried conference. “What do you think of Priscilla,” he asked straight out. An outrageous idea had come to him during the brief drive over from his office. “I like her,” Vickie admitted. “On the job she's cool, calm, and collected, but she needs a boyfriend, and preferably one she can mother a bit. Looking after you, changing your diapers and feeding you your ba bas … you've triggered her maternal urges!” “I do have that effect on women, don't I,” Ian grinned, still keeping his voice down. “So, how would you like to play matchmaker?” “Who do you have in mind?” “Another troubled vet … a guy who would definitely benefit by having a girlfriend who's steady as a rock on the one hand, and nurturing on the other.” “Still waiting ...” “Amos. From where I'm standing, they look like a match made in heaven.” Vickie's face lit up in surprise, and then, remembering how lost Amos had looked in the cafeteria just yesterday, with delight. “Ian … my God … you're right! Why didn't I see it? She's stable … unflappable … and a police officer is someone to whom Amos can relate, someone he can respect. But she's also maternal … she's perfect for him!” “So, how do we play it?” “Leave it to me,” Vickie crowed. “Now, let's get our troops upstairs. Mommy Sarah awaits!” Rejoining the others, Vickie led their quartet through the warren of corridors that ended in an elevator that would carry them to the third floor. Ian fervently hoped that it was close to Sarah's office. He was counting steps, and as the number mounted, he was getting more and more worried. He had never used the cane in Vickie's presence, or Sarah's, and he had deliberately chosen not to bring it with him to the hospital. He did not know how the two women whom he so loved would react if they discovered how disabled he really was. Rationally, he knew that he could not hide the truth much longer, but not for the first time he was gambling that he could finesse the situation well enough to buy another day. . . . . Sarah was seething. Sitting at her desk, fingers drumming, she was trying to concentrate on her work, and getting nowhere. She knew enough about the world of BDSM to understand that Ian was topping from the bottom, and she intended to put a stop to it. She had been easy going, ready to compromise, and he had taken advantage of her at every opportunity. Tonight, it stopped. Tonight, when she got home, he was going over her knee, and she was going to do exactly what she had promised Rita-- spank the shit out of him. Tonight, she was going to acquaint him with the paddle; tonight, he would learn that she meant business when she said that she would take total control of his life, and only the paddle would punish him sufficiently for flaunting the rules that she had put in place to wean him off of alcohol. He was going to drink breast milk, damn it, rivers of breast milk, and he was going to become the sweet and obedient baby that she envisaged. She would paddle him tonight. She would spank him tomorrow night for defying her order to cancel his diaper service. And she would paddle him again on Thursday night for the crappy way that he was treating both her and the coeds protecting him from the headhunters. And as for Vickie … she would be going home tonight, her heavy diaper securely locked in place. Let her poop and piss herself all night long, and let her come crawling into the office in the morning, begging for a diaper change. Sarah was convinced that Pom Poms Girl was enabling Ian's rebelliousness, and undermining her authority. It was time to put Vickie in her place as well, and a diaper that doubled as a chastity belt would do the job quite nicely. For a start. What Vickie really needed to curb her appetite for sex and booze was the modern equivalent of an old fashioned Scold's Bridle. A feeding gag that could be strapped in place and then locked would work, and Sarah mentally added it to the list of devices that she would need to bring both Ian and Vickie permanently to heel. Sarah was done playing nice. Tonight, both of her babies were going to discover just how strict their mommy could be.

In the next scene, you will be watching Ian drive Sarah up the proverbial wall. Riding herd on Ian and Vickie is going to feel like riding herd on a couple of highly energetic kittens. Sarah has her work cut out for her.

Many thanks for bringing this up. I have inserted a link to a map of the Cities just above the title. It should open to the area around 54th and France, where the action is centered. As a further point of reference, the burger joint is several miles to the north, in a working class neighborhood northwest of downtown Minneapolis. The diaper service is in an industrial suburb still farther northwest.

Nice cliffhanger, and nothing like a crisis at the office to make Clark forget about his mother for a while. In the real world, of course, unhappy employees, overworked and at least in their own minds unappreciated, would by day's end be considering their legal options. Suits for discrimination would assuredly follow, and the resulting publicity would lead to a house cleaning at the board level. So, assuming that you don't have so grim a finish in mind, I can't wait to see how Ms. Heller somehow saves the day.

Let me revise the lyric: Does anybody here have a python, does anybody here have a python? I raise my hand and cry it out ... yes! Yes, I have a python! He sleeps all day up on the roof, But at night prowls the ground, the ground afoot, keeping the rats, yes, keeping the rats at bay. If the rats don't run, he hunts them down, hunts them down and swallows them whole, has himself a rat casserole. Yes, yes ... I have a python!

It is now Tuesday morning in a fast paced story. Ian will have a Tuesday night to remember, a life altering phone call on Wednesday morning, a drinking contest taking on the whole of a police precinct on Thursday night (Vickie, Priscilla and Amos as teammates) with Hong Kong Rules governing, several meeting of the mind (so to speak) with Sarah-- and these are just the highlights. Don't think Saturday night is going to be much fun for anybody attending. Stay tuned!

AUTHOR'S NOTE: The attached map will help readers follow the action in the slushy streets of southwestern Minneapolis. The key scene is centered on the corner of France and 54th in a very upscale neighborhood. https://www.google.com/maps/@44.9033225,-93.3270979,15z?entry=ttu CAT AND MOUSE Julia gave it a good thirty seconds after the diaper service truck rolled by before she exited the parking lot. She was driving what in the Upper Midwest is known as a “beater.” Rusted out, covered in snow and the sludge spooled up from driving on plowed roadways, the car was anonymous. In the Minnesota winter, a new car freshly washed stood out like a sore thumb. Like any private investigator, Julia prized anonymity. Religiously, she went out and bought a new “beater” every other year. The floor board on the passenger's side was missing in the current edition, but then, resting one's feet on the exhaust manifold did tend to ward off the cold. She pulled up behind the truck at a stop sign, and made the turn onto the main highway in its wake. She speeded up, and without a sideways glance left the truck behind. She had started running the route at six, and had calculated where to park stop by stop. Her first destination was the parking lot of a fast food restaurant on the corner, and eight doors away, from the driver's first stop of the day. If there was a vehicle trailing the Lullaby Diaper Service truck, she would spot it instantly. There wasn't. She moved on to the second stop, with similarly disappointing results. Now several minutes ahead of the truck, at her third stop she had the luxury of time, and used it to study the vehicles parked within two blocks of the scheduled stop in either direction. She was looking for a car bleeding exhaust from a running engine, and saw none. She was looking for a driver sitting behind the wheel, freezing his or her butt off, and saw none. Julia did not think to check the side streets that the delivery truck would pass. . . . . “Do we really have to sit here and freeze our butts off,” Cindy complained. “We do,” Tippi answered. “At this hour, a parked car with the engine running can be seen from a mile away. We freeze our butts off, but we keep our eyes open, and we note every car that comes down that street.” Tippi nodded at the road that the delivery service vehicle would take. “Here comes one now. Jee … zus, what a wreck! I swear, Tip, that wasn't a car; it was motorized rust pretending to be a car! Jee … zus!” “A gray, four door sedan,” Tippi noted, “mid-sized. Maybe a Mercury or a Ford … a “beater” to be sure.” Several minutes later, the diaper service truck put in its scheduled appearance. Cindy and Tippi endured the cold for an additional ten minutes, without seeing another car passing in either direction. Then Cindy fired up the engine, and they moved on to find a spot where they could survey the traffic at the driver's seventh stop. . . . . When she pulled away from the sixth stop, Julia shook her head in frustration. She had spotted no one, and she was too good at her job not to admit the truth: if she had spotted no one, it was because there was no one to be spotted. So, what am I up against? Is this just a bunch of teenagers looking for a break from toilet papering trees? Some kind of bizarre initiation ceremony? Somebody's answer to “I dare you?” In which case, the diapers will probably end up in a landfill. Julia turned the corner, switched lanes, and raced past the truck. Could it be some weirdo with a diaper fetish? If last week's haul was enough to satisfy his needs, then the trail's already gone cold and I'm just wasting my time and the client's money … Not good, Twinkletoes, not good at all. Making the right turn, Julia cruised slowly down the street, once again checking for exhaust from a running engine, or a driver slouched down in his seat, trying to stay out of view. She saw nothing. With an illegal U turn several blocks farther on, Julia reversed course, thinking that she might catch something that she had missed the first time through. Coming up empty, she pulled into the curb a half dozen houses west of the address where the driver would make his next stop. Turning off the ignition, she adjusted the rear view mirror to give herself a better view of the road, and then leaned back against the head rest. She was ready to take a break, however brief. . . . . “Hey, hey, hey,” Cindy cried; “look what just rolled by!” “Houston, we have liftoff,” Tippi laughed triumphantly. “It's the same rust bucket that we saw earlier!” “The tail?” “The tail,” Tippi confirmed. “Okay, here's what we're gonna do. Go up a couple of blocks, and make a right.” Tippi nodded at the windshield. “We know the guy's route, so we lay in wait in a parking lot along the way to his next stop. If the rust bucket follows, we follow the rust bucket. I wanna get a look at the driver, just in case he gets cute and changes cars tomorrow.” “Hey, I've got an idea. We know where the diapers are going to be left at the door, so call Melanie and tell her to get her butt in gear. Once the tail bugs out, we give her the 'all clear', and she moves in and grabs the diapers. Aren't car phones great?” “And it will drive whoever owns the diaper service nuts! And this bozo will lose his job! What a bunch of morons!” . . . . Deep in thought, on the spur of the moment Julia decided to let the diaper service truck go, and dive into Mickey D's. Her thermos was empty, and she needed caffeine, as in coffee very, very black. She was also reasonably certain that her arteries were up to the challenge posed by an Egg McMuffin. She would catch up with the truck later. Julia was third in line, and it continued to grow behind her. . . . . “Huh?” Cindy rapidly scanned the parking lot, but there was no sign of the truck. The driver was still on his appointed rounds, not stopping for a quick coffee break. “Maybe we're following the wrong car,” Tippi mused. The rust bucket had been the last vehicle to make the light, but it had turned into a parking lot on the opposite corner. They could see the driver getting out and walking away, but at this distance they couldn't decide whether the shadowy figure was male or female, young or old. The bulky winter coat and longshoreman's cap effectively disguised their quarry. “There's no way this is the wrong car! I'm pulling in,” Cindy said as the light turned green. “Get the plate number, and then let's join the maddening crowd. I need something to drink, and maybe we can spot the bozo inside.” Clearing the intersection, Cindy turned in and drove slowly down the aisle. She passed the beater, one of several in the lot, and parked in the first empty space. Four cars separated the two vehicles. Keeping a wary eye on the slush beneath their feet, the two girls entered the restaurant, Tippi having first memorized the license plate number. There was a line waiting to order, and their target was bringing up the rear. Grinning mischievously, Cindy and Tippi decided to join the queue. . . . . Julia stepped up to the counter, placed her order, and fished her wallet out of a coat pocket. She paid, gathered her change, and stepped a few feet to her left to wait for her food and drink to materialize. She idly noted that the two young women who took her spot at the counter were placing an order identical to her own. They were well dressed and well made up; indeed, she thought, far too well dressed and too well made up for a fast food joint in this part of the Cities. Watching money exchange hands, Julia could tell from the expression on the face of the young man behind the counter that he shared her thought. When the unlikely pair turned toward her, Julia studied them more carefully. They looked like college kids, which was hardly unusual in a metropolitan area home to a dozen public and private colleges and universities. But most of the institutions were in upscale neighborhoods, where these two would have been right at home, and the closest was more than five miles away on busy, slush filled city streets. When the girls moved to stand beside her, Julia debated politely asking the tall and exquisitely beautiful blonde in her stylish Patagonia parka what had brought the two of them to this part of town. If they were looking to score drugs, they were definitely in the wrong place at the wrong time. But her food arrived, and instead she made a spur of the moment decision to ask for it to be bagged as a to go order. There was just something about these two that felt way, way wrong, and so she took her time at the condiments stand, collecting sugar and cream for her coffee, and packets of salt, pepper and ketchup for her muffin. A few napkins later, she headed for the door, but just as she reached it she turned aside and took a seat at a window table-- a seat facing the counter she had just left in her wake. She was curious to discover whether the pair would react to her movements, or simply ignore her. . . . . Cindy and Tippi took their time at the counter, pretending to scan the overhead menu, before finally opting for coffee and Egg McMuffins. In turn, each of them casually glanced to their left, confirming that they were indeed tailing a middle-aged woman whose heavy but well worn coat was a good match for the rust bucket that she was driving. After collecting her change and stashing it away in the pocket of her parka, Tippi decided to be bold and go stand beside her. She wanted to get close enough to determine whether the woman was wearing perfume; the scent that a woman favored spoke volumes about her education, income, and social standing. To her intense disappointment, Tippi could detect nothing, not even one of the heavily perfumed soaps that so many women favored in the shower. She concluded that they were dealing with someone who worked at the diaper service, possibly in the front office but more likely in the laundry room. She wondered if the clothing underneath the woman's winter coat reeked of dirty diapers. Cindy and Tippi were both taken completely by surprise when the lady suddenly asked for her order to be bagged. As she walked away, they looked at one another, both unsure of how to proceed. It would look odd if they suddenly changed their order as well, but they would probably lose her if they didn't. What to do, especially since the woman was taking her damned, sweet time loading up on cream and sugar-- and who the hell put ketchup on an Egg McMuffin? Their order suddenly appeared on the counter, and quickly thinking it through, Tippi decided to have their food bagged as well. They could take their time sorting through the salt and pepper … the woman was finally heading for the door. And then, at the last moment, she turned aside and walked to a window table. Sitting down, leaving her bag on the table untouched, looking straight at them, she removed the lid from her coffee cup and took a sip. Tippi thought that not bothering with the sugar and cream that she had harvested mere moments before was an especially nice touch. “She's a pro,” Tippi whispered as she grabbed packets of salt and pepper, “and she's made us.” “You think,” Cindy retorted. “Memo to the boss: the next time we come to this part of town, we need to dress down. We stand out like a sore thumb; hell, even the kid at the counter knows that we don't belong here.” “Suggestions?” “Cut our losses. Get in the car and wait for someone to drive in. If we time it right, she'll be boxed in when we back out and take off. Once we're sure she's off our tail, we catch up with the truck at the twelfth stop, just as planned.” “And if she follows us out the door?” “We keep our cool. We stay put, turn on the radio, and listen to some tunes while we eat and drink our fill at a leisurely pace. If she dilly dallies, we lead her to that upscale mall on the west side … make it look like we were just stopping for a snack before heading to a place where we fit in. If she takes off, we let her go. Either way, she'll be able to run our plates, which will get her exactly nowhere because the car is registered to your home address in New Ulm.” “And now that we have her plates … tah dah … Amanda's mother works at the DMV. A name and address are just a phone call away!” . . . . Julia didn't know what the two girls were hiding, but one thing she knew for certain: they were hiding something. College kids didn't make a habit of putting their heads down and whispering in conspiratorial tones in the aisle of a fast food joint. That's why restaurants had booths. The sideways glance that the tall blonde cast her way as they walked out the door was not the sort of thing that a detective with Julia's many years of experience was likely to miss. Snapping the lid back on her coffee cup and grabbing her bag of food, Julia charged out the door, delaying just long enough to give the girls a decent head start. She wanted to get a look at their car and, if possible, write down the license plate number. Julia kept a scratch pad and pen in her coat pocket for precisely this purpose. She watched the girls climb into a late model Ford Pinto, a nondescript two door coupe with enough slush caking the rear end to make it invisible in a lot filled with similar vehicles. Julia had actually expected them to be driving a sportier and more expensive number, but the coupe made sense if they were in fact college students. It was the sort of car that hard working parents on a budget would buy for a daughter's eighteenth birthday, christening her journeys from adolescence to adulthood, and from high school to university. Julia wrote down the license plate number, and debated opening the trunk to retrieve her trusty Olympus, but then it dawned on her that the driver had not fired up the ignition. She watched the tall blonde in the passenger's seat unwrap her Egg McMuffin and take a bite. She faintly heard music coming out of the speakers mounted in the rear; it sounded like Donna Summer was belting out Dim All the Lights. Not for the first time, Julia asked herself whether the paranoia that went with her job was getting to her. To all appearances, these two were just a couple of college girls who had stopped for a quick bite in a part of town well outside their usual haunts. And yet she could not shake the feeling that something was wrong here. Getting into her own car, Julia dialed Herb on her car phone. She asked her husband to track down the registration, and pull the driver's license on the owner. Starting the engine, she backed out and drove slowly down the aisle, taking one, last look at the Pinto. She figured that she could catch up with the diaper service van at its tenth scheduled stop. . . . . “Let her go?” “Let her go,” Tippi agreed. After a moment's thought, she picked up the receiver on her car phone and started dialing. “Mel, it's Tip. You out and about?” “Heading south on 35 … just cleared downtown.” “Great! Head west on 62 highway, and head north on France. Make a right on 54th and park anywhere. Be on the lookout for a gray rust bucket with a woman driver. She's following the diaper truck, and she's spotted us, so we're gonna hole up at a pizza joint a few blocks to the north and pick her up southbound. We think she's a lady cop, so keep your head down and your engine off. It's a good neighborhood; your Charger shouldn't look out of place. You got all that?” “Ten four, good buddy; I've got your six!” “Yeah, yeah, you and the Bandit both. Stay off the phone, and I'll call you back if we see her coming.” . . . . Julia caught up with the delivery truck at its tenth stop, but she didn't have time to do more than a quick pass up and down the street. No matter. She raced ahead, determined at the eleventh stop to search out the Pinto or any other suspicious vehicle within a wider radius. She checked each side street for three blocks in both directions, then crossed the main thoroughfare that the truck would use to reach the delivery address. She was trying to gauge the distance at which the brightly colored truck could be seen, and she reckoned that six blocks was a safe bet. When the Lullaby driver finally rounded the corner, he was driving away from her, but was still visible from almost seven blocks away. She adjusted her search pattern accordingly, and made haste for his twelfth stop. It was one of the houses that had been ripped off a week earlier. . . . . “Mel, get your head down! She's making the turn now!” In a well-to-do neighborhood, the rust bucket could be easily seen from blocks away. “She's going by right now,” Melanie whispered excitedly. She hadn't had this much fun since her high school sweetheart rolled his hot road in a beery drag race on Prom night. “Count to twenty, and then have a look,” Tippi advised. “This one's tricky, and could do a flip.” “Wait one.” Melanie peered cautiously over the steering wheel, but saw no one. “Nothing at my twelve; you got my six?” “Affirmative. Your back door is shut tight.” Tippi and Cindy both rolled their eyes; Melanie had a thing for the Snowman that just wouldn't quit. Humoring her was the easy way out, although both wondered whether she knew what a back door shut tight really referenced. “Got her,” Melanie yelled. “Mama-bear just did a nine to three!” “She's working the cross streets,” Tippi explained. It was obvious that Cindy didn't have a clue what their Sister was talking about. City girls rarely spoke Trucker. “Give me the damned phone,” Cindy growled. “Mel, you got a pad and pencil?” “That's a big ten four, good buddy.” More rolling of eyes. “Here's her plate number. When you get back to the house, have Amanda pass it to her mom. This wreck has got to be her car, so I want name and address. If her mom asks, tell her that we were grazed by a beater that just kept going. We need the info for the insurance claim. You got that?” “Ah … firmative.” “Keep your eyes open; she may double back on you.” “Copy that.” A few minutes passed, with Melanie alternately filling the silence with reports of Mama Bear's latest nine to three or three to nine, all the while humming the first stanza of East Bound and Down. “Mel … heads up! She just crossed France two blocks to your north. I'm guessing that she's gonna flip and sit on your six. When the truck shows up, stay put until we give you the all clear. You copy?” “That's a big ten four … got me a Smokey knocking on my back door!” Tippi shook her head in despair, and looked over at Cindy. “What are the odds that she'll do a pass through, drive off, and then double back one more time?” “It's how I'd play it,” Cindy agreed. “She has to know that we struck out until the seventeenth stop, so I expect her to play games here and then head straight over.” “And there goes the Lullaby man,” she added as the delivery truck rolled past them. Tippi advised Mel that the truck was inbound, and again advised her to keep her head down. Melanie acknowledged with another cheerful ten four. . . . . Thankful that for once the plows had cleared the road all the way to the curb, Julia parked alongside an auto parts store on the corner of 54th and France. From here she had a clear view, and she watched quietly as the Lullaby service truck made the turn and proceeded east to its destination. The driver exchanged clean diapers for soiled, and drove off. From here, his route would take him southwest, into the affluent southwestern suburbs. Knowing that someone would be home at his next four stops, she was in no hurry to follow. And so she sat quietly, and waited. And nothing happened. No car came down the street. No one was walking on the icy, treacherous sidewalk. She gave it a full ten minutes, and then decided to switch tactics. She fired the ignition, gave the unhappy engine a minute to warm up, and then made the turn to drive south on France. She passed a cemetery, crossed Minnehaha Creek, and then abruptly made a left on 57th. Driving slowly and keeping one eye glued to her rear view mirror, she used a cross street to turn north, and approached 54th from the southeast. Still another left turn put her two blocks to the east of the target address. Cruising slowly, she eyeballed every car on the street, and confirmed that the load of diapers was still sitting on the front porch. As she turned onto France and headed south in pursuit of the delivery van, Julia was rapidly coming to the conclusion that hers was a wild goose chase. . . . . “Mel, you got your ears on?” “Hear you five by five,” she replied. “The coast is clear. Grab the damned diapers off the porch, and make a beeline back to the house. Once you have a name and address, call me back.” “This is going to drive somebody nuts,” Cindy laughed. “Especially when the mouse is chasing the cat!” . . . . The rest of Julia's morning proved frustratingly uneventful. Over lunch at yet another Mickey D's, she questioned the driver, but he had also seen nothing untoward as he traveled his route. She got the bad news when she returned to her car. It was Harriet, calling to let her know that the client on 54th Street had come home during the lunch hour, only to find that for the second week in a row there were no diapers waiting on the porch. She had taken out her frustration on poor Francine, who was currently en route to the address in question, using her own car personally to make the delivery. . . . . The phone call caught Tippi and Cindy shortly after lunch in the Southdale Mall food court. “Her name is Julia Canon, and she lives on Minnehaha Parkway. That's a very upscale part of the Cities; what the hell is she doing prowling around in an old beater?” “Probably camouflage,” Tippi guessed. "She made us in a fast food joint because our clothing was way too good for the neighborhood. But she blended in, which makes me think that she's a cop moonlighting to pick up some extra dough. What did you bag?” “More baby diapers,” Melanie sighed. “Which we don't need. Damn it, we've got to have more adult diapers; our GPA depends on it!” “We'll get them tomorrow, when we raid that apartment complex down in Bloomington. But right now, it's time to call it a day. Word is that PISS has put a bounty on a first year prof in East Asian Languages. He's got office hours at two, and I want to be there to check him out.” . . . . Julia put the receiver back in its cradle and then savagely lashed out, driving the edge of her fist hard into the steering wheel. She was frustrated, and she was angry. It was one thing to go up against a worthy opponent, but someone was going the extra mile … someone was sadistically rubbing her nose in it. Taking a deep breath, trying to calm down, Julia began mentally running her options. Looking at her watch, which now showed ten past one, she decided that her best bet was to hopscotch it back to the office and start combing through the personnel files of current and former employees. This would give her about two hours before Priscilla showed up with her well diapered young professor in tow. The car phone rang just as she was pulling into Lullaby's parking lot. It was her husband. “The vehicle is registered to Miss Tippi Anne Bjornsen, age nineteen … a New Ulm address.” “Thanks, Herb. You okay with takeout tonight?” “Pizza sounds good. You paying?” “My treat.” Julia ended the call. College kids for sure. But why aren't they in class?

Quickie cultural quiz: Ian has yet to introduce his students to the ultimate foreign language learning tool, which we old Asia hands style "the long haired dictionary." Outside the US, you will find this invaluable resource most easily at: A. An art gallery B. A concert hall C. A library D. A nudie bar

Actually, the only state that forbids having an aardvark as a pet is Maine. If you are in North Carolina, you would have to check with your local police chief or country sheriff to get an answer. In An Homage to Vincent Vega, our main character (Ian) has a Burmese elephant (Toby) and a Burmese python (Pete) that he keeps in northern Thailand. He could not keep either in Minnesota, where the story is set, but to this day he can do so in South Dakota, which is right next door.

Scene 14 was entitled "The Many Faces of Ian Grady." Although a lot of hints have been scattered across a great many chapters, you still have not seen the persona that matters. This will come in scene 41. It guarantees that there will be a lot on Ian's mind come the next edition of Rita's Saturday Night Frolic. I doubt if you will want to change places with him in that scene, but next up is scene 2 of Aardvark, Platypus, and Twinkletoes.

This scene (36) opens on Tuesday morning, and ends early on Tuesday afternoon. I think it's fair to say that you won't have to wait for them to move in together on the weekend for Vickie's fate to be sealed.