Babypants

Robin's letter of 12/06/23 says that the site has zero tolerance for the sexualization of children and teenagers. Taken literally, this means ages 18 and 19 would be off limits, whereas on this site they are considered adults. Does anyone know what Patreon means by "teenagers?" Has anyone here put up a story over there involving 18 and 19 year old characters in sexual situations?

The Smithsonian Magazine has a wonderful piece on the history of breast pumping. We didn't have access to a pump when my wife was breast feeding, so I had to step up and take one for the cause when my son, at 7 months, suddenly decided that breast milk sucked (pardon the pun). The stuff tastes incredibly foul.

Quickie historical quiz The breast pump that Rita, Sarah and Vickie are buying is the Egnell pump, invented in 1942 by the Swedish engineer Einar Egnell. In 1979, the first breast pump designed by a woman was still in the future. In what year did it come out? A. 1984 B. 1988 C. 1992 D. 1996 E. 2000

Thanks, Rusty. A great post! I encourage everyone to be considerate of hotel housekeeping staff. I bag up my soiled diaper/s in the morning, and drop them in the trash can outside the hotel entrance. I do not leave them for staff to empty out because a soiled diaper sitting in a cart for hours is going to leave a nasty smell in the corridor. A great feature of the big truck stops and their shower complexes is that drivers are coming and going all day and night with backpacks and large duffel bags. Your bag is just one more in the crowd. Finally, as Rusty says, treat the furnishings in hotel rooms kindly. Put a hospital grade pad underneath you in bed at night, and if you are not already wearing vinyl or PUL pants over your diaper when you're on the road, please get in the habit.

Interesting observation. The Diaper Dimension should appeal strongly to Harry Potter fans. And I must say that riding around on a broomstick looks like great fun ... right up to the moment when you fall off!

Good post, Rusty. I try and use the dark plastic bags instead of the transparent ones for disposal. Walmart's are thin, but two of them do the trick. I posted a practical guide to diapering on the road entitled "Another Day Out On the Diaper Highway" (currently on page 14 of the Stories forum). If you have the time, please take a look and add your own thoughts. This is a down to earth topic that warrants more discussion here than it has received.

Looking back on it, this is my sense of what happened as well. She asked me what I was shopping for, and when I said "diapers," her next question was whether they were for me or a younger brother or sister. With that sorted out, she led me to the adult diapers while asking whether I needed them for bed wetting, or for daytime use as well. She did take my measurements in the storeroom, but she was very professional. I was glad that she was taking the time to get the best product for me, both in terms of size and thickness. Looking back on it, I now regard it as telling that she never asked me about how I got my diapers changed in school. This certainly suggests that this was indeed all old hat to her. By the way, I saw the school nurse during nutrition break, and just before the end of lunch break. I also reported to my gym teacher (my one special ed type class), who occasionally had to change me as well. Quite a few kids had other problems that brought them to the school nurse's office. She was a busy lady!

It's possible that I've forgotten, but I don't recall being embarrassed that day. Before disposables, you couldn't hide diapers drying on the line from the neighborhood bullies, and of course a diaper service truck stopping by weekly was an even bigger tell. Being shot in the 4th grade, raped in the 5th, and knifed in the 6th toughened me up. I mashed a kid's jaw in the 6th, and used a knife to fight off another bully in the 7th. After that, I had no problems with the guys, and proved reasonably popular with girls outside the cheer leading set, especially after I got my learner's permit at 15 1/2. Because I skipped 4B and 5A, the girls in my class were all older than me. In sum, they had licenses but no cars, and I had two cars but no license. Hallelujah, and to hell with the diapers!

Would it help if he wrapped his phone in tin foil, put it in a faraday cage, and left it in the trunk?

The next is on board scanning that will monitor your eye movements, and give you a warning if they look away for more than a few seconds. This is to protect you from having an accident while peeking at your cell phone. Big Brother is watching you.

Oddly enough, sixty odd years later what I remember most clearly is that it was raining when mom dropped me off in front of the maternity and infants wear shop (we're talking Los Angeles). There was no one in the shop but the lady running it, and it only took her a couple of questions to sort out that I needed adult diapers. Oh, I could still wear the 27x27 Birdseye, but 4 to 6 at a time was generating a lot of laundry. I did end up in the storeroom, stripped down for a fitting, and did walk out with a dozen diapers that came to over $40. At the time, this was the largest amount of money I had ever held in my hands (mom sent me in with $60), and that's the second thing that I remember. One needs to keep in mind that, at 16, my first job paid 75 cents an hour. It wasn't until I started to get interested in girls a year later that I figured out that mom couldn't cope with my erections. Sending me off to buy my own adult diapers was a cute way of telling me that I was no longer a child-- and if I wanted money, it was time to think about getting a job! I found a few of these sixty year old diapers in a box, and while I could not find any of my beloved Playtex baby pants, will wonders never cease ... I did find a pair of unused Comco snap on vinyl pants packed away with the diapers. Behold!

NOT FOR THE FAINT OF HEART Author's note. There are only two parts to this scene, and the second one is a tricked out version of something that happened to me in March of 1960, shortly after my 14th birthday. I didn't connect the dots when my mom told me that it was time for me to start changing my own diapers, and in the process to move up from baby to adult. My attitude was “yeah, sure, whatever.” I was too busy pondering how to sync the dual carbs on my Triumph Spitfire (my first race car, which I was running on closed tracks). I wrote this scene as a thank you to Guilend, Littlebopeeper, Cdfm, CCApril, Kerry-- indeed to everyone who has taken the time to read and comment on this story. Hope everyone continues to enjoy the tale. . . . . “I … I'm sorry, but I'm having a hard time coming to grips with this.” Priscilla felt dizzy, incoherent thoughts swirling around in her brain with the force of a category five hurricane. “Aren't you two enemies? How … how is this possible?” Irina laughed, and it was heartfelt. She had had this conversation many times, and in more than one language. “My Dear, we are professionals, and as such we try not to make life too difficult for one another. But Ian and I are also friends. A long time ago, he saved my life, and for a Russian, this is a very big deal. We believe that, if you save someone's life, you are forever responsible for them. But it also means that my family has a life debt … what we call 'a debt of honor'. When Ian comes east, he is under my family's protection, but he is careful never to abuse our friendship. Do not think of him as a spy, for he is not. No. He is the one honorable man in a dishonorable profession. Now, I ask again: who is trying to harm my Ian?” “Calling her my bodyguard? Sorry, Irina; it was a figure of speech. There are many refugees here, and the hospitals all need someone who speaks Khmer, Lao, and Vietnamese. I'm it. I have been helping one hospital, and the others have found out. Now, there are recruiters offering me a lot of money to quit the university and work for somebody else. Priscilla is here to keep order.” “They are offering you money?” Irina snorted derisively. “Milyy, you care less about money than the people in my government, and they are good Communists! Ridiculous!” “Milyy,” Priscilla mouthed. “Sweetheart,” Ian mouthed. “Oh.” Priscilla didn't quite know what to make of that! “And now she is your nanny? Milyy, you never called me 'nanny' when I was changing your diapers!” “You changed his diapers,” Priscilla screeched. “But you're a general,” she managed to add before her voice trailed off. “A general who knows how to change a diaper,” Irina chuckled. “And changing my Ian was great fun” “Did you sleep with him?” Priscilla blurted out what she really wanted to know. “Uh … Pris,” Ian cautioned, “this call is being recorded; half the world is probably listening in.” “The question stands,” Priscilla hissed. “Did you sleep with him?” “No,” Irina lamented; “both governments would have been embarrassed if an American agent and a Russian general became lovers … and I am not a honey trap!” “Honey pot,” Ian corrected; “you are not a honey pot, and you do not set honey traps.” Priscilla looked at him for an explanation. "Using sex to set someone up for blackmail,” he whispered. She nodded. That, at least, was easy to understand. “Da … thank you. But when it comes to women,” she added coquettishly, “my Ian always comes to me for advice.” “An older woman ...” “We are the same age,” Irina laughed. “Milyy, ona zaviduyet. Ty tozhe spish's ney?” “Ian?” “She thinks that you are jealous, and she is very politely asking if we are lovers.” Ian said this loud enough for Irina to overhear. “Da,” Priscilla cut in before Ian had a chance to answer. “I do not understand. Ian, Donald told me that you are to marry … a nurse named Sarah. But he also said that you will be living with Rita and Victoria, and sleeping with them too. And now I discover that you are sleeping with your nanny. Is this an American custom, or did it only start with this feminist revolution of yours?” “American women are very liberated,” Ian conceded, “although few drive tractors.” This was an old Soviet joke, which he was sure would pass right over Priscilla's head. “But they are very bossy. I am the mule who plows their fields.” “And do you like pulling the plow?” “Yes, but the harness is uncomfortable. I want Sarah to make a harness just for me, not buy one in the store that fits poorly.” “I understand. You should not marry until the harness fits well. An unhappy mule will not plow deep, and the seed will fail. The angry farmer will sell the mule, and an animal twice sold may not find a buyer.” “The mule is stubborn by nature. The farmer must find its limits, and respect them.” “This mule will not lack for buyers.” Priscilla had caught on to what they were talking about. “There are many interested parties, but the owner will not sell. It will take time, but they will become a team.” “I see.” There was a pronounced pause while Irina thought it through. “Then we come to the heart of the matter-- marriage, and children. Your diapers do not drive the women who care for you away, and your injuries are less than they see in their work. No, it is as Donald said to me when he called: have you come to terms with the past, or does Nguyen still haunt your thoughts?” “I have let go,” Ian thoughtfully admitted. He had given an enormous amount of time to this very question. “And you were right. I was not honest with Emily, and not honest with myself. I treated her terribly. It was too soon.” “And children? Have you discussed this?” “Not yet … tomorrow with Rita, and on Saturday with everyone.” “And are you ready, Ian? Ready to have another child?” “Yes.” He let it go at that. “Wait … what? Ian? Ian, what … what are you saying?” Priscilla was suddenly struggling to breathe. It felt as if an invisible hand had taken hold of her heart, and was squeezing the life out of her. Whatever she had been expecting, this was not it. “She does not know?” Irina's voice was sharp, her tone openly accusing. “I've told no one.” Ian's tone was just as understandably defensive; he was acutely aware that they were entering the minefield, and that the world as he knew it was about to blow up. “Ty ne smohesh' eto sdelat'! Ty dolzhen skazat' im! Anyone who would bear you a child must know the cost!” “I know.” He was bone weary, his thoughts bankrupt. He had no idea how to begin. “Ian, listen to me. Talk to Priscilla. Talk to her directly. You cannot hide from this, and she is a police officer. She has seen tragedy, and can help you. But have faith in your loves. They too have seen much tragedy.” Irina was right, Ian thought; it was somewhere to begin. Taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly, he took the plunge. “Pris, do you remember what I told you this morning about Studies and Operations Group … how we were not in the chain of command?” “Yes,” she responded tentatively. Priscilla felt as if she was mired in quicksand. “And how I had Vietnamese soldiers in my unit?” She nodded. “We did not operate out of a military base. Instead, we used a village that was home to two brothers in my unit … Minh and Quy. They were experienced noncoms, and very good soldiers. They spoke little English, so we communicated in Vietnamese. Over time, we became close friends-- so close that Minh and Anh asked me to be present at their daughter's baptism, and to become Thu's godfather. It helped that we were all Catholics, and took Mass together. A parish priest visited us regularly.” Ian reached into his pocket, and pulled out his wallet. He laid it on the desk, but did not open it. He caressed the worn leather with his thumb. “I was all of twenty-two years old and far from a home that, with my parents gone, seemed not only distant but unreal. Viet Nam felt much more like where I belonged, and Minh and Quy had a sister a year younger than me. Nguyen was beautiful, but there was a grace about her that is hard to put into words, and her smile warmed a place in my heart that I did not know was there. She was my first love, and with her family's permission, I courted and in due course married her-- a Catholic wedding, with our parish priest presiding. The army put up a lot of roadblocks to keep young guys from marrying Vietnamese girls, so I was lucky that I was no longer in the chain of command.” Opening the wallet, Ian removed his driver's license to reveal the photograph concealed beneath. He handled it lovingly. Priscilla's eyes grew large and luminous as she realized what Ian was holding. Her breath caught in her throat. “About a year later, my daughter was born. This is my family, Pris … Nguyen and Linh.” Ian handed her the photograph. Priscilla silently accepted it, but her eyes never left Ian's face. His eyes were soft and filled with love, but then another thought slipped into place, and she could register his pain. She did not need to hear him say it to know that she was holding tragedy in her hands. Finally, she looked down. Ian was sitting atop a brick wall, holding the baby in his arms, with his wife standing beside him, her arm casually draped over his shoulders. They were both smiling at the camera. Nguyen, with her silken black hair falling below her waist, was exquisitely beautiful, and Ian was young and happy. So young, she thought, so very young. “I was wounded again late in sixty nine … my third Purple Heart. Not a threat to life and limb, but enough to earn down time for both me and the unit. R&R, maintenance, resupply-- and a chance to be a husband and father in real time, not just stolen moments. But it didn't last: it couldn't, not with the war expanding deeper into Laos and Cambodia.” “Go on,” Priscilla encouraged. Lost in his memories, Ian had gone silent for several seconds. “In March of seventy, we shot down a Soviet helicopter over Laos, and captured the pilots unharmed-- Irina, and Sergei Federov. They weren't supposed to be there … we weren't supposed to be there … and there was nothing in the manual telling me what to do.” “He interrogated us,” Irina put in, “in Russian. But we were pilots, not engineers. It was easy to play dumb because we were.” “Anyway, in the end I hoisted Irina onto Toby's back, told Sergei to tag along, and off into the jungle we went. I left them outside a Laotian village under Communist control, and returned to the war. Just another day at the office.” “Sergei and I were debriefed in Moskva, and we told everyone about this young officer commanding a unit in the jungle-- a young officer who spoke Vietnamese and Lao, Khmer … and fluent Russian. No one would have believed us except for Toby because everyone knows that Americans cannot speak any language but their own. Ah, but there were stories being told, stories about an American who rode into battle on an elephant, with a huge snake around his shoulders. This was our confirmation, and our intelligence services opened files on the soldier code named Dvarapala … you would say 'demon warrior'. But I knew him as Ian Grady, and for years I watched for him, hoping that he would come east. And when he did, I went to him, only to find him wearing a diaper and depending on a cane. At first, I pitied him, but he would not allow it. Instead, he asked for my help, telling me the terrible story that you have yet to hear-- a story that I brought back to Moskva and told to others. And so began the operation we call Velikyi Poisk-- 'The Great Search'.” “Searching for what?” Priscilla flinched, knowing in her heart that she had asked the wrong question. “For my daughter.” Oh God, no!!! “About three months after Irina and I said our goodbyes, we were in the field at the tail end of a high risk mission. We pulled it off, despite being in intermittent contact with an enemy force that had us heavily outnumbered, but we missed our extraction window because of bad weather. We were on our own for the next forty eight hours, and when the choppers and gunships finally did show up, we were caught out in the open in an intense fire fight. We took casualties …” Ian took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “I lost both of my brothers in law. I spent the next nine months in hospital, afraid for my family, trying to get better so that I could go home. I knew that our unit had been disbanded, but other than that … nothing.” “Not knowing,” he whispered; “waking up every day, not knowing … that was hard. How trivial the diapers seemed in comparison.” Priscilla reached across the desk to grip Ian's hand. She wanted to comfort him, but well knew how pointless words were at moments like this. She could only hope that her touch would somehow reassure him that he was not alone. “When I left Hawaii, my first stop was DC, where I learned that after finally getting back on my feet I had been relegated to a desk … condemned to become just another Pentagon pencil pusher. I resigned my commission on the spot, and made my way out to Saigon on my own. Getting home was easy, but the village was empty … a literal ghost town-- well, except for Pete and Toby. They were still there, growing fat on rats and rice grass. I moved them to a rubber plantation that belonged to a friend, and then I went looking for answers. First stop, Saigon.” Ian let out a deep, frustrated sigh. “I expected to find that the village had been relocated to somewhere in the Delta; they'd done it before. But when I made the rounds, all I got was blank looks. Nobody knew what had happened, or so they claimed. So, I chased down some of the guys … the ones who had written to me in hospital. They all swore that everything seemed normal when they left for reassignment. That's when I started to panic, or as Donnie so eloquently puts it, that's when I lost it. I braced the members of a very well informed club, and believe me, I pushed them really hard.” “Nothing.” Ian was speaking in a dull monotone, and Priscilla was struggling to hold back her tears. She sensed how this terrible story was going to end. “At some point, I lost hope. I figured that the VC had massacred everyone in the village to send a message, or maybe the Buddhists were starting another round of Christian persecution.” “But Buddhists are supposed to be non-violent!” Priscilla was utterly shocked by what she was hearing, her emotions becoming more tangled by the moment. “Tell that to the hundred and eighteen martyrs who have been beatified by the Church.” Ian's anger flared for a fleeting second, then died away. “It came down to closure. I couldn't leave until I had hard, tangible evidence that my family was dead. With nowhere else to turn, and knowing that Donnie was still in country, I tracked him down, only to end up back where it all began-- in Hue, at the Huong Giang hotel. He … he had photos. Nothing disturbed, the bodies still on the ground. Some were hard to identify … the rats ...” “Oh God,” Priscilla moaned. Far away, Irina flinched. This was the story she had told to her father and to her colleagues-- the inconceivable horror of war known only to those who had been there. “I found Nguyen, Anh, my parents-in-law, but not my daughter, and that's when we stumbled upon the truth. Donnie was emphatic: there had been no infants or small children among the dead. They had vanished, the youngest victim being maybe five years old. But Donnie didn't know that I had married … had a daughter. That changed everything. Until that moment, he thought that the children had been taken to be adopted out or trafficked, which is still a possibility …” “Sergei is using his connections in the arms trade to penetrate the trafficking networks,” Irina interrupted. “Often, the same people are involved in both operations. But this becomes much more difficult when the children mature. Prostitution across borders is a vast industry, and in many countries it is protected by the police and the politicians.” “But for the first time, Donnie and I had seriously to consider the possibility that we were dealing with a state actor.” “I don't understand,” Priscilla hesitantly admitted. “Priscilla, there is no one in my country with Ian's gift. No one. Do you understand?” “No. I'm sorry, but I don't get it.” “He may well be the only person in your country with this talent as well. What if his children inherit this ability? Their value would be beyond measure, yes?” “So … so you think that someone knew that Ian had a child, and murdered an entire village to steal her? Only they didn't know which child, so they took them all? Is that what you're saying?” “Da.” Irina firmly believed that this was the answer to the mystery. What she could never say over the telephone was that she had developed a theory that fit all the facts, although she had no hard evidence to support it. Ian nodded in agreement. “Donnie understood the implications, Pris; in the wrong hands, with time and training Linh could be forged into a very dangerous weapon. So, we cut the obvious trade: I placed my language skills at Langley's disposal, and in turn the Agency uses its resources to search for her. This has been going on for eight years now.” “And Irina helps you because you saved her life, and she owes you this 'debt of honor'. It was a statement, not a question. “Correct.” Well, I know who I want to find your daughter, and it damned well isn't my government! Besides, damn it, I like Irina! “And now you're caught up in this as well. I'm sorry.” “Caught up how?” Priscilla was once more lost in the depths. “You just admitted that we have slept together, on a call that's being recorded and will be reviewed by some very powerful people. Priscilla, any woman of child-bearing age who sleeps with me is going to have a security net thrown over her. This is what Sarah, Rita and Vickie have to think about-- the consequences of sharing their lives with a guy who has been under Agency scrutiny since age eleven. At first, the net will be light, but the net will tighten if one of them becomes pregnant, and a very tight net will protect the baby from birth. The Agency will not permit another child to slip through its fingers.” “I haven't met Rita, but Vickie loves you, Ian, and for sure she's not going anywhere. Remember, this is a woman who fought for you with a turkey drumstick.” “I do not know this story,” Irina laughed; “is it good?” “Oh, yes! A patient attacked Ian at Thanksgiving dinner, and Vickie leapt across the table to defend him. She was holding a drumstick, and used it like a cudgel to beat him off!” “Wonderful,” Irina clapped; “wonderful!” “And again, Sarah strikes me as a very tough cookie. No one is going to intimidate her.” “Milyy, it is after midnight, and I must go. I think that you are ready, both for marriage and children. If you need my help on Saturday night, I will be home. Call anytime after your ten o'clock. But I want to meet with you soon … Athens would be best. We have much to discuss. Do svidaniya, Priscilla!” “Do svidaniya, Irina!” Ian disconnected, but he was looking at her curiously. “I remember it from some movie or other; that and da are the only Russian I know. Now, you're overdue for a diaper change, and the deli awaits, if you're still up for it.” Priscilla was making an effort to keep it light, but she was worried about Ian's state of mind. What he had just suffered was a level of trauma that police rarely encountered outside the morgue. Ian walked around his desk, and reached out to clasp her hands. He had his game face on. “Thank you for being here, and for keeping it together. I know this wasn't easy for you. And the deli sounds great … real food at last!” He mustered a grin, but it didn't fool Priscilla for a second. She squeezed his fingers a bit harder. “You did well, Ian, and if you think of it as a dress rehearsal for Saturday night … yes, it will be hard, but do not underestimate the strength and resolve of the people you love. There are a few details that would be best omitted, but otherwise, tell the story as you just told it to me. I promise you that it will end well.” . . . . “Are we, uh, are we really going to do this?” Wide-eyed, Vickie was staring at the breast pump, trying to imagine her body hooked up to this ridiculous Rube Goldberg device. At the moment, it was cheerfully chugging away, the store owner having activated a floor model to demonstrate how it worked. The middle-aged lady, whose gray hair and ample bosom screamed Meemaw, had assured them that the experience would be pleasurable because, rather than constantly suctioning, the machine perfectly mimicked the rhythm of a hungry infant at the breast. She had then excused herself to attend to a nervous looking teenage boy who had come in by himself, and appeared on the edge of a nervous breakdown in the diaper aisle. “I mean, really, this monster weighs over twenty pounds. We're not exactly going to haul it around the living room while we get on with the vacuuming.” “It would be a good time to catch up on our reading, maybe watch a little TV” Rita commented. She was trying to look on the bright side, but like Vickie, she was having a hard time imagining her body being tethered to this monstrosity for weeks at a time. 'It's just not practical,” Vickie lamented. “I mean really. No break between sessions to last more than five hours for the first two months? Doing it for fifteen minutes every two hours for a seventy two hour stretch? And pumping both breasts simultaneously? Are you kidding me? How are we supposed to work, never mind sleep?” “I'm going to do it,” Sarah countered, her expression a study in grim determination. “And I agree with her ...” Sarah nodded in the direction of the store owner. They could hear her asking the boy his name and age. Tommy was fourteen. “And do you need diapers for bedwetting, or wear them both day and night?” In the quiet of the store, they could all hear the conversation unfolding two aisles away as if it were taking place within arm's reach. “... that we each need our own machine, or rather, machines-- one for home, and one for the office.” “Expensive,” Vickie observed. “We can afford it,” Sarah sneered. She was letting Vickie rattle on, but she had already decided that they would be leaving the store with six breast pumps and associated appliances, and that they would be attending one of the upcoming night classes teaching how to keep the pumps germ free and the milk that they would express safe and sanitary. Tommy was nervously explaining to the lady that he was a bed wetter, but he confessed that he still had daytime accidents as well, and that his parents insisted he be diapered for car trips, the movies, church, and family gatherings. “Poor kid,” Vickie whispered. “I didn't get out of nighttime diapers until I was nine.” “I think that at your age we should be looking at adult diapers,” the lady observed. “And are you using rubber pants, or baby pants?” “Baby pants,” he said in a subdued voice. “I see,” she mused. “Do you know what brand you wear?” “I have them on,” he cringed. “Mom made me wear a diaper to make it easier for you to help me.” “That was smart. I tell you what. Let's go into the storeroom; you can undress, and I'll take your measurements. Adult diapers come in different sizes, and you will probably need baby pants with a wider crotch to protect against leaks. Your new diapers will be much bulkier than your old ones, but they will protect you a lot better. Won't that be wonderful?” “Thank you,” he said politely. He meekly followed the Meemaw into the storeroom. About a minute later, she returned to check on her three female customers. She was curious about their interest in breast pumps, since it was obvious that their pregnancies could not be far advanced. “So, what have you decided,” she asked cheerfully. “We'll need a half dozen pumps total,” Sarah indicated. “Plus all of the accessories … and we'll need to sign up for a class sometime in the next couple of weeks.” “Wonderful. And I'm sorry that I had to wander off. Two or three boys like Tommy there come into the store every week. Entering puberty, they need to make the transition to adult diapers, but the poor dears are always so embarrassed. And their baby pants are never big enough to cope with the extra bulk.” The keen eyed store owner shrewdly appraised Vickie's rear; the bulk of the woman's obvious diaper put anything in her store to shame! “I cannot help but notice your diaper, Dear; it must be very absorbent, but is it comfortable?” Vickie instantly turned crimson with embarrassment, much to Sarah's delight. Even Rita was amused. “She's wearing one of our hospital diapers,” Sarah hastily cut in, “along with baby pants and a canvas diaper cover. This is what she uses away from work, but at the office I keep her in a thinner adult diaper from a local diaper service.” “Lullaby?” “Yes! Do you know it?” “I do, indeed. You should have a peek at our adult diaper line. I guarantee you that our diaper is superior, both in terms of absorbency and wear. And it would only be slightly more visible to the naked eye. Reducing the number of times you have to change her at work is a good trade off.” “Do you hear that, baby girl? Would you like to look at some new diapees?” Sarah was cooing in the singsong way that mothers worldwide adopted when addressing their babies. “She's your baby,” the lady asked. This was getting more and more interesting. “She is,” Sarah confirmed. “And what do you call me, baby girl?” “Mommy,” Vickie whispered. “I'm sorry, sweetheart,” the lady snickered, “but I didn't hear you.” “Mommy,” Vickie repeated in a much louder voice. “And who is this nice lady,” Sarah asked as she pointed at Rita. “Auntie Rita,” Vickie said, making sure that her voice was loud enough that she wouldn't have to repeat herself. “She's very well behaved,” the lady commented. “You have done a good job raising your baby girl.” “Oh, she's often a brat, I assure you. I wish I could find a pacifier for her, but she's such a big baby that I've had no luck so far.” “Well, then, this is your lucky day. I keep a stock of pacifiers for older children, including teenagers. I was just about to get one for Tommy before I change him; would you like to check them out?” “Absolutely! Sometimes she's so cranky … a nice pacifier is just what this baby girl needs!” “My pleasure. Here, let me direct you to our adult diaper line. The stock is below the counter at the end of this aisle, but I always keep one on the counter for customers to examine. Why don't you look them over while I fetch the pacifiers. Then, you'll have to excuse me for a few minutes while I take Tommy's measurements and select the right diaper for him.” The lady pointed at the display, but kept walking to the back of the sales counter. She was back a moment later, with several pacifiers in different colors. Sarah instantly picked out a large pink one, and waved it in front of Vickie's face. “Open up, baby girl; here's your new binkie!” Vickie opened wide, and began instantly to suck contentedly on her new paci. It was so easy to make Sarah happy, and to her surprise she discovered that she was really enjoying the attention. The pacifier was actually quite soothing. The lady reached under the counter, and took three adult diapers in different sizes off the various stacks. She then excused herself to go diaper her customer, but not before inviting Sarah to bring Vickie back to the storeroom once she was finished with Tommy. As long as the diaper on display did not touch the baby's skin, she explained, Sarah was free to try the various sizes to get the best fit. Sarah was delighted to accept the lady's kind offer, and she asked in return whether they could help with the boy's diaper change. “That would be very embarrassing, but what would really help is to let him see your baby's diaper. If he knew that there were even bigger babies wearing diapers, it would make the transition to adult diapers a lot easier for him.” “We'd be delighted to help, wouldn't we baby girl?” Vickie nodded while she kept sucking on her new binkie. “Then give me a moment to lock up the shop, and the four of us can all retreat to the storeroom.” The lady stormed off to the front, locked the door, and turned the OPEN sign to CLOSED. “Now,” she said when she returned, “let's go see how Tommy is getting along.” First knocking on the door and opening it just enough to check that Tommy was still wearing his baby diaper and baby pants while being otherwise undressed, she flung the door open and led her three female customers into the room. Tommy's eyes widened in shock when he saw the pretty lady, whom he guessed was a bit younger than his mother, happily sucking on a big pacifier. He turned to the store owner, his look more confused than concerned. “These ladies have offered to help us sort out your new diapers,” she explained. “And this nice lady wants to show you her diaper, which is much, much thicker than the one you will be wearing. We all thought that you would find your new diapers less threatening if you saw what a really thick diaper looks like. And here ...” She reached into one of the pockets on her dress, and brought out another pacifier, this one in baby blue. “I thought that this might help you as well.” Like Sarah, she waved it in front of Tommy's eyes, and like Vickie, he opened his mouth to accept the gift. He began sucking without conscious thought. Sarah unfastened and lowered Vickie's pants, revealing the canvas diaper cover underneath. She took the key out of her pocket, and unlocked the cover, but left it in place. “My baby girl sometimes tries to take her diaper off without permission, so I keep this locking cover in place at all times to keep her from doing so. I hope that you don't give your mommy a hard time about your diapers, Tommy, because if you do ...” Sarah paused to lower Vickie's cover, exposing the pink baby pants hiding beneath. Tommy's eyes widened when he saw the pink vinyl covering, and he began sucking madly on his pacifier when he grasped how thick this big baby's diapers really were. “... if you do,” Sarah continued, “your mother can put you in a much thicker diaper like this one, and get one of these covers to keep it locked in place. Then all of your friends would know what a big baby you really are. You wouldn't like that, would you?” The boy nodded vigorously, and then blushed when he realized that he was wetting his baby diaper. “So, are you going to be a good boy for your mommy, and wear your diapers like she wants you to?” Sarah's voice was syrupy. The teenager again nodded vigorously in agreement, as his pee continued to flow unabated. It was a good thing that his mommy had folded a couple of baby diapers up, and inserted them to act as soaker pads. The lady took note of the boy's discomfort, and guessed correctly that he was having an “accident.” “You didn't bring a diaper bag with you, did you?” The young teen shook his head, and looked down in shame. “That's all right,” she soothed; “I have a diaper pail here that we can use. Give me your number, and I'll call your mother to come pick you up. If you need to poop, go ahead and use your diaper; I'll clean you up, and spare your mother the trouble. It must be very hard on her, having a boy your age still in diapers.” Tommy's head hung in shame, and he started to cry. Sarah stepped forward and wrapped her arms around the big baby, hugging him close. “It's all right,” she said consolingly as she patted his back. “You can't help it, and I'm sure that your mother doesn't mind caring for you. Now, give your Auntie Sarah a big hug.” The boy did so, burying his head in Sarah's shoulder, his tears flowing freely. Vickie was sucking frantically on her pacifier, overcome with jealousy. Mommy Sarah had never hugged her this way! When they were leaving the shop, with new diapers for Vickie and the half dozen breast pumps, Sarah's baby girl refused to let go of her pacifier until mommy threatened her with a public spanking.

The occupancy tax in Missouri is 4.225%. What you have to be careful of when traveling is the additional taxes that some states allow municipalities and other entities to tack on. St. Louis county hits you with two additional tourism taxes, one for 3.5% and the other for 3.75%. Doing mail order business in Minnesota is a nightmare because you have to calculate the sales tax for every single municipality in the state.

Actually, it has a steep sales tax, which is selectively imposed in the same way that many other states do it. The tax on hotel rooms, alcoholic beverages, and restaurant dining is 8.5%. This generates large sums, because NH is deservedly a tourism mecca virtually year around.

Very well said. For a down and dirty answer to these and other questions, I recommend reading the following https://theconservativetreehouse.com/blog/2024/02/16/mike-benz-gives-background-context-on-internet-censorship-programs/

This woman could be in some legal trouble. Her application to the State for a business permit and tax ID number was rejected, and yet she appears to have started the business anyway. Well, New Hampshire has a quirky income tax-- it is only dividend and interest income that is personally taxed, not wages. So, she has no way to pay taxes on her earnings next year! NH's revenue stream is heavily dependent on sales and property taxes, both being among the highest in the country. The moment the City fathers saw that permitting this business to run in an R-1 district would cause surrounding property values to take a hit, it was doomed. Between 2008 and 2011, property values in my community collapsed (my home went from being appraised at $235K to $141K), and we had to lay off municipal staff and cut community services, including closing the community center. The school district took a comparable hit to its budget. Before it was all over, we had to merge our fire department with two others whose communities were in similar financial trouble. There's a reason why people hire attorneys and accountants. She was from Maine, and would have been well advised to do so.

Ah, haven't you noticed that those who do govern us here in America are owned lock, stock and barrel by faceless corporations? Eisenhower warned us about this in his farewell address in January of 1961.

Adult Baby Nursery Bangkok, Thailand Adult Baby Holiday Nursery http://www.adultbabyholidaynursery.com This was up and running when I left Bangkok in 2016. If anyone pursues this, please update.

https://www.boston.com/news/local-news/2024/02/15/the-diaper-spa-denied-permit-to-operate-in-new-hampshire-town/ This is not behind a paywall. The application was denied as a nonconforming C-1 entity not suitable for an R-1 district. It is revealing that the applicant apparently did not know that you need a permit to operate an in-home business open to the public.

There are only two segments in the next scene, but Vickie's diapered state will figure largely in the second one, which is a fantasized version of what happened to me in real life shortly after my 14th birthday, all the way back in March of 1960.

If the whole story is only 5 thousand words, I would generally recommend doing it as a one-off. Short chapters work best in longer stories (60 thousand words, plus) where the narrative is moving quickly in scenes where the physical location of the action is also moving about.

I will follow this with keen interest because I have wondered for quite some time whether a story can gain traction if it doesn't center on children, adolescents, or young adults. By the way, I actually participated in a program similar to what seems to be unfolding here-- all the way back in 1982!

As an incontinent, where this is most obvious to me is in the car on long trips. The sitting position does put the brakes on, but when I get out of the car, within seconds my bladder drains into my diaper. Not a big deal in the summertime, but when pumping gas on a mid-January night on the cold, wind swept plains of northern Iowa? Yeah, it's a big deal, in the sense that this is all a logistical exercise. In the summer, on a one day hop from Texas to Minnesota, I'd wear Molicare throughout, and change after a heavy wetting. But in the wintertime, I switch over to a Bambino product on my next to last stop in Missouri so that I can make it home without a change, no matter how much gushes out of me in Iowa. Incontinent people have to think about things that people with bladder and bowel control pretty much take for granted. Think about them, and plan for them. I'll say it again: dealing with incontinence is above all else a logistical exercise.

Quickie historical quiz: The reference to Joe Friday in this scene takes us back to the golden years of weekly police shows on television. Did Joe Friday appear in: A. Adam-12 B. Dragnet C. M Squad D. Police Squad E. Streets of San Francisco

The element of foreshadowing is key. In film, the director uses the musical score to hint at what lies just ahead, but we don't have the audio tool, just the visual in the form of the written word. The written word has to carry all of the weight, so you have to use it to hint at what lies ahead to engage the fetish reader, or you risk losing said reader early on.