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Hi All, This is my first story in a long while. It's 11 chapters and about 14,500 words; I'm not sure if I'll be writing a 12th chapter or if I'm happy with where it is. I'll be posting a chapter a day for the next 10 or so days. I'll post the first two here tonight... I appreciate your support and your feedback; I hope you enjoy!!! Emsy Chapter 1 - FRESH Coleridge Towers wasn’t the most luxurious building in the City, but it certainly was luxurious. It had old-school charm—uniformed doormen and 24-hour concierge service—along with more modern amenities that befit its early 1960s construction, like a fitness center with an indoor pool and central air conditioning. And while East 54th and 2nd was not the most happening neighborhood or the coolest address, Abigail needed someplace safe and convenient to work. The tiny studio was relatively inexpensive, especially for something in midtown, and while it didn’t have a fancy view, Abigail was excited to have found something that barely fit in her budget. While the apartment fit in her budget, Abigail definitely did not fit in socially with the Coleridge Towers crowd. “Any packages for me, Mark?” she’d asked at the front desk on her third day in the building. The concierge seemed flustered. “Hi Abby, please give me a sec” he said quietly, turning his attention back to a middle-aged woman glaring at her. “As I was saying …” the woman continued. “MARK, come on, really, is there a package for me there or not?” Couldn’t this lady wait for just a second? “Before I was rudely interrupted,” the woman said, staring daggers at Abby. Abigail looked at the ground and gritted her teeth, determined not to show how frustrated she was to have to wait as the lady droned on and on. “There dear,” said the older woman finishing her business at the desk, “things tend to go better for little girls who wait their turn.” Abby blushed and bit back an insult, rolling her eyes dramatically and sighing. The woman seemed unaffected by her show of annoyance. Some days, Abby knew, that’s just what it was to be trans and tall and visible: some asshole was there to knock her down and she couldn’t stoop to their level. “Who was that witch?” Abby asked the concierge loudly as the older woman finally started to walk away. She hoped that the lady heard her, but the woman showed no signs of annoyance. Mark handed her the giant package that was waiting for her. “Evelyn Matson? I’d watch out for her if I were you, Abby. She’s lived here forever and she’s just… peculiar.” “You mean rude for no reason?” The “little girls” remark, while gender affirming, still stung. Mark shrugged. “Everyone who lives here long enough has a run-in with Miss Evelyn some way or another. It’s easier just to try and not antagonize her” Abby didn’t see Evelyn Matson for the next few weeks, and a day or so after the unpleasant incident at the desk, she stopped thinking about her, too. Near the end of October, on her way to work, she saw her again in the elevator. It was one of those late fall days where the weather is unseasonably warm, and Abby was ready for her Friday dress down at work. Evelyn was already on the elevator when it arrived on the 14th floor. “Are you on your way to work, dear?” Evelyn asked, as Abby stepped on. “Um, good morning. Yes, I am,” Abby replied. Evelyn’s eyes lingered for what seemed like a few moments longer than necessary, staring at her bare legs underneath the short skirt. “Are you sure you won’t be…” Evelyn seemed to pause and look for the right words, “too cold?” “Nope!” Abby answered cheerfully, “I’m pretty warm-blooded!” Ugh, she thought, how annoying. Best to kill her with kindness. “Hmm… Are you sure you mightn’t want some stockings?” Five more floors to go. “No thank you! I know how to pick out clothes. Byeee!” Abby’s voice fairly dripped with sarcasm. Three more floors before she could escape. “And telling someone ‘Byeee,’” Evelyn said imitating her drawn-out pronunciation of the word sarcastically, “you think that’s an appropriate way to speak to someone who’s trying to help you?” “Oh, only when the person trying to ‘help me’ is being a total bitch!” she answered with fake cheerfulness, using her hands to put air quotes around the words. The elevator doors thankfully opened before Evelyn could retort, and Abby practically ran to the front door. What was this lady’s problem with her? She huffed as the doorman opened the door for her and she stepped into the brisk fall morning. It was hard enough being the only queer person for like 10 blocks in either direction. Why did this lady insist on making her so uncomfortable? “That girl,” she heard behind her, as Evelyn loudly struck up a conversation with the doorman. By the time she’d swiped her MetroCard and made her way onto the northbound Q train she’d made up her mind: no more Miss Nice Girl, next time, she was just going to confront Evelyn directly. Chapter 2 - VIEW FROM THE 26TH FLOOR Contrary to popular belief, Evelyn Matson had not lived in Coleridge Towers forever. She’d purchased her unit 10 or so years ago because she loved the sweeping southeast views of the city and the river from the 26th floor. She’d liked it so much that when the penthouse unit above her had come on the market, with its ridiculously large private balcony, she’d purchased that one, too, and combined the units together. She’d knocked out the bedroom walls downstairs to create more living space and converted the upstairs unit into bedrooms. In the mornings, she loved to sit above the City’s hustle and bustle and bask in the morning breezes just after she got out of bed as she waited for the coffee to finish its preprogramed cycle in the upstairs kitchenette. This morning, however, as she sipped her coffee and looked out toward the the river, she was perturbed. And Evelyn Matson was not a woman who liked to be perturbed. It had to do with the new girl in the building, Abigail something-or-other who had moved into one of the rental studios on the 14th floor. She recalled her interaction with her in the elevator yesterday: the gangly girl was cute, somehow uncomfortable in her own skin, not unattractive, but certainly not well-mannered. She was petulant. No, Evelyn thought, sipping her too-hot coffee, that wasn’t the right word. As an educated person, Evelyn felt obligated to find the proper word. She blew on the coffee and waited a few seconds before taking a satisfying slurp. Fresh. That was the right word. At 42, Evelyn had never called a young person “fresh” before, but that was precisely what she was. The too-revealing clothes, the childish eye rolls, the air quotes, the bratty attitude, the interrupting. Yes… “Fresh” sounded like something that her mother would call a young lady like Abigail and it fit perfectly. A young woman in need of guidance and discipline. The coffee was no longer too hot, and Evelyn was determined to get to know this Abigail whoseit better. She thought again of the creamy white thighs in the elevator, the subtle curve of her bottom visible through the slit in the trench coat and smiled to herself; she was certainly not unattractive. And the ”Good Out Here” rainbow t-shirt suggested a certain… openness and, perhaps, kinship. She smiled to herself. To say that Evelyn had a plan would have been to give her far too much credit. Evelyn didn’t need plans; she simply determined that she would do things, and through sheer force of will, they happened. It had been this way since her parents died when she was young: a combination of willpower and wealth meant that little stood in her way. On her way out of the building, she stopped to chat with Mark for a moment, exchanging pleasantries. “What do you know about the new girl? Tall girl, 14th floor, renter I assume?” Mark nodded. “You know, the one who interrupted us when we were speaking the other day?” “Oh, Abigail Lawrence?” Mark shifted uncomfortably. “She just moved into 14L recently. A studio. No dishwasher, hasn’t been renovated.” Mark paused, and while Evelyn didn’t ask any follow up questions, the intensity of her attention drove him to expand. “She has a little dog, a yorkie? Its name is Apples.” “Boyfriend, girlfriend, visitors?” “None that I’m aware of. She’s a teacher at Selborne.” “Selborne? Really?” Evelyn was surprised. The girl must be whipsmart to teach at one of the most exclusive all-girls private schools in the City. “What does she teach?” “English I think? It’s only her first year there, though, and she’s still finishing her master’s during weekend and summer breaks.” As she walked the four blocks to her office to do a bit of drafting work on the quiet Saturday morning, Evelyn considered how surprising it was that Abigail had managed to land a job at Selborne. “Progressive” in name only, it was the kind of old-money school that her parents had chosen for her, and Abigail’s choice of clothes certainly didn’t fit with the conservative image that the school cultivated with its uniforms and exclusivity. Evelyn wasn’t the only one who had noticed that Abigail’s clothes didn’t exactly fit the Selborne image. On Friday afternoon during the last period of the day, Abigail was sitting in the teacher’s lounge when the Dean for Student Affairs, Ms. Thompson, stopped in and asked to speak with Abigail in her office. “How’s it going so far with the 10th graders, dear?” “Fine, thank you.” Sitting in Ms. Thompson’s office, the skirt felt especially too short and her confidence from earlier in the day evaporated. Should she cross her legs? “We’re working through Milton now, and it’s such a pleasure to read with the girls.” “Oh? I’ve always been partial to Paradise Lost myself. ‘Into this wild Abyss/The womb of Nature and perhaps her grave-/Of neither sea nor shore nor air nor fire,/ But all these in their pregnant causes mixed/Confusedly and which thus might ever fight,/ Unless the Almighty Maker them ordain/ His dark materials to create more worlds,--/Into the wild Abyss the wary Fiend/ Stood on the brink of Hell and looked a while…’” “I love that moment,” Abby began, “the vulnerability that Satan feels, the uncertainty. His dependance on God, but also his bravery…” Mrs. Thompson was struck again by how much she liked Abigail; she was a careful reader, and she had the potential to be a wonderful teacher. And being just 10 or 12 years older than the girls she taught, she was relatable, too. It was no wonder that the girls had taken such a shine to her. As they talked about the book, Abby seemed to lose herself in the language, and Mrs. Thompson shifted the conversation to her purpose with regret. “In any case, I’ve had some complaints that I wanted to address with you.” Abigail’s blood turned to ice. Not this. Not again. She felt the tears well up and start to fall softly. Fired for being too trans? Too queer? For wearing the gay pride shirt? Stupid, stupid, stupid, she scolded herself, I should have known that I was pushing it… “It’s about your skirt, dear. It’s a bit… more revealing… than what we generally consider to be appropriate for a young woman. Now, as a role model for young ladies, we place the utmost importance on ensuring…” Abigail’s tears turned momentarily into tears of relief, and then into humiliation. She should have listened to that bitch in the elevator who made the nasty stockings comment. She took the proffered tissue and wiped her eyes to try and preserve some degree of dignity. She made out the words “leggings” and “only a warning” while trying to pull herself together. “And of course, if you ever want advice, you’re welcome to come to me.” “Thank you,” Abby said tearfully as she finished blotting her eyes. “I appreciate it.” In reality, Abby did not appreciate it. She did not appreciate it at all. As she fled the office and the school for the weekend, she considered that asking for advice about her wardrobe from Ms. Thompson was about as likely as Satan in Paradise Lost returning to God’s good graces. Back in 14L, there was no need to even pull the curtains to enjoy the privacy of a good cry in her tiny, dark studio. At least this was hers, and no one could take that from her, she thought, as she curled up under the covers of the full-sized bed that dominated the space. She took her pills early, letting bitter progesterone dissolve under her tongue. She hugged her teddy bear, Stephen, and drifted off to sleep. Her dreams that night were ultra-realistic and terrifying. When she woke up the next morning, her sheets were soaked, like they always were when she had bad dreams.

Let me be upfront for those unfamiliar with my life history: I am a woman born in 1964 into a family in which female descendants of my maternal Granny Vi's mother have a history of bladder control problems. By the time I was born my mother Alice, her sister Aunt Betsy and their mother Granny Vi were totally urinary incontinent. Probably this was true for all of Granny's sisters and her other daughters whom I never got to know very well. I've had no bladder control since I was 21. The same is true for my 3 sisters and Aunt Betsy's daughter. Just a few of the male descendents, such as my younger brother and Betsy's older son, have bladder control problems which are not as severe as their sisters. Granny Vi had no sons, only five daughters. She raised her girls with the hope each would retain bladder control yet never being embarrassed about wearing absorbent protective under garments. Aunt Betsy and my Mom did the same thing. Growing up we were not treated as babies even when toilet learning was delayed. In the family it was no secret that Granny Vi, Aunt Betsy and my Mom all needed diapers 24/7 to function as responsible adults in a primarily continent world. Those of us with small over-active bladders would be nicely asked to wear 'just-in-case' diapers on long car rides and for special occasions. In the interest of toilet learning we were encouraged to tell an adult when we felt the need to pee or poop, but we were never scolded for not doing so. Once toilet trained and wearing a diaper for mutual convenience on a trip, instead of asking "When will we get there?" we simply used our diapers. At the next stop whose who needed it would have a diaper change. Mom encouraged us to be pen pals with the children of family friends who had bladder problems. Doing so helped us learn to be discreet and compassionate when discussing these issues which do embarrass many nice folks. Several years before I reached puberty I began to feel some of my pen pals intensely disliked diapers while others found diapers comforting. Personally I was never embarrassed or ashamed when diapered, but I preferred wearing more conventional panties when I was sure I could use a toilet in time. Flash forward to 1985. That was my summer between pre-law university and moving to law school when I lost all my daytime control. The expense and logistics of diapers 24/7 was overwhelming! Often that depressed me. In 1990 I had been a licensed attorney for 2 years. I had my own apartment. Needing to buy disposable diapers constantly and to carry used diapers to the dumpster was a drag. My youngest sister Missy was already married and was the first of my siblings to present our parents with a grandchild. When my niece was about 9 months old I told Missy my diapers were depressing me. Missy burst out laughing, "Angela, do like I do. Simply have fun with your diapers when you get the chance. Do you know there is a whole world of very nice adults who have control yet wear diapers for fun? Some of them call themselves 'adult babies'." Missy then handed me a copy of FETISH TIMES with an article all about a club called Diaper Pail Fraternity and another article about a magazine published in Seattle called THE PLAY PEN. To me the people mentioned seemed sensible. Missy put a new pacifier in my mouth, "Sis, give it a try. Relax. Chill!" Suddenly I felt far less depressed. Flash forward to the early fall of 1995. I had been writing a regular column for the DPF Newsletter since early 1991 and had been happily married to a good man willing to cooperate when I needed to chill as a big baby girl since October 1991. Out of the blue through DPF I received a letter from a male psychologist married to a female urology resident. They were worried by the number of children who never wanted to give up diapers. Most of those children became so desperate for diapers they resorted to stealing them from younger siblings, relatives, church nurseries, even from stores. They begged me, as an attorney who wore diapers, to join their effort to encourage parents to freely let their kids wear diapers just for fun. Mutually we felt the risk of those children being arrested for stealing was worst than the cost of providing a few packs of diapers. Often when given diapers the kid lost interest quickly. But if a kid still wanted diapers after a couple of weeks, then the kid probably was an infantilist for life. At that point the parenting goal was to teach the kids to be circumspect while obtaining, using and disposing of diapers. To inculcate those lessons the parents needed to avoid judgment. They needed to communicate with the kid. They needed to set realistic rules, such as how the kids could help pay for the diapers. By late 1996 about 20 medical, mental health and legal professionals mutually formed WHEN KIDS LOVE DIAPERS as an on-line resource aimed at parents. Of course it turned out quite a few older kids discovered the WKLD website. By 2000 the founders of WKLD felt the risk to our professional reputations were too great to continue. Until recently a mirror website still presented a sample of WKLD circa 1999. Think about a world in which people of all ages can wear diapers for whatever reason without risk or judgment? Does this make common sense?

Note from the author: I don't have a huge amount of experience writing fiction. I've done a handful of unfinished things all of them in the last year so bear with me. There will be grammatical issues but hopefully I catch enough of them in proofreading to keep them from being too distracting. I'm a little worried about leaving this unfinished, and with that in mind, as of this first post I have written four chapters, fully plotted 6 chapters, and outlined all three parts. The story, as planned, will take place in three parts with nine chapters in each part. I am just posting this first chapter now as it's the only one I have proofread and will give me wiggle room to keep up. I'm hoping to post a chapter every two or three days, I make no guarantees about that though. Wish me luck, we'll see if I can finish this thing. Oh and one final thing. There will be profanity and possibly discussion and words some might find objectionable. I don't foresee anything overtly sexual happening though. Part 1: The Third Floor Chapter 1: F—k, I’m Awake Okay? Sara’s head was banging. The headache had woken her up but despite the pain, or maybe in spite of it, she had no intention of getting out from under the covers anytime soon. She pulled up the covers over her head blocking the warm light coming in from the bedroom window. Her efforts seemingly in vain and unable to fall back asleep, despite her best attempts, she sat up and rubbed at her aching head. The banging continued and as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes it began to dawn on her that the banging wasn’t in her head. Or at least it wasn’t just in her head. Someone was knocking at her door. Who would be knocking at her bedroom door? Something wasn’t right. She pushed the covers aside and slung her legs over the side of the bed. She was naked. Something really wasn’t right. She didn’t sleep naked. Why was she naked? As the last shreds of morning drowsiness drifted away it began to dawn on her that she wasn’t in her bedroom. What the hell had happened to her. Panic started to rise. Looking around at her surroundings didn’t illuminate much. She was in very nice hotel room. A large bathroom adjoined to the bedroom and she could see an antique clawed bathtub through the it’s open door. The other door led into a large airy room that appeared to be filled with expensive Victorian furniture. On one wall there was a very large antique wardrobe with an anachronistic flat panel display affixed to the front of one door marring it’s old world charm. The knock, which paused occasionally but did not stop entirely, was coming not from within the bedroom but from a door in the adjoining room. Sara could only guess it was the door to the hotel room. She roughly yanked the sheet from the bed and wrapped it around herself in a makeshift dress. It was then she noticed that the room wasn’t the only thing wrong. Her body wasn’t right either. It was similar but a lot of things where off. Her tan was gone for one thing. Whatever had happened to her her body could wait. Maybe whoever was so insistently banging on her door would have answers. She headed over to the door, tripping over the long sheet and swearing on her way there, and looked through the peephole. The peephole gave her a wide angle view of a very tall slim woman. From top to bottom she looked like a carefully designed knife. Sharp, cold, and beautiful in a dangerous sort of way. Her black hair was very short, cut in a man’s style, which highlighted her sharp high cheekbones and smooth pale skin. She wore makeup but it was minimal, just enough to highlight but not hide the natural beauty of her face. She was dressed in a perfectly tailored pale gray suit. The sleeves of the jacket where cropped just above the elbow and the trousers just below the knee. The latter highlighted the lack of shoes on her perfectly pedicured feet. Sara had no idea where she was, her tan was gone, and her body was all wrong, but she didn’t really want to open that door dressed in nothing but a sheet. “One second, I need to get dressed," she called out and the cessation of knocking seemed to confirm the woman on the other side had heard her. She stumbled her way back into the bedroom, tripping over the sheet, before realizing she didn’t exactly need it anymore and tossed it aside. There where no doors in either room other than the door to the hall and the open door to the bathroom. So no closets, but there was the wardrobe. “What the hell," she thought as she looked inside the wardrobe, her cheeks coloring in embarrassment at it’s contents, “well, that’s not going to help.

As one who only discovered diapers as an adult as part of another fetish, enemas, and never had any diaper desires growing up, I had no idea I wasn't alone in the days before the internet. Today, I know that AB and DL congregate together simply because of the commonality of diapers and many swing the full spectrum from AB, Mommy/Daddy to DL. It gives me no pleasure to see anything baby related, to the point I rarely read a story with heavy AB content. The times I've tried to write some AB aspect into my stories has seemed forced and unnatural to me. My stash consists of simply diapers and enema equipment. I don't mind if a diaper is not white and merely prefer it to be up to the task for which it was sold. I have plastic pants but they are all white or black solid colors, nothing AB about them. Anyone else have these thoughts, tendencies or actions?