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‘Now?’ Chapter 1 (part) ‘Now?’ asked Chris, looking anxiously at his wife and simultaneously feeling a small, nervous spurt of pee escape into his adult pull-ups. ‘You didn’t say anything about that.’ ’No, I didn’t,’ replied Anthea. ‘I’m actually quite busy, and I honestly don’t see the need to keep you informed of everything in my diary.’ Anthea spoke without taking her attractively made up eyes from the road. She looked like what she was - the house legal counsel for a large software developer. Her husband’s former employer. Chris turned and looked again at his wife as she drove her smart European coupe out of the mall car park, towards not home but some unknown destination where Chris would have to endure another ‘expert’ peering into the details of his life. His life now, thought Chris miserably, not his life then. He moved his hips to get comfortable on the slippery leather of the car seat. He wet slightly again, and knew by feel that his various little leaks that morning had added up to a wet pull-up that now needed changing. Chris felt the familiar, rising sense of feeling sorry for himself and also needing help from Anthea. Anthea had a sixth sense about the condition of Chris’s underclothing, whether it was the pull-ups he wore for trips out, or the disposable diapers he wore at night. With the briefest glance in Chris’s direction, she asked him if he needed changing. ‘Yes,’ said Chris quietly, catching his breath as he attempted to stifle a sob. He couldn’t help it sometimes. Anthea was so perfect compared to him. She had a big job and was the breadwinner. She had lots of colleagues and friends, while Chris’s world and contacts had shrunk to home, Anthea and the few people who knew the couple well enough to know about Chris’s condition. He wasn’t even sure some of the people Anthea dealt with knew she was married. ‘You can change when we get there,’ said Anthea. Chris looked down at the familiar blue bag at his feet in the carpeted footwell. It was a diaper bag, like mothers had for their babies and toddlers. But it was his diaper bag. He knew what was in it. Two or three pull-ups, a couple of disposables, plastic pants, horrible, embarrassing smelling talc, plus wipes and a few creams. There would also be a change of outer pants for Chris, whatever Anthea had chosen for him. He hadn’t chosen what he wore for so long now, Chris thought. He looked down over the denim bib of his shortfalls to the slight bulge in the vee of his crotch, where the stitching of the fake fly curved down between his legs. He didn’t even look male any more down there, he thought, and his feelings of self pity and need overcame him. He released the remainder of his pee into his pull-up and gave way to the sobbing he’d tried to suppress. He reached across the car and clutched a handful of his wife’s expensive woollen skirt, feeling the slippery layers of satin lining and Anthea’s pantyhose beneath. ‘Oh, honey, please,’ said Anthea, carefully prising Chris’s fingers from her skirt but still holding his hand. ‘We haven’t got time for this.’ Chris knew she meant she didn’t have time for this. Chris had lots of time. It wasn’t really his time, though. Not now. Now, Anthea usually decided how Chris would spend his time. He was 27 years old, a ‘former executive’ even if he had trouble now remembering what he actually did, and now his wife decided how he spent his time. And what he wore. He knew his shortalls were practical. They stopped wet pull-ups from sagging, they were comfortable and easy to get in and out of. Chris had objected to them at first as too childish, but Anthea said he’d get used to them. Which he did. He’d learned that there was no point arguing with Anthea. back soon