Phone Conversation

[derj]

[freswith]

Supermodel

I closed my front door behind me with a great sense of pride and satisfaction.  The last eighteen months had been so hectic I had had very little time to myself, and none to reflect.  The Vogue shoot had been the big break; after that I soon became the Face of the Moment, and work came in thick and fast.  Julian had managed me with great skill, he was still teaching me all the tricks of the trade, and I was his avid pupil, but there was an awful lot to learn.

College had gone by the board, simply for lack of time. What I hadn't realised was the amount of preparation that was required in this business.  The body had to be toned and tanned, skin clear of all tan-lines and blemishes, all body hair removed (OUCH!), the hair had to be in perfect condition, and no signs of the night before had to show in the eyes.  It took time, and it took money, but it was part of the job, and part of the overheads.  I now had a personal trainer called Ian, ridiculously handsome but a bit too eclectic in his sexual habits - I was not his only client, and I never knew where he had been or who he had just had, and that is not the kind of man I take to bed; I really do not want the associated health problems.  Sharon still did my hair, at a price, but she was one of the best in the business, and I felt I owed her something.  Even after all this was paid, and much put aside for tax (I had a good Jewish accountant who worked on that) there was still lots left over, and I wanted to invest it.  The obvious choice was property, and I had taken the extreme step of investing in a house in London.

"House" might dignify it.  It was actually a mews building - the little back lane along behind a row of great mansions, where once the carriages had been stored and the coachmen housed. It was relatively affordable for London, as it was the last unconverted property on the street and was advertised as having "possibilities", which meant it needed a lot of work.  In structure it was simple; a garage still occupied the street level, with part now walled off to make a bathroom and kitchen suite, and a main bedroom and living room above.  Up in the garret was a tiny second bedroom, accessed by an enclosed staircase in the living room, which looked like a storage cupboard.  I had plans for that little room, but I think I was going to have to do the work myself.

The only concession to modernity had been an electric door on the garage, and a decent, strong side door onto the street.  I got the builders in, and had the kitchen and bathroom sorted, but I was unsure of what to do with the garage so I left it for later.  That problem resolved itself in a moment of weakness.  I had just landed a big contract with a huge upfront payment, and was slogging my way up from the supermarket laden with shopping for a celebration, and yes, it was raining and all the taxis had promptly gone to earth.  I was gasping for a rest when I went past a car showroom, and a flash of shocking pink caught my eye, tucked in behind all the beige and grey saloons.  Like a fool I stepped inside, and fell in love with Lucy the Lotus Elise, thoroughly impractical, very silly, but enormous fun.  Lucy was soon occupying the garage and the weekend trundle home by railway was a thing of the past.

I slipped past Lucy, holding my shopping bags high in order to avoid scratching her paintwork, and dumped my cargo onto the kitchen worktop with some relief; I had gone unrecognised in my mission to buy nappies, and my careful grunging-up had worked - nobody had recognised me.  I put the kettle on; I would have a cup of tea before making my way up to the little garret room where I kept my secrets.  Just as the kettle boiled the doorbell rang and muttering a curse, I went to answer it.  It was Julian with a bottle of wine and news of my latest assignment, so I let him in, and took a second mug down from the rack.  Julian made himself as comfortable as he could on one of my breakfast-table stools as I made the tea.

I had begun to learn the other face of celebrity.  Julian briefed me about the press and the paparazzi, and told me how they loved to build up a star, then to destroy them.  He told me how they lurk outside nightclubs waiting for the well-drunk beauty to stagger out and vomit in the gutter or collapse into a taxi, how they would speculate furiously on the woman's sex life, gloat over her boyfriends, and photograph the "wardrobe malfunction" but, worse still, when they couldn't get the dirt they would make it all up.  Fortunately the libel laws in England were ferocious, and limited the English press to nasty insinuation, but they were damn good at it, and too much would destroy my prospects of employment.  I assured Julian that I was not disposed to getting drunk in nightclubs (I didn't tell him why) and I was not dating anyone at the moment.  He seemed quite shocked by that, and told me that it was expected that I would do a little of it.  I told him the usual, that I just hadn't met the right man.  In fact, very few men mage passes at me; they seemed to treat me with something like awe, and I think they were too afraid of rejection to ask me for a date.  Those that did, I found I subconsciously measured against Matt, and noted their deficiencies in size, looks, and intellect.

I fetched some biscuits out of the cupboard, and being the perfect hostess, I put them onto a plate.  Julian picked up my shopping bag to make space on the worktop, and (Dammit, Dammit, Dammit!) he looked inside.  I saw the puzzlement spread across his features, and I had to think desperately.  I decided that honesty was the best policy, as I knew Julian well enough by then to know he wasn't easily shockable in such matters.  I explained to him about my problem, and how it only really bothered me if I had a lot to drink, and he was very sympathetic.  My confidence had been restored, so much so that I went a little further.  I told him about how I sometimes wore them for relaxation pleasure, and how it had originated from Peter changing me when I was a kid, and Julian laughed gently, and said that he had heard worse, and - a pause - probably done worse himself.  This was as close as I wanted to go; everybody understood that Julian was gay, but nobody discussed it with him, and he was never forthcoming about his home life; in many ways he was accepted as one of the girls, and it made life much easier.

Julian thought for a moment, and sucked his teeth.  "How do you go about buying these?" he asked thoughtfully.  I told him how I made myself look scruffy - "grunging up" - so I wouldn't be recognised, and always paid cash.  He was silent for a moment, and then said: "I'd really prefer you didn't do that.  You're getting too well known, and you're bound to be recognised someday, and a shop assistant or something will make a few quid by telling the press.  It will get out, and it won't do you any good at all.  It'll attract the wrong type of people, too."  We both stayed silent for a few moments.  I was wondering what the "wrong type of people" might be; by common standards Julian was the "wrong type of person", and whatever he thought of as even-wronger-types might therefore be very wrong indeed.  Eventually Julian said "Next time you need some, let me know.  Anything you want in that line, let me know and I'll get it.  Nobody will recognise my face or name, and everybody thinks I'm weird anyway, so nobody will dare ask why I'm buying them."  I agreed, and thanked him; I had realised I was taking a risk when I bought them, but that was also part of the thrill.  I accepted the wisdom in what he said - it really wasn't worth the risk, and, besides, it would open the range of things I would like to try.  I offered my fellow conspirator a biscuit to seal the deal.

We nattered on, and fetched a bottle of wine, which Julian opened with a corkscrew attached to his key ring, much the mark of the bon vivant. We retired upstairs to my sitting room with the wine, and made ourselves comfortable. The conversation rattled on more fluidly, and I learned that my nickname in the trade was "The Ice Maiden" from my refusal of drinks and my apparent disinterest in men.  I replied that I was just being pure of mind, and Julian retorted: "If all women were pure of mind the human race would come to a shuddering halt." We both giggled insanely, and Julian poured some more wine.  I had to be a bit careful, because my contract specified that I had to be "bikini-ready" all year round, but it wasn't much of a problem for me - I was just naturally skinny, and plenty of exercise had always burnt up the calories.  The next trip was to the Seychelles for a swimwear shoot, and Julian had come to sort out the preparation I needed to do, and the necessary fittings.  Somebody had told me that it wasn't worth getting out of bed for less than ten thousand, and I was beginning to see the truth in it - there was an awful lot to arrange before I got in front of the camera and even more for the catwalk.

Eventually, after most of a second bottle of wine had been consumed, we finally finished and Julian took his leave.  After I showed him out, I staggered back into the kitchen, grabbed the pack of nappies and went upstairs again.  There was something I had to remember before sleep took me, and I opened one on my bed, sat down upon it, and taped the sides firmly; I realised that after - how many? - glasses of wine that precautions were necessary, and I hadn't got enough energy left to get up the stairs to my garret where the rest of my supply was stashed.  I had just run my fingers around the legs when the wretched doorbell rang again.  I grabbed a housecoat, wrapped it around me and went downstairs.  It was Julian again.  He had left his house keys of the kitchen table. I ushered him through.  I was just letting him out again when I realised my housecoat had come open. He did a double take, then grinned and said.  "So it's true.  You really can look sexy in anything!"  I chuckled, gave him a twirl to show him the lot, and then pushed him gently out of the door.  As I closed it he leant towards me and murmured, "Just stay dry, that's all!" and I closed the door on my laughter.

I lay abed for a little while, musing on the events of the evening.  I felt I had made a breakthrough in one respect, that I had told another human being about my hidden feelings for the first time, and the result had been, not the ridicule I has feared, but understanding, and a positive response.  For the first time my isolation had been breached, my secret told, and I had not been destroyed by it.  I felt so much more confident in myself now that I realised I was not a complete freak; I had bought my house because I wanted to be alone, I had been so isolated because I wanted to keep my fetish - for that is what I now accepted it was - to myself.  Now I began to see that it would be possible to share my life with someone who understood and accepted me.  The only problem left was to find them.  There was no way I could do it tonight, so I wriggled down under the duvet, curled up, slipped my hands between my legs, feeling the bulk, warmth and safety of my nappy and let sleep take me.

[Sarah Penguin]

Really liked this update

[fyunch]

You write so well.

[freswith]

Housewarming.

I went home for the weekend with a new lightness of being and a fresh self-confidence.  Lucy hummed up the motorway in the warm sunshine, traffic was light, the road was dry, and all was well with the world.  I reached home in record time, and Dad was delighted to see my new car, and Mum was relieved that I had arrived safely - I could see the worry-marks on her face; she obviously thought I should drive something "more sensible".  I took her out for a ride in it, which was a bit of a mistake; it frightened her almost to death as we drove through the winding lanes, even though I was being very careful.  Lucy was just so close to the ground and went round corners as if she was on rails, but it had the effect of making it feel as if she was doing twice the speed she actually was.

The main purpose of the trip home was to attend Percy's house-warming party.  There had been considerable re-arrangements within the family. Gran and Granpa had retired to a bungalow in the centre of the village, a few doors from the shops and the medical centre, and Percy and Clare had taken over Pembroke with their expanding family.  Clare had had a new baby, little Haldane, and their flat in London simply wasn't big enough, so he was now housed in the nursery with Viola and Alice in the adjoining nanny's bedroom.  An au-pair girl and a Philippino maid completed the household together with Toby, a Golden Retriever.  Percy, ever taking himself seriously, had been promoted to the bench, which actually meant a reduction in income - good commercial barristers had a licence to print money - but a huge improvement in job security which I understood was necessary since he had taken out quite a large mortgage on Pembroke. While the property had been transferred early to avoid inheritance tax, Percy had felt obliged to buy out his sisters from their expected inheritance.  That in turn had resulted in Mum and Dad buying a holiday cottage in Cornwall, close to Peter and Juliet; I knew Mum wanted to spend more time with their grandchildren and this was by far the best way to do it. 

Percy's new job had finally healed the rift between him and Granpa; it had always been a disappointment to Granpa that Percy hadn't followed him into the Navy, but having a son who was now a judge was perhaps the next best thing.  In addition, Percy had presented him with a longed-for grandson who would continue the family name and hopefully, the tradition.

I went over to Pembroke in the afternoon to see if I could help with setting up the party - and also to show off my new car. Guests who arrive early are seldom welcome, and as it happened I arrived straight into the middle of a blazing family row.  It was the same old row - I'd had it myself, but now it was Viola on the spot.  As part of the furnishing of his new home, Percy and Claire had "invested" - that's what it's called if you have to spend a lot more money than you want to - in new carpets, and true to form, there had been accidents.  A couple of them, and Viola had been the culprit. Claire's first action on becoming chatelaine of Pembroke had been to abolish Pembroke rules, as she felt they were outdated and repressive, and she didn't want her daughters to be forced to wear nappies in the daytime.  I could see her point, but I could also see Percy's point that the new carpets had cost a fortune, and Claire's sternest injunctions to Viola and Alice had been ignored - at least on Viola's part.  Poor Viola was giving evidence, and being cross-examined by both her parents, an experience which would have daunted most people, but she stood up and argued her case remarkably well - it was apparent that she had been coached quite carefully by her parents at various times, and knew what made a case stand up in court.  Unfortunately it didn't do her much good, and judgement was handed down by Percy in resounding style.  Notwithstanding any agreements entered into or concessions made heretofore, when within the property and purlieu of Pembroke House, Viola was required to be properly attired in appropriately absorbent underwear with necessarily waterproof coverings at all times both by day and by night, except when bathing or using the toilet. ("If she ever does", Percy added wickedly).  Naturally, the same rule was to be applied to the younger Alice, even though she had not been guilty of the offence - ("So far!" he remarked) - and in both cases would be subject to review only after three months of continuous attested dryness of same.  Percy's "Humfff!" took the place of a gavel strike and the matter was settled.  All stood while Mr Justice Tarr left the court, and it was left to the fuming Claire to execute the sentence.

Eventually Claire exhaled in a long exasperated sigh, and her shoulders slumped.  Then she crooked a finger - not at Viola but at the much younger Alice, who stepped forward to the changing table without protest and was duly fitted with a disposable nappy, then put back onto her feet, kissed, patted on the backside and allowed to return to her play.  The easy part having been successfully accomplished, one of the largest size nappies was taken from the cubby hole beneath the table and spread out on the padded top ready to receive Viola's reluctant rear.  Then we went to look for Viola, who had promptly made herself scarce.  We found her in her bedroom, backed against the wall, her face a picture of Churchillian resolution. I stayed slightly behind Claire, as Viola was obviously in a fighting mood, and I didn't want any bruises on me just as I was about to fly out on assignment, but Claire was more sensible than that.  She began to plead with her daughter, and appeal to reason, in the hope the child, who was nearly ten, would be amenable to a less authoritarian approach.  Gradually it worked, and, with great reluctance, Viola approached the changing table as others might approach the scaffold.  Once there, sentence was executed with admirable swiftness, dress up, pants down, bottom onto nappy, front pulled up - against an instinctive attempt by Viola to push it back down again - and sides taped.  She was back on her feet in less than a minute, pulling her dress down to conceal the evidence, and Claire was talking cheerfully of other things.

I asked Claire why she didn't use training pants, which would fit the definition as just laid down by the judgement.  She said she had some, but they were still in a box somewhere since she had packed them for the move - she had been deliberately slow in unpacking them in the hope they would never be needed.  I asked her if she knew about the big chest in the attic, where Gran had always stored such things in case they should be needed again.  No, that was news to her, so I took her up into the attic to show her where it was.  Viola padded along behind us in order to explore this new and unknown realm.

Nothing had changed up there.  Granpa's big model of HMS Victory was still sailing across its windless, dusty sea in the sunbeams from the attic window, and the great wooden chest underneath it still held its secrets.  Between us, we carefully put the fragile model aside, and lifted the lid of the chest, and there, neatly stacked were piles of terry nappies in various sizes, a heap of muslin liners and a jumble of plastic pants. I knew that the tin at the end held lots of safety pins.  There were disposables, rompers and onesies and nappy covers in all sizes and all conditions.  There, on top were the super-large nappies which had been bought for Juliet, reputedly about a month before she finally dried up, and almost unused.  There were trainer pants, too, just s few of them as Gran never quite trusted them, and pull-on nappy knickers in various sizes.  It was a time capsule.

Viola pushed forward to look. I remembered the attraction of a chest of old clothes, and the possibilities it offered in the way of dressing up.  "What are they?" she asked, bewildered, looking at the terry squares."

"Nappies.  The old type." replied her mother.

"What do you do with them?"

"The same old thing.  You put them on, then pee in them, then change them." I replied.

"How do they work?" asked the little girl, fascinated but repelled.

"Like this!" said Claire, taking one from the top, and trying to fold it.  She had obviously never done it before, and made a proper mess of it.  I took over, and kite-folded it neatly on the top of the heap. "You go here!" I said, and then folded the front and sides over.  I opened the tin and took out a couple of pins, bright and clean as the day they were new, and put one in the side of the nappy, and then showed her on the other how the heads locked down so they wouldn't come open in the night and prick you.

"But they'll leak!" she said, "There's nothing to stop them."

"Oh, you always wear these.  On top." I replied, and drew a pair of plastic pants from the heap.  They were in remarkably good condition after many years of storage, perhaps because they had all been stored together.  I spread them out on top of the nappy, and somehow my fingers lingered.  They had stirred some old memories, half forgotten in the attic of my mind.  Viola leaned forward, fascinated; curiosity had overcome her revulsion.  She reached out and felt the nappy, and then slipped her fingers in the leg hole of the pants, feeling the elastics.

"Did you ever wear these?" she asked.  From the lessons Dad had given me I recognised a buying signal.

"Yeah.  Every night.  Had to."

"What were they like?"

I thought for a few moments.  "Bulky.  Heavy - although that didn't matter in bed. Warm.  Cosy.  Not as clammy as disposables can get."  - I saw her nose wrinkle. - "Comfortable.  Safe. They didn't leak, even if you were sleeping on your side.  Held a lot, you could wet several times if you had to, if you wanted to...." I checked myself.  It wouldn't do to go too far down that route.  Everybody I knew had wetted deliberately at some time or other - it was just so much paraphernalia to get up and go to the lavatory, and if your nappy was already wet you wouldn't be blamed if you just added a bit more to it.  It was certainly better than waking Mum and demanding to be changed; that would result in great big boosters for the following nights, and they could be uncomfortable, especially if you wanted to sleep on your side, which I preferred anyway.

"Did you have to wear them in the daytime?"

"Sometimes, I was staying here.  They were a bit too bulky for daytime.  Spread your legs.  Made you waddle.  They were heavy, too.  Sometimes I had to wear a romper.  One of these.  They would hold it up, wet or dry."  I pulled a strapped romper out of the heap.  I remembered it well, I had worn it on several summer days in the privacy of Pembroke's big walled garden, and to see it bought back memories for me.  Sunny days, freshly mown grass. Peter.  Pleasant memories.  I held the pink gingham romper up against Viola's chest.  "This would fit you, even now."  She didn't recoil, but held the romper against herself: another buying signal.

"You used to wear this?" said Viola, wide eyed. I realised the amount of influence I had over her; her dressing table had pictures of me cut from magazines and catalogues pinned up around the mirror; having a supermodel cousin was probably a big part of her status at her new school.  With that realisation came responsibility; I could really mess this child up if I was not careful, in the same way that Peter had unwittingly started the process with me, and Aunt Emma had completed it.  I had to do something quickly, so instead of closing the sale, I closed the lid of the trunk.

As we went back down the stairs, with Viola still clutching the romper, my mind shifted to other things.  Those large nappies had been very large - large enough for me - and the texture of the towelling and pants had kicked off so many memories.  At some point, I resolved, those nappies could be removed from the attic at Pembroke to my secret garret room in London.  I would have to create an opportunity.

Juliet arrived, and the whole matter was buried.  Alas, Peter didn't come with her, he was off on a ship somewhere "getting sea time for promotion", and she had driven the whole way by herself with the two children.  Once we had settled her in the lounge with a glass of sherry and exchanged some small parts of our news - I hadn't seen her since Christmas - I told her about the row over Pembroke Rules and how they had been re-established.  She laughed, and said that Holly was no better, and she had come prepared.  Holly had flooded her trainer pants somewhere in Somerset, and was now fully nappied - no more chances would be taken there!  It didn't seem to worry Holly, who was meeting little Hal for the first time amidst a barrage of chatter as she updated with Viola and Alice.  I could see the wisdom of the Rules now; three young girls were much too busy with their gossip and play to take notice of the warning signs and sooner or later an accident was inevitable.  The chaos was completed when Vickie arrived with her parents and little brother William. While Vickie was still supposed to be "Leading Child" she quietly dropped her responsibilities onto her mother while she joined Juliet and me in the corner of the lounge over a sherry.  I was struck by how much she had flowered from a gawky teenager into a beautiful young woman, and wondered what Julian would make of her - millions, probably. 

As more guests arrived Vickie and I were given the duties of passing round the hors d'oeuvres, and I realised that Percy was delighted to have his two beautiful nieces mingling amongst his guests.  While the women were engaged in admiring little Hal as he lay kicking his legs and burbling in his cradle, the men were only too pleased to chat us up as we passed amongst them with the trays. Fortunately I didn't get my bottom pinched once, but I must have told them about my forthcoming bikini shoot in the Seychelles a dozen times at least.  Gan and Granpa were sitting quietly in a corner, watching the children as they played in the garden.  As I served them I commented on how much better they were looking, and Granpa replied that he was enjoying the smaller garden which was so much easier to maintain and Gran added that she was well pleased with the reduction in housework.  Both admired the improvements that Percy had made, especially the new carpets; and Gran remarked that it seemed that Claire had come to her senses and re-applied Pembroke rules - her eagle eye had already noted the bulkier backsides of the children - and I told her about the row that had happened, and about Claire's continuing hostility to the idea.  Gran nodded, and said that sense would prevail - it was so much nicer to know that the playtime would not be interrupted by an accident and floods of tears.  I looked at little Jack, who was tight-rope walking down the rail of the terrace steps, and hoped she was right.

I went back to Pembroke the following morning; it was only a five-minute drive in Lucy where it used to take at least half-an-hour on my bike.  I had promised Vickie a ride in my car before she went back to Bristol.  I found the children in the back garden, where William was being pinned to the ground with the children's croquet set.  Apparently he had made a sarcastic remark about Viola and Holly having to wear nappies, and that was a mortal sin in our family, so Viola was sitting astride him while Holly and Jack banged in the staples.  I noticed that Viola was wearing the pink gingham romper she had purloined from the big chest in the attic and, while it looked very nice on her, it was rather babyish and had stimulated William's unfortunate remark.  Vickie was looking on, and not trying to help her brother; he had to learn that some things are simply not done. 

Vickie waited until the process was complete, then handed the child-care duty over to her mother (who promptly spoiled it all by releasing William), before joining me in the car.  We went for a gentle bumble through the country lanes with the roof down, enjoying the sight of the trees flicking past overhead.  We discussed modelling, and I suggested that she give it a try.  She sighed sadly; her parents would never allow it because it would interrupt her studies.  She was aiming - or rather her parents were aiming - for a place at Cambridge to read mathematics, and absolutely nothing was to be allowed to get in the way of it.  I got the strong impression that Vickie was fed up with it all, and would love to kick over the traces somehow or other - I would just have to wait.

When we got back to Pembroke, Viola rushed out to meet us and begged to be given a ride.  I was amazed to see her out in the front garden, visible from the road, and dressed in her romper, but she seemed perfectly at ease with it.  Clare looked a little concerned at the prospect of her daughter riding around in a sports car, but nodded her consent, and Viola leapt in excitedly.  I took her around the same route that I had taken Vickie, quite a bit slower, but with lots of blipping the throttle and quite unnecessary double-declutching to give the greatest effect.  Viola was thrilled by the experience, and rather than being frightened, she whooped with delight. We went back past the Johnsons (for the fourth time that morning!), and I actually caught sight of Matt walking towards the station with a backpack on - probably on his way back to Edinburgh.  I dropped Viola back at Pembroke with minimal ceremony, but I heard her asking her mother for a change - it appeared that her excitement had not been simulated.  Then, with far too much speed, I headed back to the station with the intent of offering Matt a lift to the mainline station, but as I arrived the little train was pulling out, and it was clear I had missed him by a couple of minutes.  I kicked myself yet again.

[warpiper]

Brilliant chapter once again, freswith keep up the good work

[Sarah Penguin]

Great fun as always, thanks for the update

[warpiper]

is it time for an update yet? is it?

it's time for a bump at least

[freswith]

The next episode is coming on; I just have to get Amelia a bit more drunk.

[fyunch]

I'll send her a case of Champagne :-)

[CDLover]

The next episode is coming on; I just have to get Amelia a bit more drunk.

[freswith]

Red Wine.

I opened the garage door with the remote, drove straight in and closed the door behind me; this was so convenient, and especially at this moment because I didn't want anyone seeing what I was bringing in to the house.  I went into the kitchen and put them on the table and just stood and looked at them.  I had finally managed it.  I had taken a large nappy out of the attic trunk at Pembroke, and the largest pair of plastic pants I could find.

I looked at the folded nappy on the table, and suddenly had a flashback to when old Mrs Brown was babysitting me - "baby" wasn't quite the right term, I must have been seven or eight - and Mum, Dad and Juliet had gone out for some grown-up function.

I was just lying on my stomach on the hearthrug watching television when Mrs Brown came in, and asked me if I still wore a "napkin"; she always called them "napkins", never "nappies".  For some reason, possibly just plain awkwardness, I said "No".

"Well there's a clean one laid out on the kitchen table," she replied, "so I assume it's for you."

I remember shaking my head.  I was busy watching the television.

"And a pair of plastic baby pants," she continued, "and pins."  I didn't move.  She left the room.  A few minutes later she returned, bearing the items she had mentioned.  She spread the nappy out beside me and folded it, slowly and carefully.  Then she said "Come on dear, we don't want any accidents, do we." as she lifted my skirt and pulled my pants down. I remember lifting my bottom so she could.  Then with an "Excuse me, dear!" she rolled me over on to the nappy, pulled the front up between my legs, and pinned the sides.  She tucked the legs in, taking a long time about it while I just lay there with my arms raised out of the way, trying to keep up with the television program. I lifted my feet as she scrunched the plastic pants up and put her hands through the leg holes.  She took hold of my ankles and slid the pants up my legs.  I felt her push the leg elastics up into my nappy.  After I rolled back onto my front, and continued to watch the television, she pulled the pants up behind my waist, and there I was. I had been nappied just as though I was a little baby who couldn't stand up.  I didn't wear nappies in the daytime, but I knew that to resist would start an argument and I would miss the end of the program, so I played along with it.  I remember liking the feel of the cool, smooth plastic pillow between my legs, and the knowledge that I wouldn't have to miss any of the program if I wanted the lavatory, I could just wet my nappy instead.  I don't remember any more, I think I must have fallen asleep there and been put to bed without further ado.

I decided to re-enact that scene.  It wasn't entirely successful. Although the nappy fitted - just - the plastic pants were much too small, and promptly split on me, and the elastics had all perished.  I gave up quite quickly, and just lay there fingering my nappy, and then reached inside it to play with myself but as I became aroused a sense of self-disgust built up; here I was, an icon, even a sex-object to millions, and I was doing this to myself.  It didn't stop me, I carried on, but as soon as I came I wanted to get rid of my nappy; it was unclean, it wasn't the way I wanted to see myself.  I meant to get up and take it off - but I didn't. I just laid there and thought.  The potential for pleasure and satisfaction was there, but I wasn't doing it right.  I mean, I was good with disposables, but they were only a part of it.  I loved to spend the night in one, especially if I'd been drinking the evening before and might need it, and many times I would wake up dry but bursting for a pee, and let it all go, albeit quite carefully, into the nappy and then lie back in a reverie feeling the relief spread through me as the wetness spread around to my backside, and sometimes I would even go back to sleep.  It was better to do that on some of the cold, dark winter nights because my bedroom was on the first floor while my bathroom was on the ground floor,  the stairs between were narrow and dark, and the palaver of getting up and going for a pee was greater than the mild discomfort of a wet nappy.  I well knew I could sleep easily in a wet nappy - I had proven it so many times.

As I lay there half asleep my mind rolled on.  There was still something missing.  I wanted someone to nappy me, to treat me like a little girl the way Peter used to do it, to control me and put me in my nappy, to overcome my protests, and finally to pat me on my well-padded bottom, tuck me in, and turn the light out.  Then perhaps to snuggle into bed next to me, and hold me close during the long cold watches of the night.  There must be someone, somewhere who would do that, but finding him was going to be difficult.

I didn't have much time to think over the next week or so; things were just too hectic.  If I had any illusion that I was going on a nice holiday, it was soon dispelled; Alan the photographer was the guy in charge and he was very businesslike.  He insisted on getting us up before dawn so he could get "the right quality of light", as well as avoiding any goofers who might be around - or worse still any photo-bombers (fortunately we had a couple of heavies who took care of that) - and he would have another session towards sunset in order to catch the softer light.  I hadn't realised what a huge crew we had to have, and I realised that I was just one part, albeit a vital part, of the team, and I resolved to do my bit accordingly, so there were no temper tantrums, no coming late, no "prima donna" behaviour; I mucked in and did my bit, and it was appreciated.  In all, it meant a fourteen- or fifteen-hour day, with a siesta time after lunch when the light was much too strong and the shadows too fierce. It also saved us from getting sunburned - most of my tan was sprayed on.  It had advantages: for one thing, unlike other "holidays", I wasn't tempted - or allowed - to party and get drunk; not only would it result in some very bloodshot eyes, and some lousy bags under my eyes, but in my particular case I knew it could possibly result in a wet bed, and I didn't want that as a start to my day.  Of course I hadn't brought any nappies with me - I didn't want that secret getting out, and the prospect of taking them through customs and having my baggage searched frightened me to death.

I was very conscious that I was still the new girl on the block, and I felt a bit awkward at times.  Fortunately Alan was very much a top man in his profession, and helped me to feel at ease.  I liked the way he could control me so easily, and even considered sleeping with him - I was quite anxious to lose my "Ice Maiden" tag, and it might help my career to have such a patron, but I was beaten to it by one of the other girls who promptly abused her position by starting to order everybody around.  The culmination came at the end of the week when the two of them had an absolutely blazing row in their hotel room, so loud that everybody could hear.  The following morning the atmosphere on the shoot was very touchy, and so I was especially mindful to be even more submissive to Alan, with the result that I got the best of his attention. 

I returned to London with a feeling that my professional reputation had grown considerably. I was exhausted from the long flight and took a long hot shower. Then, Dammit, the doorbell rang.  I strolled out past Lucy the Lotus, belting my bathrobe around me, and looked through the peephole.  I welcomed Julian, especially since he was bearing two bottles of wine, and cheerfully accepted his explanation that it was such a pity that wine bottles only really held enough for one person.  He was anxious to debrief me and find out all about the assignment, so I took him upstairs to the lounge and got out two large wine glasses and a corkscrew, passing it all to him to do the honours.  He was very pleased that I had not got too involved with Alan as he had a bad reputation for being volatile and even violent.  I accepted his praise with gratitude, and another glass of wine.  We discussed future plans, and he told me he was now having to work the other way round; instead of seeking more work for me he was having to schedule my time to allow me some holidays and rest periods.  I was well pleased with this; the Seychelles trip had been anything but a holiday, and even in the moments I'd had off I had to be available should Alan decide the light or the location had given him inspiration and he needed me immediately.  I sprawled back in my favourite big leather armchair and took another sip of the wine.  Then an alarm bell rang:  I had reached my limit, and if I drank any more, I would have to take the necessary precautions.  I knew I had a few left in the bag, so I switched off the alarm bell and had another mouthful, well, another swig, of Julian's excellent wine.  I thought again of the fewness of the nappies left in the bag and decided to take the plunge and ask Julian a favour.  I wanted to take him up on his offer to acquire some nappies for me without me having to buy them in person, and I also wanted a pair of plastic pants that would fit me. He agreed readily, and suggested I put together a list of what I would like, complete with sizes, and ideally sources, and he would make the arrangements without my name ever becoming known to the supplier.

Julian seemed quite amused by the request, and we cracked another bottle of wine on the done deal.  I was still stuck with the problem of where to find the things, but he suggested searching the net.  We soon found a company which specialised, and had a section for diaper lovers - it was the first time I had heard the term. I nearly creased myself with laughter - so much of it was like the stuff I used to wear - and there were even some terry nappies.  I went a bit overboard on the ordering, as this was an opportunity that I had not expected and I didn't want to do it too frequently. Julian egged me on, and even made a few suggestion, until eventually he filled in his name and address, and gave his credit card.  I discovered that his name wasn't actually Julian Lemay at all - he said he just used it as a working name because it suited him better than being called George Something-or-other, and I gave a woozy nod.  Perhaps I should have done the same thing, but then what better a name for a model could I have than my own - Amelia Grace?  It was perfect. I returned thankfully to my deep armchair, took another quaff of Julian's excellent wine, and said I must give him a cheque for the things I had just ordered.  Julian simply waved a limp hand and said tomorrow would do, and then he refilled my glass.  I really didn't want any more, but one has to be polite.

We talked for some time about I don't know what, then I saw that my glass was empty again, and so were both bottles.  I slumped back into the softness of my lovely armchair and I think I must have dozed off.  I heard the sounds from the kitchen of the bottles being put in the bin, and running water as the glasses were washed, and then I heard Julian, very close to me, telling me it was time for bed.  I half-woke up, tried to get pout of the chair, and failed.  Julian took my hands, and pulled me up to my feet, then caught me as I swayed.  He put one arm under my legs and picked me up, saying "Oh dear, I'd better put you to bed, hadn't I?  I want you to be safe."

As he carried me towards my bedroom door his remark about "being safe" struck a chord. I was well over my personal limit, and knew what was likely to happen.  As he laid me on the bed, I managed to slur out.  "Might wet.  Need a nap...nappy on!" and gestured towards the cupboard where they were kept.  Julian went over, found the packet, and retuned with the bulky white item in one hand.  I tried to get up again, and failed again.  Julian just sucked his teeth, shook his head gently, and undid the belt on my bathrobe.  I didn't resist, as I knew that Julian was impossibly gay, and nothing like rape would be likely to happen, and besides, I was too drunk to put up much of a fight anyway, so when I heard the familiar sound of the nappy being unfolded and spread, I relaxed as I had been accustomed to do for so many years. I lifted my legs, and he pushed the nappy up, then I pushed my feet down onto the bed and lifted my backside, so it could complete its journey underneath me.  I felt Julian reach down between my legs for the front of the nappy and I spread them to make it easier.  This was just like to old days!  I laid back with my arms raised, and somehow I found my thumb in my mouth.  Julian tapped the nappy around me, tighter than I usually did it myself, and I wriggled a bit in protest, but he pulled it even tighter around my legs and taped it firmly down.  I giggled; I could never quite get this effect by myself, it needed a man's strong hands to do it properly, and I wondered where Julian had gained such experience.  Finally I rolled over, away from Julian and he shifted my arms and legs into what I remembered as the recovery position.  I realised that he was afraid that I might vomit and choke on it, but I wasn't that far-gone - quite.  I seized the other pillow from my double bed, pulled it down and cuddled it, and rolled further on to my stomach so I could bend one leg akimbo and relieve the pressure of the unusually tight nappy between my legs.  Julian patted me on the back of my nappy, and then spread the duvet over me and tucked me in.

The last thing I remember as a spiralled down into the dark vortex of sleep was the sound of the front door closing as Julian left me in peace.

[sonofninasayers]

Loving the story so far, please post more soon when you are ready too

[derj]

More please!

[weeboy]

_*bump*

_{"This story is too good to be on the third page!!!"}

[freswith]

Thanks for the bump; I try to avoid bumping the story myself as it seems rather presumptuous.

[freswith]

Spike.

I hadn't set out that Friday evening to do what I did, it just sort of happened.  I'd been at a loose end for once, and London is full of things to remedy that.  I'd had an invitation to an exhibition at an art gallery, frightfully fashionable, and all the best people were there. Not that I really gave a damn about art, but following Julian's advice as always, I agreed it was the kind of place to be seen.  I knew quite well that I was expected to be part of the art myself - on display but, as far as I was concerned, not available for purchase.  It was in the Serpentine Gallery, and just for the hell of it I took Lucy the Lotus, as I didn't get much chance to use her very much, and I felt she might be pining.  All the usual London crowd were there, and as usual, 90% of them were 90% phoney and 100% boring.  I drifted about, admiring the pictures - some of them were quite good, and ended up with my glass (one glass only - I was driving) in my hand , backed up to a wall (it prevented anyone getting behind me and pinching my bottom or worse). I didn't intend to stay long, as the people weren't really my type, and I was just there to be seen - part of the job.  I decided to give it another twenty minutes and then make my escape.  After five minutes the host fluttered over to me to make the usual small talk and try to sell me a picture.  I gave him the usual charm, and he said there was someone I just had to meet.  Oh Gawd! Every time! I put on my best smile as I was introduced to a man called Spike.  I recognised him, he had made quite a name for himself as a pop star (sorry - musician), not so much for his melodies as for his originality. He was thin and wiry, had a certain lean and hungry look, and we got talking, and we went on talking.

I declined a refill, and Spike asked if I really was the Ice Maiden.  I felt slightly annoyed and said I didn't want to get drunk because I had my car outside, and he asked me what I had and I told him, and we talked about cars, and then I asked him what he was doing at an art gallery and his answer surprised me.  He said that painting was the real love of his life, that he did music only as a sideline to make money.  Then he offered to get me a soft drink and I agreed, and we went on from there.  We toured the gallery together, and I was astonished at how much he seemed to know about the pictures and how much he was involved in it.  I only mentioned his music once, whereupon he changed the subject back to art, and at that I began to believe him.  He asked my why I was called the Ice Maiden, and I replied that I didn't drink or party like the other models, that I was usually in bed by midnight and he said that was a very good idea, provided you got home by daylight.  And so it went on.  We were amongst the last to leave the gallery, and he mentioned that he was worried about getting back to his flat, so I asked him where he lived, and he gave an address about two streets away from me, and so, of course, I offered him a lift.

We talked animatedly all the way back, and it wasn't until I pressed the button for lowering the garage door that I suddenly realised I had taken him back to my own home rather than to his.  I sat there for a few moments in a pang of embarrassment, and then offered him a coffee.  And we talked.  And we went upstairs to the living-room, and talked some more, and... well... things went on from there.

He was very good in bed, but I didn't ask where he had learned his skills.  He played me as a musical instrument; a little tuning here, a little melody there, and finally brought in the harmonies and the base accompaniment, all to a resounding crescendo.  I wondered if he was as good with his paintbrush.

I got up first the following morning.  As I went into he living room I noticed the door to my little secret room in the garret was ajar, so I closed it and turned the key; I didn't want him wandering up there and finding my stash - there would be far too much explaining to do, and he was certainly still on probation as far as I was concerned.  I worked my mind back to the night before - no, not that bit - but to the time we were leaving the gallery.  I was pretty sure all the paparazzi had finally given up and gone to bed, so there would be any pictures in the morning papers.  They had become a bit of a pain to me, since pictures of me were excellent sellers.  There had been some serious trouble when Uncle Percy had taken me out to lunch and we had been spotted.  The gossip columnists had been delighted to portray me as the mistress of a Judge, and Percy's blusterings that I really was his niece had been greeted with raucous disbelief.  It was only after Julian had planted the real story with a friendly columnist that the truth finally got out, and Percy had been mollified with a suitable grovelling apology, and a carefully placed article praising his sage and just judgements.  I was hopeful the papps hadn't spotted me taking Spike home; I just wasn't ready for that.

I was just filling the kettle when Spike came up behind me, slipped his hands around my waist then moved them upwards to cradle my breasts, as he nuzzled his lips through my hair to the nape of my neck and seized me, uttering a long deep growl that went all through my body as he held me tight.  At least I had the presence of mind to turn the tap off, but there was no way I could turn Spike off and, frankly, there was no way I wanted to.  We retired upstairs again, for an hour - or two.

It was early in the afternoon when Helen came round - I'd forgotten that I'd promised to go up home with her in Lucy, and I was somewhat disconcerted when she met Spike as he emerged from the shower.  I introduced them  - as best as I could, because I hardly knew Spike with his clothes on - and we all sat around the kitchen table drinking tea before Spike made an excuse about having to feed his cat, and I showed him to the door.  As we walked past Lucy , he stopped, and looked long and hard at the bare wall opposite.  I couldn't see what it was that interested him - it was just a wall after all, and perhaps in need of a coat of whitewash, but I wasn't really the DIY type and hadn't managed to get anyone in to do it yet.  Anyway we moved on, and parted - eventually - with a long, passionate kiss and promises to phone.

Helen had the decency to wait until Spike had gone before she burst into questions, and her interrogation lasted until we got to the motorway, when she finally fell silent. Part of the reason might have been the relatively heavy traffic; Lucy is very low down, and could have driven under most of the big lorries that we passed, and the effect was quite intimidating, doubly so in the rain that was now falling quite heavily and the dense spray that was being thrown up by the lorries.  I had no idea that Spike was quite such a celebrity, nor one of such notoriety; he had long been a favourite of the gossip pages, and apparently there were some quite remarkable rumours circulating about him.  His nocturnal artistic endeavours were said to adorn walls all across London, but nobody had actually caught him doing it.  He had been associated with a number of other women for brief periods, which made me shudder; I was very grateful that I had had the presence of mind to insist he had used a condom.  By the time we reached Junction 13 I knew more about Spike than I ever wanted to, and was feeling livid with myself for having been no more than a one-night stand for him.

Our conversation resumed as we drove into the village, until we saw a familiar figure waiting by the side of the road in the rain.  Mags, fatter than ever, with one toddler in her hand and a baby in the pushchair loaded down with shopping and bags of nappies.  There was a large puddle in front of them, and for a dreadful moment I was tempted to drive through it and soak Mags, to pay her back for all bullying which had made my schooldays such hell.  Then I saw the face of the toddler, her little bundle of misery, and I desisted; it must have been bad enough having Mags for a mother without being soaked by a passing car.  I stopped and waved them across, and watched while the toddler was dragged by the hand across the road.  It was obvious from her drooping swollen pants that she was just as wet on the inside as she was outside, and my heart went out to her; so many times I had been in that situation, and often when I was much older than that poor child.  Mags turned her face towards me and nodded in thanks.  I think she must have recognised me; pink Elises are very uncommon, and I had often been pictured in the press with Lucy, she was a sort of trademark.  The encounter did quite a lot for me; I realised how very lucky I had been in the past few years, and how I could have gone the other way with two small children, no car and possibly no husband either. Still, Mags had made her bed, and had obviously been laid upon it, and I had mine.  Much of my hatred and fear of Mags had now evaporated from the back of my mind where it had been lurking those many years.

I dropped in to visit Percy and Claire at Pembroke on the Sunday to catch up with the news, and to see little Hal's latest achievement in learning to crawl.  I did my bit in fielding him on one of his expeditions to explore the hugeness of Pembroke, assisted by a very attentive Viola.  She had much on her mind, and when we were out of earshot of her thankful mother she broached the subject that was on her mind.  Pembroke rules were still in force, and she was still wearing the nappy she had worn to church that the morning even though she had been using the toilet normally and really didn't need it.  I commiserated with her; I remember how I felt about it at the same age, although by then I was well on my way out of them.  I told her the usual story, that it was just a matter of time before her brain made the vital enzyme and she would dry up, but I knew how hollow it sounded, how it was all just "one day soon, and quite suddenly" but how it could never be pinned down to a particular date.  I knew also how "soon" had different meanings to a child, and anything beyond next week was almost over the horizon, but I did my best.  Eventually I tried to change the subject and asked her if she had found the treasure that was reputedly concealed within Pembroke's mighty walls.  She said she had found a loose board in the fourth bedroom, in the old part of the house, but her father had been livid when she had tried to prise it up.

It was while we were shepherding young Hal back to the nursery that my mobile rang.  It was the long-awaited although somewhat unexpected call from Spike, and for several minutes I was deaf to the world.  I had been afraid that he would only treat me as a one night stand, another scalp to hang from his belt, and was cursing myself for being seduced so easily, but no problem; this was Spike asking me if I would be free for dinner on Tuesday, and my maidenly reticence lasted for no more than the time it took me to draw breath.  Eventually I rang off, and my awareness of the rest of the world expanded until I became aware of a very wide-eyed Viola staring at me.

"Who's Spike?" she demanded, "Not SPIKE, not the Spike?"

"You mean the artis... the pop star?" - Viola nodded vigorously - "You mean you've heard of him?" - I thought she was going to burst - "Yes he is, actually,... he's my..." I struggled to find the word, it was so long since I had used it, "...boyfriend." 

She burst.  I was reminded of the riddle about "what was the animal with one hundred legs and three pubic hairs?" Answer: the first three rows of one of Spike's concerts.  Spike was very big in the pre-pubescent market, and I swam against a tide of questions from Viola, with not a little envy audible between the lines.  I answered them as best I could before we had to retrieve Hal, who was earnestly crawling away to discover new lands amongst the Terra Incognita of the sixth and seventh bedrooms.  I carried him back to the nursery.  It was obvious he needed a change, and in gratitude for Claire's hospitality and many favours, I just got on with it.  Just as I finished and set him back on all fours to explore as far as the closed nursery door, I happened to glance at Viola and she looked back at me sheepishly from under her fringe.

"Not you too?" I sighed.

"Sorry.  I got so excited about Spike."

"Oh, Viola, He's just another boy, you know, nothing remarkable about him." I felt myself lying.  He was remarkable, to me at least, and obviously much more so to Viola.

"Yes, but he's Spike!" she replied with the dedication of a true fanatic.

I had to change the subject; I was beginning to agree with her.  "Come on, let's get you fixed before your Mum finds out!" and I grabbed a handful of wipes.  Viola pulled her dress up and I slipped her tights down and un-taped her nappy.  I passed the wipes to her - better that she did the next bit as she was getting quite a big girl now - and I took one of the large nappies from under the changing table and spread it on the top.  With a bit of assistance she clambered up, deposited herself on top of it while holding her dress well clear, and laid back  I squared it up, and pulled the front up between her legs.  She didn't wriggle or kick as Hal had done, but asked me when (not "if"!) I would be bringing Spike home to meet the family.  I was caught a bit unawares.  I had just been thinking how nice it was when someone used to do all this for me, and my hands paused in their task of spreading the smooth plastic over Viola's tummy.  Suddenly she had brought Spike back in to my mind, and for a moment Spike became that someone, and it was his hands spreading the nappy over my tummy, and it felt so good.  So very good....

I dragged myself back to the present.  " I don't know him that well...  not yet anyway."  In fact, sorry to disappoint you Viola,  Spike wouldn't exactly fit in with our family.  It wasn't that he was from the other side of the railway tracks, but more that he was running along those tracks like Casey Jones and heading for a pile up, while my staid, rather stuffy family would have choked him.  The result would not have been a pretty sight.  Spike was destined to remain my little plaything in London, at least for the moment.

[derj]

Thank you for the great chapter .

Can almost not wait on the next one.

[Sarah Penguin]

Yay was fun, fanks! *waves and poofles*

[jbz2079]

Thank you Freswith, another very interesting chapter.

[freswith]

Telling Spike.

My relationship with Spike had certainly not gone unnoticed by the paparazzi, and the gossip columnists were quick to see that we were an item, and gained both of us much press coverage.  This greatly pleased Julian to whom it meant more publicity, more assignments, and more income.  I was doing very well there, but the workload became much heavier, and the social life became intense; we seemed to be on every guest list for everything, and seldom had an evening in.  Spike obviously didn't mind it, but his anonymous nocturnal forays to add graffiti to some neglected wall had become much less frequent, which pleased me somewhat - there was always a fear that he would be caught.  Most of the time we had together was spent in my little mews house; Spike's flat was a wilderness of canvasses, musical instruments, old clothes (he was a right scruff when he wasn't on stage) and his cat.  He really did have a cat; a huge Maine Coon tomcat which went by the name of Micawber, but he certainly never seemed to come when called by it.  The brute must have been at least half lynx, and the terror of every small animal within half a mile, including dogs, but eventually I learnt that if you fed him well he would allow you to scratch him behind the ears; he was much the same as Spike in many ways.  Spike sometimes referred to him as his Familiar - an imp sent by Satan  - and said he was the demonic inspiration for much of his art and music. I recognised in them both the qualities that I appreciated in Asbo, my very old grey-muzzled Jack Russell terrier; they were all fearless and adventurous, and up for mischief.

I learnt a lot over the next few months. Spike approached lovemaking with the energy and perfectionism with which he tackled everything else.  The problem was that I didn't know if I was the passion of his life or just a sexual laboratory rat.  We went through almost every position imaginable, and a mass of sex toys.  Most of it was fun, although after a couple of bad experiences I drew the line at being tied up; not only was it rather cold and uncomfortable, but on one occasion Spike tried to gag me, and on another he decided to smoke a joint - something I would not have allowed if I could have got a hand free.  I just don't want the smell of it in my house, thank you very much.  What was still worse was that he sat there spaced out while I needed a pee.  The need became urgent, and my pleadings became more and more urgent until he finally cottoned on that my threat to pee all over the bed was not an idle one and he released me just in time.  I was very grateful, but still swearing under my breath and desperately rubbing my wrists and ankles to get rid of the red marks; I had visions of turning up for an assignment with bondage marks on my wrists and ankles to the hilarity of everybody except me.  I needn't have worried.  Spike was just going through a phase, but then he was forever going through a phase; he tried everything in turn, toyed with it, got bored, and moved on.  That was the problem; I knew that eventually he would get bored with me, and move on; he was an overgrown child, a scene-maker, so typical of the fast-moving London set of which we were both members, but I never knew if the Spike I had gone to bed with at night would be the same Spike I woke up with in the morning. 

It was time for a bit of a sort-out between us.  Yeah, I liked Spike, I loved his crazy sense of humour, and the fact that he seemed to want to listen to me.  I loved his art, especially the many pictures he drew and painted of me, I quite liked his music and he was great in bed, but I didn't care for BDSM, I just wasn't into it. I realised I had a need for security but that didn't involve being tied up hand and foot.  He agreed about the SM - when he asked me to hit him with a horse-crop he had no idea of just how much experience I had had in hitting horses with them: he certainly jumped when I whipped him.  Then he asked me what fantasies I had.  I drew a long breath - not because I was in a hurry to get the words out, but rather because I wanted thinking-time.  I explained the little problem I had as a child, and how it had been handled.  I explained that at a certain age I had had a crush on my big sister's boyfriend, and how he had changed my nappy, and I told Spike how I had gone as far as wetting my nappies deliberately so I could get Peter to change me, and how it had translated into a fascination, OK, fetish if you like, about nappies and being nappied and changed, and generally how they made me feel safe and loved, and I explained how I still sometimes needed them if I had been drinking heavily and how I had never had the courage to try out drugs because I was frightened they might have the same effect, (and worse still, I thought, they might make me blurt something out about nappies) and how this had probably gained me my nickname of the "Ice Maiden".

Spike didn't take his eyes off me, nor did he interrupt me or. worse still, laugh at me; he just heard me out with careful attention.  Eventually I came to the end of my confession, and awaited his judgement nervously.  After a few seconds he nodded slowly, and asked if it really turned me on.  I was my turn to nod.  I told him that it wasn't as good as sex, but it lasted longer, all night maybe, and he began to smile.  He asked to see what I meant, and at that point I decided to take him upstairs to the little attic room where I kept such things.  He was very surprised; even though he had a quick eye for detail and a prying mind, he had thought the enclosed staircase was just a cupboard and had no idea that it led to another room.  To be honest, there wasn't much up there, just a single bed and a cupboard for the nappies and clothes and the whole place was a bit seedy, but he took a close interest.  Spike was always anxious to try something new, and although I wasn't actually intending to do anything of that nature, he opened up one of the disposable nappies, measured it against me, giggled, and then started to remove my jeans.  I didn't resist; there wasn't much point and he had done that manoeuvre so many times before that it didn't really worry me.  I stepped out of my jeans as he spread the nappy on the bed, and I stood obediently in front of him, as I had stood in front of Mum when she was about the same business.  I began to feel the same sense of vulnerability that I always felt when, fresh from my bath, I was being nappied for the night, and the thrill and tingle returned. Without speaking, he reached out, slipped his thumbs into the waist elastic of my panties, and began peeling them down over my thighs. 

I stepped out of my panties and waited, all submissive before him.  It was a strange feeling.  I knew where it came from, and why I did it, that so many times in the past I had objected, and struggled and tried to escape at this moment, but it had always been in vain; I had been picked up, carried to the table or the bed, and nappied just the same between my kicking legs and despite my tears and protests.  I didn't want it that way, at least not the first time;  I wanted to be nappied the way Mum used to do it; after bath and before bed, when my only desire was to get it over with and get between the sheets safe and warm with as little loss of dignity as possible.  Having got over the first threshold of telling him about my secret I was desperate to see how he would react. I was afraid he was just going to drop his trousers at that point, but he had more self-discipline than that.

Spike took me gently by my waist, turned me, and pushed me gently toward the spread nappy.  I lowered myself on to it and spread my legs.  He pulled my nappy up between my legs, and instinctively I spread my legs wider to make for a tighter fit.  He paused for a moment - I could almost hear his brain grinding away - and then continued, spreading the front of the nappy over my tummy.  I had to help him a bit with the tapes, and I made him run his hands around the elastics to make sure they fitted - that was always a part I enjoyed.  Then I stood up and put my arms around his neck and kissed him.  Even without my heels I was a bit taller than he was, so I smalled myself so I could reach up to him like a little girl, a supplicant.

"Thank you." I said, "Now you are supposed to pat me on the bottom and ask if I'm comfy now."

He grinned, and slid his hands slowly down around my bottom, patted and then squeezed.  "Comfy now?"

It was my turn to smile. "Very. Safe and warm and cosy.  Does it please you?"

He was quiet for a moment.  "It's different. I see you differently now. Before, you were so beautiful, so sexy and so self-confident that I was actually a bit afraid of you.  It made me think I would never make the grade, never meet the standard that you demanded. Now you look so defenceless, so young and vulnerable that all I want to do is to protect you and care for you.  I want to wrap you in my arms and rock you, shelter you and tell you not to worry because I was here to love you.  It's a different set of emotions, and I'm not used to them."

I felt at last I was making progress with him, getting away from the crude mechanics of sex and getting in touch with his deeper feelings, and at last I had a tool which I could use repeatedly to lever our relationship on to a deeper level.  I hadn't realised that I had awed him, I never thought of myself as a sex bomb or a goddess, and I hadn't appreciated that men might be over-faced by me.  Now I knew otherwise, and as long as it flattered Spikes ego I could play the little girl for him in order to stir his deeper emotions and put the relationship on a more stable footing.  I resolved to be a little more demure and submissive than I had been in the past, to wear more dresses instead of jeans, to drop my eyes submissively and to caress instead of grabbing.  It was time to add a bit more pink and pastel and frill to my wardrobe instead of the primary colours, denim and leather, which had heretofore been my style.  Right now I laid back, and drew Spike on top of me.  I was interested in finding out just how long he would retain his self-control.  My answer came quite quickly, and the nappy went flying out of the bed, but by then it was forgotten as we got on with the main business of the night.

Our relationship developed when it had the chance.  Both of us were extremely busy pursuing our own careers, and for much of the time either I would be out of the country leaving Spike to water my houseplants, or he would be abroad or on tour and I would feed Micawber.  Eventually I felt confident enough to take him home and to keep the promise which Viola had extracted from me by taking him round to Pembroke House and introducing her to him. I had briefed him carefully on the situation with regards to Viola and Pembroke Rules, and how there must be no patting on the bottom and certainly no running fingers around the elastic, and Spike cheerfully agreed.  He said little girls were a major threat to him, not as temptations, but rather as the owners of fevered imaginations and desperate needs for attention; he dreaded what they might say about him in future years when it would be impossible to disprove their allegations.  I realised that Spike was every bit as much a professional at his game as I was, and that was largely due to Solly, his very experienced manager.  Fortunately Julian knew Solly, and that opened a useful channel of communication between us to allow some coordination of our schedules, without which our relationship would have been very touch-and-go.

Viola was over the moon to meet Spike, and actually - predictably - wet herself (Thank God for Pembroke Rules!) and so I took the chance to show Percy around Pembroke while Claire whipped her up to the nursery for a change.  I showed him the portraits of Granpa in his admiral's uniform, and of Percy in his full-bottomed wig and robes and he was suitably impressed.  In an attempt to bring it down to a more human scale I told him the story of the pirate Back Jack Sinclair, Gran's ancestor, and of the treasure which he was said to have concealed somewhere within the house, and we both laughed.  I was glad to see that Percy had done his bit; when we went past his study, I noticed that the full-bottomed wig was still on its stand, but the Black Cap was no longer perched on top of it. (It was Percy's little conceit, since judges in the Chancery Division very rarely get to pass death sentences.)

We then happened to pass the nursery, recently vacated by a freshly-changed Viola, and I put my head around the door to make sure it was clear.  I then showed Spike around, explaining what had gone on in there over the generations, and I pointed out the oversize changing table with its plastic-cushioned top and the array of shelves below wherein three sizes of nappies were stored with all the usual accoutrements, and explained its purpose.  Spike gave a soft laugh, and picked me up and sat me on the middle of the table in the way I had just explained to him, legs apart and him in between. I was just about to tell him to stop when little Alice walked in clutching her teddy bear.

"Is Amelia wet too?" she piped, "Are you going to change her now?  Don't mind me."

I felt myself going red to the roots of my hair, but fortunately Spike just laughed and I was able to conceal my embarrassment.

"No, I don't think she needs it, Not just yet, anyway." he replied, "Maybe I'll do it later." and I hit him on the arm to shut him up.

I thought no more of the matter until I came home from a week-long trip to New York to find that Spike had prepared a surprise for me.  In my absence he had not only redecorated my attic room in white and pink, and added a number of paintings of fairy-tale characters in his own hand, but he had also managed to construct a very stout table at one end under the window, complete with padded top, and shelves underneath full of nappies and pants and all the other things.  This time there was no little Alice to interrupt things and we tested it thoroughly for comfort, efficacy and, last but not least, structural strength - it easily carried two of us and all that we could do.

[jbz2079]

Wow! A lot happened just then, I suppose it's nearly every DL's dream to find someone excepting and willing to understand.

Not that many of us ever get to that point in our lives.

Some never reveal their secret, other do and go way overboard and wonder why people shun them.

[WBDaddy]

Really great stuff, as usual, though there is a slip in there...

[freswith]

Really great stuff, as usual, though there is a slip in there...

[derj]

Thanks for the great chapter