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Gee, I wonder what the papparazzi will make of the pix of the painting they snapped as Amelia was getting away in Lucy.

Poor Amelia. Mean ol' Freswith won't let her catch a break <evil_grin>.

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Gee, I wonder what the papparazzi will make of the pix of the painting they snapped as Amelia was getting away in Lucy.

Poor Amelia. Mean ol' Freswith won't let her catch a break <evil_grin>.

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  • 4 weeks later...
Mills and Boon

Mills and Boon

From my shallow sleep, I leapt up much too fast and the room swayed wildly around me.  I didn't actually fall. Two strong arms caught me and held me, and then held me close.  From my position with my head pressed firmly into his shoulder I caught sight if a piece of chin and some distinctive red hair.  "Matt...?"
"I've got you.  You won't fall" came the same deep voice, and the arms remained tightly around me.  I didn't fall; I hung on for dear life, and buried my head into his shoulder.  Matt.  Not the old Matt, not the gangling, stripling youth who had outgrown his strength, but Matt full-grown, filled out, and built like a barn door.  I clung there feeling my heart beating wildly and trying to think of something clever to say, or just anything at all to say as I tried to make sense of the situation.  My arms, acting on their own volition, found their way around him and hung on desperately.  One of his hands slipped up behind my neck and held my head against his shoulder, and he began to rock me slowly from side to side, murmuring soft reassuring things until I felt my muscles stop trembling and begin to relax.  It felt good: very, very good.

I managed to move my mouth clear of the shoulder of his jacket and look up at him.
"Matt? What on earth are you doing here?" I managed.
"Making a house-call." he replied, with a gentle smile.  "Your grandmother phoned the surgery, said you were in a bit of a state, and said you might need something to calm yourself down.  Dad was in his slippers, and it was Sunday afternoon, so he sent me."
Even in my dazed state, I could see through that one.  Gran and Mrs Johnson were as thick as thieves and given to endless plotting.  Anyway, I could hardly object; Matt was giving me exactly the therapy I needed: to be held and reassured, to be cuddled and comforted like a frightened child.  No medication could ever have been so rapidly effective, and none could ever be more addictive.  I kept hanging on, and Matt kept holding me tightly, and I doubt if he bought the story any more than I did; he was already doing enough to get him struck off a dozen times, but we both knew the situation, and we both played it for all it was worth. 

Eventually he sat me down on the edge of the changing table and looked me in the face.  God knows what I actually looked like, but his eyes didn't waver as they drank me in.  I  took a long look at his face; he had lost some puppy-fat around the jowls, and his features were leaner and more defined, but it was still the same face I had once loved so much, and not so long ago.

We began our explanations, both at once and then he let me go first.  I told him about all the trouble I was in, and how I was afraid of being arrested for murder at any moment, and he just smiled, and said he would try and do something to avoid that happening, and he explained about how he was now qualified, had joined a general practice in Devon, but was just up here visiting his parents when Gran had called.  He had walked the short distance round to Pembroke's door with a stethoscope round his neck and his Gladstone bag in hand, and told Maria that Lady Tarr had sent him to look after Miss Grace.  Maria, awed by the stethoscope and bag, had let him in without further question and he had come upstairs to find me.

That passed the ball back to me, and I really felt I had better explain why I was lying on the changing table in the children's nursery, wearing a nappy and a big pair of baby pants.  I could hardly try to hide it, and I could feel my blush was threatening to become a first-degree burn, so I started on a halting explanation.  I had just got as far as wanting to "feel cared for again" when he silenced me with a gentle kiss, and the words I really needed to hear; "I understand."

There was a brief hiatus while I returned the kiss, a little longer this time, until I said "Would you mind?   I think I'd better get dressed."  and I released him.  Part of me wanted to hang on to him forever, but I realised that niceties had to be observed.  Even so, I didn't turn away as I peeled down the waistband of the plastic pants and undid one of the pins.  Matt put his hands around my waist, slipped them inside the elastic, and pushed the whole package slowly downwards over my hips.  I made no attempt to stop him, but just stood there obediently.  He made no further move, for which I was grateful; I would probably not have stopped him if he had tried, but I had no particular wish to be screwed there and then on the changing table, not yet, anyway.  I wrapped my dressing gown back around me, and stepped out of the pants, thanking my lucky stars that I had not used the nappy for its intended purpose.  I suppose I could have gone back to the bedroom to do it, rather than do it in front of Matt, but something made me do it that way.  I wanted Matt desperately, and I realised I had always wanted him, but not just as a sex object.  This time I wanted him as a lover.  This time I wanted no secrets, I wanted to show Matt that I was in his hands, and above all I wanted to stimulate those gentler feelings, the care-for, protect, nourish feelings rather than the simpler and utterly selfish lust which was really what we had boiled it down to before.  If I had to act the baby in order to generate them, then that is what I would do; this time I wanted a ticket for the long way round.

I  ran back to the bedroom, and dressed in jeans and T-shirt as quickly as I could.  Nothing had been ironed, but I made the best of it.  I made a lightning touch-up of my face and put a band in my unruly hair, and then went back as quickly as I could to find Matt.  I wanted to make sure he was still there, that I hadn't just dreamed about him - my mind had been playing some nasty tricks with me these past few days.  He was still there, just as I'd left him.  The nappy and pants had vanished somewhere - well done, Matt - and I kissed him again just to make sure he was real.  He was, indeed, quite real.

What do we do now?  I told him about the paparazzi, and how they had door-stepped me, and how I had escaped.  He told me there were a couple of strange-looking guys at the front of the house when he came in.  One had a motorbike and the other a camera.  My heart sank.  A cautious peek out of the window revealed Charlie lurking in the bushes.  How he found out where I was I couldn't fathom - he must have remembered the business about my being a niece of Judge Tarr, and followed it up from that.  I also saw, to my intense annoyance, that I had left the big garage door open, and Lucy was in plain sight from the road.  She had become very much my trademark, and pink Lotus Elises are very, very scarce - I had never seen another like her.  Charlie obviously knew I was inside, and was waiting for a picture.  Soon others would figure it out and there would be a whole crowd there again; we had to get away. I was determined that if the police came for me, I would not be photographed being led away in handcuffs to meet my fate.

Matt asked if there was any other way out. No there wasn't; Pembroke's big, old garden was surrounded by big, old walls, and climbing over them would be almost impossible.  I had relied on those big old walls to conceal me in the old days when I could run around with just my romper over my nappy without being afraid of being seen. Then I remembered the big tree branch that Peter had once used to get over the wall - I smiled when I recalled the story Juliet had told me so many times - and perhaps it still was.

It was.  Even older and thicker, and hanging further over the wall than it had been, and it was the work of moments to climb over it, pass our bags across, and head up the garden of the house next door.  We slipped past the house, and told the lady that we were eloping, which, in fact, we were.  I held up a finger to my lips to hush her, and she just laughed and wished us well.  We emerged onto the lane just a little too far around the bend for Charlie to be able to see us, and sneaked off down the road to Matt's parent's house. I had escaped for about the third time in twelve hours, and felt I was getting rather good at it.

Matt's parents welcomed us in, but they questioned us closely.  It was obvious that we couldn't stay there, not least because Matt was due back in his surgery in Devon by the following morning, and so within the hour we set off in his car for his cottage in deepest Devon.  Halfway there I realised I had left my mobile phone in Pembroke, but there was no going back for it, so I cursed and carried on.  I told Matt, who said it was probably the best thing - if I still had it with me I could have been tracked.

It was a long drive, through villages and small towns I never knew existed, but we got in just before midnight.  Matt had been busy setting up home, and at the moment he only had one double bed, which, always the perfect gentleman, he offered to me while he planned to sleep on the sofa.  If that was a ploy, it was a masterful one, but I wouldn't have it; I planned to start exactly as I meant to carry on and I had a lot of catching up to do with Matt, so I undressed him and pulled him into the bed.

I spent the rest of the week inside Matt's cottage, and the only contact I had with the world was through the radio and television, and from the papers which Matt bought for me.  Spike improved gradually, recovered consciousness towards the end of the week.  I hadn't actually been named as his assailant, although the papers made it fairly obvious by printing pictures of me leaving the nightclub next to reports that he had been "in a fight with a woman" in that same club - nobody could have missed it.  The Monday papers carried florid stories of his closeness to death after being struck by a "mystery woman" next to pictures of me in Lucy, roaring out of my garage in Hampstead.  One of them even caught Spike's mural of me in the background, but by great good fortune my bulging pants were partly obscured by Charlie's horrified face as he dived for cover.  The press were obviously scared of a possible libel case.  By the time Friday arrived I was going stir-crazy stuck in Matt's cottage all day while he was at work (The nights were no problem, no problem at all!) and I felt I had to make contact and find out what was really going on.  I needed to know if the police were after me, so I grunged up, put on my sunglasses, tucked my hair under a big sunhat, and slipped self-consciously along the street to a telephone box to call Julian.

Julian was delighted to hear from me.  Yes, the police had been round making enquiries, but he had also heard they were not getting anywhere; Spike couldn't remember anything about being hit, and there seemed to be a conspiracy of silence from among the twenty or thirty people who must have seen me hit him. Julian put it down to Peter Longfellow's desperate efforts to cover things up and save the reputation of his club.  Rumours, however were rife, and one said that Spike had got up quite quickly after I hit him and had gone out into the street after me, but had then got into a fight with one of the bouncers.  Spike was to be transferred to a nursing home - somewhere called the Priory - for the next stage of his recovery.  In the meantime it would be best if I stayed low and didn't tell anybody where I was, since if nobody knew then nobody could betray me.  It sounded like sense, so I agreed.

I went back to the cottage, but on the way a passed the village shop.  I slipped inside, still with my big sunhat pulled down, and perused the magazine rack. I bought the popular papers and a couple of the women's magazines and the little old lady took my money and called me "love" and smiled at me and I smiled back.  I was sure she didn't recognise me, but all the same I scurried back to Matt's cottage with a sigh of relief.  I went through the magazines as quickly as I could, looking for any reference to Spike or me, and was relieved to find nothing.  I began to relax a bit more.  Then I looked at the Daily Mail.  There was Spike being wheeled into the nursing home, and there was I driving Lucy recklessly through the group of paparazzi, but this time the mural on the garage wall was fully shown, pink romper, bulging pants and all.  My blood ran cold; it was obvious to me that I was wearing a nappy, and that explanations may become necessary.  I pored over the captions, and the story below, and it was mostly about unmasking Spike as the mystery graffiti artist who had been decorating buildings all over London; there was nothing about my peculiar attire. I made two resolutions.  The first was to stay out of sight and let Spike answer any questions and the second was to buy a large tin of thick paint with which to paint over that wall - masterpiece or not, it just had to go.  I realised that I was not entirely dependent on Spikes goodwill - if he blew the secret of my little fetish, then I could blow the secret of his having sex with the boy in Longfellow's toilets. It wouldn't 't do either of us any good, but the Mexican standoff might work.

Matt was angry with me when he found out I had been outside.  He said it was a small village and everybody knew everybody else's business, and as the new boy and the local doctor he was watched more closely than most - there were a number of young women in the place who had eyes for him.  If I had been recognised someone might tell the police or the press, and we would have unwelcome visitors.  I didn't argue. I played the submissive for once, trying to look small and contrite - something I had never done before with Matt, and it certainly paid dividends. He puffed and grumped and eventually we made up and then made love.  It was a late supper that night.

Over the meal I told Matt what Julian had told me about Spike being taken to the Priory nursing home. His eyes widened and he began to laugh. "The Priory isn't a nursing home!" he exclaimed, "It's rehabilitation for drugs and drink.  It isn't brain damage that has got him in there, they're trying to straighten him out, get him off his habit."
"He certainly takes a lot." I replied.  "It's about time they did something about it."  
I began to feel a twinge of sorrow for Spike.  He had always had his weaknesses, and I began to see him as a little boy who had never quite grown up - it was certainly the source of his rampant creativity and his relentless urge to experiment with new sensations.  I also knew I had had enough of it; what I felt was pity, not love.  I was now exactly where I wanted to be - in Matt's arms - and I intended to stay there. 


 

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Love it. Wonder if some of her more otaku fans may notice her unusual mural. And how will Spike be? If Amelia shuts him out will he use her nappies as a "I want to see you" bargaining chip?

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  • 2 weeks later...

I do hope you are felling better. With age come wisdom... and fragility. I do remember the story of Humpty, and the associated graphics of Guards wearing tall bearskin hats unable to reassemble Humpty. Considering that, I do suggest caution.

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Thank you - fortunately it was the other guy's fault and he admitted liability in front of independent witnesses, so, like the good Christian soul I am most certainly not, I am suing him with a savage firm of attack-lawyers.

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