Qualified

[Talldarkanddiapered22]

Why she lived in that house was always a mystery to her friends. Move downtown they'd say, god knows you can afford it, we can't drive out to to the middle of nowhere just for you. You live in suburbia for godsakes. And she'd admit it.

She lived in the family friendly neighborhood where the nightlife was kids having sleepovers, all mutually struggling to be last one to fall asleep, finally safe in the knowledge that they weren't going to suffer the gambit of pranks they did last time. Where children were awoken not by parents shouts but by that one blind they forgot to shut letting the gentle sun in, warmly playing across theirs faces. Breakfast would be home made pancakes and they'd all rush to the pool, hopeful that the chlorine bath would eliminate the need for a sudsier one later that night. It wasn't simply a family friendly neighborhood, it was the family neighborhood, the type of place ice cream truck drivers have wet dreams about.

So why did she move there, what drew her there like a moth to flame?

. . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Her first impression of the man would stick with her for a long time, something that would keep her up the night before she had the final interview with him for the position, not troubled, nor enraptured but .... Fascinated.

Greg was a tall man, easily over six feet, and with a easy confidence that wasn't aggressive. Some taller men lord down from there position, looking down at the world from there lofty vantage but Greg used his height for perspective, to see and absorb quietly. That was the unnerving thing about him, was that you could tell that he was listening, really listening, not just waiting for his chance to talk. His patience created lapses in the conversation that others would have jumped to fill, trying to impress her with their qualifications, words spilling out of their mouths in a torrent of flattery and self aggrandizement.

He just sat, waiting her out till she filled the void with her own thoughts, telling things and thoughts that had laid undisturbed so long that she had a dusty flavor in her mouth when she finally unearthed them. She remembered asking him later, candidly what trick he had up his sleeve.

"How did you get me to open up like that? She asked.

Greg responded with his own question,

"Do you know how to get people to tell you their honest thoughts and feelings?"

"How?"

"Don't judge, listen."

She felt apprehension at the idea of meeting him again for some reason, which she felt was understandable, given the circumstances. Who feels comfortable the first time around a life trainer? The very fact that she was looking for one meant that things were falling apart in her world, and the best she could do is run around letting everyone know the sky was falling.

It had started on the the day of that fucking meeting, she hadn't felt nervous about the delivering the briefing the day beforehand. She had given the regional monthly profit report to so many people that she was the one who had the most trouble keeping her eyes open. It was so effective at making her drowsy she counted off profit margins instead of sheep when she wanted to sleep.

But when she woke up that morning, something was off. She knew it wasn't nerves, but it sure as hell felt like that. She gets up, starts the shower and stares at her reflection in mirror. She starts to calm down by counting the beats of the, "thrum, thrum, thrum" her heart was pounding in her chest. She caught her breath, and let it out slowly.

"There," she said to the reflection, "maybe I won't have a heart attack today."

Her knees still feel weak and she stares down at them, freezing her loose, bubblegum joints with her rigid gaze. When she looks back up at the mirror, the steam from the shower has clouded it up, making her reflection seem distorted. She ran the faucet, getting a handful of water, and splashes it on the mirror to clean away the steam. Her heart sinks to the pit of her stomach when she realizes she can not recognize the face in the mirror as her own. She has to repeat the whole calming routine just to get her breath back.

She jumps into the hot water, soaps up her hair, and brushes her teeth. No singing in the shower today. She rinses, gets out and dries off, while repeating the speech aloud.

"The decrease in sales in districts projected to have increasing market share last quarter," she drones, " is a distressing sign of the unmotivated nature of our sales force."

She walks into her closet, picks a dress suit. "This makes the executives question the financial viability of your regions. In short, we have concerns." She picks a pair of flat black dress shoes instead of her customary heels, "No fucking way I am wearing those torture devices today", She thinks.

As she does her makeup she finishes the speech, "Frankly, any assets, employees included, that are not high functioning, will be liquidated."

______________________________________________________________________

She travels though the rest of her day in a fog, simply trying to get through the day to get home and finally take off her public, "everything is fine" face. Luckily she has so much practice with this persona that she has most everybody fooled.

She has spent hours in front of the mirror, mastering control of her face. She pretty much had it down. Her smile was large, but not so large as to pull her face taunt, creating a grin that looked more unstable than anything else. Her back was straight, but not to straight, avoiding that jolting walk, like a puppet with its strings cut. Her arms she kept finely balanced between lose, but not swinging like a prepubescent school girl, and tight, but not clenched against her body like a tin soldier. It took her forever to discover that balancing act.

One thing she never mastered was the eyes though. Her smile never managed to reach her eyes. Hours and hours of practice never changed anything. No matter what she tried they looked lost on her face. She was very aware of this and when ever someone would finally make eye contact she would distract them by asking them about their pet hobby, bicycling, Thai food, gardening, whatever. It was painfully easy to hide.

This was how she walks into the meeting, her public face in full swing. She sits down and waits through the initial set the manager explaining to the new hires who she is, watching their eyes go wide as they stumble through their introductions. She gets each any every one of their hobbies though, as ammunition for later.

Finally it's time for her to start up her PowerPoint and unplug as she gives her speech. She has such mastery over this material that she detaches completely as she give the statistics for the last month, and finds her conscious floating free, wondering about that face she saw in the mirror.

She grows more and more distant as she does the usual lame joke, getting the same nervous laughs as last time, till she feels like she is floating free above all of this, hovering above her body. She is fixated more and more around that face in the mirror, barely noticing the as the air from the room is sucked out when she talks about the missing of monthly sales goals.

She finally realizes that the face, the one in the mirror is that practiced, time tested public one she has spent hours on, staring into that same mirror. The Thought star,es her so much that she starts to wake up. She comes back to her body then, fully there as she finishes with "Frankly, any assets, employees included, that are not high functioning, will be liquidated." But as she looks around the room, she sees no one is intimidated. They are sitting at attention, yes. But staring shocked, straight at her. It is only then that she realizes that she has wet herself.

First meeting

Fairy tales to me are never happy sweet stories. They're moral stories about overcoming the dark side and the bad.

- Joe Wright

We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful what we pretend to be.

- Kurt Vonnegut

So, the final appointment before she hired him. His imminent arrival made her consider why she was finally asking for help, something entirely loathsome to her. The only reason she had sought the outside guidance was because the accidents had only got worse. The company had given her two months to straighten herself out, and despite her best efforts, three weeks had gone by and she still felt like a wreck. She had grasped some control over her bladder by maintaining a strict regimen of toilet breaks before each meal and before bedtime. within a week of achieving this control, she woke up to a wet mattress. She only had to clean up wet sheets and dry out the mattress one time before she realized she needed to to get some "protection". She was disgusted by her need, but nothing else was working.

She hated psychology having spent way too much of her childhood pushed in and out of offices filled with prestigious degrees, listening to others tell her about her own life. If she agreed with them, they kept saying the same thing. If she disagreed with them, they kept saying the same thing. What she thought didn't matter. If they were going to have the same conversation with or without her she didn't much see the point of going anymore. So when got old enough she didn't.

The doorbell rang, rousing her out of her thoughts. She realizes that a tee shirt and sweatpants aren't going to make the best impression, and quickly changes into her black dress. She walks toward the front door, and hopes Greg is still there. He is waiting on the front step, but he only rang the doorbell once, seemingly content to wait.

She invites him in, noting his causal attire and mentally kicks herself for overdressing.

They head to the living room, she sits on the couch.

"Please, take a seat next to me."

Greg politely declines and sits opposite of her, lounging in a stuffed chair, perfectly relaxed.

"So," she says, " How does this usually start?"

Greg leans forward, giving her his complete attention, but still seeming utterly comfortable in his seat.

"Well, at this point, you still haven't hired me yet, and I still haven't accepted you as a client" he states. "I wanted to meet you in person one last time before you purchased my services," he says, "so there would be no misunderstanding about the expectations from both of us."

"I am glad you are taking this so seriously," she replies, "That was mainly why I called you back." A small, shrill, part of her, in the very back creases of her brain try's to offer a second opinion. She squashes it with ease.

He acknowledges the compliment with a open smile and continues, "I was glad to hear that your schedule was freed up from your work. However, given the short time frame, and the level of work required, from both of us, I feel some drastic measures are necessary. To be blunt, I want to help you, but only believe I can do that if you trust the process. I believe that for what you want, reorienting yourself and continuing your life successfully, are within your grasp."

"However," he intones, "this will not be easy. Clearly, your old habits, while being successful for you in the past, have become self destructive."

"I will help you," he continues "but I have terms, you will have to give up some measures of control, and live according to my regimen."

She feels her heart plummeting in to her chest.

"How long," she almost murmurs.

"As long as it takes, he responds. "As long as it takes."

"We will both participate," Greg explains "side by side, in activities centered around self reflection, and practice both good diet and exercise. I would give you a time frame for results, but this is not a simple process. You have sought my services, not because you need a fixed knee, or door frame straightened. Something is wrong with the way you approach the world. My methods will not fix you, but they will help you fix yourself."

"What if I want out?"

"You can feel free to suspend my service at any time, I will leave, no questions asked. You do not owe me any explanation. You will make a payment for the time I have given to the recovery process, and l will leave promptly. Are you comfortable with these terms?"

"I... I think so."

"Good, I will get my bags from outside. Do you have a spare room I can retire to?"

"What! You aren't sleeping here!"

"My methods have the best results with full immersion. We start early and we end late. I do not live in the area and there is not a hotel nearby. Do I leave now?"

She feels herself drawn to a crossroads, the possibilities of both decisions terrifying her. She decides on the lesser evil.

"No, no. I guess that's okay. It's just a little uncomfortable for me, I need my space."

"You will have time for that, I promise."

She feels totally chastised by his simple confidence.

He walks outside and gathers his belongings. He returns to the living room finding her still sitting in the same spot, almost shocked by her easy agreement to his through program.

" Do you have a corkscrew?" He asks.

" I'm sorry, what?" She was still mulling over exactly what he had in store for her.

"A corkscrew?"

"A corkscrew, yes in the kitchen." She says as a afterthought, "Why do you need one?"

"A glass of red wine in the evenings is good for the heart. It's health benefits are only multiplied when enjoyed in good company, while watching the sunset."

"But where's my good company?" she casually responds, her mouth operating much faster than her brain. She blushes when the rest of her catches up. He laughs an easy full bodied laugh. She is not sure if her wit or her blushing caused it. She even less sure about which she wishes did.

They sit on the deck, in the backyard watching the sunset, broadcasting its spectrum of reds and burnt orange as the day slips into the night. She does all the talking, and he manages that special feat of his, somehow lounging comfortably, like a cat soaking up the last of the sun's rays, while giving her his complete attention. He stops after one glass but she is carried away, jubilant at the idea that all her problems will soon be a thing of past, and celebrates, prematurely, drinking glass after glass.

She finds herself still tense around him, still disturbed despite his complete openness. It unnerves her, unsettling the delicate rhythms of the conversation.

She draws closer and closer to him, almost trying to soak up the confidence he exudes so easily. She finds herself leaning in, flashing her dress line. He doesn't bat an eye. He sits their as calm and distant as a mountain. Despite not getting any response she leans in, braver from the wine.

She says "You don't have to sleep in the spare room tonight," while gently swirling the scarlet liquid in her glass.

With out a word he stands up, takes her half full glass from her hands and dumps it in the yard. He stands, waiting in silence for a long, long moment. Again he seems like a mountain, the thoughts swirling round his head like mist round a mountain peak. "We will not speak of this again," he says with a tone of dreadful finality, and heads inside, taking the bottle of with him. Leaving her there, feeling empty, his words reverberating between her ears, like a never ending echo.

It is some time later before she before she walks shakily to bed, trudging slowly up the veranda steps into the dark, the viscous, pitch black of the full night resisting her every step. She crawls more than walks the steps up to her bedroom. She collapses on the bed only to remember the hated but necessary "protection". She distastefully dresses in the diaper, and finally falls asleep.

That night she dreams of him.

She finds herself in a playpen, set in the middle living room. The playpen seems enormous. She looks around and discovers a cascade of toys, in a loud mix of colors.

She feels a pressure in her bladder. She stands and finds that she is snugly diapered. She awkwardly walks to the side of the playpen, her stride and stance forced open by the overprotective undergarment. When she reaches the playpen wall, she realizes that crossing this barrier is impossible without help. Her frustration, and humiliation at even the thought of asking for help, wells up inside her, pushing a involuntary wail across her lips.

She hears a answering call of "Coming" from the direction of the kitchen. He walks into the the living room with a slow stride that covers a vast distance. "What is wrong honey" he says.

She finds at her mouth moves quicker than her brain, involuntarily erupting from behind the veil to tears, "I have to go potty" She says.

"I'm sorry darling, babies use their diapies, only big people use the potty" he replies, a easy smile drawn across his face by the very idea.

She tries to say "I am an adult and will not be treated that way" but it is mangled by her mouth and becomes "I am a big girl, and big girls use da potty."

"I'm sorry sweetie, you are not ready," he replies, clearly indulging his little one. She is about to argue when a gentle hissing between her legs, followed by a growing warmth destroys her thoughts, leaving only tears. He leans over, towering above her, to pick her up.

Vanity

Mirror, mirror on the wall, who in this land is the fairest of the all?

The mirror answered-

You, o queen, are the fairest of the, all."

-The Brothers Grimm, Snow White

People think that they can clear up profound matters if they consider them deeply, but they exercise perverse thoughts and come to no good because they do their reflecting with only self-interest at the center.

-Yamamoto Tsunetomo, Hagakure

She is forced awake at what she could only describe as uncharitably early by a firm rhythmical knock at her bedroom door.

"Come on, it's time to greet the sun," he says, "dress warm."

She mutters to herself about man's inhumanity to man as she dresses in her jogging suit. She wanders downstairs and finds the house vacant. She meanders sleepily room to room, fuming about what she figures to be a horrible joke, when she spots him through the porch door, siting calmly in the early dark.

She forces the door open, and strides out to meet him in the yard. "What are you doing," she asks.

"Meditating," he replies, not even opening his eyes.

"Ohhh....." She thinks disdainfully, "One of these guys, if only he had gone bare foot to the interviews I could have killed this thing in its infancy. Next we will dance through the flowers trying to recapture our lost childhood. If he starts talking about seeing through my third eye he is out of here like yesterday's trash."

But yet again his simple way of sitting patiently draws her in, involuntarily. He sits there, legs crossed Indian style, his hands gently intertwined, facing the east, waiting. She mimics him, crosses her legs, and folds her hands into each other. His breathes are long, deep and drawn in and let out every five seconds. She counts them. In, one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four Mississippi, five Mississippi, out. You could quite literally keep time by his clockwork lungs.

And she does, for a while with her eyes closed, trying to still her mind. But soon she finds thoughts drifting like destructive glaciers, slowly eroding her focus. She is jumping icy precipice to icy precipice .

"What do I do went I get back to work? Will I always be the one who pissed herself in public? Why do I even work there? Are they giving me two months just to find a replacement? Will my job even be there if I am ready for it?" Each and every time she jumps worry to worry, she lets out a involuntary, deep sigh, not even aware of release of tension as she jumps from fear to fear.

After two hours of her jumping from anxiety to anxiety, winding herself tighter and tighter Greg stands, suddenly. "Time for breakfast," he announces.

They walk inside, Greg walking his easy, ground devouring, strides while she paces, furiously, to not be outdistanced. He reaches the door first and opens it for her, letting her walk inside first. She wanted to beat him there, and get inside first, but his courteous act steals her joy from the victory.

She walks into the kitchen to see that he has already laid out a pan, spatula, measuring cup and knife with the tender precision that a carpenter has for his tools. Greg enters the kitchen behind her, and immediately sets about his task.

He gathers eggs, jalapeños, green peppers, onions, mushrooms and butter from the fridge. He begins to hum, gently, deeply, from his chest. He follows no particular tune, but snatches here and there have a noticeable rhythm. He hums as he dices the vegetables, he hums as cracks the eggs in measuring cup over the sink, skillfully discarding the yolks without breaking them. He hums as he melts the butter in the pan, sliding in around the base, so no corner is ignored. He hums as pour the egg whites into the pan, his humming and the sizzling of food providing a harmony of sorts. He hums as he layers, craftsman like, the vegetables into the egg. He hums, absorbed with his task till they both have omelets on their plates.

They eat in silence.

After breakfast, he cleans up briskly, and announces over the hot running sink that they will be taking a run next. They walk out the front door, which he reaches first and cordially opens for her, stealing her victory yet again. The feeling of defeat spoils the taste of breakfast in her mouth.

They start at a brisk pace, Greg transitioning simply from his unhurried measured walk to a unhurried measured run. She runs at a more frantic sprint, quickly outdistancing him, finally feeling superior, like she has something he doesn't. She is so far ahead that soon she can't even see him.

The feeling quickly dissipates as she feels her limbs growing leaden, slowly but surely slowing down. "I will show him, I will show him," she thinks, urging herself on with a new burst of energy. This burst lasts even shorter than the last. Again she focuses on his the look she wants on his face, the expression of awe, of recognition she needs from him, more than anything else. This provides a quick burst that just as quickly burns out. She slows more and more. Looking back she can see him, gaining ground on her, jogging along at a stable, unchanging speed.

Soon he draws next to her, despite her best efforts, and as he grow closer she slows and slows. By the time he is along side her, she is barely jogging, defeated and deflated. He slows his pace to match hers, taking one stride for every three of hers. After a while they reach her house again. He reaches the front door first again, and opens it for her letting her in first. This time she doesn't feel anything.

They stretch then, easing the pain out of their joints. She notices out of the corner of her eye that can not only touch his toes, but place his full fists on the ground, with his knees straight. She pushes herself, harder and harder when stretching, to Mather him. She feels the tendons in her arms and legs wind tighter and tighter. She likes the pain. Real concern blooms on Greg's face when he sees the self destructive turn her stretching has taken. She likes the look on his face even more.

Greg takes advantage of this break to transition to a workout focused around push-ups, sit-ups, and bicycle kicks. Again she tries to out perform him. It has typical results.

After the workout, he asks that she lays down on her bed. "A massage," he assures her, just a massage to work out sore muscles."

She takes off her clothes, wrapping a towel around her midsection. She resents the direction, but she lays belly down on the bed her arms next to her, and her head turned to one side. He starts with her feet, cupping them in his hands, using his thumbs to trace tendons till they detect tension, and slowly, patiently, erase it. She feels herself unwind, finally, letting to of the tension she had been guarding through the day. He moves up her legs, slowly, following the tendons exploring the network of muscle with his thumbs, pressing and releasing, pressing and releasing.

After her thighs he moves to her hands, repeating in a gentle workmanlike way, his job of tracing the palms, easing out each and every muscle. He travels up her arms following the veins of muscle like a miner following the scent of gold. When he reaches the top, he moves to her lower back, pushing slowly, building pressure until he hears a telltale pop, then moving up a few vertebrae to repeat the whole process.

He continues until every single iota of muscular fiber in her body is relaxed, then he speaks, softly, "Sleep, I will wake you up after your nap."

The largest part of her rails at this thought, wants to stand up and proclaim that she is not a child, and has not taken a nap since preschool and would not start now. But a small part, far back, in the darkest crevasse of her mind, yawns such a big yawn that it echoes, resounding till it reaches such a tempestuous volume that she releases it from her lips.

And she sleeps.

She does not dream when she sleeps.

Neither does she wet in her sleep.

She is woken yet again by his tapping at the door. "Time for lunch" he speaks through the door. She muddily rouses herself and is half dressed before she realizes that she had slept without protection.

Lunch is a simple affair, grilled turkey breast with a salad that uses part of the left over vegetables from before.

Again they eat in silence.

After lunch she lounges in the living room, still drowsy from her early sleep. He cleans away the plates, and wipes down the countertops.

He rouses her from seat and announces their next activity, "Have you ever rode a motorcycle?" he asks.

"No," she promptly replies, " I have not."

"No time like the present then," he says. "Grab a leather jacket."

They walk outside to the front yard and she spots his motorcycle for the first time. She wonders why she didn't spot it before. He passes her one of the two helmets, both a simple black. He show she how to strap in on safely.

"Uh, what? Se replies.

"Here," he says undoing his own strap and demonstrating again, "like this." She feels talked down to. They mount the motorcycle, Greg driving, her placing her arms around him. They are off quickly.

She spends her time struggling to see above his enormous back, mainly sightseeing around his shoulders, by leaning to one side. This unbalances the bike, and Greg halts, turning of the motor to tell her firmly but quietly tells her that that has to stop.

"Well, then," she argues standing off the bike,"We can switch and you can stare at my back."

"Sure," he replies, "after you have learned how." That ends that.

He waits on the bike, patient, till she sighs and takes her seat in the back yet again.

As they ride, the loud humming of the motor provides a background white noise, and the lack of sights, besides Greg's leathered back, forces her thoughts inward. She thinks about the day, about her feeling of inadequacy, and how she has acted. She feels vindicated, after all she has been through, and rationalizes that needing time to adjust to someone else's habits is normal.

As she draws deeper inward, she clutches Greg tighter and tighter, and only notices as they take a tight bend, their shifting weight refocusing her on what is going on. She feels dependent on him, utterly, and completely. It unnerves her deeply, sending her thoughts spinning again, regretting the fact that she hadn't the nerve to insist that she drive this damnable device. A small part of her, in the farthest reaches of her mind, thinks that she enjoys his support, but she overwhelms that with her self focus, her indignation. They ride in silence.

After the finish the ride, Greg pulls up to the driveway of her house, and eases in. She gladly discards the helmet in the yard. Greg carefully takes of his own, and collects her's as she heads inside. They lose the leather jackets, Greg hanging hers and his own.

"Now," Greg transitions, "Time to meditate again." She sighs, heavily, but doesn't argue.

They sit in roughly the same spot in the yard, and Greg resumes his crossed legged position instantly, and starts breathing his impossibly accurate breathes. She feels so worn out, so tired after such a long day, she copies his breathing.

At first, nothing. Just the same jumping from thought to thought, anxiety to anxiety. She still matches his breathing, too mentally exhausted to try anything else. An hour passes this way.

Then, a thought, "I'll work out a mantra. Just like the gurus you see in the movies." She sorts through a collection of ideas, quickly eliminating, "Ommmmm" as boring, and counting she finds confusing and she lose count several times around the two hundreds.

She will not be defeated, not be shown up by Greg, this would-be spiritualist, and finally has a breakthrough. She repeats her speech mentally, again and again. Each time drawing more and more into her mind. She starts to finally relax and Greg announces that it is time for the last meal of the day.

Dinner is leftover veggies and turkey. They eat in silence. Her staring down in her food, lost in thinking about the day.

Greg just eats.

Greg cleans up, with his typical efficiency.

After, Greg heads to his room and returns with a red wine bottle. He uncorks it, grabs a glass, and heads outside. Alone. Without so much as acknowledging her. At all.

She ignores him in return and heads toward her room. As she climbs the stairs she feels a growing rage, boiling away in her stomach. She reflects on how she has felt all day, literally all day, like Greg was so much better than her.

She enters her room, and strips for bed. As she diapers herself, the final bedtime ritual, she announces to the empty room, "Just where the fuck does he get off, huh. I'm so fucking delighted that you are fucking chef, a fucking monk and a fucking Motorcycler. Whoopty fucking do. You are also a superior asshole." By the end she is screaming, loud enough that she knows he can hear some of it outside on the porch. She relishes the thought. She waits laying on the bed, hoping he will come up, concerned, and she'll fire him, right then and there. Without a word, and pay him to get the fuck out. She falls asleep, however, before too long.

That night she dreams of him.

She finds herself trapped, lying down, in a crib. She sits up, taking in the whole scene She is in a nursery, complete with mobile, changing table and pooh bear wallpaper. It is not long before she realizes that she is diapered. It takes but a moment, the longest moment she has ever known, filled with a eternity of denial, despair, disgust and dread to realized the diaper is soiled. Immediately she starts yelling, not screaming, not crying, but yelling, at the top of her lungs. She can just barely hear, over the clamor she is making, some heavy footsteps as someone runs to the room. It's him, of course, it's him.

The sight of him make her yell even louder, louder than she thought she could ever yell. As he picks her up she starts to fight him, kicking, punching her anger building and building like a bonfire, stacked unto infinity. She burns and burns, biting, clawing confident that she will win, that she will defeat him, leaving her alone finally. Leaving her alone. That thought, that cold, slimy, dark thought, extinguishes her rage, all at once. When he sees this, he smiles. "Let's get you changed darling."

Rage

Yes, yes," said the Beast, "my heart is good, but still I am a monster."

"Among mankind," says Beauty, "there are many that deserve that name more than you, and I prefer you, just as you are, to those, who, under a human form, hide a treacherous, corrupt, and ungrateful heart."

-Jeanne-Marie Le Prince de Beaumont, Beauty and the Beast

Be soft. Do not let the world make you hard. Do not let pain make you hate. Do not let the bitterness steal your sweetness. Take pride that even though the rest of the world may disagree, you still believe it to be a beautiful place.

[Donney60]

I was immediately hooked wondering where the story was moving, and the curiosity kept growing as it failed to take the predictable detours. So I easily identified and wondered with the female as she tried to understand what she was experiencing both externally and especially internally. Her internal chatter is so overwhelming that the external, including Greg, are like theater props for her internal performance. I live enough like her (internal chatter) to believe the story. Will she self destruct or choose to live permanantly regressed, or will she grow through this to become a stronger better person as she comes to recognize her dysfunctional thoughts for what they are. I can't wait to follow her journey to the end!

[babybb]

wow just wow.

[Talldarkanddiapered22]

Thank you for the feedback. I agree that the external objects are props at the moment, because of how internally driven the story is. The longest elaboration and focus of my her emotional and mental state. This, in many ways, is a reaction to the issues with abdl stories as they are, plot and event driven. The worst of these could be described as lists of action done to characters of which you might know three things.

1. Their age

2. How they look in the mirror

3. Their name

It's frustrating, because, for me at least the complex emotions that are simple part of AB/DL are simply ignored, or brushed over in a paragraph. I won't generalize my condition to everyone, but for me I have wrestled with my feelings about my kink for a long, long time. Also, it isn't static, I have relatively recently found joy in the daddy role as well.

I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I am. However, if you find it truly resonating with yum, try writing some, try posting. I was a lurker for many years and it seems that I have a voice that others enjoy. Maybe they will enjoy yours too.

[Talldarkanddiapered22]

Additionally I should be posting another chapter tonight or tomorrow. I have finished what you see above in about a five days, and I am starting to be concerned that in my frenzy to finish the story I might be producing writing of lesser quality. This next bit is where everything really starts to change, so far it has just been build up.

Get ready

[babybb]

take your time, good things come to those who wait.

[Talldarkanddiapered22]

Patience, or Recovery

If you are losing your soul and you know it, then you still have a soul left to lose.

-Charles Bukowski

“You were sick, but now you're well again, and there's work to do.

[babybb]

not as intense as first part but i still loved it.

[Talldarkanddiapered22]

Acceptance

"There's no "should" or "should not" when it comes to having feelings. They're part of who we are and their origins are beyond our control. When we can believe that, we may find it easier to make constructive choices about what to do with those feelings.

[babybb]

omg that was just soooo cute.

[Talldarkanddiapered22]

I am glad you like it. Was there any part in particular you responded too. Anything that seemed clunky?

Any feedback helps. I am happy where I am at, in my writing, but I could be better.

Sincerely,

TDAD22

[babybb]

to me the way you are developing the characters is so nice.

[Talldarkanddiapered22]

Well, I cannot say I am disappointed by that. Is there any part in particular, any line that works or doesn't work. You provide much appreciated feedback. But I am always hungry for more.

Sincerely,

TDAD22

[babybb]

Ive never been the type to over analyze a story.

[Three Rivers]

Great story do far. Thanks.

[Talldarkanddiapered22]

Bonus points for whoever can tell me the diaper name.

[babybb]

lol to easy bambino

[Talldarkanddiapered22]

Which style then. Oh and incidentally, lol.

[babybb]

lol hard to say what type without looking at them.

[Talldarkanddiapered22]

Got it one.

[Talldarkanddiapered22]

Despite how quickly I have pushed this out, I am dissatisfied with the level of feedback. The person who provides the best feedback will get to chose the topic of my next story.

I am a man of my word, as well as a man of words.

I apologize for the above line. I really couldn't resist.

[babybb]

im actually shocked also that its not getting more readers.

[Radioman]

Please don't be dishearten by the lack of feedback, your story is very well written. Just so many of use are lurkers in the shadows, afraid to step forward sometimes. Doesn't mean your story is any less enjoyable, its just that many of use need a push once in awhile to go the right direction. Perhaps, in a way, that's what this community is about, our need and desire to have mommy or daddy hold our hand, tell us we are

[Talldarkanddiapered22]

Thanks for coming forward radioman.

[Ryan23A]

Yeah I just read the entire story and I must say that I loved how the story was written it has a certain quality of Buddhist that I do not see in other stories that made it awesome.