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Storybook Romance


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Ryan sat at Chez Jeunesse, waiting for his date, praying this wasn’t some elaborate prank.  It felt like an elaborate prank, and not just because of what he had been instructed to wear.  “Will monsieur be dining alone this evening?” the waiter had asked.  The fake french accent was so thick, it sounded like something out of a Monty Python skit, and not one of their good ones.   Ryan shook his head.

He had wanted to call the hack waiter “garson” or some other suitably French sounding word, but he didn’t want to make waves.  Don’t make waves: That was Ryan’s modus operandi, his life in a nutshell.  To call him average would have been an insult and a misnomer to the word.  When most people said “average” they really meant “normal” or “down to earth”.  

For most, “I’m your average guy”, meant “I’m not showing all of my crazy in one sitting, but I definitely won’t bore you.”  What it meant in Ryan’s case was: “There’s nothing about me that separates me from the pack in any significant way.  I’m not even boring or dull.   I’m a living extra from the Lego Movie.  No not Emmet, one of Emmet’s co-workers in the beginning of the movie.  Were my life fiction, I’d be the perfect self-insert for just about anyone with a penis.”

There was nothing remarkable about Ryan, or so he’d thought.  When playing an rpg, he’d just go for the base character creation stats and appearance. Seemed right.   In highschool he was voted most likely to not make a most likely list.   Yeah.  That tracked.  

He wasn’t dirt poor or break-the-bank rich.  He had a fairly boring job in which he was perpetually on the cusp for a promotion into middle management.  The youngish man wasn’t ugly, but not particularly handsome, either.  He had friends of convenience, but none of them were particularly close or knew much about him, not that he felt like there was much to know.

Stories about the invisible man, or songs like Mr. Cellophane didn’t apply to Ryan, because those unremarkable people were still remarkable enough to get songs written about their un-noticability.  Those bland pop songs about “boy” or “you”, the ones that gave virtually no description of the the singing protagonist's love interest:  They very well could have been about him.  Or not.  Either way was fine.

If Ryan had been a more sinister sort, he very well could have made a living in crime.  Rob diamond stores.  Mug little old ladies.  Shoot people in the middle of Time Square.  Who would have noticed him?  Neither thin, nor plump, nor muscular. His hair was not wild nor short cropped, nor long nor wavy.  His eyes were an indistinct color of brownish, blackish, greenish, blue.  A Ken doll was less generic than Ryan.  God help the police sketch artist trying to draw him from a description or the victim pointing him out in a lineup.

He was a living ghost; remarkable in only how unremarkable he was.  There were many people who might beg for Ryan’s life.  Mediocrity was a blessing when you were low, and a quiet reprieve when you were high.  By his own reckoning, though, Ryan was neither low nor high.  He just was.  And that was the problem.

Even living ghosts got lonely.  The high and mighty could get whatever they wanted, and even the lowlies got a smidge of pity to help things even them out.  Ryan was constantly passed over.  If he was a puppy at the pound, he’d be passed over either because he wasn’t cute enough to adopt or messed up enough to get the sympathy save.  Everyone was sure that things would be “fine” for him...eventually, but “eventually” wasn’t coming any time soon.  Puppies like Ryan got put to sleep.  

Until two weeks ago, it felt like every time Ryan shook a Magic 8-Ball, the result was “Ask again later”.

“More water, monsieur?” The waiter asked, disrupting Ryan’s inner monologue.  Ryan nodded and stared as the water flowed from the pitcher into his glass for the third time.  The waiter must have been on his A game tonight.  Normally, Ryan had to flag down a server at Ruby Tuesdays to get so much as a soda.  “Are you sure you are at the right restaurant?”  

Oof. 

That one hurt.  But hurt felt good, comparatively speaking. And he was indeed underdressed.  This place was too rich for him, and his polo shirt, and lack of tie, while nice enough, made him seem terribly college freshman.  Ryan had taken a peek at the menu and none of the items had prices listed next to them.  Not a good sign.  At places like Chez Jeunesse, you either had the dough to shell out, or you didn’t.  

Ryan didn’t.   “Are you sure you have not been how you say, left at the altar?”  The waiter asked.  Ryan had to fight an increasingly overwhelming urge to reach up and rip out the man’s snooty nose hairs.

He swallowed his pride and his temper.  “I’m here early, is all.”  This was technically true.  Heather had told him to arrive at 6:30 and expect her at 7:00.  She’d told him to come in an Uber.  He wouldn’t need his car tonight.

The waiter let out one of those strange caricature laughs that French people only did in the cartoons.  “Haw haw haw!  A blind date, then?”  He winked at Ryan.

“Of a sort.” 

The waiter seemed to take his meaning and left him be.  Ryan knew exactly who he was meeting, but felt that he had no idea of what was going to happen tonight.  So yeah, he was effectively going in blind.  

Even his outfit had been determined by Heather’s orders: “Wear a collared shirt, but nothing fancy.  Business casual,” her text had read.   Looking at the other diners in their three piece suits and fancy dresses, Ryan felt amazingly underdressed.  

He didn’t have anything close to this in his closet, but if he had at least come in the one nice suit and tie that he kept in the back of his closet for weddings and such, he could have looked like a poor man’s rich man; like he was trying.  At present, he felt like an elementary schooler who’d dressed up for picture day. Trying...but not really.

The diaper didn’t help, either.

That had been another prerequisite from Heather: Wear protection.  “Protection” was Heather’s code word for “Adult diaper.”  Ryan had been disappointed and confused when he’d learned that last time.  “Let me give you some protection to put on.”  The medical brief she’d slipped out of her purse was decidedly nothing like the old condom that he’d had in his wallet since freshman year.  

Nervously, Ryan shifted in his chair, thing padding of the Depends shifting with him.  How did old people wear this stuff?  His bladder was beginning to feel full, too.  Not enough for desperation to set in or for him to need to use the diaper (wait, did she want him to use the diaper?) but enough that he noticed.  Not so absentmindedly, he kept tugging at the back of his polo, hoping that the edge of the adult diaper wasn’t poking out the back of his waistband.

Heather was a weird girl, but decidedly worth it.  And that wasn’t the crushing loneliness talking, either.  The waiter was coming back for what felt like his umpteenth pass, when 7:00 hit, and Heather walked in, right on cue. Shiny blonde hair.  Perfect skin and teeth and a red mini dress that just barely covered her perfect, perfect ass. 

“Can I help you ma-?” The waiter stopped and gawked as Heather walked right by him like he wasn’t even there.  The way he tilted his head after she’d passed didn’t go unnoticed by Ryan, either. 

Ryan didn’t stand.  He’d been told not to on date numero dos, a date that had baffled the more-average-than-average man for even existing.  Ryan didn’t get second dates.  He barely got first dates.  The waiter threw a look towards Ryan.  He couldn’t believe it either.  The waiter’s questioning glance was met by a slight shrug of Ryan’s shoulders. Clueless.  Both of them.

Heather picked up the chair opposite of Ryan and walked around the intimate circular table so that she was sitting right next to him.  “Hey,” she said.  “Been waiting long?”

“No, Ma’am.”  The reply had come so naturally that Ryan wasn’t even sure he’d meant to say it.  He saw Heather’s nostrils flare and a faint flicker of surprise in her crystal blue eyes when he called her Ma’am.  Was she…?  Was she turned on by this?

Naw.  She couldn’t be.

She leaned in.  “I’ve been looking forward to this,” he whispered.

“Me too,” he said.

She giggled.  “Don’t lie, sweetie.  You can’t be looking forward to what you don’t know is com-”

“Bonjour,” the waiter interrupted.  “I am Francois and I’ll be serving you to-”

Heather whipped her head around.  “Thank you,” she said, cutting off ‘Francois’.  “I’ll have a glass of Champagne, but only the one.  I’m driving.  And make sure it’s Champagne, and not sparkling wine I can tell the difference.”

Nervously, the waiter whipped out his notepad and started jotting down the order.

“He’ll have a lemonade, fresh squeezed if it pleases you,” Ryan’s date continued.  “We’ll each have the house salad, though his dressing will be on the side.  On second thought make mine a Ceasar salad.  I’ll have foie gras as an appetizer and the kobe beef with steamed vegetables.”

“And the ahem..gentlemen?”

Ryan was about to open his mouth when a finger attached to one of the most gorgeous women he’d ever seen slapped itself vertically across his lips.  “My boy will have the chicken fingers with fries, and make sure that the honey mustard is fresh and not straight out of a bottle.“ A spasm rocketed through Ryan’s system.  Her boy.  His cheeks flushed.  That was like boyfriend, right?  Right.

“Madam,” Francois said, his fake-ass French accent starting to falter.  “You do realize of course, that the chicken fingers are on the children’s menu, yes?”

“If the proprietor of the establishment is concerned about the children’s menu being a loss leader, then he should also know that my entre will more than cover the loss.”  There was a pause for the waiter to absorb everything.  When Heather wanted something, Ryan had learned, she tended to talk fast.  “If you’re hesitant due to worry that serving him a child’s menu item would break some sort of decorum, then perhaps you should not have a child’s menu.  Better yet,” she cleared her throat. “N'essayez pas de parler avec un faux accent français lorsque vous ne connaissez pas la langue.”

Ryan could see the waiter’s Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.  “I..beg your pardon madam?”

“Don’t talk with a French accent when you don’t know French…”

The waiter gulped.  “Yes ma’am.”  His accent went full, bland, mid-western.

Heather took her finger off of Ryan’s lips as the waiter scampered away.  “Sorry about that,” she said.  “Some people need to be put in their place, and some people need to be put in their place.”  

“You called me your boy,“ Ryan said, dumbly  He was still stunned at that.

A devilish smile fell over her.  “I did.” She stood up.  “Now excuse me.” Carrying a purse that might have been bigger than her dress, Heather walked away in the direction of the ladies room.

A moment later, the waiter returned with a glass of lemonade and a glass flute filled with champagne.  “Is she still here?”  His French accent hadn’t returned.

“Bathroom,” Ryan yelped out.

“Dude,” he said.  “I am so sorry for doubting you.  What is your secret?”

“What do you mean?”

“How did you,” he looked over to the ladies’ room, “get a girl like that?” He paused. “No offense.”

“None taken,” Ryan said.  “And I have no idea.  We met on a tinder date that went really really right and it hasn’t stopped.”  The only thing more surprising than getting that first date was getting the second and third.

“Do you have like a giant dick or something?”

“We haven’t had sex yet...”

“THE FUUU-?”  The waiter stopped himself when a nearby diner dropped their knife in shock.  He leaned in and whispered.  “Are you her drug dealer or something?  Is she yours?”  He gestured to himself.  “Like like...I’m not a bad looking dude, but I can’t get someone like that!”

Ryan could only echo his own acute disbelief.  “I really have no idea.”  Even after half a dozen dates, (if he counted this one), he still couldn’t get a read on the woman.  Their first date she had him buy two movie tickets to two separate movies.  He only stayed in the theatre because kid-centric or not, Disney was good at what it did.  His surprise was immeasurable when she was waiting for him outside and bought him dinner.

The waiter looked once more towards the restrooms and scribbled on his order pad.  “I don’t normally do this,” he said.  “But this is my email address.”  He slapped a thin sheet of paper down.  “If you figure out why and if she knows anybody like her, email me.  Please.”

The door to the restroom opened and “Francois” was out of sight.

Heather walked back up to the little round table.  Still standing, she picked up champagne flute and took a swallow from it.  Reaching out, she grabbed Ryan’s hand. “Come on,” she said. “Up you go and follow me.”

Reflexively, Ryan followed her gentle tug and was standing up before he knew what he was doing.  “Where?”  Their feet were moving, he was following her lead.

“No time to explain.”

“But why-?”

“There’s no time to explain, I said.  Now come along.”  She spoke to him as if he were a silly little boy, the thing smile on her face contrasting with her stern tone.  Leading him by the hand, he certainly felt the part.  He thought they might be leaving the restaurant as she dragged him across the floor, but that wasn’t the case.

Instead, Ryan found himself making a bee-line with his date straight back into the women’s restroom.  

No!  Nope, nope, nope!  Nope on a rope!  Ryan dug his heels in, as soon as Heather’s intentions became clear.  Heather turned around and saw the look of pure panic on his face.  “I just checked.  No one’s in there.  Would you rather do this in the boy’s room?”

Ryan genuinely didn’t know.  He didn’t dare guess what “this” was.  On their second date they met at the park.  Heather gave him a bag of corn and shredded lettuce and made him feed the ducks.  Only he wasn’t allowed to call them ducks, just “duckies.”  Then they’d gone to an empty playground, and she wasn’t satisfied until he’d played on every bit of the jungle gym.  

A small lifetime of internet dating expectations had been shattered by this lady.  He’d been told not to stick his dick in crazy, and he hadn’t yet...but why did he keep coming back?

“Boy’s room?” Heather repeated.  “Yes or no?”  When he couldn’t come up with an answer fast enough, she rolled her eyes. “Ugh, boys.  Come on.”  The ladies room door flung open again and Ryan found himself dragged inside.

With the precision and purpose of a military general went for the wide handicapped stall in the back.  The rest of the restroom blinked by and Ryan found himself inside the stall, Heather latching the door closed before his brain spoke over his penis.  

Women’s room.  Hot girl.  Privacy.  Boxes were being checked buttons were being mashed.  This was a bad idea, but bad ideas were sounding pretty damn good all of a sudden.

Heather walked to a thick slab of plastic mounted on the wall; a decoration of a baby elephant holding its mother’s tail drawn on it.  “Changing station or floor?”

“What?”

She pulled the flap down making it run parallel to the ground.  “Changing station or floor?”

A massive red flag and 404 error flashed across the computer screen of Ryan’s mind. “But I don’t under-”

“If you can’t decide where I’m going to change you, Miss Heather will decide for you.”

Miss Heather?  Both referring to herself in the third person and as an adult might refer to themselves to a child...that was unexpected, and slightly arousing.  “But I’m potty trained!” he yelped.  That too, was unexpected.  He had meant to just say “no”.  Instead he was whining like a three year old.

“We’ll see about that,”  She got down on her knees and unfastened his belt buckle.  It was happening!  It was happening!  She unbuttoned his pants!  Oh God!  Oh God, yes!  Let it begin!   

“Awwwww!” Then she let out a condescending giggle.  Ryan didn’t know that giggles could be condescending, but Heather had found a way.  “Depends?  You’re wearing, Depends?”  


Ryan deflated.  “You said to wear uhh...protection.”

She looked up at him grinning.  “Ryan, sweetie…” she was smiling at him as if he was absolutely precious.  “...I gave you that sample last time as an example of what to buy.”

“I’m sorry…?”

His date let out a sigh.  “It’s okay.  You tried your best.  Go on and sit down on the potty.”  Her hand was pushing him back onto the toilet.  “Boys…”  

He was too flustered and confused to wince at the coldness of the toilet seat.  He was too blown away by what was happening to care much that he was peeing sitting down while Heather ripped apart the sides of his Depends.

His Depends.  The fuck had his life come to?  “So I don’t have to uh...use it?”

“It wouldn’t have done either of us any good,” Heather assured him.  She opened her purse and unfolded a blanket from it.  “Lay down.”  He did, not even thinking to shake it off or flush because she had not instructed him to. Pants around his ankles he laid down on the giant changing pad, feeling the vinyl lining beneath his bare ass. The rational part of his brain already knew that this wasn’t going to end with her mouth around his penis.  His penis didn’t much care.  It was getting attention from a pretty lady and was in no position to complain.  Beggars couldn’t be choosers. “I’ll clean you up.”

Even with the coldness of the baby wipe (and that’s what it was there was no denying it) Ryan started to swell as she caressed his member.  That same “awww so cute” giggle kept him in check, however.  

He wasn’t surprised when she reached into her giant purse and took out a diaper.  Both Ryan and his penis were well aware of where this was likely headed.  What caught him off guard was how damn babyish it looked.  

Last time, the diaper she’d made him wear looked like something one might find in a hospital.  This one had cartoon animals all over it, and even some of them were wearing diapers.  It looked like something his little brother might have worn years ago before he was potty trained.  

Ryan pushed himself up on his elbows.  “Do I really have to wear tha-?”

“Yes.”   She was already unfolding it.  “Raise your hips.”

“Raise my…?”

“Lift your butt up for me, babe.”  That word, “babe”, might as well have been a hypnotic trigger for how fast he reacted.  His back was down on the floor, his legs spread, his knees bent, and his feet flat and pushing, thrusting his butt up off the pad.  

She slipped the diaper under him and gave his knee a pat, signalling him to relax.  It was as he felt the soft padding and heard the crinkle beneath him that some semblance of second thoughts forced their way into his gray matter.  “Do I hafta?”  Down below, Ryan felt himself shrivel a bit as blood rushed from one region to another.  

Slowly, seductively, Heather leaned forward between his legs, her hands on his waist.  “Ryan, honey,” she whispered so that only he could hear.  “Miss Heather understands.  But if you had forgotten and had an accident, those silly Depends would have leaked.”  Ryan licked his lips as she paused for an agonizingly slow breath. “And these Crinklz look so much cuter.  You do want to look cute for me, don’t you?”  

Fuck.  He did want to look cute for her.  He really did.  “But with my pants on, no one else will see them.”  God please let him keep his pants up after this.  He didn’t know if he’d have the internal strength to refuse if she insisted.

“Don’t worry,” she said.  “I’ll see them...later.”  A spasm rocked through him and she leaned back.  “All done.”  Ryan looked down at his waist.  When had she...?  Her thin and satisfied smile spread out into a full mischievous grin.  “I can be sneaky when I want to be.”  That whole pep talk when she’d been whispering sweet nothing to him, she had been pulling up the front and fastening on the tapes.  She’d diapered him without even looking!

Again, she was helping him stand up, only now his pants were around his ankles.  Ryan stopped himself from bending over to pull his pants up and got another thin smirk of approval as his girlfriend (this HAD to count!) bent over and redressed him.  Wordlessly she turned him around to make sure that he was tucked in and then made him jump with a muffled swat on his padded behind.

Less than half-a-minute later, her (his?) diaper bag was packed.  He stood there nervously as she washed her hands in the bigger stall’s built in sink.  The moment her hands were dried, they were on his wrist again with her maneuvering him out of the women’s restroom and out into the crowded restaurant.  Something was wrong, Ryan knew, and he dug his heels in, again.

Heather turned around.  “What’s wrong?”

He could hear the crinkle, still.  Every single step he heard it, and some dark paranoid fear in him whispered that everyone would hear it too.  “Nothing,” he lied.  The people outside in the dining room would hear, they all would, and they’d know that it was:  No one would assume that he had slipped a plastic shopping bag into his pocket.  They’d hear it, know what he was wearing a diaper; not a Depends, but a full blown DIAPER and...and...and…

And?

Heather patted him on the top of his hand.  “No one can hear it.  It’s like potato chips.  Crunchy and crinkly, and unless it’s absolutely quiet no one else will know.”

“How do you know?”

“Do you want to get caught in the ladies’ room?” He did not and she must have been able to read minds.  “Come on.  Our salads will be ready.”

She was right, of course:  Darting across the room, him holding her hand being led back to their table, Ryan kept scanning the room for cases of stink eye or good old fashioned shocked-and-appalled.  Oh yeah, and the salads were there too, sitting right next to each other.

Ryan slinked into his seat, quietly hoping to disappear as Heather pulled out her own chair and glided into hers.  She started eating with gusto, not waiting for him.   She paused to wipe her mouth and then looked at his plate, still untouched.  “It’s okay.  Go ahead and eat up.”  Her gaze wandered over to the little bit of dressing on the side.  “Oh!” she said.  “Sorry. I almost forgot.”

In one fluid motion she was drizzling the salad dressing over the bits of lettuce, tomato, and cucumber  as Ryan sat there like a helpless idiot with his hands in his lap.  “All better.  Go ahead.”  He didn’t.  She stopped and stared.  “That is unless you need me to feed you…”  That same mischievous grin flashed, more in her eyes than her lips.  She seemed a little disappointed when he finally picked up his fork.

Gingerly he stabbed a lettuce leaf and placed it in his mouth.  It was a good enough salad.  The crunching in his mouth made him think of the diaper in his pants.  She was right, he told himself.  No one would hear the diaper, just like no one could hear the lettuce crunching in his mouth.  

The blessed relief was short lived.  With his current underwear filed away as a “later problem”  his mind went on to other things; namely dinner.  Foie gras and kobe beef?  Ryan didn’t even know what those were, but they sounded expensive.  Both his tongue and his wallet was more accustomed to burgers and chicken fingers.  This was by far the most expensive “date” they’d been on, and he wasn’t sure he could afford the bill.

Shamefacedly, he looked down at his salad.  “Heather?” he said.  Despite being right next to him, Heather kept eating.  “Heather…?”   She’d gone deaf to her own name.   “Miss Heather?”

“Yes, Ryan?”

“Um...I’m sorry to bring this up.”  Ryan said, feeling even more embarrassed, “but can we go Dutch on this?  Please?”

Heather cocked an eyebrow. “Don’t be silly.”  Ryan’s heart stopped.  “I’m paying for you.”  

ALIVE!  

His stomach grumbled.  “Oh.  Cool,” he said.  Finally his appetite was coming out.  “Thanks for treating me.  Can I-?”

“No.”

“Excuse me?”

“Calling it Treating implies that this is a one time thing and that I expect you to pay for me for eating with you.  It’s antiquated, sexist, and assumes you have something to hold over me.  You don’t.”

Ryan practically felt himself shrinking.  He wanted to just hide under the table and die.  He’d never had a girlfriend before, but this was not what he thought it was supposed to be.  He’d just wanted to date a pretty girl.  Maybe take her out to dinner at Chili’s or something.  Maybe see a movie.  Maybe get laid and if he was really lucky, they’d like each other.  

This...this wasn’t that storybook romance of boy-meets-girl.  This was we’re not in Kansas anymore level of overwhelming, ratcheted up slowly over several encounters, like boiling a lobster.

Heather’s expression softened. “Hey,” she said.  “Sorry.  I wasn’t talking about you specifically,” she said.  The back of her hand caressed his cheek.  Damnit that helped!  “Tell ya what, kiddo,” she said.  “From now on, when we go out, I’ll tell you whether you should bring your wallet and for how much you’ll be paying.  Would you like that.”

Ryan nodded.  Yeah.  He’d like that.  He’d like that alot.  “Good.”  She leaned over and gave him a chaste kiss on the forehead.  His diaper was crinkling again, but not because of his shifting weight.  Something else was shifting.

The salad plates were just being scraped clean when the waiter brought out the next dish: A little brown hunk of meat drenched in a brownish orange sauce.  “Your foie gras, Madam,” the waiter said.  Heather shot him a look and he quickly self corrected back to his real accent. “I mean, “Ma’am.”

“What is that?” Ryan asked, pointing like a six-year old.

In reply, his date cut a piece and put it on her fork.  She offered the meat up to him, prongs first. “Try it.”  He reached to grab and got his hand lightly slapped for his trouble.  Internally, Ryan chastised himself: She’d already put baby briefs on him. Of course she’d want to spoon feed him.  He opened his mouth and let her slide the food in, closing his lips around it and feeling the metal prongs slide back out from his lips. “Good boy.”  

Wow!  Ryan was taken back.  Rich.  Buttery.  A little slimy, but satisfying nonetheless.  Very good.  “What is that?!”

“Liver of a duck that was force fed to the point of basically diabetes.”

A moment of revulsion crossed Ryan’s mind.  The moment passed.  It was just like when he’d found out how chicken nuggets were made.  Appetite beat out disgust.  In a strange way, this entire relationship had been a bit like foie gras or chicken nuggets: Gross on paper but he was hungry enough to eat it.  And, he had to admit, it wasn’t that bad, was it?   What he wouldn’t admit, even to himself, was that he wasn’t quite thinking about food.  “Can I have some more?”

Heather shook her head.  “No,” she said.  “But maybe next time you can get your own.”  Next time! First a “from now on” and then a “next time”.  Holy shit!

The fried chicken fingers and honey mustard (fresh the waiter assured Heather) came out just as Heather was finishing the last bite of her diabetic duck liver.  Heather was kind enough to eat quickly and without further comment so as not to tease him.  

Ryan tried to pick up one of the tender pieces and was rewarded with a fork lightly smacking the back of his hand.  He squeaked a little as if he’d felt actual pain, even though surprise was a more apt descriptor.  Even then...was he really surprised?  He jerked his hands backwards and laid them down in his lap, much like how his mother had taught him to do when walking through antique stores or other places where little hands were not supposed to touch big things.

“Hold on.  Let me help,” Miss Heather said, leaning over to cut up the kids’ meal into even more bite sized pieces.  Her entree came while she was still prepping Ryan’s plate as if he were a preschooler.  Kobe beef, Ryan surmised, was some kind of super expensive steak.

Francois, the waiter, did an actual double take right out of Looney Tunes when he saw Ryan getting his chicken cut by a woman who was at least 3 degrees out of his league. The questioning expression Ryan caught said, “Is this really a thing?”  Ryan wasn’t sure and communicated the same with his own baffled expression.

He didn’t know if the waiter approved or not.  Hell, the waiter might not even know if he approved or not.  Regardless, he had the proper mix of courtesy, situational awareness, and fear of Miss Heather to leave her dish and exit without comment.

The chicken tenders were sectioned off into something more resembling nuggets.  “There ya go,” she said.  “You can use a fork, or your hands.  Your choice.”  Ryan chose hands.  The tenders were cut into such small pieces that it was functionally impossible for him to eat without getting sauce on his fingers, instead licking it off with every bite.  “Good boy.”  

One advantage to being painfully average:  Ryan might not have been the fastest horse in the race, but he wasn’t the last one to cross the finish line, either.  His date was watching him, dare he say ogling him, with every honey mustard filled bite that he popped into his mouth.  “Heather, I mean Miss Heather,” he stumbled,  “can I ask you a question?”

“I don’t know,” she said.  “Can you?”

Just like in grade school, Ryan huffed. “I mean may I ask you a question?”

“You may.”

“What are we even doing?”  Miss Heather took another bite of far-too-expensive-to-taste-bad steak in silence rather than answer.  Or maybe silence was the answer.  “It’s just that,” Ryan added, “I feel like this is going somewhere, but I don’t have a map.”

Miss Heather dabbed her lips with her napkin and sat up a little straighter.  “I’m a maternalist,” she told him.

Ryan was now one of those meme dogs cocking his head to the side in confusion.  “A what?”

“I’m what’s called a Mommy Domme,” she replied. “I...get off...on treating grown men like small children.  Babies.”

Yeah.  That made sense.  No it didn’t, actually, but it lined up with the last few dates.  “Why?”

For the first time ever, Ryan saw her look slightly uncomfortable.  “I’m not sure.  My psychologist might have something to say about it if she knew.  But putting pampers on big boys just does something for me.  It makes me happy.”

“I mean ‘why me’?”

“Oh,” Miss Heather replied.  “That.” She hummed to herself a bit. “It’s because you’re average and you know it.”

He wasn’t sure why, but he was offended.  Only he was allowed to talk down about himself.
“If your self-esteem was particularly high, you wouldn’t let me do half the things I’ve done to you.”  She reached over and took a sip of his lemonade.  “I’m kind of out of your league, and you know it.”

“More than kind of,” Ryan heard himself admit.

Miss Heather’s eyes brightened a bit.  “See?  But if you were used to getting kicked around all the time, you might think this was some kind of trap.  The abused break instead of bend”  There was a kind of twisted logic to it.   “No,” Miss Heather told him. “You know a good thing when you see one and you’re desperate enough to hear me out.” She paused. “That, and you are kind of cute.” 

Ryan wanted to melt away into her lap right then and there.  “Not too hot. Not too cold.  Just like Goldilocks.”

“And I love the fact that your brain went there.”  

Another thought beamed into Ryan’s skull. “Sex? I mean, do you like it?  Is it on the table?”

Miss Heather deflated and rested her arms on the table.  “I was hoping to ease you into this later tonight,” she admitted. “Kisses and petting are fine, but sex is off the table. For now at least.”

“Oh…”

Before he could say anything else, Miss Heather was in his ear, whispering breathily.  “I know how to make a wet diaper feel reeeeeally good, though.  It’s practically a pocket pussy.”  Her hand was groping him beneath the table.  “Think about it.  No risk of getting me pregnant, I’ll definitely get something out of it, and you can be completely selfish.  I’ll even let you suck on my titties.”  A low moan rumbled out from Ryan’s throat.  “All you have to do is call me by my name.”

Ryan looked sideways at her.  “Heather?  Miss Heather?”

“Not that name,” she teased.  “My special name. The name that I’m only going to let you call me, and no one else.”

Ryan took a not-so-wild guess.  “Mommy?”

She called for the check then said,  “That’s my boy.  Come on.  Let’s go over to my place.  I’m driving.”  Things had started off oddly enough, but Ryan had a sense that his “average” streak was about to come to an end.  It  might still be a storybook romance.  Just not the kind of stories that Ryan had been used to reading.

(Fin)

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On 8/16/2020 at 10:57 AM, Personalias said:

Until two weeks ago, it felt like every time Ryan shook a Magic 8-Ball, the result was “Ask again later”.

Everything up to and including this line is a LITERAL work of art.  Like, poetry!  The writer in me was enamored.

The little girl in me was enamored by everything after. ;) 

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1 hour ago, Sophie ♥ said:

Everything up to and including this line is a LITERAL work of art.  Like, poetry!  The writer in me was enamored.

The little girl in me was enamored by everything after. ;) 

I"m flattered and grateful that I could enamor both sides of you. 

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It was a fun little vignette.  And it's somewhat relieving to me that there aren't a barrage of people demanding a continuation. :) 

And yes, same as @Sophie ♥,  the writer in me was tickled by all the stellar one-liners you packed into this thing.   I had a lot of "damn, I should've thought of that line" moments. 

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1 hour ago, WBDaddy said:

It was a fun little vignette.  And it's somewhat relieving to me that there aren't a barrage of people demanding a continuation. :) 

And yes, same as @Sophie ♥,  the writer in me was tickled by all the stellar one-liners you packed into this thing.   I had a lot of "damn, I should've thought of that line" moments. 

Don't jinx it on the continuation part!

I'm glad that this entertained people I consider my writing peers as well as people in my erm...target audience.  Feel free to steel some of these if you'd like.

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29 minutes ago, Personalias said:

Don't jinx it on the continuation part!

I'm glad that this entertained people I consider my writing peers as well as people in my erm...target audience.  Feel free to steel some of these if you'd like.

Best part to me was how you took the "So and so was an average blah blah" intro trope and beat it into oblivion.  I mean, there was literally nothing left to even cremate, never mind bury. 

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16 hours ago, Personalias said:

 


I hate you both equally. ?

So... that could just mean that you don't hate either of us at all!  That we're your favorite people in the world!  :D 

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"It's because you're average and you know it."  That's a great line-- one of many in this story.  It's doubly rich because it is so obviously untrue.  A man who takes his own measure with such dispassion is actually unusual, and even more so, Ryan understands the difference between the average and mediocrity.  In certain professions, such men are highly prized.

So, Heather is not so much out of his league as competing in an altogether different sport.  And need makes her vulnerable, the curve ball that she just can't resist chasing out of the strike zone.  How often in life does a man discover that he has a taste for foie gras, and get the lady to pay for it?

Well done.    

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