AN HOMAGE TO VINCENT VEGA, SEASON TWO SCENE 54 (IN LOCO PARENTIS)

[Babypants]

THE DINER

“Sarah, I can't thank you enough for bringing me here.” Ian put his cup down, and settled more deeply into the naugahyde cushion. “Really … I mean … diners like this?” His gaze swept around the dimly lit interior. The chipped formica, the long counter with its ancient stools, the linoleum that had been scrubbed so many times that one could only guess at the original color. He half expected Mel to pop out of the kitchen any second now. And their waitress definitely looked like Linda Lavin.

“Mom and Dad … I remember, when I was a kid, eating at places like this when we went on vacation. This brings back some good memories.” Ian's gaze softened, his thoughts drifting back in time to long car rides deep into the night, the brightly lit signs that marked the diners and motels on the outskirts of the small towns on old Route 66. He remembered Tucumcari, the memory that of a small child half asleep in the back seat, struggling to stay awake, imagination fired by the bright lights rushing toward them out of the darkness.

“No, Ian … no. I'm the one who should be thanking you.” Gently shaking her head, Sarah leaned forward, trying to keep control of the conversation. There was so much that she wanted to say, and so much more that she wanted to ask. “I was so fed up with that stereo of yours, so angry. I was looking for a confrontation, the louder the better. Next stop the management office, another complaint, this time in writing … I wanted them to evict you!”

Sarah was a battle scarred RN, daily suffering the slings and arrows that any large, urban hospital serves up in abundance. Patients were sometimes a pain, but they came and went. Far too many of the doctors were out and out jerks, in it for the money and the endless opportunities to cheat on their wives with the young nurses who seemingly existed only to do their bidding. And those assholes were here to stay.

Night after night, Sarah had brought her frustration home with her, to be greeted with the heavy vibration coming through the ceiling from the apartment above her-- a stereo somewhere above her couch, making it impossible for her to relax. Once, she had mounted a stool to pound on the ceiling. She had left notes in the mailbox. She had made a verbal complaint to management, learned that her tormentor was a single male roughly her own age, divorced, a highly educated professional. She was astonished to discover that he was on the faculty of the university she passed every day driving to and from work. And East Asian languages? She had looked up the department's campus address in the phone book. The building was within easy walking distance of her office!

Or it would be, she thought, if the city would ever get around to plowing the damned sidewalks!

Minnesota winters were not for the faint of heart.

She had finally had enough, storming up the stairs to pound on his door. She was completely unprepared for what happened next.

                                                                                                  . . . .

“What the hell?” Ian looked up from the counter, the pounding at the door startling him badly. Slicing up the avocado would have to wait. The good news was that he had somehow managed to keep his fingers out of the blade's line of fire.

“Yes?”, he said, easing the door open, not sure what to expect. He looked out at a young woman, about his own age, a bit taller …

And if looks could kill, he instantly realized, I'd already be dead! This has got to be the neighbor from Hell!

One of the ladies in the office had warned him that there had been a verbal complaint from the RN living below him. It was the same old, same old … turn the stereo down, or was it the TV? Some people simply didn't appreciate Carson's monologue.

Too bad, he thought, because we have a Grade A winner here. Nice features, blue eyes, great lips, maybe a natural blonde …

Ian's eyes drifted lower, then braked to a halt. Ian was big on foreplay, and this seemingly Scandinavian bombshell was singularly blessed with that asset with which he most enjoyed playing. She reminded him of Bonnie Holbrooke, the blonde beauty with whom he had fallen so deeply in love … in the ninth grade.

“Would you puh … lese turn it down, or better yet, turn it off?” Sarah angrily stepped forward, and Ian involuntarily stepped back. Her eyes were on fire, and he had zero desire to get burnt.

Still, genuinely puzzled, Ian glanced over his shoulder. Yes, the stereo was on, but it was hardly loud … and besides, who didn't like Fleetwood Mac? Lindsey doing the riff on Go Your Own Way? Oh, come, on!

Ian hated confrontation.

“Would you like to come in,” he asked in a subdued voice. It was hard not to fall to his knees and beg for forgiveness. Migraines had played a part in the collapse of his marriage, conditioned him to surrender rather than fight for his convictions. And the more readily he gave in, the more shrill his ex's voice had become. His last migraine had erupted four days after their separation.

“I was just making dinner,” he added, “and I have a bottle of wine decanting. Please, let me pour you a glass, and, uh, if you haven't eaten, I'm preparing tacos. Do you, uh, do you like Mexican food?”

Ian's nervousness was on full display. He was acutely aware of the bulk between his legs, and could only pray that his diaper and baby pants wouldn't leak.

                                                                                                                                . . . .

Sarah could only gape, feeling the anger leech out of her. In her imagination, her unseen neighbor was just another jerk, some Neanderthal who would happily join her in making a scene, and to hell with his professional credentials. Doctors had plenty of credentials, and the fancy degrees hanging on their office walls didn't keep most of them from being jerks. It briefly occurred to her that he might be playing her, deftly turning the tables to throw her off balance.

Well, if that's his game, it's definitely working! But wait … no … this can't be an act. No one's this good. Oh, God, Sarah, he's just some nice, ordinary guy, and you … you … guess what, you're the only jerk on the premises! God, he probably thinks I'm going to kick him in the balls, or something.

Sarah's eyes drifted lower, then braked to a halt. Over the past ten years she had changed thousands of adult diapers, and there was absolutely no doubt in her mind. The bulge was such a giveaway, and then there was the truck from the diaper service, making its weekly pick-up and drop-off at a building in an adults only complex. The two pieces fit so neatly together: she had to be standing face to face with their customer. She idly wondered where he kept his diaper pail, wondered whether his bathroom reeked of stale urine, or worse.

And the $64,000 question: is he incontinent, or does he have some kind of weird diaper fetish? No, he has to be a freak, has to be, because he's too young to have … and besides, this is the second floor, and there's no elevator, no way to get down in a wheelchair and, and, no crutches in the hallway. I would have noticed, and … and ...

As her preconceptions shattered into a thousand tiny pieces, a new and very different pattern began to emerge from the wreckage in Sarah Haikkonen's mind.

He's got to be about my age. Thirty-one, thirty-two, something like that. He's the right age and, and, East Asian languages? Oh, dear God!

Sarah took a deep breath, and slowly released it, hoping that he would misinterpret what he was seeing, hoping that he would think she was letting go of her anger. She had spent the first two years of her career at the Veteran's hospital out by the airport, the biggest in the state, but she had fled to the city because she wasn't hard enough, couldn't cope with the despair that awaited her every time she started her rounds. It wasn't the wounds, well, not the physical wounds at any rate. She was trained for that, and for the most part the young men in her care wanted physically to get better, wanted to get on with their lives. No, it was the emotional wounds, the psychic, that she had seen in the eyes of too many men her own age-- men who had come home to be spat upon by their neighbors, men who had come home to be called baby killers. She was badly out of her depth, and so she had fled.

There was a question that Sarah desperately wanted to ask ... but how to ask it?

“Thank you, um?”

“Ian … Ian Grady. And you are ...”

“Sarah … Sarah Haikkonen.”

“Finnish?”

“That's right,” she smiled, “from a long and not particularly illustrious line of Haikkonen's in the U.P. And yes, Ian, I'd love to share a glass of wine with you. It will,” she nervously laughed, “give me a bit of time to work up a decent apology for my outburst.”

“Sarah,” he grinned, “in the immortal words of Chick Hearn, no harm, no foul, so no apology is called for. Oh, granted, the circumstances are a bit unusual, but I am genuinely happy to make your acquaintance.”

Ian poured the wine, and they gently clinked glasses.

“So, a Lakers fan?”

“Die hard,” he grinned.

“Ian, there's something else I'd like to ask you. Can I?

“Why not? Now that we're old friends,” he teased, “you can ask me anything!”

“Well, it's my understanding that you're a professor at the U, teaching East Asian languages?”

Ian laughed, and shook his head.

“Sorry to disappoint you, Sarah, but I'm just in my first year … on probation, so to speak. A newly minted and poorly paid Ph.D.”

“Well, what I really want to know is … do you by any chance … do you speak Vietnamese?”

. . . .

The apartment mystified her. There was no dining room table, and no chairs. Clearly, Ian ate on the floor. She made a mental note to ask if he was a practicing Buddhist. Two oddly shaped tables in the living room housed the stereo components and a TV; the dreaded speakers were, as she had expected, positioned directly above her own couch. His was a plush, two piece design. It looked very comfortable.

She had asked for permission to use the bathroom, and he had agreed without hesitation. She flushed and then washed her hands, but her real objective had been to peek behind the shower curtain. The two pairs of vinyl pants hanging on a makeshift clothes line did not surprise her in the least. The labels confirmed that they were from a highly respected local manufacturer with a nationwide institutional customer base.

She risked an even quicker peek into the single bedroom. The king sized bed was predictable, and the diaper pail was right where she had expected to find it. Breathing deeply, she smelled the all too familiar scent of dried urine. What she had smelled in the bathroom was more complex-- the unmistakable mixture of feces and urine.

So, she concluded with a slight shake of her head, he may be truly incontinent, both bladder and bowel. And he speaks Vietnamese ... how well we'll be able to judge when I get him to the hospital. And we do desperately need interpreters.

Sarah knew that she would have to proceed cautiously. The soldiers at the hospital had all behaved like members of a fraternity, only instead of secret handshakes they seemed bound together by a vow of silence.

No one wanted to talk about the battlefield.

No one.

There was still more that she needed to learn. The bedroom was odd, not for what was there but for what wasn't. No headboard. No dresser. No bedside table. Just a hard sided suitcase standing on end and housing an ugly, gray office lamp-- the sort of lamp that a down and out accountant might use. Was Ian poor, or had he come home to join some cult that demanded a vow of poverty? Oddball cults had sprung up all over the country in recent years, and there was even a nurse in her own unit who had joined some sect out in Oregon. The , times, she grimaced, they are indeed a changing.

And then there were the paintings. Ian clearly loved bright, bold colors-- but why on earth would anyone have so graphic a painting of the sea giving up its dead hanging on their living room wall?

It was the one thing that gave her pause.

Sarah returned to the living room. She wanted Ian to put another record on, and then come downstairs to hear at first hand what she had to put up with night after night. All of her spur of the moment planning to seduce Ian Grady-- a nice, intelligent guy with a bright future and a disability that she could easily tolerate and gently manipulate-- would come to naught if she couldn't get a decent night's sleep.

. . . .

Ian sighed deeply, and turned to face her, palms up in the classic gesture of surrender.

“I'm sorry, Sarah. It never occurred to me that this might happen. Damn! I put so much work into getting the system set up just right.” He shook his head, the regret plain on his face.

“And the problem is …?” Sarah waited for him to fill in the missing piece.

“The bass. It's causing an harmonic vibration. That's normal, but it shouldn't be causing the ceiling to shake.” Ian glanced up. “Do you hear me walking around up there?”

“Unfortunately,” Sarah conceded. “So, what are we going to do?”

“I have an idea, something so idiotically simple that it might just work! Wait here … I'll be back in a few minutes!”

Ian headed out the door, never realizing that Sarah's eyes were riveted on his well padded posterior. Hmm, she wondered, is it my imagination, or is his diaper drooping a bit more than it was when I first noticed it?

Standing in the quiet of her living room, a quiet interrupted only by the pulsing vibration of the ceiling (Lindsey was currently pounding out I'm So Afraid), without warning Sarah suddenly started to giggle, one of those helpless fits that caused her to rush into the kitchen and grab a glass of water. She choked it down, with the predictable result.

She started to hiccup.

This is just too funny, she mused, frantically waving her hand in front of her face. Twenty minutes ago, I wanted to piss him off enough to start a fight, and now … now … how's he going to react when I offer to change his pissy diaper?????

. . . .

The racket stopped, just the same way it always began. Abruptly.

Sarah listened to Ian's footsteps fading away overhead, and rushed to the door. She knew that it would only be a matter of seconds, and she wanted him to feel welcome. He was obviously going all out for her, he was super cute, and she wanted to reciprocate.

“Well?”

“Just wait,” he muttered as she stood aside to let him pass. “Another thirty seconds, tops.” Ian stopped in the middle of the living room, and looked anxiously up at the ceiling. “I put on Led Zeppelin's When the Levee Breaks, the studio track. It's the one with the drum solo that John Bonham recorded out in the lobby. Mix in John Paul Jones on bass guitar, and there's a good chance the ceiling's gonna crack.”

They both continued to look up.

I just don't believe this, Sarah marveled, a groupie with a Ph.D. Like any sensible girl from the U.P., Sarah's taste ran to Country & Western. Roy Orbison was about as close to rock as she was willing to get.

Still nothing.

“It's okay.” Ian breathed a deep sigh of relief. “Really,” he said as he turned to her, “it's gonna be okay.”

God, he's adorable! The look on his face? He looks just like a six year old bursting with pride because he got the answer right!“

Okay, Prof, what did you do? What's your deep, dark secret?”

Ian roared with laughter. “What I did was … I took four bath towels … my only four, by the way … and I folded them up and put two under each speaker. Et voila! No more vibration!”

“Only, now you have no bath towels ...”

“Yeah ...”

“And that old beater you were driving … the one that's been buried in a snow bank directly outside my living room window for the past month … DOA?”

“Yeah … the alternator. I just don't have the money right now.”

“Which is why I see you waiting for the bus when I'm leaving for work.”

“Yeah … cue the Hollies.”

“Okay … well, here's what we're going to do. After we get you changed, we're going to the store to buy you some new towels … my treat. Then, I'm going to take you out to dinner … your choice, but also my treat.”

“Sarah ...”

“No, Ian, and please let me finish. You kept me from making a complete fool of myself today, and from doing something that I would later have come badly to regret. This is just my way of thanking you for being so … so nice.”

“But Sarah? Get me changed?”

Sarah pointedly looked down at Ian's crotch, and then looked him straight in the eyes.

“Your diaper, Ian. I don't want you leaking all over my car seat, so before we go, we are going to change your diaper. And I want you to bring a couple of extras. Do you have a diaper bag?”

“Yes, but ...” Ian began to blush, but he quickly got it under control. He prided himself on his poker face … a face perfected in conferences with senior officers in Saigon who didn't have a clue, hangers on from the Korean conflict whose idiotic orders far too often cost the lives of men in the field that they could ill afford to lose. The bitterness ate at him like acid, the memories sometimes so overwhelming that it felt like he was drowning … the casual construction of strategy over aperitifs on the rooftop of the Hotel Caravelle, the details elaborated behind the barbed wire and the sandbags, the generals and the spooks ignoring the hardened French planters who had been fighting this war for generations … men often seated at the next table. It was Henri Duplessis who had schooled him in the difference between language and culture, Henri who had showed him how the French had lost their empire not in Viet Nam but in Algeria, warned him that America was making the exact same mistakes, the cycle repeating, Saigon the new Algiers, the Pentagon the new ...

“No buts, Ian; the subject is closed.”

“No, it isn't. Sarah, I've … I can change my own diaper, damn it!”

“And you will. Ian, I am not going to interfere, but I am going to watch. In the past ten years, I must have changed at least 3,000 adult diapers, so I'm certainly qualified to carry out an Assessment.”

“A … a what?

“An Assessment. I am going to evaluate how well you clean yourself, how tightly you pin your new diaper, whether there is any cloth sticking out from your rubber or vinyl pants. And above all, I am going to evaluate how you wash your hands after the fact … even the kind of soap that you use. I'll offer you suggestions if there are things you need to improve on, but the only point at which I would intervene is to refasten your diaper if it looks like it's just going to fall off as soon as you stand up. You will be lying down when you change, right?”

Sarah kept her voice detached and professional. She could, and in the future would make this really fun for Ian, but now was not the time. Now, she had to take control, put him in his place, and begin the long, drawn out process of gaining his trust.

Ian stared hard at the floor. He couldn't bear to look in her eyes. “I'm trapped twixt and tween, Sarah,” he said in a voice so soft that she had to strain to hear him. “I really am. I can see what I'm doing if I'm standing up, but there's a motion involved that is so dangerous … it terrifies me. But lying down, it's all by feel, and you're right … you're so right. I think everything's okay, then I stand up, and the damned diaper is down at my knees! Ugh!”

Sarah reached out and gently cupped Ian's cheeks in her hands, forcing him to look up, into her eyes. She was savoring her moment of triumph, but the look that she gave him was innocence personified. “Ian, I can and will help you, but I won't force myself upon you. All you have to do is ask … and, yes, I know that it's hard for a man, any man with an ounce of pride, to ask for help, especially with a problem that's so intimate. I can change your diaper, and keep it strictly professional the whole time. Or we can talk about the weather, your favorite sports team, anything you think would help to distract you. I can even make it light and a bit of fun for you; many of my patients liked being teased when I was changing them because they had the ability to laugh at themselves and the absurdity of the situation we were both trapped in. But you have to talk to me, Ian; you can't shut down or I can't help you. And yes, I know how hard it is … believe me, I've been here before. But I have to know what happened to you out there, what it is that's so dangerous, what I have to avoid.”

Sarah reached down and firmly grasped Ian's hands in her own.

“Now, let's go change your diaper.”

. . . .

“Ian, you need to take more time when you're wiping.”

Ian was lying down on a changing pad, his used diaper long since banished to the pail. He was blindly wiping his genitalia. Everything was by feel, and he knew that he wasn't getting it right.

“Sarah, thank you so much. It was a really great suggestion, and right now I feel more dumb than I usually do for not seeing it myself.”

Sarah had said that it would be a lot easier for him to wipe his bottom if he moved the changing mat close enough to the wall that he could walk his feet up it, and fully expose his rear. For the first time, he felt like he was making real progress in managing his incontinence.

For her part, Sarah was horrified by what she had learned. The bullet had shattered on impact, and the MASH unit had methodically and efficiently dug out all but one fragment-- a piece lodged so close to the spinal cord at L5 that they judged it best left alone rather than undertake a high risk surgery which, if it went wrong, could leave him paralyzed for life from the waist down.

Angry and horrified. She was angry because of the risk that he was running every time he changed his diaper, especially the messy ones. Ian had grudgingly admitted that it was hard to avoid getting a jolt along the sciatic nerve when he bent over and twisted to survey the damage, and using baby wipes to clean his bottom merely aggravated the risk. A shower was the obvious answer, but he routinely had three to five BM's daily. So … obvious but impractical. Now that she at least had a handle on what she was up against, Sarah was also infuriated. She was good at her job, and a messy diaper was an easy cleanup. She could make a lot of Ian's risk go away if he would simply let her take responsibility for his well-being in general, and his diaper changes in particular. And therein lay the problem. In fact, it was crystal-clear: in Ian's mind, getting help was a mutual transaction-- help received equals independence lost.

But Sarah had learned something else today. Ian Grady was a nail biter, and spectacularly so. Twice in the brief time that they had been together, she had caught him chewing on fingernails, all of them already bitten to the quick. His oral fixation was so strong that he seemed completely oblivious to what he was doing. There were things that she could and would do to put a stop to it-- the bulbous mittens that they employed post-surgery to keep patients from pulling on their catheters or attacking itchy sutures, and an orthodontic device for tube feeding patients unable to feed themselves. It looked amazingly like a baby's pacifier, and with that she began nibbling around the edges of an intriguing idea. His long-term prognosis would be much improved if he would simply admit to some degree of dependence on others, but the adult male would fiercely resist any attempt to take him down this path.

Well, what about the baby that lurks inside Ian Grady the same way it does in every man? If the adult won't yield to a caregiver, will the baby fully entrust himself to his mommy? Let's face facts, Miss Sarah Haikkonen: the sexual possibilities in this scenario for both of us are well and truly off the charts! I have got to talk to Mom about this!

. . . .

“All things considered, Ian, I think that went very well. Of course, it was to be expected that I would have to redo your diaper. Pinning your own diaper tight enough when you're laying down is about as likely as winning the lottery. Babies don't change their own diapers, and neither should you.”

Sarah glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. “It's strictly mommy's work,” she added deftly, planting the thought in his mind.

“And when I'm at work,” he quietly rejoined, “who's going to change me there?” Ian slowly shook his head. “Sarah, I am truly grateful for everything that you're doing for me, but what you're suggesting simply isn't practical. On the weekends? Yeah, maybe. But Monday through Friday? No. Five days a week, I'll just have to muddle along the best I can.”

“Fair enough,” she conceded. “So, why don't we start with the basics? First, do you want my help? Yes, or no?”

“Yes.” Ian decided to leave it at that.

“Good. So, why don't we begin with what is practical, namely the weekend? From now on, I will pick you up at your office on Friday afternoon at 4:30, and return you to work Monday morning. In fact, you will no longer be taking the bus at all. It's silly for you to do so when we have nearly identical work schedules. You can do without using your baby diapers as stuffers until you get to the office, and save a little money in the process.”

“Sounds good,” Ian agreed.  He hated the bus.

“Second. From Friday afternoon until I drop you off on Monday, I will assume total responsibility for your diaper changes … which reminds me. I want to take one of your diapers with me to the hospital on Monday. I have a feeling that, when I put them side by side, it will turn out that ours will be both bigger and more absorbent. If you use ours on the weekend, you can reduce your order with the diaper service. More money saved.”

“Also good, but how are we going to launder them?”

“In the basement. Ian, you know perfectly well that we have four washers and driers down there. You need to start doing your own diaper laundry, and the money you're saving on bus fare alone should cover the costs.”

“But the whole point of the diaper service …”

“Ian, stop it. All right? Just stop it.” There was a red light coming up, and as she braked Sarah decided to take advantage of it. “Look, I know you don't want to hear it, but the blunt truth is that, unless and until there is a revolutionary breakthrough in surgical procedures, you are going to be incontinent for the rest of your life, which means that you are going to be wearing diapers for the rest of your life. The diaper service will be a constant drain on your finances … and how are you going to manage when you're traveling? You will be, you know … lectures, conferences … a lot of people are going to want a piece of you. You are going to have to rely on your own resources, and your own resourcefulness. I can help, and I plan to, but unless you choose to throw it all away and spend the rest of your life hiding under the bed like a small child, the burden is going to fall largely on your shoulders. Mind you,” she giggled, “I think that you'd make an adorable baby. Honestly, you are beyond cute when you've got nothing on but your little diapee and your baby pants! I would give anything to see you crawling around on the floor like a wittle, wittle baby!”

The light changed, and Sarah hit the accelerator, her devilish laughter still hanging in the air. She mentally congratulated herself for playing the baby card with real finesse.

Ian prudently decided to say nothing. The diner was just a few minutes away, and he was starting to have visions of a patty melt, onion rings, and fries in his immediate future. A chocolate shake was definitely in the offing. Sure, he'd undoubtedly have a messy diaper by the time they got home-- greasy food was his archenemy-- but what the Hell. For now at least, he was off the hook.

He stole a glance at his erstwhile chauffeur, and gave thought to what she was clearly offering. She's drop dead gorgeous, talented and smart, and at least a bit kinky, so with any luck at all she'll despise the missionary position as much as I do. And those tits? Man, those are well and truly to die for! How did Bob Seger put it … 'points of her own, sittin' way up high, way up firm and high'? And the best part of it all? It sounds like she wants to take outright control of my life. Well, my dear, you can do it with my blessing, because there's a few things about me that you haven't caught on to yet. I'm done with making decisions. I will walk around a problem and study it from a thousand different angles, and then tell everyone that I'm sure I've missed something, and need to start over from scratch. But the reality is that I'm stalling, hoping that the problem will resolve itself without any help from me, or just simply go away, vanish on the breeze. Hell, if Emily had just cut out the passive-aggressive crap and become as dominant as she was decisive, we'd still be married! But no, when things went well, she took all the credit. And when her decisions blew up in our face, like not selling the condo when we had the chance? Why the fault was mine and mine alone because I didn't stand up to her. Yeah, sure.

And the irony of it all is that I straight up offered Emily what Sarah is only hinting at. I was in diapers anyway, so I'd become her baby or her baby slave, whatever … but no more blame shifting. She'd get all of the credit, but she'd also take all of the blame. That was the deal, and she refused to take it. So, adios and sayonara, babe. I am so out of here.

And here's (imaginary drum roll, please) … Sarah (thank you, Ed McMahon), all but offering me the golden ring. But how are we going to jump the hurdles? The logistical problems are daunting, and it doesn't look like there are any quick fixes. I'll just leave it to her to sort it all out. Just go with the flow, my friend … just go with the flow.

. . . .

“Before we go, Ian, there's just one more thing.”

“More coffee?,” he offered in return, ever hopeful.

“No, silly, it's about your hands. Just look at them!”

Ian did precisely that. He held them up in front of his face, and took a count.

“Ten digits,” he nodded; “all present and accounted for.” Well, almost. Ian had learned about recoil the hard way.

“No, silly. I'm talking about your fingers.”

“What about them?”

“You bite your fingernails, and it's disgusting. There's germs crawling all over everything you touch, and yet you persist in putting your fingers in your mouth. Just like a toddler. Honestly, it makes me wonder whether you're still sucking your thumb in your sleep.”

“I haven't a clue, honestly times two. But you're right, Sarah, it's a nasty habit. And I have tried to break it … many, many times. Nothing's worked.”

“Well, we have mittens at the hospital that will help. When we're at home and you're in my care, you will wear them whenever you're out of my sight, especially when you're sleeping. But if your mouth gets lonely, we have an orthodontic device that you can suck on … really, it's just a great, big pacifier. You'll love it.”

“Maybe so, but there's definitely something else around here that I would rather suck on.” Bold as brass, Ian stared steadily at Sarah's breasts. “After all, as we both know, babies explore everything with their fingers and tongues.”

“True. All too true. And I have big plans for your fingers and tongue.”

Sarah's gaze was equally steady.

“Big Plans.”

[Babypants]

Quickie historical quiz

When Sarah reads the label on Ian's vinyl pants in the bathroom, the pants were manufactured by::

A.  Comco

B.  Gary

C.  Playtex

D.  Suprima

[quietlyhumiliated]

I'm not really reading this story, so much as I'm watching it on my fuzzy 13" CRT television at about 2:00 AM, on some random cable channel.

I'm happy that you're sharing your story here, and even happier that its pulled me in and has me wanting more.

[Babypants]

DATING IN THE DEAD ZONE

Ian Grady's head was on a swivel, taking in the vast expanse of the dance floor, and the bizarre assemblage of customers and staff scattered around the perimeter.

Well, Toto, he mentally shrugged, I guess we're not in Kansas anymore …

In point of fact, he was in Wisconsin.

Ian had never been in the navy, but he had nevertheless visited many an exotic port of call. Indeed, he was perversely proud of the fact that he had once passed out, dead drunk, in the middle of a busy road in Causeway Bay. He was ten when he had experienced his first and only crush on an actress, so it was only natural that he had taken his R&R in Hong Kong, wandering the streets in search of his beloved Suzie Wong. But he had searched in vain, finally admitting that the rumor that Suzie had absconded to Japan with Bill Holden, and that the two of them were still there and living in sin … well, it had to be true. He had drowned his sorrows in a bar, and he had only stopped drinking when he ran out of money. Management, singularly unimpressed, had rather rudely chucked him into the street, and there he had promptly passed out.

It was a good memory.

And now he was in THE DEAD ZONE; more to the point, Sarah had arranged for them to be seated in a lobotomized version of a classic 1950 Woody Wagon. The roof was gone. Save for the back seats, the whole of the interior had been torn out. Some madman had installed a sliding table which, in the manner of a baby's high chair, now had them neatly locked in.

Ian wanted to cry.

“Look over there,” Sarah whispered into his ear while busily waving at four young women sitting at a boringly regular table on the other side of the dance floor. “They work in the psych unit up on the seventh floor. Left to right, that's Becky, Rita, Candy and Marge. We owe Rita; she's the one who got me the locking mittens that you're wearing to bed at night.”

Ian winced. But he had to admit that his fingernails were getting longer.

“You have got to be kidding me,” he grumbled. “Do you seriously expect me to believe that your hospital employs a nurse named Candy?”

Sarah allowed her professional mask to slip into place. “Yes, and we also have two orderlies named Amos and Andy.” She looked at him sternly. “Don't stereotype.”

Ian loved it when Sarah went all Nurse Ratched on him. “Well,” he added in a transparent attempt to change the subject, “they must feel right at home here. I mean, it's like we've entered The Twilight Zone. Rod Serling seated us, and so far both Jim Morrison and Janis Joplin have swung by to take our order and bring us our drinks.”

“But I'm holding out for Suzie Wong,” he muttered, apropos of nothing.

Sarah looked at him curiously, and then casually ran her fingers over his well padded crotch. “We're across the river, Ian, in neutral territory. And the bars here are open an hour later than in Minnesota. The burgers are great, the fries house cut, and the chocolate shakes to die for.” Still running her fingers over the bulk of his diapers and sensing the smoothness of the baby pants beneath his slacks, Sarah opted to pout. “I thought that you'd like it here, but if you don't like it, we'll finish our drinks and leave. Just don't take it out on them.” She nodded at her friends across the room.

“Don't worry, I'll be good.,” he laughed. “But at some point, we need to go over and say hi … you know, the whole 'hi, this is my boyfriend' routine? Nip the hospital rumor mill in the bud, so to speak.”

Ian reached for his beer. This was their first real date, and he had a serious case of the heebie-jeebies, but the alcohol helped. More alcohol would help even more, he decided.

“Oh, we will, we will … I guarantee you. Rita knows all about you, and I know that she's anxious to meet you.”

“You told her … everything?”

“Yes … and stop worrying about it,” she added in an exasperated tone. “Ian, how many times do I have to say it? We're professionals. You're my neighbor who has graduated to the exalted rank of boyfriend. You were wounded, it's left you incontinent, and you're in diapers. For the five of us, this is just another day at the office. No one here is going to question your manhood ...”

Except me, she perversely thought, and I'm going to keep my mouth shut until I get a handle on why your flag's not even flying at half mast when I'm changing you ...

“... so when we get together, please try and be gracious and charming. You can be, you know? Oh, you have your off moments, but for the most part you are far and away the sweetest person I've ever met. The sweetest and the most honest.”

But don't get me started on your fingers and tongue! God in Heaven! You play my A-spot like a concert pianist, and how can anyone get their tongue to go where yours does on my G-spot? Talk about premature ejaculation! You get me so wound up that all you have to do is breathe on my clit and I start to come … and come … and come. And then you lick mommy clean, and it starts all over again … they should give you the patent on foreplay!

Sarah could squirt with the best of them.

Sarah was squirming in her seat, and Ian definitely needed another beer. His eyes wandered about the room, seeking out Janis Joplin. He hoped that the food was as good as Sarah claimed.

“And besides,” Sarah went on, not realizing that Ian's attention had wandered. “I think that Rita and some of the others can help us with our little Monday through Friday problem. If I can put together a group to help me take care of you, we can take changing diapers out of your hands altogether.”

Which will make masturbation a tad difficult ...

Still squirming, Sarah gently but pointedly tapped the spot where she reckoned little Ian Junior was hibernating. From her point of view, one of the best things about the thick hospital diaper than Ian was now wearing was that it doubled as an effective chastity belt. Little Ian Junior wasn't going anywhere, not with the diaper as tightly pinned as a nurse with her many years of experience could make it.

For his part, Big Ian was still looking for Janis, but he had changed his mind about the beer. He was going to make it a pitcher. If he had realized that Sarah was scheming to deny him the ability to masturbate, he might have ordered a keg. . . . .

.  .  .  .

“Hi, Sarah,” Rita exclaimed, “it's good to see you outside the office. And you must be Ian. I'm Rita, by the way, and this is Candy. We've all heard a lot about you.”

The two nurses, one a bit older and one a bit younger than his girlfriend, had taken a strategic detour on their way back from the rest room. Rita's hand was outstretched. Ian took it, and to his credit, gave it a warm but gentlemanly shake.

“It's a pleasure to meet you both,” he said, “and I hope that we can get together with you and your friends (he nodded vaguely in the direction of Becky and Marge) at some point. And let me apologize for not getting up, but this table appears to be an adult version of a baby's high chair. We're locked in, I'm afraid ...”

Of course, by then with any luck I'll have passed out … 

"... I'm okay … I mean, I think my diaper is still up to the challenge ... but I'm worried about Sarah. What if she has to go?”

And that, my dear, is how you ambush the ambushers …

Ian looked fondly at his girlfriend who, for her part, was looking somewhat less fondly at him.

It was at this terribly awkward moment that Janis Joplin finally arrived. . . .

.  .  .  .

“Thank you, Ian,” Rita said with a quiet nod. “Yes, we all know that you are incontinent, and we all appreciate how awkward this can be for you. It's not easy to talk about, and it's very gracious of you to get it out of the way like this. And we'd love to join you. As for the table ...” Rita reached underneath, found the lever, and rolled it back. “We've been here before.”

Rita and Candy excused themselves, and made the long walk back to their own table.

. . . .

Sarah slowly shook her head. “I keep misjudging you,” she confessed. “And I apologize. I thought that you performed that little stunt to embarrass me, but you put Rita at ease. Thank you. She's a good friend, not just a colleague, and I want the two of you to be comfortable with each other.”

“She's a nice lady,” Ian agreed, “and your friend Candy is hot. Can I have her phone number?”

“Stop it, you big goof!” Sarah couldn't help herself-- another round of giggles was just over the horizon. “You are incorrigible … and I do need the bathroom. Don't run off …”

Sarah rushed away, leaving Ian very much to his own devices. He wondered if he could persuade one of the four amigas to change his now sodden diaper. But when he stood up and looked down, much to his surprise his seat was still dry. He honestly didn't know whether to feel disappointed, or relieved.

It was at this precise moment that both Jim and Janis returned, the one with their food and the other with his pitcher. The food looked good, the beer even better. He ran his hand over the cold glass, catching a bit of the foam in his fingers. He looked furtively around, and with no one watching, began delicately to lick his fingers clean.

Ian was drunk, but regrettably, only a little. He sincerely hoped that the pitcher would put him out of his misery.

And what the Hell is Ed Sullivan doing here?

. . . .

Sarah was hard at work. The cherry had somehow slipped all the way to the bottom of her shake, and she was using the mile-long spoon to nudge it to the surface. With an imaginary pat on the back for a job well done, she eased the cherry into her mouth. She bit down, swallowed, then delicately licked the spoon with the very tip of her tongue.

Little Ian Junior really appreciated her well-practiced technique.

Big Ian was staring fixedly at the spoon.

They were both jealous.

So easy, Sarah smirked, so easy.

“Here we are,” she lamented, “all but inseparable for over a week now, and you keep slipping through my fingers. How can I be so wrong about you so often?”

“Huh? Wrong about what?” Ian looked up from his burger, the ketchup smearing his chin. Sarah used her napkin to wipe him clean, not even aware of what she was doing. Treating Ian like a young toddler was rapidly becoming second nature to her.

“I've been thinking about it … a lot.” Having taken efficient care of the ants in her pants, Sarah had come back from the bathroom in a pensive mood, and she wanted to give voice to her thoughts, and to her feelings. “When you opened the door, I attacked and you retreated. A dominant and a submissive. It seemed so self-evident. And then, when I pointed out that you needed a diaper change, you didn't react. No denial, no phony outrage, and you didn't turn beet red with embarrassment. And now … Rita. You put her instantly at ease, and you did it so smoothly. So, what I've learned over the last week is that you are really, really good at rolling with the punches … but what does it mean? Are you just humoring me? Toying with me for your own amusement? Or are you genuinely submissive? I just don't get it. I mean, you had to give me a key to your apartment, because when I lock the mittens on you at bedtime, there's no way for you even to open the door to let me in come morning. And when I change your diaper, tuck you in and offer you what amounts to an adult sized pacifier, all you do is open your mouth wide, take it in, and start sucking. Not a word of protest that every day I'm treating you more and more like an infant. Is this what you want? Are you just a big baby, and have I been cast to play the role of your mommy?”

Ian nodded. He did not like where this conversation was headed, and he was still sober enough to realize that he needed to head Sarah off at the proverbial pass.

“You're right, Sarah.” Ian put down his half-eaten burger. “But only half-right. When you came pounding on the door, common sense told me that this was not the hill to die on.”

He reached for Sarah's hand, cradled it, and began to trace lazy circles on her palm. Sarah shivered with pleasure. Ian's touch was electric.

“But I am submissive, deeply so, and I'm very comfortable with the one-sided power dynamic in our relationship. I accept that, if this is all heading somewhere, if we stay together, it will be strictly on your terms. I'm fine with that, and I'm fine with being your 'wittle baby' as you so elegantly phrased it. I love having you change my diapers, wipe my messy bottom … I love it all … the attention, the pampering. I've never experienced anything like this before, and it's addictive. You keep me safe and warm, and what can I offer you in return? The divorce cleaned me out, and it will be years before I can even think about being financially comfortable. Hell, I can't even pay for this dinner! All I can do, if you'll let me, give me the chance, is try to make you happy. And I want that chance. I want to be the man who makes love to you, but I also want to be your wittle baby. I don't care how many people think this is weird because to me it feels like, for the very first time, my life is in balance. Ian wants to be the only man in your life, but he also wants to set free his inner child because …”

He paused, searching for words.

“... because the only way I will ever feel absolute trust in another human being is to become a baby, your baby … trusting you to look after my every need. And the bridge between the baby and the adult is an obsession with your breasts. Gee, what a surprise! Does it seem so terribly perverted that I fantasize about you lactating, cradling me, gently guiding my lips to latch on and drink your milk? I want this relationship … badly … and for what it's worth, I think that you want it too. I just wish that you could see what I see when I'm lying there, and you're changing my diaper … the tenderness in your eyes, the caring. The bond between us is real, Sarah, real and strong and growing. And I don't want it ever to end.”

“I'm glad, Ian, more than glad, because I do want this, but I also insist upon being in complete charge of this relationship. I want you to obey me, and not just because babies do what their mommies say, or they get spanked. I have to be in control because I will never knowingly do anything that is not in your best interest, which is something to which you have clearly given very little thought. If anything, your behavior is so self-destructive that ...”

Sarah broke off in mid-sentence, sensing that it was far too early to take him down this path. It would take much more than a week to win his trust.

“But I don't expect blind obedience,” she finished. “Stand up to me when you sincerely believe that I'm wrong, but don't ever willfully defy me. Believe me, I will know the difference, and you will not like the outcome. Do we have a deal?”

“We do,” he replied, wondering all the while if it was the beer that was doing the talking, or the roughly six inches of tightly pinned and extraordinarily frustrated flesh that dangled between his legs, stubborn flesh that so clearly had a will of its own. Little Ian Junior desperately wanted to come out and play, but the damn diaper was getting in the way.

And in the background, the music was louder, and a couple was dancing on stage. Ian thought that it sounded like Chuck Berry, but he wasn't quite sure.

Quickie historical quiz:

The music playing in the background at scene's end is Chuck Berry's

A. C'est La Vie

B. Teenage Wedding

C. You Never Can Tell

D. All of the above

E. None of the above

[Babypants]

LOVELY RITA (NOT THE METER MAID)

“We didn't say goodbye,” Ian astutely observed. They had crossed the bridge, forsaking the duchy of cheese for the kingdom of potholes. Minnesota, it was well known, had only two seasons-- winter, and road repair. It was winter, the potholes yawned, and the paranoid side of his nature was actively wondering whether Sarah was deliberately hitting each and every one of them on what laughingly passed for an interstate in this frozen land of 10,000 ice rinks.

“More like 17,000.” Ian was kind of, sort of, thinking out loud.

“What's that, baby?” Sarah's eyes were glued firmly to the road ahead. She had only busted one axle in the kingdom of potholes in ten years. She considered herself overdue, which was why she was driving her beater. The Mercedes, battery long since disconnected, was sitting out the winter in a converted barn in the far western suburbs. Like the Phoenix, it would rise from the ashes sometime in April.

And poor Ian's beater is down for the count, buried in a snowbank right outside my living room window. And it's his only car. Maybe I'll get it up and running for him come Spring … Or maybe not …

Sarah stole a quick glance at her boyfriend. He was plastered but, she suspected, not nearly as much as he wanted to be. Still, he had passed the test. Rita had given her a quick thumbs up, so they were good to go.

I like the idea of him not having wheels. It makes him so much more dependent …

THWACK!!! The right side of the car bounced hard, and more pee squirted into Ian's now well and truly soaked diaper. “Sarah,” he whined, “I need my diaper changed.”

“I know, baby, I know. But you'll just have to hold on a little while longer.”

Sarah had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. The six of them had variously walked and staggered out together, and Sarah and her friends had let Ian get just far enough ahead so that they could survey the damage. His pants were ruined, his baby pants having given up the fight at some point in the evening. But she did hope to save his winter coat, and she wasn't at all worried about the car seat. She had taken the necessary precautions.

“I should have changed back there, at the … at the …DANGER ZONE?” His memories were getting a bit fuzzy.

“DEAD ZONE,” Sarah corrected. “And we tried, baby, remember? But your changing pad is pretty small, too small to lay you out inside a Wisconsin toilet. 'Gross' doesn't even begin to cover it.”

Wisconsin's bars all had toilets. The law was strict, and strictly enforced. Most of them were even inside. But they were not for the faint of heart.

Sarah judged the evening so far to have gone very well. She and her friends had set him up, but it was obvious that Ian didn't suspect a thing. She had said nothing as the beer kept coming, gambling that the alcohol would get him to drop his guard. And it had. His admission, his deep-seated desire to be both her lover and her widdle baby, had been heartfelt. Ian, she now knew, was perfect for her, because Sarah harbored no illusions about her own needs. A single woman in her early thirties didn't have that luxury. She couldn't compete with a twenty year old fresh out of some nursing program, which is where the jerks went shopping when they came to the conclusion that their wives had reached their sell by date. And she most definitely did not like what she saw when she looked ten years into the future. No. Ian was perfect, or as close to perfect as she was ever likely to get. A dominant needed a submissive, not a narcissist whose ego would forever get in her way. Sarah wanted obedience, not competition, but the tricky part of it was that she also wanted a man whom she could respect. And Ian, she had concluded, fit that bill as well. No Robert Redford, but decent looking … she was particularly taken with the unruly mop that passed for the hair on his head. She was forever sweeping it out of his eyes. Not simply bright but quick on his feet, and with a wonderful sense of humor born of a genuinely jaded outlook on life. God, how he could make her laugh.

She had asked him about the craziest thing that he had ever done, and what she got for her trouble was Hong Kong, in Technicolor and Panavision. The search for Suzie Wong … getting drunk and being thrown into the street … passing out … waking up in his hotel room, thanks to a kind but anonymous policeman who must have found the room key in his pocket. It was all so real, and she had believed every word of it! The next morning, she had raced to get him to his office a bit early, so that she could rush to the hospital, take over the staff room, and regale her friends with the lurid details of her new boyfriend's R&R visit to Hong Kong. Her increasingly bright-eyed colleagues had roared with laughter of their own, and in the manner of gossip mills everywhere, the story had soon climbed from her own third floor to Rita's seventh. At lunch, more and more of her friends drifted into the cafeteria from every nook and cranny of this vast, cavernous building, everyone wanting to know who the guy was, how they'd met, and the big one, of course … where was this going? Was he the One?

And Sarah had held nothing back. They had met, she warned them, in the theater of the absurd, and she gave a blow by blow description of the stereo from Hell, and the puppy like eagerness with which her poor neighbor had sought to placate her. But confusion took the place of gleeful laughter when she described how she had taken him firmly by the hand and led him upstairs for an overdue diaper change. She could see it in their faces as she looked down the long table, the same doubt that had overtaken her and instantly led her to jump to the wrong conclusion. And the laughter died when she described what the military had left buried in his spine. A lot of army nurses had resigned their commissions at war's ignominious end, and they had come home to hospitals such as this, bringing with them embellished tales of the goings on at places like China Beach. They all knew the drill-- a MASH unit stabilized, but the badly wounded were taken out of theater to be reevaluated and treated in Japan, Hawaii or stateside at a facility like Walter Reed. It spoke volumes that Ian had not been scheduled for additional surgery.

Unprompted, one of her friends asked if he had talked about the war, about what he had experienced in combat. Sarah sadly shook her head no, and all around the table other heads nodded in understanding. So many of them had been there, and the wall had frustrated them so many times. Sarah described Ian's apartment, the telling absence of family photos, no hint of his service to his country, and the vivid and deeply disturbing painting of the sea giving up its dead. More heads nodded, the implications stark. Without words, Sarah was asking for help, making it clear that Ian had, however unwittingly, become her responsibility. Her gaze had fallen on Rita, in reality a charge nurse in the psych ward with an advanced degree in clinical psychology. And equally unspoken, Rita had simply bobbed her head: she was there, and she would help. Sarah would not have to do this by herself.

And it was to Rita Stevenson's town home in a decidedly upscale neighborhood that they were now driving.

. . . .

Ian opened his eyes and glanced out the window, then frowned. “This isn't the way home. Where … where are we going?”

“To Rita's.”

Sarah had thought long and hard about this moment. She had decided to jump on the first opportunity that presented itself, and equally to keep her response short and sweet. Ian had to learn that this wasn't a game, and that she meant it when she said that she expected obedience, and did not want it to come laced with backtalk.

“But I don't want ...”

“I don't care what you want,” cutting him off before he could get another word out. “This is a tradition, and you are now a part of it. We celebrate the end of another brutal week, toast the lives that we've saved, mourn the lives that we've lost, and then we go to Rita's to kick back, relax and, if you want, get more drunk. Just about anything goes … BUT YOU ARE NOT GOING TO WHINE AND CARRY ON LIKE SOME PETULANT TWO YEAR OLD, DO YOU HEAR ME? YOU ARE NOT GOING TO RUIN THIS EVENING FOR MY FRIENDS!” Sarah's voice has jumped at least two octaves.

“You are in big trouble, Ian,” she said more calmly. “Big trouble. When we get home, you are going straight over my lap for a long overdue spanking. Do you want to double down and have me graduate from a hand spanking to the ping pong paddle that's in a drawer … the paddle with your name on it? We have an agreement, remember? Heh … how could you forget … IT'S NOT EVEN TWO HOURS OLD! You do not whine. You do not talk back. You obey me, and you do so without question unless you have an absolutely compelling reason to disobey. Am I getting through to you?”

Ian sank deeper into the cushion, but there was nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. This is not, he thought, how first dates were supposed to go.

. . . .

Sarah pulled up to the curb, and the first thing that Ian noticed was the sheer number of cars in the cul de sac. In fact, they had had to park so far away that Ian wasn't even sure what house was party central. The one thing he knew for certain was that he was about to set out on yet another safari in a very, very wet diaper. The prospect inspired a passing but nevertheless bizarre thought …

If we're outside long enough, can a pissy diaper freeze solid?

Clumsily following Rita up the road through slush that turned every outing into a muddy adventure, one alcohol inspired bit of whimsy led straight to another …

How do you remove a diaper that's frozen solid to a guy's butt? With a blowtorch?

Ian really, really wanted to go home.

“Are you going to be a good boy for mommy?” Sarah's tone reeked of condescension, which momentarily neutralized the alcohol flowing so copiously through his blood stream. He was in big trouble … he was wet … he was shivering … and he somehow knew that he was about to become the center of attention for a gaggle of nurses who already knew far too much of his life story.

What else could go wrong? .

. . .

“Door's open,” Rita shouted. Ian followed Sarah inside, and looked around. Cramped entryway, with stairs leading both up and down. The classic split level entry design that he had already surveyed at three dinner parties to which he had been invited by different faculty wives. Unattached professors in their early thirties were a hot commodity. Shoes everywhere, and Sarah was in the process of adding hers to the pile.

“Let me help you take yours off, baby,” she whispered. “We do not want to track slush onto Rita's carpet.”

Ian went to sit on the steps and get to it, but Sarah held up her hand to stop him in his tracks. “Baby, the dam has long since burst. Try not to sit down until we get you changed, because you are going to leave pee stains everywhere.” One by one, Ian lifted his feet so that Sarah could untie and remove his shoes. He felt exactly like the two year old that he was rapidly becoming.

“Now remember, baby, be polite, and be attentive. And above all, be respectful. Think of the women here as your aunties, and never forget that paddles come in twos, and that Rita has the second one with your name on it somewhere in this house.”

“What,” he squeaked. “Are you seriously telling me that you have given Rita permission to spank me?”

“Yes.”

“And the others?”

“Yes. Ian, this has all been prearranged. My friends are giving me the night off. In a few minutes, one of them will be changing your diaper, and you are going to smile nicely and thank her for her kindness. And if you bitch and moan, you are going right over her lap. So, don't. Just sit back … lay back … and enjoy being the center of attention … loving attention. Think of it like a trip to a very expensive spa, where the entire staff is devoted to fulfilling your every need. Only this visit is cost-free.”

“Yeah, sure, the only thing that I'm going to lose is my self-respect.”

“That is strictly up to you. No one here is going to belittle you; the worst that can happen is that someone's maternal instinct runs a little wild, and you end up being openly treated like a baby. If that happens, do you think that you are going to win anyone over by going off the deep end? Why not play along? If your ego is secure, a little role-playing isn't going to rock the boat, and what you will win at the end of the evening is friends for life, a group of highly trained professional women who will become your fiercest advocates, and who will bend heaven and earth to help me keep you safe.”

“Sarah, okay … all right … I'll play along, but I did not, repeat did not, sign on for this. All right, I admit it, I didn't read the fine print in our agreement. In retrospect, I was far too casual about this … it simply never occurred to me that you would go this far. You spanking me? Yeah, I guess that's reasonable … I'm good with that. But lovely Rita the meter maid? No. Candy? Yeah, maybe Candy, but look me in the eye and tell me that you are okay with Candy changing my diaper, never mind spanking me. The competition's right in your face! Are you blind?”

Ian was sobering up fast, and he wasn't happy about it.

“I will deal with Candy, Ian; she is not your problem. And if she wins the lottery, you will treat her with the same respect that you would anybody else.”

“The lottery?”

“You haven't met Vickie and Reiko yet, but you will in a few moments. You're soaked, your pants are a mess, so very, very shortly there is going to be a drawing, and the winner gets the highly dubious honor of changing you into a nice, dry diaper, plus the far more banal task of trying to figure out how to salvage the disaster zone that your overheated imagination somehow regards as decent clothing. If you want to worry about anything, worry about the very real possibility that you are going to spend the rest of the night sitting around in nothing more than a diaper and your baby pants. Oh, but if you treat Rita nicely, she may just be able to come up with a onesie in your size. I gave her your measurements, and she raided the hospital stores, so it is in your best interest to play the suck-up.”

Sarah had to all but frog march Ian up the stairs.

. . . .

“In here,” Rita waved from the dining room. Drinks in hand, Becky, Marge and Candy were comfortably sprawled on two large sofas in the living room, a TV blaring in the background. Sarah smiled at the room in general as she soldiered on. Ian bowed slightly in Marge's direction, figuring that she was the senior of the three. Two other nurses were seated at the dining room table, one of them an Asian woman whom he reckoned to be in her mid-twenties. The other was clearly from the same brood as the four amigas. Both rose from their seats, looking to their hostess to introduce them.

“Ian, I'd like you to meet the last two members of our tight little circle. This is Vickie Robinson...”

“Hi, Ian.” She offered her hand, and Ian clasped it in both of his own.

“It's a pleasure to meet you at last,” Ian replied, his tone warm, insincere, but hopefully convincing.

Bar bait, he instantly decided. The cocktail lounges in the airport hotels along the Strip were overflowing with phony-baloney blondes, predators on the prowl for easy prey. A gainfully employed single man in his thirties needed to tread warily.

A needy nerd, Vickie decided, but with a very spankable ass!

“And this is Reiko Matsumura,” Rita went on, wrapping an arm around her diminutive colleague.

“Konbanwa, Matsumura-san. Genkidesuka?”

“O kake-sa made genkidesu,” surprise lighting up the young Japanese woman's delicate features.

"Anata mo,” she politely queried in return.

“Omutsu-gee,” Ian laughed while offering her a polite bow. His voice had fallen a full octave at the end, drawing out the last syllable, signaling his desire both to honor her and to be playful.

Reiko clapped her hands in delight. “Ian, you speak my native language beautifully, and your accent is perfect!

“Arigatou gozaimasu,” Ian again formally replied, offering her a second small bow.

“Reiko, what are the two of you on about?” Rita hadn't understood a word.

“Oh, we were just exchanging greetings, and when I asked Ian how he was doing, he said ...” Reiko burst out laughing. “He said that he needed his diaper changed!”

Ian could hear laughter erupting all around him, laughter and the warm clapping of hands, but when he stole a quick glance at Sarah, he knew that she was appraising his performance, knowing it all to be an act. Sarah nodded her head ever so slightly, acknowledging the skillful way in which he had won over the room so effortlessly. People who could poke fun at themselves found it easy to make friends.

“Well, Ian, from the looks of your slacks, I'd say that we need to get you out of your clothes, clean you up, and get you into a nice, dry diaper and a fresh pair of baby pants pronto.” Rita had given him the proverbial once-over, from head to toe. “So, take off your overcoat,and your jacket, and we'll get the draw under way.”

While Ian began to disrobe, Rita fetched a bowl in which he could see several small pieces of crudely folded paper.

“Everyone here except Sarah has written her first initial on a scrap of paper and dropped it into the bowl,” Rita explained, handing the bowl to Sarah. “Ian, you will draw a name, and whomever you choose will have the delightful task of changing your diaper, and the solemn task of sitting in judgment on your clothing, deciding with no right of appeal whether it shall be dispatched to the washing machine, or to the trash bin. Let the drawing begin!”

Rita and her two playmates joined the others in the living room, leaving Sarah to stand in the doorway, the bowl gripped tight. Ian took his place beside her, nodded vaguely to the assembled throng, his fingers dancing among the scraps of paper, and then he slowly, slowly drew one from the bowl … opened it …

“And the winner is … Ree-tah,” he loudly proclaimed into the teeth of a chorus of boos and groans.

Ian frowned. He was suspicious by nature, and he really wondered. Before Sarah could retreat, he hastily reached back into the bowl and pulled out a second scrap. He opened it... “Rita,” he announced, nodding solemnly; “this lottery has been rigged!!!!”

“That's right,” Rita screamed. “I go first, but everyone will get a chance to diaper the baby! We shall ply him with booze, rivers and rivers of booze, and oceans of pee will crash on the shore! The only question remaining is who shall get to clean his dirty bottom, for Sarah has assured me that, after consuming a mountain of grease at dinner, it is only a matter of time before the volcano erupts!!!”

Cheers erupted all over the living room, and Ian couldn't resist. He pulled Rita roughly into his arms, pressing his soggy diaper and ruined slacks hard into her skirt, before breaking out in impromptu verse …

“Lovely Rita meter maid

May I inquire discreetly

When are you free to take some tea with meeeee ...”

More boos rocked the room, and then someone threw a paperback novel in their direction.

. . . .

“This is the guest bedroom,” Rita noted. She had led Ian swiftly down the hall. She had a hospital changing pad spread out on the bed, and an open but still empty diaper pail at its foot. There was a ping pong paddle hanging on the wall above the headboard. Ian gulped, and hesitantly pointed in its direction. “Is that … uh … is that what I think it is?”

“I don't know, Ian; what do you think it is?”

“Ah … uhm … well ...” Ian didn't know it, but he was shuffling his feet like a four year old who had just got caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

Rita thought he looked adorable.

“Uhm, Sarah said that she was going to spank me when we get home … a hand spanking, I guess because I've been mouthy. But she warned me that she would paddle me if I did anything to ruin your evening. And she … she said that you had a paddle too, and wouldn't hesitate to use it on me. Is that true?”

“It is,” Rita replied simply. “And you should know that at least two of The Circle are looking forward to spanking you. They tell me that the orgasm is unbelievably intense, and I believe them.”

“Vickie.” It was a statement of fact.

“Yes,” Rita conceded, “but you will have to figure out the second one for yourself. On the whole, though, it's probably better that you don't know. Now, let's get you out of these nasty clothes.” Rita removed his shirt and undershirt. Both went into the diaper pail. Then she unbuckled and unzipped his trousers. Cautiously easing the soaked material over his baby pants, she knelt and, bidding him to use her shoulders for balance, got him to raise his feet so that she could free his legs. A brief glance told her that the pants were a write-off, but the socks also went into the pail. She would empty out his pockets later.

Ian was now standing quietly before her, clad only in a visibly leaky diaper and vinyl pants. He remained silent as she lowered the pants, noting with satisfaction that Sarah had used the four pin method. This was why Ian was experiencing so little diaper sag. The diaper went straight into the pail, and she put her hand on his chest. A gentle push was enough to get him to sit and, without bidding, to lie back on the changing pad. The vinyl pants came next, now sliding easily down his legs.

“Ian, I want you to work with me here.”

He looked up at her, clearly not understanding what she meant.

Rita sighed, sat down at his side, and took his hand in her own. Her grip was gentle but firm. “Ian, what do you think this party is about?”

“You're blowing off steam,” he said instantly.

“Yes and no. What do you think is the worst thing that can happen to a doctor or nurse?”

“Losing a patient.” Too easy.

“Not quite … it's losing a patient … doing irreparable harm … because we make a mistake. Fear of it haunts us, Ian, all the good people who should be in this profession-- and it's why the divorce rate is so high, and the alcoholism. A very real Sword of Damocles forever hangs over our heads.” She squeezed his hand more tightly, willing him to understand. “When you told Sarah that the MASH team chose to leave the bullet nudging your spinal cord, an alarm bell went off in her head, and when she told us, that alarm bill began ringing hospital wide. We're a family, Ian, and we look out for one another, help as best we can in the bad moments. And now you are a part of our family.” Rita was shaking her head, again willing him to understand. “Do you think that anyone here is so callous or … or, so wasted that she would spank you capriciously? Blindly? Knowing that a single misplaced stroke could put you in a wheelchair? God, Ian, don't you get it? When Sarah told us that you would need to be disciplined, we paired off in teams .. all of us … and we spanked each other! We took notes, isolated the safe swats from the dangerous, and we sat down and talked it out as a group. All of us, even Vickie, is on board. You will be punished, and the punishment will hurt … it's not a punishment if it doesn't … but you will never be in danger … never!”

Ian began to cry, silent tears dropping onto his drunken cheeks. Rita gently caught them on her fingertips.

“And that's why I need you to work with me now, Ian … the simple act of changing your diaper has risk, but if we work as a team, we can make the risk go away. Now, I'm going to push on your knees, help you ease them up so that you can hold them up for me. Then, I'm going to slide a fresh diaper under you, wipe you, powder you, and then we will lower your legs and I'll wipe and powder your genitals, pull your diaper up, and pin it … four pins, two at the hips and two at the thighs. Then, I'm going to pull a fresh pair of vinyl pants up your legs, but to get past your hips I will need you to lift … straight up. But under no circumstances are you to turn, however slightly, to left or right. Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” he whispered. Ian took elaborate care changing his own diapers, but he had made mistakes, and every misstep had ended in a painful jolt along the sciatic nerve. He too had a Sword of Damocles hanging over his head. He never tried to hide from the fact that the jolts terrified him.

“Then, let's begin,” and Rita pressed on his legs to start the process.

When they were finished, Rita got a firm grip on Ian's hands and eased him up, taking extreme care not to twist his torso in the slightest.

“We make a good team,” Ian offered. And they hugged.

“Only because you're a good patient,” Rita smiled. “But then, you've got a good teacher.”

Rita once again sat on the bed beside him. “We've got a lot of this figured out. Sending someone to your office at lunch time to change you is a piece of cake, and likewise at three … that's our shift change. The one we haven't got a handle on is mid-morning. Right now, for that one, you'll be on your own.” Ian nodded.

“And now,” Rita continued, “I have a really big favor to ask you. But please, don't say yes if this is too much for you.”

He studied her, the curiosity written all over his face.

“Your first spanking … the one Sarah is giving you? I'd like you to receive it in the living room later tonight, with everyone watching.”

“Why” was all Ian could get out.

“Because, as surreal as this must sound, we all want to evaluate Sarah's performance. In clinical terms, we want to study how she responds to your cries. Will she know when it's safe to proceed, or time to back off? The only way she'll know for sure is if you are working with her … guiding her. It sounds insane, but she will be relying on you to manage your spanking. You have to work as a team, just as we worked as a team a few minutes ago. And you have to be honest, not cheat even around the edges, because the spanking cannot stop until you show genuine contrition. But more than anything else, you can't play the macho man, guide her as an act of male pride to do something that would cause lasting damage. Ian, she won't admit it, not even to herself, but she loves you … and she's fallen so hard and so fast that it's almost frightening. And you can destroy her. Don't. Don't run away from your feelings, don't hide … share everything that you feel, openly and honestly. Can you do this?”

Not when I'm sober … no fucking way!

"In vino veritas?” He was offering Rita a deal, this for that.

“In vino veritas,” she agreed.

They hugged a second time, two strangers who would never be strangers again. Rita had left a onesie on the headboard. She would finish dressing him, and then they would rejoin The Circle.

[Bluebird67]

These folk are insanely sane! Or vice versa. You have done an amazing job here- congratulations!

[Babypants]

2 hours ago, Bluebird67 said:

These folk are insanely sane! Or vice versa. You have done an amazing job here- congratulations!

Thank you.  There are plenty of potholes on the road ahead, but for those who may be wondering, no one in this story is on drugs-- unless you consider life itself to be the ultimate opiate.

[CCApril]

Great job with this story. It is like an older version of Stranger Things. Lots of fun references. You even have a trip to a creepy dimension. Everyone from Minnesota believes Wisconsin is some sort of icky dimension you sometimes accidentally wind up in. The Beatles references are great. Hitting him with the paperback, another deliberate or accidental reference? I hope some of the younger readers can follow along.

Ian has played followed the leader from the beginning. He was not even really embarrassed by his initial discovery.  He has so much going on in his head right now. He is really going to need someone like Rita when all the things in his mind start coming out. It is awesome that Sarah can reach out for help.

I like all the nurse support for our veteran but it does seem odd that they take to spankings so easily. Hopefully, we will get into why that is later. Looking forward to the next chapter.

April

[kerry]

Very nice start to a highly unusual story. We don't often get period pieces around here. 🙂

Why was there no trivia question after Ch 3 though? 😉

BTW: Ch 1, I believe, would be Playtex, and Ch 2 is all of the above.

 

[007specialk]

I really enjoyed reading this Story. Also enjoyed the meaning full words. Which I looked up as I am not that great in spelling and language. I look forward to reading more and learning Thank you....

[Babypants]

19 hours ago, kerry said:

Very nice start to a highly unusual story. We don't often get period pieces around here. 🙂

Why was there no trivia question after Ch 3 though? 😉

BTW: Ch 1, I believe, would be Playtex, and Ch 2 is all of the above.

 

I had two possibilities for the trivia question, but wanted to get some sense of who is reading this tale before choosing between them.  So, here we go:

Quickie historical quiz:

Lovely Rita, Meter Maid is a track on which Beatles album?

A. A Hard Day's Night

B. Help

C. Revolver

D. Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band

E. Magical Mystery Tour

Your answer to #1 is incorrect, your answer to #2 spot on.  Thanks for playing, and thanks for reading.    

[Sweet Baby Katie]

Fantastic story.  I do not know how it could possibly be better.  Regarding the Chapter 1 quiz: for the time period (“Rumours” released in  1977) of this story (guessing late 1970s or early 1980s, Vietnam vet after lengthy recovery from serious wound followed by probably at least 3 years of graduate school, is that his baby pants were Comco.  I don’t think Gary was around then.  It would be nice if the old Playtex “Party Pants” had been made in adult sizes, perhaps in a more relaxed, parallel universe.  Once again, this is a very creative and delightful addition to the corpus of good adult-baby fiction.  (I am hoping that deep in her heart Sarah wants a baby girl to dress in adorable clothes… but whatever direction you take Ian in will be perfect.)

[kerry]

On 4/23/2023 at 10:52 AM, Babypants said:

I had two possibilities for the trivia question, but wanted to get some sense of who is reading this tale before choosing between them.  So, here we go:

Quickie historical quiz:

Lovely Rita, Meter Maid is a track on which Beatles album?

A. A Hard Day's Night

B. Help

C. Revolver

D. Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band

E. Magical Mystery Tour

Your answer to #1 is incorrect, your answer to #2 spot on.  Thanks for playing, and thanks for reading.    

Easy one! D! 🙂

[Babypants]

On 4/22/2023 at 9:46 AM, CCApril said:

Great job with this story. It is like an older version of Stranger Things. Lots of fun references. You even have a trip to a creepy dimension. Everyone from Minnesota believes Wisconsin is some sort of icky dimension you sometimes accidentally wind up in. The Beatles references are great. Hitting him with the paperback, another deliberate or accidental reference? I hope some of the younger readers can follow along.

Ian has played followed the leader from the beginning. He was not even really embarrassed by his initial discovery.  He has so much going on in his head right now. He is really going to need someone like Rita when all the things in his mind start coming out. It is awesome that Sarah can reach out for help.

I like all the nurse support for our veteran but it does seem odd that they take to spankings so easily. Hopefully, we will get into why that is later. Looking forward to the next chapter.

April

I'm really glad that you caught the paperback novel line.  It's a throwaway technique in which the author steps outside the story for a moment, taps the reader on the shoulder, and says: "hey, are we having fun yet?"

With regard to spanking ... as you well know, I am not fond of stories in which the architecture rests on suspension not simply of belief but of common sense.  And yet Ian is on the verge of submitting to his first spanking without objection, and his second will follow fairly shortly thereafter.  Hopefully, this will not turn out to be a case of failing to practice what one preaches.  Rather, I'm testing a belief here that tropes that fail in a story written bottom up (totem - plot - character) can be effective in a story written top down (character - plot - totem).  We'll see how it all works out.  

2 hours ago, kerry said:

Easy one! D! 🙂

Correct again!

[Babypants]

On 4/23/2023 at 4:25 PM, Sweet Baby Katie said:

Fantastic story.  I do not know how it could possibly be better.  Regarding the Chapter 1 quiz: for the time period (“Rumours” released in  1977) of this story (guessing late 1970s or early 1980s, Vietnam vet after lengthy recovery from serious wound followed by probably at least 3 years of graduate school, is that his baby pants were Comco.  I don’t think Gary was around then.  It would be nice if the old Playtex “Party Pants” had been made in adult sizes, perhaps in a more relaxed, parallel universe.  Once again, this is a very creative and delightful addition to the corpus of good adult-baby fiction.  (I am hoping that deep in her heart Sarah wants a baby girl to dress in adorable clothes… but whatever direction you take Ian in will be perfect.)

And Comco it is!  They were just a few minutes away from the house, so whenever I needed something, I just drove over and walked in.  I still have quite a collection of their diapers and vinyl pants to hand; indeed, I'm sitting in one of their pants right now.  I also have a last, unopened pack of Suprima krankenhosen dating back to a stint in West Germany in 1980-- probably a collector's item today.  Ah, but like you, I remember well the Playtex latex line.  Playtex was the obvious choice for my mom, and when I took over diapering myself at age 14, I just soldiered on.  I was in my late teens when I made the switch to vinyl, starting with the adult sized Gerber baby pants.  Great memories.

You've got the date range for the story right.  As we go forward, I'll scatter enough bread crumbs to make it possible to pin the date down quite precisely.  Thanks for reading.  

[Babypants]

SATURDAY NIGHT FEVER

Ian spotted a gap on the couch between Becky and Marge, and dropped into it with a resounding splat as the air trapped inside his vinyl pants shrieked in protest. He wrapped his arms around the two ladies, and then resumed his interrupted serenade.

“Got the bill and Rita paid it

Took her home and nearly made it

Sitting on the sofa with a sister or two

Oh lovely Rita meter maid

Where would I be without youuuu”

Ian stopped dead in his tracks when, with impeccable timing, Rita walked in from the kitchen with his next beer. He reckoned that a few twelve packs would go far to dull the pain heading squarely his way. Of course, he'd be peeing like the python to whom he had once fed endless bottles of beer on a lazy afternoon in the far north of Thailand-- but wasn't every one of these lovely meter maids supposed to change his widdle diapee at least once?

Without warning, Ian started to laugh, and once he got started he simply couldn't stop. He smacked his thighs over and over again, everyone in the room convinced that he had taken drunken leave of his senses. But Ian was thinking about his beloved Pete, remembering the full on panic when Ratana's baby had disappeared next door, everyone running around yelling and screaming, certain that the twenty-one foot long python had graduated from eating rats to eating babies, the panic only subsiding when Ratana's mother had returned home from the market stalls with the baby safe in her arms. And the elephant? THE ELEPHANT? The poor beast had been tethered about twenty yards downstream when Pete had let loose. Ian had sat there, his back pressed hard against the bale of hay, totally wasted, empty bottles of Singha scattered round, watching the swelling torrent of python piss wash over the hard packed earth, reaching the corral, engulfing poor Toby's hooves. And, God bless him, the elephant had never missed a beat, just kept on placidly hoovering up the succulent grass that they had harvested in the rice paddies overlooking the Mekong.

Ian stopped in mid-laugh, his gaze riveted on his crouch, the hot piss pouring out of him, his thick, thirsty hospital diaper clearly holding its own. He looked around for Rita, spotted her, favored her with a wolfish grin while his right hand got to work, experimentally poking the onesie here and poking the onesie there …

Khor thot krap. Hong naam yuu nai krap?

Thinking about Pete had set Ian off, but he didn't have a clue, and neither did Rita.

It was Reiko who saved the day. “He's speaking Thai,” she laughed; “he wants to know where the bathroom is.” Ian's laughter was infectious, and now she just couldn't stop. “I think … I think he needs another diaper change,” she managed to blurt out, punching the couch over and over again in a vain attempt to get herself under control. Reiko liked Suntory, and she kept a goodly supply in one of Rita's kitchen cabinets. No one expected Rita to foot the bill for the more than fifty parties that she hosted annually; it was strictly BYOB, and they all chipped in generously to reward the occasional male stripper.

“What? But I just changed him,” Rita protested with an absolutely straight face.

And that set off the whole room.

“He's plastered,” someone observed.

“Absolutely shit-faced is more like it!”

“How the hell do you know Thai? Aren't you Japanese?” This one was aimed at Reiko.

“I flew down to Bangkok during Golden Week, for the double eyelid surgery ...”

“The what?”

“Double eyelid surgery. We Asian girls come into the world with only one eyelid, which makes it hard to compete with you gaijin for the hunks. So, we save up our money and fly off to India or Thailand to make good nature's mistake. The first thing you've got to learn in any foreign country is how to get to the toilet!”

“The truth dawns,” Becky shrieked. “You've got the hots for Ted Norris … what's your plan … how are you going to seduce him?”

“I have an announcement to make,” Ian slurred from his throne, his arms still wrapped around two of the amigas. “Sarah says that she's going to spank me when we get home … a real horsewhipping, it sounds like. She says that I've been behaving like a brat, and that she's fed up with my behavior. Well, guilty as charged … I am (burp) a brat … I love being a brat, and I probably deserve what's coming to me.”

Ian belched-- a long, deep, infinitely satisfying belch. Leaning forward, elbows now on his knees, his eyes roamed from one raptly attentive face to the next. “But first, I owe each and every one of you an apology. When I walked in the door, I thought that Sarah had tricked me into becoming a cheap circus act … free entertainment for a bunch of frustrated hens who needed a fall guy to take the weekend punches that you couldn't throw at your bosses. And I was wrong.”

“It's okay, baby, not to worry!” Vickie hoisted her bottle, took a long pull, and then saluted him. “WE'LL TAKE IT OUT ON YOUR ASS!”

“ME FIRST,” Candy screamed, beer spraying onto her ultra tight halter top. “You have to share, Sarah; we all want a piece of his ass! Even Marge!”

“Yep,” Marge agreed. She had been quietly nursing a rather nice chardonnay. “And I'm going to take my piece, frame it, and hang it on the office wall.” She favored Ian with a warm smile. Sitting next to her in his cute little onesie, flooding his diaper … Marge was beginning to feel very maternal, in a kinky sort of way. Before anyone else could beat her to the punch, she stood up and yanked Ian to his feet. “Come on, babykins, it's time for auntie Marge to change your stinkie diaper!” Chardonnay still in hand, she dragged him off to the bedroom.

. . . .

Marge and Ian returned to a room alive with chatter, the gathering having moved on to a well lubricated and very detailed dissection of the relative hunkiness of this Resident and that. It was readily apparent that Ted Norris was the front runner, but Jim Stone and Derek Eastman were charging hard on the outside. Ian was about to park his butt in his accustomed spot when Marge blocked him with an outstretched arm. She was looking down at the couch, which now sported a prominent pee stain.

“Isn't he a little under dressed,” Vickie queried with a malicious grin. Ian was wearing a bulging diaper and still another fresh pair of baby pants, but the onesie had disappeared.

“His onesie was soaked through, and I couldn't find a spare. Will somebody please bring me a wet washcloth? We need to take care of this stain before it sets … and we need to find the baby a vacant seat.”

“Oh, he can sit on my lap,” Becky said. Ian was standing right in front of her, so all she had to do was reach out and grab his arm. “I just love it when babies crawl onto my lap, and start bouncing. What about you, baby cakes? Would you like to go bouncy, bouncy in auntie Becky's lap?” Becky was seductively patting one of her thighs, and Ian couldn't wait to take her up on the offer. Fearing that Sarah would cry halt any second now, he got down as fast as he could, wriggled around a bit, and then laid his head on aunt Becky's shoulder.

Should I suck my thumb, or would that be a bridge too far? Decisions … decisions … decisions … God, how I hate making decisions!

But then aunt Becky wrapped her arms around him, and gently started patting his back. Ian knew exactly how to take advantage of so tender a moment.

There's got to be a burp in here somewhere!

Burp.

. . . .

In vino veritas …

Ian had stalled and stalled, putting the moment off as long as he could. But he and Rita had struck a deal, and Ian did not trade in broken promises. It was time. Ian sat upright, and looked around the room. He was amazed to discover that he was no longer the center of attention. The Circle had a life of its own. Ian made eye contact with Rita and tilted his head, the gesture asking the unspoken question. Rita simply nodded.

Taking a long, slow breath, Ian cleared his throat loud enough to get everyone's attention. “I … uh … there's something that I need to say. When Rita was changing me, she set me straight about a couple of things. She … uh … she reminded me of something that I've already learned the hard way-- that for a guy like me, diaper changes are risky business, especially the messy ones. But what I didn't know until I met Sarah … until I came here tonight … is that it doesn't have to be this way. I don't have to do this alone; there are some really wonderful people willing to help me, and by working as a team we can make the risk go away.”

Ian reached up and wiped the tears that had begun to run down his cheeks. “And then she told me … she told me that all of you paired off and spanked one another, took notes, and conducted a kind of autopsy to decide what Sarah could and could not do. So, I'm sitting here, more ashamed right now than I can remember being in a long, long time. I forgot that you are professionals, in a profession that makes my job seem like a walk in the park. I made assumptions, and none of them were warranted. I'm sorry.”

Ian turned to look at Sarah. “I don't make promises lightly, and I try as best I can to honor my commitments. Earlier tonight, I made one to Rita. She wants you to spank me here, Sarah, in front of everyone. Granted, I still can't quite wrap my head around the notion that they want to grade your technique, but there it is. It sounds like a good idea, but it's not my call. I'm through undermining you, not because I have some kinky desire to be spanked or sent to the corner, but because any fool can see that your judgment is better than mine … a lot better. So, it's up to you.”

Sarah crossed the room, and knelt on the floor before him. She grasped his hands in hers, and looked deep into his eyes. “Thank you, Ian; I am so very proud of you.” She reached up and flicked the hair out of his eyes.

He needs a haircut. Of all the things to think about in this moment … but he needs a haircut.

“We'll give Rita her wish.” Sarah leaned forward, and kissed him gently on the cheek.

“I'll need to do my time out first,” he said, trying to lighten the moment, “because I need to down a hell of a lot more beer before we do this. And no, it's not to dull the pain, although it will probably help. It's because of something else that Rita hammered home … that I need to lower my defenses and let you in, share my feelings with you. I'm … I'm not ready to do that … I don't know if I'll ever be ready to do that! There's so much about me that you don't know, so many dark places inside me that I never visit. I'm so afraid ...”

“I know,” Sarah cut in, her voice soft and warm. “When we first met, a curtain came down, and you have never raised it. It's always there, separating us. And behind the curtain, there's a wall, and at times it seems impossibly thick and so very high. And I can't tear it down, nor would I even if I had the power to do so. This is for you and you alone. But I will be here waiting on this side of the wall, and I shall wait for however long it takes. When I have gained your trust, the wall will come down. I promise you, it will come down. If we trust one another, if we have faith in each other, it will come down.” She kissed him again. . . . .

Hours later, with dawn creeping over the horizon and hours of laughter and tomfoolery finally behind them, Rita moved a high backed chair into the middle of the room. Sarah took her place, and Ian took his. She eased his baby pants down to his ankles and unpinned his diaper, allowing the rear to drop, trapping it between his now fully exposed thighs. Ian's ass never failed to take her breath away. It was so small and so firm, no unwanted padding anywhere-- an ass truly ripe for a spanking. She ran her fingers over it, a random dance, wondering if he ever suspected what all the other nurses must have been thinking as their hands oiled and powdered the taut muscle, in offices and clinics and hospitals scattered across half the globe.

He offered her his right hand, and she pinned it down firmly to his back, directly above the place where the tiny but deadly fragment of a bullet lay lodged, one of three that had penetrated skin and bone, muscle and sinew in a long forgotten battle that had raged along the Laotian frontier, in the Annamite mountains north of the DMZ-- a place where no American soldiers were supposed to be, fighting a war that officially had never taken place.

Rita had knelt on the floor before him, grasping his left hand, comforting him, and the circle of silent observers had taken form.

. . . .

It went very much the way it was planned, and Ian's reactions were largely as they had anticipated. His punishment was severe, Sarah unrelenting, praying the whole time that this would be his first and last spanking, but knowing in her heart that the truth was otherwise. Her blows were measured and delivered with great care, but she ceased only when his cries had become incoherent and virtually without meaning.

This was the point, they had all agreed, when it had to stop.

Almost without meaning.

What really stilled her hand were two simple, blubbering admissions, welling up from that place deep inside every human being where ultimate truth resides.

“I love you, Sarah …”

“I love you with all my heart.”

[Babypants]

Quickie Cultural Quiz:

Pythons do love their beer, but they are quite picky about the brand.  Which of the following is the python's brew of choice:

A.  Anchor

B.  Foster's

C.  Heineken

D.  Singha

E.  Tiger

[keith60]

that was a good story i hope there is more soon 

[littlebopeeper]

This is a great story, and doing scenes instead of chapters is a nice tribute to Pulp Fiction.  Your characters are as wild as the ones in the movie, and I love the asides.  Never in my wildest imagination would I expect to encounter a drunk python in a diaper story.  And my guess would be Singha.

Hope there will be a Zed in this story, and a heavy bondage scene like in the movie.

[Babypants]

VICKIE'S MAGIC WAND

It took Ian less than twelve hours to begin the slow but seemingly inevitable descent to his second spanking. The first had ended long after midnight, and when it was over Rita and Vickie had gently eased him to the floor. It wasn't clear whether he had fallen into a deep sleep or passed out drunk, but once Marge had overcome the challenge of getting him into a fresh diaper and baby pants, Rita slid a pillow under his head, and Vickie fetched a blanket to cover him. Ian slept for hours, Sarah sat watching over him until she finally nodded off, and the others scattered to find places to catch what little rest they could. Ian and Sarah both came slowly awake when Reiko put the coffee on in the kitchen. It was finally Vickie's turn to change his diaper, which was as heavily soiled as it was soaking wet. Shortly thereafter, everyone began to say their goodbyes and head for home.

It was mid-afternoon on a cold but clear Sunday when Ian and Sarah took their leave-- the Sunday before Thanksgiving. By the time they reached Ian's apartment, Sarah was so angry that she rushed to the phone, called Rita, and asked her to summon the Circle to meet on Tuesday evening. Ian had just earned his second spanking, she said, and she added that she wanted Vickie to deliver it. It was clear to Rita and Sarah-- indeed, to all of them-- that Vickie wanted to spank Ian very, very badly. Vickie had never made any secret of the fact that spanking her lovers gave her a sexual high with which no run of the mill orgasm could compete. Giving it no thought whatsoever, Sarah had decided to make Vickie's wish come true.

Sarah would be leaving for home on Wednesday morning, the six hour drive to Houghton in the summertime stretching out to an eight hour slog over the treacherous roads of early winter in the Upper Midwest. Outsiders thought that the locals were joking when they complained that God annually punished them for the heathen sins of their Viking ancestors by dumping the worst storm of the season on Thanksgiving morning.

The locals weren't joking.

If the drive north on Wednesday was problematic, the drive south on Sunday looked to be anything but. To judge from the weather forecast, Sarah concluded, it would probably take her eleven long hours to get home. And she wanted company … Ian's company. It was time for Ian to meet her mom.

The only problem was that Ian disagreed. He had classes to teach, and he couldn't cancel them. He had been invited to a Thanksgiving dinner party by the wife of his department chair. He had already accepted, and couldn't back out. Blah, blah this and blah, blah that.

Sarah wasn't having it, and Ian exclaimed that she was being unreasonable. Commitments were commitments. Sarah reminded him of their agreement, pointed out that all of his students would be grateful if canceled classes permitted them to head for home before the Holiday. As for the dinner party, she told him in no uncertain terms that his days of partying without her were over. And it went downhill from there.

When Vickie got the phone call from Rita, she was jubilant. In the wee small hours of Sunday morning, she had drawn the winning straw, in the form of Ian's messy diaper. She had taken her damn, sweet time cleaning, oiling and powdering his bottom. She had caressed it, tracing slow circles over his awesome butt cheeks, so small yet so firm. She had brought the blood to the surface, a foreshadow of what she would do when she actually spanked him. She had wrapped a baby wipe around her finger and inserted it deep into his anus, searching for the prostate, finding it. Then, throwing caution to the winds, she had used two fingers to gift him with a prostate massage that gifted her in return with a low moan that seemed to stretch for hours. To hell with Rita's instructions, she shrugged as she turned him over, the movement well practiced over years of preparing patients for the enemas that they would receive in their beds. She ran her fingernails up and down the inside of his left thigh, repeatedly raking the barely hidden nerve that drove men wild. Ian was staring at her but not really seeing her, succumbing to the temptress, wanting everything that she was offering. He came fully erect, a six inch long tree trunk that Vickie circled with thumb and index finger, urging him along, his low moans becoming more and more insistent. She wanted to give him a ruined orgasm, but bit down hard and backed off, not knowing whether he was a screamer. After all, it wouldn't do to have Sarah barge in and have poor little Ian witness the cat fight to end all cat fights …

And now the stupid cow insisted that, in two days' time, Vickie put Ian over her lap and spank him to within an inch of his life! Vickie put down the phone, rushed into the bedroom, and yanked the drawer open. Frantically, she unfastened her pants, somehow got them down around her ankles. She couldn't wait. Blindly reaching into the drawer, she pulled out the first wand that she touched, flicked it on, and rammed it home. The orgasm was so intense that her legs turned to butter. Gripping the wand with one hand and the edge of the dresser with the other, she slowly sank to the floor. Tuesday evening couldn't come fast enough.

. . . .

Sarah had left, her parting comment a warning that he needed to be in the lobby at 6:15, or she would leave without him. Ian had mutely watched her go, dreading the emptiness of an apartment that had never really felt like home until Sarah had stumbled into his life. He felt drained, physically and emotionally. He was hungry, but wasn't up to the task of fixing a proper meal. He settled for a peanut butter sandwich, washed it down with a beer, and checked his diaper. A change was in order, but he shrugged it off. Still wearing the onesie that was his only proper clothing on the ride home, he fell into bed, and then into a deep sleep.

Sarah was also exhausted, and so she sat quietly on her sofa, frequently glancing up, increasingly worried that she could not hear Ian moving around above her. She wanted to go to him, but her anger was real, and it strengthened her resolve. Eight years earlier, she had failed her patients, and in the process failed herself. She had run away, only to come full circle, falling in love with a man haunted by the same memories that had scared her off back … it seemed a lifetime ago. But Sarah was done running; this was her war, and she was going to win it. She demanded obedience and she demanded loyalty, in return for which she offered otherwise unconditional love. She was absolutely certain that it was this combination, and only this combination, that could win Ian's trust, without which it would never be possible to break down the wall that separated them. She had told Ian the truth: he and he alone could vanquish the demons that he had brought home from Asia, but she would be there to get him through it, and in the aftermath they would build a new life together.

. . . .

It was early Monday morning, dawn in the far north still more than an hour away, when Ian got into the car. He didn't know what to say … more than that, he didn't know if there was anything to say.

“How's your diaper,” Sarah suddenly blurted out, filling the silence as the defroster continued slowly to melt the ice on her windshield.

“Sagging,” Ian admitted, his voice little more than a whisper. “I missed you,” he added, “last night … this morning … and I'm so sorry that I made you angry. I love you so much, and I just can't seem to get anything right.”

“So, is this apology your roundabout way of saying that you've changed your mind about spending Thanksgiving with my family?”

Ian sadly shook his head. “No, Sarah, it isn't. Oh, I see what you mean about the party, so I'll think of some excuse to beg off on Thursday, and from here on out you'll have the first and the final world on our social life. But I'm not going to cancel my classes. Even if the students all fail to show, I'll still be there.”

“So, what, then? Are you going to spend the whole weekend alone in your apartment? Just sit around for four days, drowning your sorrows in beer? God, give me strength!” Sarah slammed the steering wheel, her anger giving way to frustration. “I won't have it,” she yelled, turning to confront him. “You don't make good decisions, you … you … you can't … you couldn't pin your diaper on right to save your soul! I WON'T HAVE IT, AND DAMN YOU ALL TO HELL!”

“Sarah, I ...”

“NO! YOU SHUT UP, AND YOU LISTEN TO ME!” Sarah took a deep breath, fighting to regain some semblance of calm. “All right … all right … I won't drag you up to Houghton with me against your will, but you are damn well going to get your butt spanked tomorrow night, and then you are going to bed. I'll arrange it with Rita, and you will go to the hospital with her Thursday morning, Friday morning, Saturday, Sunday … she's in charge of the whole seventh floor, and she has to work straight through the weekend. She has involuntary committal hearings next week, the paper work is overwhelming, and she has to get all of her ducks in a row. So, you are going to be a good, little boy, and do whatever she requires of you. You will thank whatever nurse draws the short straw and gets stuck changing your diapers for her consideration, and if she decides to put you down for a nap in one of the pediatric cribs, you will yawn and tell her it's a great idea because you're so tired. Are you hearing me?”

“Yes ...”

Sarah cut him off. “And there will be no beer this weekend … no alcohol of any kind. I am not going to share my bed with a drunk!”

“But we haven't ...”

“No, we haven't-- because every time I change your diaper, your dick just lays there. Can you even get it up, Ian? Is it the booze talking, or are you just an impotent twelve month old baby incapable of doing anything that requires more than your fingers and tongue? Because if that's the case, when you are not nursing on my tits you are going to be spending a lot more time on your knees licking my cunt, and in whatever time is left you'll be crawling around on the floor in your widdle diapee and baby pants. If you want to be a baby, rest assured that I am ready, willing and able to accommodate you. Don't think that I'm kidding because, as you are going to discover, everything I need to return you to infancy, and keep you there forever, is behind locked doors on the seventh floor!”

[littlebopeeper]

A remarkable story.  The emotions are so raw and so powerful, and yet there are all these funny things going on inside your characters' heads.  Where's the quiz?

[justforfun]

Really nicely done story so far.  Can't wait for it to continue!

[Babypants]

Quickie Historical Quiz:

Vickie's magic wand was originally marketed as a general body massager, but it was adapted for other uses during the course of the feminist revolution.  Which Japanese manufacturer brought this handy-dandy tool to the marketplace:

A.  Hitachi

B.  Mitsubishi

C.  Sony

D.  Toshiba

[Babypants]

ANIMAL HOUSE

In the immortal words of Yogi Berra, Ian mused, it's deja vu all over again. But at least I'm not dealing with asswipes like Marmalard and Neidermeyer. Now, Babs and Mandy are a different story …

Turning his head to the left, Ian spotted Candy sitting on one of the couches. She was delicately exploring her upper lip with the tip of her tongue, all the while staring at him, never blinking.

Is Candy Mandy? Gotta be … Jee-zus, they are both so unbelievably hot! And where's Babs … er … Becky?

Ian craned his neck, but he couldn't spot her. Animal House had become his new favorite film, in no small part because the asswipes all got theirs in the end, and the screw-ups scored all the hot chicks. The Nam had been full of the Douglas Neidermeyers of this world, and so many of them had been fragged by their own troops that the life expectancy of a second looey fresh off the United charter at Tan Son Nhat had been precisely sixteen days.

Sixteen days! So, yeah, it's like I'm pledging a fuckin' sorority or something, and the ritual spanking lies dead ahead. What's the name of this outfit? Oh, yeah … The Circle. Oh...kay … fine … whatever … so long as it's not the friggin' Delta Tau Chi. I wonder how much they paid Kevin Bacon for the privilege of lighting up his ass?

It was the same chair, sitting in the same spot in the middle of Rita's living room. The same crowd was in attendance. Only this time Ian was straddling Vicki's lap, and Sarah was just one more face in the circle of Harpies, two of whom were plainly relishing his forthcoming humiliation.

And yet it was all subtly different. For one thing, Ian wasn't drunk, and he didn't like the way in which Vickie had pinned his right arm and trapped his legs between her well proportioned thighs. His shoulder was on fire, and he knew that it would only get worse if he tried to move.

Vickie clearly knew what she was doing.

Sarah had been all business, and his inaugural spanking had hurt like hell, but he had sensed throughout that there was no anger in her, and the conviction that she would cause him great pain but never endanger him had been overwhelming.

Sarah was no sadist.

He wasn't so sure about Vickie. For one thing, she was taking her time, caressing his cheeks and thighs, one languid, sensual stroke after another, the only interruption the occasional passage of her well manicured fingernails over his exposed thighs. Every cell in his body was on fire, Little Ian Junior was badly misbehaving, and all Ian wanted to do was get up, throw Vickie to the floor, tear her clothes off, stick it to her, and pound her and pound her and pound her …

SMACK!

Ian howled, more in surprise than in pain.

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

The pain was incandescent, four blows delivered to the exact same spot on his right cheek, three of them rapid fire. He would never have believed that a lousy spanking could hurt this bad.

Vickie ran her fingernails lightly up and down his left thigh, up and down …

SMACK!

More fingernails, more soft caresses …

SMACK! SMACK! The top of his thigh …

SMACK! SMACK! The middle …

Then, without warning … SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

The blows rained down on his right cheek, so close, so close to where Vicki had started.

Ian screamed. He screamed so loud that he was sure some neighbor would call the police. But Donna Sumner was drowning him out, the disco beat a perverse counterpoint to his own cries.

Vickie really did know what she was doing.

SMACK! SMACK!

Vickie was tracing lazy circles across his left cheek, which had finally attracted her attention.

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

Rising and falling … rising and falling … Vickie wasn't holding back … Vickie was raining fire down upon Ian's ass and thighs, lighting them up, crimson everywhere, a few spots already turning a bit purple.

Without warning, she stopped. For long moments, the only sound in the room was Ian's whimpering.

A shadow crossed Ian's line of vision, what little he could see, his head dangling almost uselessly, his tongue lolling. Someone grabbed his hair, and jerked his head up. Through his tears, Ian found himself staring up into Sarah's eyes. There was no pity there … none at all. Suddenly, he was very, very frightened.

. . . .

Time stopped, or so it seemed. No one spoke. No one coughed. No one moved. The ritual had reached its first intermission.

“Twenty-five spanks, Ian; that's all it took. Twenty-five spanks, and you are bawling like a baby. But that's okay, because you have been acting like a baby from the very beginning. And I warned you that this is what it would be like if you mouthed off, disobeyed, broke your promise to me. Now, have you had enough, or do you want more? You are coming to Houghton with me tomorrow; there will be no discussion about this. The only thing in question is how many times Vickie has to spank you before you give in. Say yes, and it's over. Say no, and you will receive another twenty-five … the price of defiance. We can do this all night, Ian, and we will. I promise you … we will.”

“But yesterday …" he blubbered, "yesterday, you said that I could stay with Rita ...”

“I've changed my mind, Ian-- a mother's prerogative.” She dropped his head, and looked hard at Vickie.

“Let's resume.”

Vickie had been absently tracing circles on Ian's now fiery red ass. Her hand paused …

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! Left …

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! Right …

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

She peppered Ian's thighs, then began the cycle anew. Counting to twenty-four, Vickie paused, aimed, a determined look on her face …

SMACK!

Ian was whimpering … he had run out of tears.

. . . .

“You want me to treat you like a baby, Ian; you were very clear about that.” Sarah was squatting in front of him, her hand cupping his chin, forcing him to look into her eyes. “You wanted to be helpless. Well, how does it feel, having your wish come true? How does it feel, knowing now that your mommy is very, very strict, and won't put up with your nonsense? This is your future, Ian … look into my eyes, and tell me that this is what you want-- a mommy who will discipline you every, single time that you step out of line. Happy, now?”

“I don't ...”

“Oh, so you don't want to be a baby, now? Is that what you're trying to say? You've changed your mind? You want to be my lover, now … my husband? Come home from work to find supper waiting on the table … grab a beer … make love to me with the booze on your breath? Sing Auld Lang Syne every New Year's eve?”

“Just look at you,” she sneered; “what a pathetic excuse for a man. And where did you really get shot? Come on, Ian, tell us, because we all want to know, you being such a great, big war hero and all. How many purple hearts did they pin on your chest, how many?”

“Four,” he whispered, his voice swimming up from the depths of his pain. “Four.”

Sarah looked sharply at Rita, both of them instantly understanding that they had finally achieved a breakthrough. Sarah bit down hard on her emotions, willed herself not to give up ground so painfully won.

“Oh, really? And just where,” she snapped, “are you keeping your little trophies, if they actually exist?”

“... office,” he sighed, trying to draw breath into heaving lungs; “in my … desk … drawer ...”

“Let's go home, Ian. We have a long drive ahead of us, and I'll need to pack a bag for you.” Sarah stood up, hands on hips, looking down on him-- a goddess commanding the heights of Olympus.

“No.”

It was all that he managed to say, but even in a whisper, one couldn't miss the conviction in his voice.

Oh, shit, Rita thought. She was staring at Vickie, who in turn was staring at Sarah with one of those looks that said who the hell are you, anyway? 

Ian convulsed, and Vickie instantly relaxed her grip. She could feel the sobs wracking his body. But she was staring at Sarah, suddenly realizing that neither of them had derived any pleasure from this spanking at all. But Sarah had used her, turned her into a cheap prop on a movie set of her own design. Vickie wasn't feeling it, and now she knew why.

Gently, she eased Ian off her lap.

“I'm done here.”

It was all she could manage to say. She slowly stood up, her eyes now riveted on the broken but somehow unyielding man curled up at her feet-- a completely naked man whose pain stemmed from a source hidden deep in his past, pain that he had been fleeing for years, taking refuge, like thousands of other vets, in the bottle. She was fine with catharsis, but the way Rita and Sarah were going about it sickened her to her very core. 

Looking down, watching him curl up into a fetal ball, it dawned on Victoria Robinson that Ian Grady mattered a very great deal to her.

She just didn't know why.

Pausing only to gather her things, Vickie went down the stairs to put on her boots, open the door, and step silently out into the Arctic night.

[littlebopeeper]

This continues to be a great story, with emphasis on the word "story."  The reality check that Sarah gives Ian is powerful, and the last line proves that prose can be poetic.  

Please don't let the small number of reviews get you down.  This story is so strongly located somewhere around 1980 that it would surprise me if it will appeal to people who haven't reached the half century mark.  Anyone younger would have to be a real movie and music buff to appreciate lines like throwing a paperback novel at Rita and Ian.