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Milk! [Chapter 12 posted 1/31/2024]


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Hi. Here's a new story for you. I hope you enjoy!

Prologue: Anders Goes West

There was a time when Anders was scared of flying. 

He supposed, if he really stopped and thought about it now, maybe he still would be. It’s hard to feel good about the concept of giant metal cylinders that just get thrown across the country by powerful engines. 

But he’s flown enough times in his life that it barely phases him anymore. At most, it’s just a mild unease. It’s like going to the dentist, really–at the end of the day he’ll go and do what he has to do, but that doesn’t mean he likes it.

There’s an older woman sitting next to him. They exchange pleasantries when she sits down, and it makes him think of the guy he sat next to on his last flight. That guy seemed to go out of his way to avoid interacting with Anders, and he found it to be a little annoying. It’s fine to not want to talk to your neighbor, but it’s such a small amount of space to be sharing without even so much as a “hello.”

“A nervous flier?” the woman asks, not long after they were officially somewhere in the middle of the sky. Anders didn’t think his mild discomfort was that obvious.

“I’m sorry?”

“Your leg is shaking like a leaf. I have some dramamine if you’d like some.”

“N-no, thank you.” He should just leave it at that, but he feels compelled to clarify: “I’m not nervous. Just…excited.”

“I know that feeling,” she laughs. “I felt that way when I was flying last week. I just spent a week seeing my grandkids. Such a delightful time. But now I have to go home to Harold.” Her enunciation of the man’s name drips with disdain. “Oh, would you like to see some photos of the kids?”

He doesn't, but part of the unspoken social contract of life states that when an older woman asks if you want to see photos of children you didn’t know, you just say ‘yes’ and suffer through it.

To his surprise, they’re actual printed photographs. Seeing as how Anders is a photographer himself, he’s no stranger to them–but it's rare to see anyone else with them these days. He expects some sort of narration from her, or at least some sort of context as to who these kids are. Names. Anything. But she remains silent as he shuffles through the pictures. Kid with blue shirt. Kid with hat. Kid with blue shirt on a tractor. A bunch of kids. Does she have 18 grandchildren, or is it the same three kids in every photo?

“That’s little William,” she finally says, pointing to the baby being held in the arms of a woman. Well, the woman is certainly attractive. His eyes linger on this photo a little longer than the others. It’s not the baby, nor the pretty woman, that catches his eye - it is the things in the background. A package of diapers. A bottle of baby powder. A stuffed animal.

“V-very cute,” he says, handing the photos back to her. 

He suddenly feels restless. There is an abrupt stirring in his bowels. He needs to be anywhere else instead of on this airplane–packed into this small window-seat next to this woman.

“Excuse me,” he says, hurriedly getting up. He awkwardly slides past her and begins his trek to the restroom.

Using a restroom on a plane is the epitome of a miserable experience. Shuffling his way down the aisle, making eye contact with all of these strangers who know where he’s going and have a good idea of what he’ll be doing once he gets there. And then, later, he'll have to return to his seat, and they’ll all be wondering if he accomplished what he set out to do.

The restroom is vacant, thank goodness. He rushes in, slamming the door shut behind him. He frantically pulls down his pants as he looks ahead to the small wall-mounted mirror above the sink. It is a little disappointing that the mirror isn’t big enough for him to see anything below his head–he kind of wants to see the whole picture. He wants to see himself with his pants pulled down and his thick diaper exposed. Does it look as ridiculous as I think it does?

He can’t hold it anymore. Everything releases at once. Loudly, forcefully. Both his bladder and bowels unload into the diaper. He’s had enough experience with full diapers to know that this is an especially loaded disaster.

There is a moment–extremely brief–where he feels an incredible feeling of bliss wash over him. And then it’s gone.

What now? He’s in an airplane bathroom with an absolutely vile diaper. He has no supplies with him to make changing himself easier. He doesn’t even have another diaper with him. What is he even supposed to do with the diaper? It’s probably too big for the little trash chute, and he can’t flush it. Is he going to have to carry it back to the seat with him and ask an attendant to throw it out? Or does he just…not take it off?

No, absolutely not. He can’t go back to his seat like this.

The world seems a little hazy. A little distant. His worries seem to fade into the background, and he slides a thumb into his mouth. It’ll be fine. He can just stay here for a while, enjoying the comfort of this warm gooey diaper, and eventually he’ll figure something out.

There’s a knock at the bathroom door that shakes him from his daze. He didn’t think he had been in the bathroom that long…though he knows he has a knack for losing track of time while sucking his thumb.

“Hello? Sir?”

It sounds like one of the attendants. “Y-yes?”

“Sir, I’m sorry to bother you, but we’re getting complaints from the other passengers. It seems that your diaper might be too full. It does smell rather awful, I’m afraid.”

“What? You...you can smell it out there?” Wait, that was the wrong question. “How did you know about my diaper?”

“If you’d like,” she says, “I can bring you a fresh diaper and a garbage bag for the old one. Would you like that?”

“I...well… I’m not sure what my other options are.”

“Actually...there’s a small line building out here,” the attendant says. “A number of folks want to use the restroom. Maybe it’d be best if you come back to the cabin and we can change you there.”

That doesn’t seem like the worst idea. He doesn’t really have the skills to handle something like this himself anyway. 

The door is opening. Didn’t I lock it? The flight attendant’s arm reaches in, her hand clutching his wrist. 

“Come now,” she says. “Let’s get that taken care of.”

She drags him past the line of annoyed-looking passengers waiting for the bathroom and down the aisle now. Everyone is staring. Some people hold their noses or wave hands in front of their faces in disgust. Most are snickering and laughing. He knows that he should probably feel humiliated, but he figures that so long as he keeps his thumb in his mouth, he can let their reactions roll off his back. He stumbles and waddles behind the woman, his pants still around my ankles. 

Wait, he thinks. I don’t think the world is supposed to work like this…

“Sir?”

Who’s talking to me now? He turns to his left and then to his right, though he can’t determine where the voice is coming from. 

“Sir? Hello?”

Anders’ eyes slowly open, and he’s back in his window seat. No laughter coming from the other passengers. No shame. No contamination of the air quality. No…

His hands discreetly tap the crotch of his pants, though he doesn’t hear the familiar crinkle of a diaper beneath them. He sighs, wishing that he had gotten over his fear of being checked by airline security and just worn one on the plane.

“Oh...I must’ve dozed off there,” he says, slowly turning his head to view the attendant standing in the aisle. She, or someone who looked kind of like her, had just been pulling him down the aisle in a dirty diaper. But it’s now safe to assume that didn’t actually happen.

“I’ll say,” the woman laughs. “There aren’t many who can sleep through that kind of turbulence.”

“Did we…land?”

“Just about everyone else is already off the plane,” she says with a smile. “You looked so peaceful that I would’ve liked to have left you alone. Sadly, policy dictates that…”

“No, it’s good you woke me up,” he sighs. He can’t decide if that had been a nightmare or a pleasant dream. 

He needs a few seconds to compose himself. Honestly, he’d like a good half hour or so–but there’s obviously not time for that. He’s in that post-dream haze where his brain is still processing things and there’s a fuzzy line between the current reality and the slowly fading world of his dream.

He’s thirsty, and takes a swig from the bottle of water he had been given during the flight. The hydration is nice, though it doesn’t satisfy him in the way that he needed it to.

No, what he really needs is…something else. Something he can’t have right now.

But, he thinks, it won’t be too much longer and then I’ll get to taste it again.

After finally stepping foot in the airport, and on his way to the baggage claim, he checks the missed texts on his phone. Alfie has sent him a meme. Sam asks if he’s landed yet. But it’s the third message that interests him the most–Mirabelle is also asking if he’s landed yet. 

“So, have you joined us on the west coast?”

He quickly texts her back: “Sure have.” He’s tempted to type out the details of the strange dream he just had, but he wonders if it might be better if he tells it to her in person later. He’ll be seeing her soon enough, and he can already imagine the smile on her face as she hears about it.

And there’ll be milk there too. Lots of milk.

His mouth waters and his cock twitches a little at just the thought of tasting it again. This is probably neither the time nor the place to get too caught up in thoughts like these, so he steels himself and continues to walk forward.

He’s pretty sure that this is going to be a really good week. So good, in fact, that he might just stay a little longer than that.

 

Milk! Part 1: Rescue Mission

(Author's note: From this point forward, the story is told from the perspective of Alfie.)

One: Chainsaw Country

I’m thinking about how good some orange juice sounds right now.

I’m thinking about Maxine. 

I’m trying not to think about diapers.

My eyes are fixed on the road, and I can assure you that I’m devoting the bare-minimum amount of consciousness towards making sure the car doesn’t end up in a ravine. But the rest of my brain cells are currently dedicated to just about anything else.

Nikki is sitting in the passenger seat, but because she’s not saying anything, it’s pretty easy to forget she’s there. It’s not until a very specific smell reaches my nostrils that I shake my daydreams of Maxine’s toes away and remember that I’m not alone.

“What is that?” I ask. “Teriyaki?”

“Yeah,” Nikki says. “Want some?”

For a few weeks now, Nikki’s been obsessed with beef jerky. Everytime we walk into a store that sells it, she leaves with a bag. I keep meaning to ask what that’s about, but I also know that sometimes it’s best to let Nikki be Nikki.

I shake my head. “Uh, no.” I don’t have the craving for it that she does. I had a few pieces in days prior, and have met my quota already.

“Your loss, Alfie,” she shrugs, chomping at another dark-brown slab.

“Be honest,” I ask. Maybe I’m changing the subject, or maybe I was just never committed to the subject of jerky in the first place. “Am I stupid?”

Without the slightest bit of hesitation: “Yes.” If I turn my head to the right, I’m certain that she’ll be grinning–and so I keep my eyes focused straight ahead on the road.

“Fair enough,” I sigh. 

“Was there, like, a particular thing you thought you were being stupid about?” In typical Nikki fashion, she leads off with a punch to the gut, quickly following it up with a show of support.

“Maxine.”

She groans. I can’t hold that against her–the topic feels exhausted at this point.

“I know, I know. I’m as sick of thinking about it as you’re sick of hearing about it.”

“Look, regardless of what you did, you already knew how this was going to end. She’s going…” Nikki abruptly stops herself, stretching her open hands in front of her to signal that she’s not going to finish that thought. “What’re you thinking?”

“She’s not even giving me the option for a long-distance relationship. She doesn’t want one.”

Nikki shrugs. “Why would you even want that?”

“She’s going to college–not, uh, Madagascar. She’ll be home for the holidays. She’ll be close enough that we can visit each other for a weekend once in a while. And then, you know, next summer. I know it’s not great, but it just feels like a big ol’ slap in the face that she wouldn’t even consider it.”

Nikki snorts–her standard style of laughing. It is often a hard sound to truly translate–more often than not it’s a sarcastic rebuke, but occasionally the same noise will be used to show genuine pleasure.

“What’s so funny about that?” I sound like I’m whining. You know what? I’m probably whining.

“Where do we even start? Uhm, for one, you’re five years older than her. Which would be fine if you were, like, 40. But you’re 24. She’s 19. She’s going to college. You already graduated. She’s in a completely different part of her life. She’s going to meet all these new people, and she’s gonna want to bang them–experiment with some girls, maybe.”

“So cliche.”

“I guarantee you she’ll do it too. But that’s besides the point–I’m not even done listing the reasons why that’s funny.”

“Fine,” I sigh. “Go on, then. Get it all out.”

“Right,” she nods. “So her family doesn’t even know that you exist. And if they did, they’d fucking hate you.”

“Aw, come on. I’m a nice guy.”

“Yeah, but you’re not from some wealthy bloodline. You don’t wear polo shirts and play golf on the weekends. You aren’t an investment banker or a doctor or a lawyer or whatever other profession people like that care about. You’re a barely-employed writer who smokes too much pot and still reads comic books.”

I scoff. “There’s some really mature comics out there. They have, like, blood and swearing in them. They are not for kids.”

She snorts again. “That’s what you took issue with?”

“I just…I’m crazy about her. Isn’t that enough?”

“No offense, but that’s a hard sell when you left her on the other side of the country.” She’s not saying anything I didn’t already know, but it still feels like another punch to the gut.

We are in California now, thousands of miles from our home in New Jersey. Thousands of miles from my parents. From my sister. From the bananas I left in a bowl on the counter of my apartment, that I worry are going to be brown and stinky by the time I return. 

Thousands of miles from Maxine, who was probably still confused about why I decided to take an impromptu trip across the country during our last few months together before she goes away to college. She wanted to come with me. She begged me to take her. Now, here I was in a rental car in the middle of who-knows-where with Nikki instead of her. I had reasons for these decisions, but I’m having trouble remembering what they are at the moment.

Nikki asks: “Did she actually give you, like, an expiration date for your little romance? Or is she already done?”

“She made it pretty clear that we’d be making a clean break when she left for college,” I shrug. “But we might be done now–I don’t think I left on the best terms with her.”

I’d been to California before–years ago, we took a family vacation to San Fran–but we’re far from there, or any other city, now. This long expanse of highway could be anywhere. If I squint my eyes a little, I can imagine myself driving through New Jersey or Pennsylvania. 

I don’t know where I’m going, but the GPS does. The rental is nicer than anything I’ve ever driven before, and I can't help but wonder if I’ll ever own a car this nice. It has a computer screen in the dashboard, which seems to control just about everything. Right now, it’s showing the map for the GPS–a wide expanse of green with the occasional blue splotch of a lake or river. Maybe–if I ever get my shit together–I could have a car like this someday. 

“So what’s the plan when we get there?” Nikki asks. “Stumble around, asking questions?”

“More or less. We’re supposed to meet with this guy named Tommy.”

“Do you know where you’re supposed to meet him?” she asks. “And when?”

“The address in the GPS is a diner. He said to text him when we get there.”

“Kind of hard to believe there’s a diner out in the middle of nowhere, isn’t there?”

“There’s a whole town, apparently,” I shrug. “Harper’s Bell.”

Nikki snorts. “Can’t wait for that. A remote village of people who don’t trust outsiders. They’re going to chase us out of town with pitchforks.”

“It won’t be like that,” I laugh. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t thinking the same thing.

 

Two: Parking Lot Pacifiers

Maxine sipped Coca Cola out of a can through a straw. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen someone do this, but it seemed pretty weird the last time too. This is exactly what I like about her.

She’s quirky and strange in a way that she’s probably not supposed to be. She should’ve been riding horses, shopping for high-end purses, and jetsetting around the world on her family’s dime. Instead, she was taking a drag from a joint, reading a comic book about a stripper-turned-assassin, and tapping her foot to some punk-rock banger while lying on her back on the carpet. Her feet were kicked up on the coffee table, her slightly dirty bare feet wiggling close enough to my face that I couldn’t help but stare at them. Her dark hair exploded out from around her horizontal head, almost looking like a lion’s mane.

I told myself that was going to be the day for a conversation about our future, but I knew it wasn’t actually going to happen. Maxine was the coolest thing that’s ever happened to me, and I wasn’t ready to talk about endings yet–even if Maxine had already stated that the end was nigh.

“This is good,” I said, a finger in the air as if I was somehow able to point at the music playing throughout the room. “What is this?”

“Hagbody,” Maxine said. “I got this LP at their show a month or two ago. The bassist was working the merch table when I bought it. Her picture’s on the back cover.”

I reached over and grabbed the LP’s cardboard sleeve from the coffee table and flipped it over, finding a black and white photo of the band. I assumed she was talking about the only woman in the five-piece–a curvy cutie with light-colored hair and a nose piercing. “Was she cool?”

“She told me she liked my shirt,” Maxine shrugged. “I wish I could remember what shirt I was wearing.”

This was how most of our hangouts went: Maxine brought over a stack of records and maybe a snack, and we sat together in the living room–getting high and spacing out to said records. Usually, this was my favorite thing in the entire world. On this day, there was just enough eating at me that I found it hard to get into the usual groove. “Cool.”

“What’s your deal today?” she asked, putting a little extra wiggle into her toes. She knew I liked that. “You seem off.”

“I’m fine.”

“I knew you were going to say that,” she laughed. “You’re so predictable. Like, I already know that I’m going to nag you until you finally tell me what’s going on in your head. So you might as well just tell me now.”

I couldn’t argue with that logic. Smart as she is cute. “Just thinking about things I don’t want to think about.”

She sighed. “You’re thinking about August?”

“It’s hard not to. You’ll be gone, and I’m not ready for that yet.”

“We’ve got plenty of time.”

“It’s not enough.”

“You’ll be sick of me by then, just watch. Come July, you’ll have thrown me in the trunk of your car so that you can drop me off at university early.”

“You’d like that,” I said, finally cracking a smile.

“Kinda, yeah. Can we try that sometime? You’ll, like, tie me up and shove me into the trunk of your car, right? And then you’ll take me somewhere–I won’t even know where–and then, when we get there, you’ll open the trunk and…”

“It’s more than just you leaving,” I said. I didn’t want to cut off her little fantasy, but I was far too distracted to picture it playing out in my mind. “Can I tell you…something weird?”

“Okay. Let’s hear it.” Her little toes wiggled, and despite being distracted, I still felt the urge to bite them right off her feet–but in a fun and flirty way.

“So Anders, my brother-in-law…”

“I know who he is. You talk about him all the time.”

“R-right. So, he travels around the country to take photographs or whatever, right?”

“Sure,” she said, either already knowing this or just taking my word for it. We always seemed to have a hard time telling each other about our families, so we rarely did. My theory was that Maxine doesn’t like to tell me about her family, because her family didn’t know about me. Because of that, I don’t talk to her about my family.

“He went to California for a week or two, and he was supposed to come back the other day. Except…he didn’t. He reached out to my sister and I and said that he needed to stay there a bit longer.”

“I don’t know much about your family,” Maxine shrugged. “But that’s, like, weird for him?”

“I dunno,” I said. “My sister, Samantha, she’s kind of freaking out about it. He never does that, you know?

“Sure,” she said. “I guess that’s kind of weird.”

“Wait, but here is where it gets weird. A few months ago, he took a different trip to California, right? And I don’t really know where he was or what he was doing out there, but he sends me a bunch of pictures of him at some sort of–I dunno–resort? Wellness retreat? Some place in the woods with a lot of cabins. And he’s, like, raving about this place. He’s telling me that I have to go there, because it’ll, like, change my life.”

“Uh huh.” Given the way her feet were swaying to the music, I doubted her full focus was on my story. Not that I could blame her–she didn’t know Anders well enough to know why this was so strange.

“Okay,” I said, scrolling through my phone in a search for the pictures. “I want you to look at these pictures. Tell me if you see anything strange about them.” Her little hand reached up from the ground and I handed my phone over to her.

“Huh,” she said, flipping through the photos.

“I’m not crazy, right? You see what I see?”

“Why is everyone wearing…diapers?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t tell me. And when he came back, and I tried to ask him about it, he kept brushing me off and telling me that we’d have to talk about it later.”

She looked at the phone curiously. “Maybe he’s one of those adult babies?”

I laughed. I had a very basic idea of who they are, though it’s a world that has absolutely no overlap with my own. “I don’t think so.”

“Isn’t that their whole deal?” she asked. “They waddle around in diapers all the time? Kinda looks like what’s happening in these photos, right?”

“You seem to know a lot about them,” I teased. “Something you want to tell me?”

“Oh yeahhh,” she giggled. “I forgot to tell you sooner…” Her voice took on a frighteningly good infantile affectation: “Me jus’ a wittle baby.”

“Careful,” I laughed, shaking my head. “People probably already think I'm a creep because you’re younger than me. You can’t also act younger.”

“There’s weirder things in this world than diapers,” Maxine shrugged. “I respect anyone who can embrace the freakier side of life.” God, Maxine was precious. I wanted her all to myself forever and always. “Besides. I’d looking fucking cute in a diaper.”

I didn’t doubt that. I almost immediately forgot about the things clouding my mind, and was instead trying–as discreetly as possible–to adjust my pants to make room for my slowly inflating manhood. I wasn’t proud of being excited about picturing her in a diaper, but that was why I’d never say a word about it to anyone–Maxine included.

“I don’t think it’s that,” I said, attempting to nudge the conversation back on course again. “But what do I know?”

“That sounds like his problem, not yours,” she said. “You have your own problems.”

Yeah, don’t I know it. But, judging by the smirk on her face and her little toe-wiggles, she wasn’t talking about any of my actual problems. “And what are those?”

“You’ve got a baby of your own,” she purred, her feet spreading apart on the coffee table to give me a clear view down her legs and up her skirt. “And she needs some attention.”

This, at least, was a problem I know how to solve.

===

Nikki’s knuckles rapped on the table in front of me, snapping me back into the present. “Hello? Anyone in there?”

“Uh, sorry,” I sigh. “I was…somewhere else. What were you saying?”

“I said this menu doesn’t make any goddamn sense. It’s got all the standard diner stuff, right? But then there’s also pasta. And pizza. And tacos. Look–gyros. What the fuck?”

“Maybe if you’re the only restaurant in town,” I say, unsure if this is true or not, “you have to have every possible food option accounted for.”

The diner–Harper’s Dinner Bell–looks almost exactly like I thought it would–an aged relic of a different time. Its stainless steel siding and neon-lit sign are charming at first, but closer inspection reveals that the last time this place had been renovated was in the 80s. I can already taste the grease-soaked food in my mouth. Admittedly, I’m excited for it.

“How good do you think the tacos are?” I ask.

Nikki grimaces. “I wouldn’t take chances on tacos in the middle of nowhere. You gotta know where the bathrooms are.”

“Fair,” I say. This makes me think about diapers again. Maybe they’re onto something?

“What about this guy we’re supposed to meet?”

“Tommy,” I say. “Yeah, he said he’d meet us here. I don’t know what he looks like though, but he said he’d find us.” Though now that I say the words aloud, I’m not sure how he’s supposed to know what we look like either. Maybe it’s just obvious who the out-of-towners are. Looking around the diner, I see that most of the other patrons skew older and male. They wear work boots and worn clothing. Lots of beards and trucker hats. 

“And who is Tommy?”

“A friend of Anders’ maybe? I’m not sure. When I told him I was coming out here, he gave me this guy’s number and said that he’d help us ‘get in.’ Whatever that means.”

“‘Get into’ what?”

“This, uh, club that Anders is in. This resort or camp or…”

“Cult,” Nikki says. “It sounds like a cult.”

“What? No. It’s not a cult. This is just some weird–I dunno–lifestyle thing.”

“Do you know it’s not a cult?” Nikki asks. “Or do you just hope it’s not a cult?”

“Cults are, like, spooky and mysterious,” I say. I know this is a terrible argument, but in my defense, I wasn’t expecting this question. “This is…people walking around the woods in diapers. It’s different.”

We’re approached by a young woman in some high-waisted jeans and a tucked in teal shirt with the name of the diner on the front of it. The phrase ‘small-town cuteness’ comes to mind when I gaze upon her amber hair and light freckles, but I don’t know if that actually means anything, or if I’m now coining that phrase to describe anyone that looks like her

“Hey,” she says, her lips curved in a big smile. “I’m Celia, I’ll be taking care of you today. From out of town, are ya?”

“Is it that obvious?” I ask.

“Maybe,” she shrugs. “But also, I know everybody in town, so it's pretty easy to spot the new faces.”

“You, uh, get a lot of visitors here?” I ask. 

She shrugs. “Oh, sure. Plenty.”

I look across the table at Nikki to catch her reaction to this. Nikki seems uninterested in the conversation, reading through the lengthy menu instead. “Yeah?” I ask. “Seems pretty out of the way for there to be a lot of visitors.”

“Well, you’re here, aren’t you?” she smirks. “What brings you here?”

Touche. I try the same line I used on Reid and Bria earlier: “I’m here for a family member.”

“You folks hungry?” she asks, seeming to skirt right over response. “We’ve got a lot of options on the menu.”

“Too many,” Nikki mutters.

We need a few more minutes parsing through all the options, but we at least request some drinks. But no sooner than Celia wanders off, I already find myself thinking about anything other than ordering lunch. I’m curious about where Anders is right now, and what he’s doing. What he’s wearing.

When I finally called Anders, a week after he failed to return to the east coast, I made a vague threat about going across the country to fetch him myself. To my surprise, he encouraged me to do just that. “Yes!” he said. “You really should come out! I want you to see it for yourself.” He even offered to pay my way, which allowed me to allocate my own funds for Nikki’s ticket–she wasn’t going to tag along if she had to pay for the trip. 

Now, there were missed calls on my phone from my sister, and a handful of texts. I texted her back, just before we walked into the diner: “Reception isn’t great. Will call you later when I can.” I’m hoping this buys me some time. It’s not that I don’t want to talk to her, it’s just that I know she has a lot of questions about where her husband is that I’m not able to answer just yet. When I talk to her, I’d like to at least have a few answers ready.

We finally order food, sticking with the more traditional sandwiches and burgers instead of getting experimental with diner tacos. Then, as Celia finishes jotting our order down on her notepad, I decide to do a little investigating: “Hey, can I ask you something?”

“What’s up?”

“Do you know about the, uh, farm?”

In advance of asking this question, I predicted that she’d either deny any knowledge of it, or she’d act cagey about it–like this was the local urban legend that nobody in town liked to talk about. To my surprise, she instead offered a nonchalant shrug. “A little bit, sure.”

“What’s that all about?” I ask. It’s a terribly vague question, but this is why I write filler content for online news-blogs and not travel to war-torn countries on behalf of major newspapers.

“You a reporter or something?” Celia asks. It’s not said in an accusatory way, as if a reporter wouldn’t be welcome here–she just sounds curious.

I wonder what response would get her to open up more. I flip an imaginary coin. Tails.

“Nah,” I say. “My brother-in-law was telling me about this place. He, uh, seemed pretty into it, but I couldn’t get a good answer out of him when I asked what it was all about.

“People around here, they like things that stay the same, you know? And that place had been the old Hammond Farm for as long as this town’s been here. So when the property was bought by some outsiders a few years back, I don’t think most people in town were too happy about it.”

Outsiders. She says the word so casually. Horror movie vibes intensify.

“But,” she continues, “it’s hard to argue that it hasn’t been a blessing for us. It’s brought lots of folks, like you, to it. And those folks like to spend money here. Nobody’s mad about that.”

“Uh huh,” I say. “And what do you know about the farm? Who lives there? What are they…doing there?”

She shrugs and laughs a little–that classic ‘if only you’d seen the things I’ve seen’ kind of laugh. “There’s lots of rumors around town about that. I bet if you asked ten different people that question, you’d get ten different answers.”

I fully intend to put that theory to the test later. “Right, but what do you think is going on at this farm?”

She smirks. “I…don’t want to speculate too much. I can say that everyone I’ve ever met that’s either coming from, or going to, the farm has been really nice. Whatever they’re about, it sounds like a good community. Whoever they are, I’m happy they’re here.”

I’m not really satisfied with her response, but it’s going to have to do, as I see she’s itching to move on and help other patrons. 

===

I’m staring down at my phone, waiting for either a call or a text from Tommy. We finished our meal a half hour ago, and I sent him a text message letting him know that we were here, but there’s been no response. It’s possible that he’s somewhere without reception–I imagine it’s easy to find yourself in a place around here without any–but we had agreed on a time and a place, and he’s a no-show.

“How hard can it be to find this place ourselves?” Nikki asks. “If everyone in town knows where it is, we just ask them for directions.”

“Maybe,” I sigh. “But I told him I’d meet him here. And what if he shows up after we’ve left?”

“Sounds like his problem–not ours.”

She isn’t wrong, but I’m not keen on making that someone’s first impression of me–especially if they’re trying to help me get to Anders. Besides, if it was as easy as driving up to the place ourselves, wouldn’t Tommy or Anders have just told me to do that?

We have to wait for Tommy. He’s going to ‘get us in.’

“I’ll be right back,” I say. “I’m going to use the restroom.”

“Have fun,” she says. 

A few minutes later, I’m washing my hands in the diner’s bathroom, and my eyes happen upon a sign posted on the wall near where the trash can sits: “DO NOT DISPOSE OF USED ADULT DIAPERS IN THIS TRASH CAN. PLEASE TAKE THEM WITH YOU AND DISPOSE OF THEM ELSEWHERE. IF THIS CONTINUES TO BE AN ISSUE, FUTURE USE OF THE FACILITIES WILL BE RESTRICTED.”

The fact that the sign calls them ‘adult diapers’ instead of something like ‘incontinence products’ seems to suggest something, I think. I wonder if it symbolizes frustration on the part of the diner–maybe whoever made the sign had determined that there was a difference between ‘incontinence products’ and whatever it was they were finding. Or, maybe, the sign’s author just didn’t know better verbiage.

I consider how it’s probably not just Celia that notices the people that pass through Harper’s Bell from ‘the farm.’ Celia had said it herself–ask ten different people what they think is going on there, and they’ll give ten different answers. But I wonder if there’s any commonalities in their responses. Ten different answers about what goes on at that farm–but they might all agree that a lot of people there wear diapers, for example.

I see something behind the sign on the wall–the letter “k” scrawled in black marker, peeking out from behind the paper. Curious, I lift up the sign, finding another message scribbled directly on the wall itself in an almost child-like fashion: “DRINK THE MILK.”

The hell if I know what that means.

===

There’s only so much sitting around I can do before I start to get restless. I send one more text to Tommy, letting him know that we’re still at the diner–and threatening to just drive to ‘the farm’ ourselves if we don’t hear from him soon. Then, nervously turning my phone over in my hand, I decide to use this downtime to call my sister. Nikki agrees to wait at the table, just in case, while I step outside with my phone.

“Heyyy,” starts Sam’s voice mail message. There’s a brief pause after that word that makes me think she might actually be on the line, but then the recording continues: “This is Samantha Elkin. I’m not available at the moment so leave me a message and I’ll call you back, alright?”

Beep.

“Hey Sam, it’s me. I’m calling you from, uh, Middle-of-Fucking-Nowhere in beautiful California. We’re at a diner right now, waiting to meet the guy who’s going to take us to wherever Anders is. Reception here is spotty, but call me back when you get this message and hopefully I’ve got a bar or two. Hope you’re doing well. Nikki says hi. Well…actually she didn’t say anything, but I’m sure she’d say hi if I asked her to. Okay, well…talk to you later. Love you, bye.”

Saying ‘love you,’ still feels a little weird to me. Not in a bad way, it’s just a little unnatural. Our family was never really the lovey-dovey kind. We claimed to show each other acts of love instead of talking about it. But after my parents’ divorce turned into a bitter bloodbath, Sam and I pledged to be more upfront about our feelings and not just assume we knew how the other felt.

And, yeah, I love Sam. My mother’s fine–I harbor no negativity against her–but in the pie graph of who contributed the most in raising me, my sister has the biggest slice. 

It’s one of the reasons I’m here, I suppose–for her.

The sun on my skin feels preferable to the artificial cold of the diner air conditioning, so I linger outside a little longer. I lazily scan the area around me, trying to spot other points of interest in this town. Either there are none, or they’re just not visible from over here.

Further out in the parking lot, near a lamp post, I spot something small and colorful. I’m too far away to see what it is, but I’m curious enough to stroll forward to investigate. The closer I get, the more vibrant the object’s pinks and oranges get. Finally, I’m able to identify it–a pacifier. 

This probably shouldn’t be very noteworthy–I feel like I’ve seen abandoned binkies in parking lots my whole life. Wherever you go, it seems, there’s always a trail left behind by someone’s toddler. Abandoned toys. Crushed cereal bits. Crayons. But here, in this town, the sight gives me a little pause. It’s possible that an actual child left behind their precious pacifier–but it was just as likely that it was some adult-diaper wearing resident of ‘the farm.’ The same person–or type of person–who’d leave behind dirty diapers in a public restroom.

I think about the back of Bria and Reid’s minivan, and the baby bottles and stuffed animals I spotted inside.  I was imagining Bria, again, on her back with her dress hiked up as Reid changed her diaper like she was an infant. Suddenly, Reid was me, and Bria was Maxine. And then I imagine myself on my back, getting my diaper changed–Maxine hovering above me, cooing about how I’m wet. 

Would I like that? Seems best that I don't think about it–it’s a question that doesn’t need answering right now.

My phone vibrates, and I see that Tommy is finally texting me back: “Sorry to keep you waiting. I’ll be there soon!” I’d much rather he tell me that he’s already here, but what’s a few more minutes of waiting?

“Hey there” a voice says. It’s not a familiar-enough voice that I immediately recognize it–nor am I expecting anyone to talk to me at all–so I jump a little. It’s Celia, walking towards me with a vape between her fingers. Must be her smoke-break

“Hey.” 

“It’s pretty nice out today,” she says, using a hand as a visor as she gazes up into the partly-cloudy sky. “I’d much rather be out here than in there all day.”

The air here seems different than it does back home. Cleaner and fresher. I’ve never thought of New Jersey air as being bad, but I guess I just didn’t know what good air is actually like. I take in a good lungful, hold it for a second, and slowly release it.

“No offense, but it’s a little more comfortable out here,” I say.

“No argument from me.”

“Hey, uh, I saw the sign in the restroom. About the diapers?”

She chuckles and runs a hand through her hair. “Are you disappointed that you have to take your dirty diapers with you?”

“I don’t wear–” I stop myself, seeing the telltale smirk of sarcasm on her face. “Is that really a problem around here?”

“Take a walk downtown and count how many stores have signs on their doors stating that there’s no public restrooms or changing stations.”

“It’s that bad?”

She shrugs. “Honestly? I doubt it. What probably happened was, just once or twice, someone left a particularly gross present behind in a public bathroom and it got everyone all worked up. I meant what I said before–everyone I’ve ever met from that little group seemed pretty nice.”

I kick at the pacifier on the ground, turning it over. I know I should probably pick it up and throw it out, but I don’t know where it's been. The more I stare at it, the stronger my feeling is that it fell out of the mouth of an adult.

“It’s pretty rare that we get a visitor anymore who isn’t coming or going from there,” she says. “Are you sure that’s not your destination?”

I laugh. “Oh, I am going there. I’m just not going for the baby-treatment, or whatever it is they do there. I’m here to find my brother-in-law.”

“Ah,” she says. “He’s one of them?”

“I think so. His name is Anders. You know him?”

She shakes her head. “The name doesn’t mean anything to me, but I might have seen him before.”

I take my phone out of my pocket and pull up a picture of him. “I know you probably see all kinds of people here, so I can’t expect you to remember every face. But here’s what he looks like.” 

“Hmm,” she says, nodding her head. “Yeah, I think I’ve seen him. Maybe a few times over the last year. Nice enough guy.”

This might confirm one of my theories that Anders has been coming here a lot longer than he’s been letting on. All of those ‘business’ trips–I wonder how many of them were actually cover stories for his excursions to baby-land. I still don’t know how I’m actually going to get him out of here. Can I just convince him to come home? Or do I need to drag him out while he, quite literally,  kicks and screams like a toddler?

“I should probably get back in there,” I sigh, glancing back to the diner. “Nikki’s waiting for me.”

“Is she your girlfriend?”

“No, my best friend. My sidekick. Or…maybe I’m her sidekick–I’m not sure.”

“Well, it was nice talking to you, er…” Her voice trails off at the end to signal that she’s waiting for me to give her my name.

“Alfie,” I say.

“Good luck on your quest, Alfie. But just a little word of warning?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re not the first person I’ve talked to who says they’re just going to visit the farm, for whatever reason. Picking someone up. Dropping someone off. Running an errand. More often than not–the next time I see them, they’re in diapers too. I’m not saying it’s against their will or anything, but…that place seems to have a pull on folks. Maybe it’s something in the air. Or the water.”

The message scrawled on the restroom wall comes to mind: DRINK THE MILK.

“Thanks,” I laugh. “But I think I can just say ‘no’ to wearing a pair of diapers.”

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Posted

Three: Off the Grid, Into the Cradle

Tommy looks just as out of place as Nikki and I do. He wants to fit in, though his heavy-duty leather boots, dirt-splattered pants, and rolled-up plaid shirt sleeves look more like farmer cosplay than anything else. It’s the details that give him away. His hair is neatly parted and combed. His face is shaved completely smooth. His hands are clean and uncalloused. A fellow city-boy if I’ve ever seen one.

“I’m guessing y’all are Alfie and Nikki?” he asks, flashing a suave smile as he saunters up to our table. Even his ‘y’all’ sounds inauthentic. 

“Are, uh, outsiders that obvious?” I ask.

“Soon enough, I bet you’ll be able to detect them too,” he says. He sticks a hand out towards me. “I’m Tommy.”

I shake his hand, almost introducing myself before remembering that he already knows who we are. “You want a seat? Some food?”

Tommy helps himself to a seat on Nikki’s side of the booth, much to my own amusement. He doesn’t know Nikki yet, but if he did, he’d be wary of her dissatisfaction for having to share her seat with a stranger. “So,” he says, “here for Anders, huh?”

“That’s the plan,” I sigh, already exhausted by him. “Where’s he now?” It would’ve been so convenient if Anders had just come to town with Tommy. Then, I could've just pushed him into the back of our car and drove off. Of course, that’s probably why he’s not here.

“He’s back home,” he says. “Unfortunately, he was tied up with some other stuff. But that’s why he asked me to meet you.”

“Home?” I ask. “Is that the, uh, farm?”

“The farm,” he chuckles. “Been talking to the locals?”

“Just the waitress,” I say. “Is it…not a farm?”

“I mean, it’s a farm, sure,” Tommy shrugs. “We grow fruit, grains and vegetables. We’ve got some animals too. But we don’t call it ‘the farm.’ What else did the waitress say about us?”

“Nothing bad,” I shrug. “She said you’re all pretty nice.”

“Tell me more about your friend here,” Tommy says, his curiosity about the town gossip seemingly satiated. He nods his head to the side towards Nikki. “Is she, like, your girlfriend?”

I smile. This ought to be fun. He already broke the first rule, which was asking me about her–especially when she’s sitting right next to him. “You might want to start by asking her that.”

Tommy’s head slowly rotates to the side, getting a much better view of Nikki’s scowl.

“Did you have something you wanted to ask me?” She cracks her fingers in front of her chest.

“Uh, sorry,” Tommy says, his cheeks getting a little pink. “I didn’t mean to…”

“I’m Alfie’s friend,” she says. “Moral support.”

“She’s also my bodyguard,” I say. I’m only half-joking.

Nikki is a bartender back at home. As far as I know, it’s the only job she’s ever had, and it’s the only job she ever wants. Her dream is to own her own bar. That’s it. That’s all she wants. When I told her I was going to California, I said that she was welcome to join me. I wasn’t sure that she would, since she had a job and all. But I watched as she picked up her phone, called her boss, and nonchalantly told him that she’d be away for a few days. I was pretty sure that she ended the call before he even had a chance to say anything in response.

When asked why she wanted to come with me, she told me that she just wanted the opportunity to “get away from things for a minute.” A very respectable reason, in my opinion–though a part of me wonders if there’s more to it than that. Nikki keeps most things close to the chest. Over time, I’ve learned to read Nikki well–maybe better than anyone else ever has–but I still have my blind spots. 

“You remind me of someone,” Tommy muses, staring at Nikki. If this was a cartoon, his irises might be in little heart shapes. “A girl I used to know.”

“Did you annoy her too?” she asks.

He blushes a little, her bluntness catching him off guard. I wonder if most of the people he talks to have a little more patience with him. He clears his throat and does his best to laugh it off.

“Look,” I say, wanting to get the conversation back on track again. “We want to go see Anders, wherever he is. You’re going to help us do that, right?”

“Of course,” he says, nodding. “Whenever you’re ready, you can follow me over.”

Somewhere in the background, I spot Celia walking by. At this point, our bill has been paid and we’re completely done with our meal, so there’s no need for her to check in on us–yet, I’m a little surprised she hasn’t stopped by since Tommy arrived. Up until the moment of his arrival, she’d at least swing by every few minutes for some small talk. It makes me wonder if she’s interacted with Tommy before or not.

“And why couldn’t we just drive over there ourselves?” Nikki asks.

“Well, it’s invite-only,” he shrugs. “They’d have turned you away at the gate, no matter who you know inside.”

A gate. And who is ‘they?’ Nikki had brought up the idea of it being a cult earlier, and I had brushed the idea off. It seems a little less strange now.

“But if you’re with me,” Tommy continues, “a member, they’ll let you in.”

“A member,” I repeat. “A member of…what, exactly?”

He opens his mouth, but seems to think better of whatever his answer would’ve been. He considers it for another moment before trying again: “A member of our family. I’d like to introduce you to our family, of course. I know Anders would like that too.”

“Is Anders…part of that family?”

“Of course.”

“He’s got a family back home, you know? Myself. My sister. We were kind of hoping we could get him back.”

“You can share, can’t you?”

“I’d love to see how my sister–Ander’s wife–would respond to that,” I laugh.

Nikki snorts.

“Anders isn’t being held against his will,” Tommy shrugs. “Whenever he wants to go, he’ll go.”

“Sure. But I think he needs a little reminder that people are waiting for him.”

“You’ve come a long way to just give him a little reminder,” he says. “Look, all I’m saying is that since you’re out here anyway, you might as well let us show you around. Maybe see for yourself all the good qualities of our home that Anders sees. You might be surprised at how much you like it.”

Aside from shrugging, I’m not really sure what else there is to say. I’m ready to roll. I’m ready to get over there and to start the process of getting Anders back into an airplane. 

“You too,” Tommy says to Nikki. “I think you’d like our home too.”

Nikki’s nose wrinkles a little as she glances back at Tommy. “Are you wearing a diaper right now?”

His cheeks blush and he bites his bottom lip for a moment. “I mean, well…”

“I’m just saying,” she continues. “It kind of smells like pee over here.”

===

We’re back in the car and on the road again. The car still smells a little like baby powder. Ahead of us, Tommy’s pickup leads the way back out of town again. We pass the gas station that Bria and Reid took their van to earlier, and I can see that the van is pulled into the garage now. I see Reid outside, talking on his phone, but I don’t see Bria. I wave, but I don’t think he sees me.

“So,” I shrug. “Tommy, huh? What a guy.”

“I’ve seen him before,” she says. “Well, not him, but other guys who are just like him. They’re at the bar all the time. I swear, there’s a factory somewhere that just keeps churning them out.”

“This one pees his pants, though.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve seen one of them piss themselves either. I guess he at least had the foresight to wear diapers.”

I shrug. “I don’t really like him either. A strange choice to be our envoy, right? I’m hoping that he’s not the best they have to offer.”

“It’s busy work,” she says. “He probably annoys someone else at their little headquarters, so they sent him here to meet us just to get him out of their hair.”

“Poor guy. Now I feel bad for him.”

The road is far from the worst we’ve ever been on, but it’s hardly a smooth ride. We’re in ‘back road’ country now, and I feel more disconnected from the rest of the world than ever before. The closer we get to the farm–or whatever else it is they want to call it–the more anxious I get. From my apartment in New Jersey, it was easy to imagine myself wandering into this place and talking Anders into just coming back home with me. Now, I’m not so sure. 

“Did you get a hold of your sister?” she asks.

“Nah. Left her a voicemail though. I’m sure that by the time she calls back, we won’t have reception.”

“It’s kind of nice,” she says, staring out the window. “You know, not being able to use our phones so much.”

I can’t help but chortle. Nikki has, like, one hour of screen time total a day. She has restraint I rarely see in other adults our age. “Funny coming from you.”

“It’s just the idea of being, like, off the grid. I carry a phone around with me everywhere I need to go just in case someone–like you, or someone from the bar–needs me. Even when the phone’s not in use, it could go off at any second and interrupt my day. Now, I don’t have to worry about it. Out of sight, out of mind.”

“I wish I could see it that way,” I say. I’m thinking about how I need to talk to Sam yet. How I’d like to touch base with Maxine. I should also, at some point, think about calling my editor.

I am a writer. Others have called me a ‘journalist,’ but I’ve never been bold enough to say it myself. Usually, I just write shit articles for a shit newsblog that’s on its last legs. I’m not the guy who goes out in the field and does interviews. I don’t ‘investigate.’ I write reviews of dog accessories. I rank memes. Once in a great while I get to do a concert review. They keep paying me, and I’m making enough to live–albeit, barely–but I know this isn’t going to last much longer. Soon, AI will be writing the articles I usually write. If I want to continue to be a writer, and I think I do, then I need to make myself important. I need to go places that nobody else is going, and I need to write about things that nobody else is writing about.

Probably another reason that I decided to fly across the country. I wasn’t thinking about this when I booked the flights. But now that I’m here, I see pieces of a story everywhere I look.

“How often do you think the people in this place deal with diaper rash?” Nikki asks.

I laugh. “I…haven’t thought about that. You figure it’s got to happen sometimes, right?”

“I mean, take this Tommy guy. If I could smell his pissy pants, he was probably sitting in them a while, right? And he just got back in his truck without changing himself, so who knows how much longer he’ll be in that thing.”

“When we get to where we’re going, should I remind him to change?”

Nikki snorts and nods. “Please do that. I’d love to hear it.”

“You ever think about having kids?” I ask. I think I’ve always assumed that she didn’t want them before, but we probably haven’t actually talked about it in a long time. 

“No.”

“No…you don’t want them? Or no, you don’t think about it?”

“I don’t think about it.” She leaves it at that. As always, the master of keeping it close to her chest.

Actually, I could see her being a good mother. She can be very protective at times, and even at her gruffest, she’s always considerate for those she cares about. Though, honestly, I can’t begin to imagine the kind of person she’d marry, let alone choose to procreate with. Would he be a bulldog himself? Or would she need someone completely different to balance the equation?

Would I be a good parent? I just can’t imagine being in that role. If anything, I feel like I still need someone else to take care of me.

===

We reach a gate. 

This place has a gate. Not only that, but a chain link fence spreads in either direction, disappearing into the trees around us. However big this place is, I suspect it’s completely fenced off from the rest of the world.

There’s someone standing there, too. A guard, I think. He doesn’t appear to be armed, but he also doesn’t look like the kind of guy I’d want to force my way past. For the first time since we landed in California, Nikki seems interested. Maybe she’s just interested in the size of the guard’s arms, or maybe she’s just as curious as I am about what a place like this needs a guard for.

Tommy’s pickup pulls through the gate, and the guard waves for us to drive through as well. I’m tempted to stop and talk to the guard for a moment, but I’m not even sure what I’d ask. “Keeping the babies safe in here, are ya?” Instead I just offer a friendly wave as we slowly roll past him.

I do spot something else as we roll through the entrance, though–a large wooden sign suspended above the gate. It reads: The Cradle. Nikki and I read the sign at the same time and then look at each other, making sure the other has noticed it.

“That’s interesting, huh?” I ask. Nikki only snorts in response.

This place–this commune, this compound, this community–is huge. There are roads. There are buildings. There are people walking around. I feel like we’re only seeing a small part of it too. Beyond the buildings and trees that I see, I’m sure there’s even more. I’m already overwhelmed.

“Nobody looks to be dressed like a baby over here,” I say–just as much for myself as it’s for Nikki to hear. 

“Pull over and that lady if she’s wearing a diaper,” Nikki says, pointing at a random woman walking on the side of the little road. She’s probably joking.

“I bet we’re going to have plenty of opportunities to see people in diapers,” I say. “Let’s not annoy our hosts too much just yet.”

There’s an unpaved parking lot ahead, and there’s about a dozen or so cars already parked here–ranging from beat-up older vehicles, like Tommy’s, to brand new Mercedes and Land Rovers. Our arrival kicks up a big cloud of dust in the parking area, and so I can barely see  that Tommy’s pulled his truck into a space at the far end. I pull into a space next to his, praying that I haven’t accidently run over everyone.

“You’re here,” Tommy says as we all get out of our vehicles at the same time. “Welcome.”

“Was that security at the gate?” I ask. I think I’m actually asking something else–something about why a place like this would need security, or if something ever happened to require security here now.

“That’s just Chuck,” Tommy shrugs. “No big deal. It’s just a little extra peace of mind to know that someone’s watching the entrance. There’s two more guys on security detail. One of them is probably somewhere here on the farmstead. The other one is probably sleeping.”

Alright, I guess I’ll just ask what I should’ve asked in the first place: “What do you think you need security from?”

Tommy nonchalantly waves the question away with the back of his hand. “People just like feeling secure. Honestly, most of what security does is just keeps the bears away. If y’all brought any bags, why don’t you grab them and follow me.”

Both Nikki and I have packed some belongings, assuming that no matter what happens with Anders, we’re probably going to need to spend at least a night here. Neither of us grab our bags though, probably for the same reason–doing so would be to assume that we’re staying. And, ideally, we won’t have to do that. Best case scenario, we get Anders and drag him out of here and then find a place to stay the night in Harper’s Bell. Or, we just keep driving until we do find a place to spend the night.

“We’ll, uh, grab them later,” I say.

“Suit yourself,” he says. His arm waves us towards him. “Follow me.”

I keep wondering how Anders found out about this place initially. I can guess, I think. He’s the type who can just approach anyone and strike up a conversation. He’s fearless when it comes to socializing. This, combined with the fact that he travels a lot for his job, probably provides ample opportunity for adventure. I can imagine him striking up a conversation with someone who knows about this place, and they mention it to him. He’s intrigued and wants to know more. He says all the right things and manages to get himself invited. Once here, he falls in love with it.

Anders once told me–maybe around the time he shared the photos of himself with the diapered folks in the background–that he really wanted to return here, but worried that the next time he arrived, he wouldn’t want to leave. I laughed it off when he said it, but I’m starting to see why he might’ve felt that way. As we walk across the grounds behind Tommy, I’m overwhelmed by all the things to see. Flowers and plants everywhere. People just walking and talking–all of them look happy to be here. It’s quiet too–a kind of quiet I’m not familiar with. Living in suburbia all my life, ‘quiet’ still includes the background ambience of cars on a highway, sirens, or barking dogs. Most of that noise is absent from here, leaving just the soft tones of polite conversations, birds chirping, and wind blowing through leaves. 

I’m looking for diapers. Everytime we pass someone, I study their clothing, looking for the telltale lump of thick padding. Most of the time, I either can’t tell, or it doesn’t appear that they’re wearing one. But that’s not always the case. A young man’s athletic shorts have slid down a little, revealing the back of a white diaper as he talks to a woman near a tree. A woman squats near a small flower bed with a trowel in her hand, her dress riding up enough so that I can clearly see she’s wearing a diaper underneath. Someone with bright pink hair is walking across our path ahead in only a t-shirt and a diaper–their thumb lodged in their mouth. I expect Tommy to turn back to us to explain what that might be about, but he continues to stroll ahead like it’s the most normal thing.

“What do you think?” I ask Nikki.

“I should’ve gotten jerky at that store in town.”

“Sure. But what do you think about this place?”

“It’s nice,” she shrugs. No snark detected.

“So, uh, where are we headed?” I finally ask, projecting my voice ahead to Tommy.

“Well you want to see Anders, right?” Tommy asks. “He should be up here.”

===

People like to tease me because of how I act around Anders. They call me a puppy-dog, or insist that I’m obsessed with him. While I think they exaggerate a little, I do like Anders a lot. I liked him from the first time Sam introduced me to him. He’s the cool older brother I never had. He’s gregarious, friendly, and he has impeccable taste in just about everything. The music I listen to, all the movies that I watch, all the books I read–most of them were recommendations from Anders. I sometimes say–to myself, as I’d never say this aloud to someone else and invite further jokes at my expense–that I want to be Anders when I grow up.

Now, I just need to wait for whenever it is that I grow up.

Anders, as best as I can tell, appreciates my role of ‘little bro.’ He likes having a fan club, and he likes having someone to talk to about the obscure art that Sam could care less about.

If asked what he does for a living, Anders will say that he is a jazz musician. And while that is technically true, I doubt he makes very much money from playing with some band in the city once or twice a month. Anders is also a photographer, and a rather renowned one, at that. He mostly takes photos of collectibles–things like stamps, coins, and toys–for coffee table books and price guides. More recently, Anders had been traveling around the country and taking photographs of antique cars for a new book he’s working with a writer in Manhattan. It sounds like a cool enough job, though I still get the feeling that Sam is the house’s breadwinner. 

His most recent trip to California–the one he has yet to return from–was under the guise of taking photos of more cars. I know this to be a lie now, and it makes me wonder how many of his previous trips were covers for him coming to ‘The Cradle.’ 

Nikki and are waiting for a few minutes after Tommy went into a small cabin–presumably to fetch Anders. I’m just about to complain about how long it's taking when the door opens again.

I almost don’t recognize the man who emerges from the cabin’s door. It’s only when he smiles that I realize it’s my brother-in-law. The Anders I know keeps his dark hair in a semi-purposeful mess, while his carefully trimmed beard says professor-chic. This man’s hair is neatly combed back, and his beard is gone. He’s not wearing tight fitting jeans, and some designer button-down, as Anders is wont to–instead, he’s wearing loose-fitting white pants and a billowing tan top. It’s an outfit that either screams ‘cult-member’ or ‘guy at a yoga retreat.’ 

“Anders,” I say, unable to help but smile in return.

“Alfie,” he says. “I’m so glad you made it.”

What I want to do is run up and hug him, but I can already hear Nikki’s stifled snickers in my head now. I settle for a firm handshake. As glad as I am to see him, I’m also annoyed with him, and I feel like I need to make that clear: “Sam’s a little pissed, you know?”

He sighs and nods slowly. “Yeah… I bet she is.”

“You need to go home,” I say. “And you need to go home with a helmet on, in case she’s waiting for you with a golf club.”

“Yeah, I know,” he laughs. “She deserves to hear the truth–and I’m going to tell her everything. Believe me, it’s not like I want to keep any of this from her. I just… Well, you know your sister. I’m not sure she’d understand a place like this, and so I’ve been trying to figure out how to make her see what it means to me.”

He’s not wrong–I can’t imagine Sam witnessing people roaming around in adult diapers and saying anything other than “What the fuck?”

I want to jump right into the little spiel I’ve been mentally preparing since I boarded a jet in New Jersey, but it seems better to hold off for the moment. There’ll be plenty of opportunities today to give him hell. For now, it’s just good to see him again.

A few yards away, Tommy gives me a big wave to signal that his work here is done. I wave back. Here’s to hoping the guy gets his diaper changed soon.

“Nikki,” Anders says, his arms open for a hug. “It’s good to see you too. Keeping my man safe, I assume?”

Nikki–who’s never seemed either charmed or annoyed by Anders in the past–just shrugs and waves. “Glad to see you’re still alive.” She’s not a hugger, and he slowly lowers his arms when he remembers this.

“I’m so glad you made it,” Anders says again, his attention turning back to me. “There’s so much I want to show you.”

“I’m sure,” I say. “But I just want to make sure that we find some time to talk about–”

“There’ll be plenty of time for that,” Anders says, cutting me off. “But you’re here now and, you know, so long as you’re here, you might as well see what this place is all about, right?”

“Yeah,” I nod. “Actually, that sounds good. I’d really like to understand what’s going on around here.”

Anders laughs and shrugs. “You know, you’re going to see a lot of things. But to truly understand it? You’d have to–”

He doesn’t get a chance to finish that thought, as the door of the cabin he previously emerged from opens again, a young woman with curly brown hair steps out. Her arms are crossed and there’s an amused look of faux-frustration on her pretty face.

“Anders?” she says. “And just where do you think you’re running off to?”

“Hey,” he says, his head spinning back towards the door quickly. His cheeks turn bright pink. “Uhm, my brother is here and…”

“I wasn’t done with you yet,” she says, her lips breaking into a little smirk. “You get back in here so I can take care of you.”

Anders’ eyes meet mine, and I’m pretty sure he can read my mind. “You have a wife back home,” I’m saying. “My sister, at that. You better have a pretty good explanation for this.”

He immediately responds to my thoughts aloud: “It, uh… It’s not what it looks like.”

“Well that depends on what you think it looks like,” the woman giggles. “Because if it looks like this big baby here is sneaking away from a diaper change, you’d be absolutely right.”

Anders sighs, nervously running his hand over his hair. “You’ll have to excuse me a minute, Alf. I just have to, uh…”

“He needs to get his diaper changed,” the woman says, looking delighted to expose him like this. “He’s wet the one he’s wearing so much that it’s about to leak. It’s a bad habit of his. I swear, it’s as if he likes being in dirty diapers.”

I haven’t begun to process this yet, and it's among the most absurd things I’ve ever heard someone say in my entire life–but that doesn’t mean it’s not funny. I try, and fail, to conceal my mouth as I giggle. Nikki, of course, snorts.

“Well, sure,” I say, my mouth still curved into a big grin. “You should probably take care of that, then. We’ll wait, Anders.”

He sighs and begins to say something, but seems to reconsider. “I’d try and explain but…”

“You can tell ‘em all about it when we’re done,” the woman says, taking his arm and pulling him back into the cabin. The door shuts behind them, leaving whatever happens next up to our imaginations.

===

The woman I saw earlier, whose dress was hiked up enough to show off her diaper as she tended to a small garden, is walking towards us. She walks with purpose and, perhaps, a slightly off-kilter wobble–like there’s something under her dress that she’s trying to compensate for as she moves. The diaper, I’m sure.

“Hi,” she says, a cute flare of rose in her cheeks as she waves. “Are you two waiting?”

“Waiting?”

She points to the cabin. For a moment, I’m not sure what she means by this, but then I think of the woman dragging Anders back inside of it–stating that he needed to have his diaper changed. 

“Oh,” I say. “N-no. We’re not, uh…” What do they call themselves? Diaper-people? Babies? Residents? “We’re not waiting to go in. We’re waiting for someone to come out.”

The woman nods, chuckling a little. “Are they going to be a while, you think?”

“Uh…I really don’t know how long these things take,” I say. “I’ve never, uhm, had my…diaper changed. Well, as an adult, at least. I assume someone took care of that sort of thing for me when I was a baby. Oh, and I guess I should probably mention that I’m not wearing a diaper right now, and…”

“Rambling,” Nikki says softly. She’s always looking out for me.

“Right,” I say, my cheeks warming. “I don’t know how long it’ll be.”

She smirks. “Visiting?”

I feel compelled to explain why we’re here, and that we’re not interested in becoming one of…whoever they are, but I doubt she cares. It seems easier to just nod. “That’s right.” It’s not a lie.

“You know, I just ‘visited’ once,” she shrugs, a smug grin on her face.

“Is that so? And now you’re a, uh, member?” Member? Is that the right word? It sounds like I’m describing something cult-y again.

“I live here now,” she smiles. 

“That sounds lovely,” I say. “Congratulations.”

“Look, I’m just saying that I’ve seen your expression before,” she says. “I saw it in the mirror when I first came here. This place is a lot to take in, isn’t it?”

I’m thinking about Celia’s little warning to me back when we were at the diner. About how it seems like everyone who comes here ends up in a diaper. “Maybe it’s something in the air. Or the water.” I almost don’t want to engage in this conversation at all, afraid that polite conversation will be misconstrued as genuine interest. 

Still, I can’t just not respond to her. “It’s a lot,” I chuckle. “But I’m not here to judge anyone. I hope everyone’s living their best life.”

She smirks. “Well, I’m going to find somewhere else to be changed. Maybe I’ll see you around. And if I don’t, well, I’ll assume you left.” This last part is said in a tone that implies she doesn’t believe it’s going to happen. 

“Uh, yeah. I’ll see you if I see you.” She had mentioned needing to be ‘changed’ so nonchalantly that I barely thought about it. Now, I find myself a little curious about the current status of her diaper. 

She walks past me, onwards towards the next location where she can get freshened up. Her arm brushes against mine, and she utters a little whisper as she passes–so soft that I’m almost sure I imagined it. “Just try it.”

Try what.

But I think I already know. The message from the restroom wall comes to mind again: ‘Drink the milk.’ As the girl walks away, I catch a little whiff of the trail she leaves behind. It’s not a fresh scent.

“They’re nuts,” Nikki says, shaking her head. “All of them.”

“Y-yeah,” I nod. She’s probably right. But I also kind of wonder what it’s like to be nuts myself.

The cabin door opens again and Anders emerges, a big smile on his face. “Hello again!”

“Good to go?” I ask. “Everything, uh, situated?”

He laughs, his cheeks reddening a little. “Good to go. Come on, guys, I want to show you around.”

I turn my head one last time to see if the girl in the dress is near us or not, but she appears to be out of sight. I am a little curious if I’ll ever see her again. Because if I do, it probably means I’ve been here too long.

“Hey, Anders,” I say. “What do you know about, uh…” Milk. All I have to do is say one more word, a short word at that. But I just can’t bring myself to ask about it. Maybe I don’t want to know, because then I’d have to care. And if I cared…maybe I’d be showing up at the diner with a diaper peeking up from the back of my pants, and Celia would be there laughing, saying: “See? Told ya so.” 

“What do I know about what?”

“Uh, the reception around here. Is there any place around here I can go if I had to make a call?”

“Oh, yeah,” he shrugs. “I can usually get a bar or three of service near the gate. Follow me. I’ll show you.”

Anders walks ahead, with Nikki and I following a short distance behind. She glances at me curiously. She doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t have to–I’m sure she wants to know what I was originally going to ask. Maybe I’ll tell her later, long after we leave and while we’re laughing about the strange experience we had while getting Anders.

Or, maybe I’ll tell her while someone’s topping my glass of milk off, and we’re moments away from trying it for ourselves.

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  • quietlyhumiliated changed the title to Milk! [Prologue, Chapter 3 posted 10/25/2024]
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Posted

Four: Naked and Confused, Like the Day You Were Born

It’s not just the quiet that I enjoy about The Cradle, it’s also the quality of the air. Its scent. Earthy and woodsy, with pleasant floral notes now and then. I suppose there are places I can go back home that smell like this, but I’d have to look for them. They’re just here, though–all around me. 

Of course, every once in a while, the wind blows a little and new scents are carried to my nose from elsewhere–baby powder and, maybe, something suspiciously off. One such gust seems to whip through a handful of people sitting at a picnic table before slapping me in the face, carrying with it the ripe smells of dirty diapers–a smell that I’ve always, until now, associated with being in the presence of my cousin and all of her children. I know that I’m supposed to dislike it–and I’m not saying I love it–but, more than anything it just makes me curious. Who are these people, and why are they okay with this?

“This is my cabin,” Anders says, his arm outstretched to yet another of the small wooden cabins that look like all the others we’ve seen. “Well, it’s not mine. We all kinda share everything, you know? But this is where I usually sleep.”

There’s a rustic quality to The Cradle–with its wood cabins, gravel trails and the bespoke gardens and decor that are randomly placed throughout the grounds. But I also get the sense that this rusticness came with an expensive price tag. I very much doubt that most of what I see was part of the original Hammond Farm. I’m certainly no carpenter, but between the ornate wooden doors, the windows, and the clean pitched roofs of each, I have to assume that the components and labor of each didn’t come cheaply.

I don’t know anything about the Hammond Farm of yore, but I keep my eyes peeled for traces of what used to be here. At one point during Anders’ brief tour, I spot an old stone farmhouse off in the distance, but as best as I can tell, that’s the only relic from the property’s past life. Everything else looks like it was just dropped here in the last few years. The cabins, the footpaths, the fence, even the placement of some of the trees.

The number of questions I have multiply by the second. Who bankrolls all this? Does this commune make money in any way? Who runs this place? When did it start? How did it start? Why did it start?

“I get it,” I say, my hand against a tree to prop up my exhausted body. “This is a very nice place. Very cozy. Quaint, I guess–if you’re into that sort of thing. But I know you, Anders, and you aren’t…quaint. You like the city life. You like the hustle and bustle. You like, I dunno, jazz clubs and arthouse cinemas.”

Anders shrugs, laughing a little. “You don’t think a guy can change his mind?”

“Maybe,” I say. “But I don’t think that’s what’s happening here.” 

I think I already know how this conversation is going to go. He’s going to ask me what I think is happening here. I’m going to say something about ‘milk.’ He’s going to laugh it off and be cagey about it. I’m going to get frustrated. Nikki’s going to snort in amusement.

But he surprises me: “You’re right, Alf. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I do like the, uh, quaintness of it all. But there’s something even better that keeps me here–the thing I wanted you to come and experience for yourself.”

“Anders, I came here to fetch you and bring you home. I’m not here to–”

“Look, you’re already here, aren’t you? What’s the harm in just trying something new?”

“The harm is that we’re wasting time,” I say. “Right now, Sam’s probably going crazy back home, wondering where the hell you are. And I can’t update her, because there’s no reception in this goddamn place.”

“Alf, be real, man. Even if I said I was ready to go home, it’s not like we’re going back to the airport tonight, right? We’d sleep here, have breakfast in the morning, and then we’d get into the car and go. So you have time tonight.”

Annoyingly, he’s probably not wrong. “Alright. So…what is it that we’re trying?”

Milk. Here comes the part where he talks about milk.

He just smiles coyly. “I can’t tell you.”

I roll my eyes and huff.

“Don’t get me wrong, Alf, I want to tell you. But it’s better if you go into it blindly. Like I did.”

“I don’t know…”

“Have I steered you wrong in the past?”

Well, he did introduce me to sashimi, and I did end up loving it–despite all my reservations. And there were countless things that I loved that I had him to thank for: The Velvet Underground, the films of Richard Linklater, this book shop over on 23rd Street, and all those concerts he brought me to. Maybe he’s right about this too.

But.

“Look…I don’t want to wear diapers,” I say. 

He laughs again. This should be the part where he assures me that I wouldn’t have to if I didn’t want to. But he doesn’t say anything else about it. Instead, he just waves for us to follow him again. “Come on.”

===

At some point, as we strolled around The Cradle, I must’ve gotten just enough reception to have a few pending messages delivered. A handful of texts flood my phone at once, and two new voice mails appear.

Voice mail #1, from Sam: “Hey, Alfie. Thank you for touching base with me–I’m sorry I missed your call. Just, uh, keep me updated, I guess, with when you get to Alfie, okay? And punch him for me too. Love you. Bye.”

Voice mail #2, from Maxine: “Hey you. I was just thinking about you–which is, like, annoying because I’m trying to be mad at you, you know? But, yeah, I miss you. I hope you’re not having too much fun without me. Are there lots of people there in diapers? Are they cute? Cuter than me? Be honest! [Giggles.] Give me a call when you can, okay?”

Anders stops a few feet ahead of me, fixing his shoe. I walk up to him and punch him in the shoulder.

“Ow! What the hell?”

“That’s from Sam, FYI,” I shrug.

===

The stone farmhouse looks ancient, but it also looks pretty well maintained. The porch seems newer, and every other window looks to have been recently replaced.

“We call this the, uh, Farmhouse,” Anders chuckles. “You know, it doesn’t seem like that obvious of a name until you tell it to someone else for the first time.”

“And what do y’all do with it?” I ask.

“It’s kind of, like, our headquarters, I guess.”

I’m tempted to ask him if this is what he wants to show me, but I feel like I’m running the risk of sounding like the impatient child in the backseat repeatedly asking “Are we there yet?”

“Wait right here,” he says. “I want you to meet someone.” Before we have the chance to respond, he’s already bolted up the steps, across the porch, and into the house.

“Who do you think he’s getting?” I ask Nikki.

She yawns. “Probably, like, the Queen Baby or something.”

I laugh. “Does she wear a crown?”

“A bonnet,” she says. “But it’s made of gold.”

“Makes sense.”

“How are you feeling?” she asks.

I shrug. “Fine, I guess. A little frustrated? You?”

“I dig it here.”

“Diapers and all?”

She snorts and shakes her head. “I could probably do without that part. But did you see the orchard? Those gardens? I always wanted to live on a farm.”

“Really?” I tell myself that I know just about everything there is to know about her, and yet she occasionally finds ways to surprise me. “I didn’t know that.”

“There’s something about the whole living-off-the-land thing that appeals to me, I guess. Like, you truly put what you put your back into.”

“Huh.” I’ve never imagined Nikki in a pair of overalls and a straw hat before, but I think it’d suit her nicely.

“Look, I’ll be real with you,” she shrugs. “I don’t really care about whatever it is that Anders wants to show you. I think I might go take a look around for myself, if you’re cool with that.”

“Yeah, of course,” I say. “Take in the lay of the land. I want all the hot gossip later, though.”

She snorts. “Sure. And you’ll have to tell me if they try to bottle-feed you or something.”

I laugh off the idea, but as Nikki wanders away, I can almost imagine Anders emerging from the house again with a baby bottle in his hand. “It’s time for num-nums,” he’d say, and I’d have to hope that I’m not too polite to turn him down.

Instead, he returns with a woman. She reminds me a little of Nikki at first glance with her short and curvy build, which her tight shorts and tank top seem to accentuate. But her round jovial face and bright red cheeks couldn’t be more different than Nikki’s casual smirk of indifference.

“I want to introduce you to my brother,” Anders says to her. “This is Alfie.”

I feel my cheeks warming a little, but I hope it’s not that obvious that I’m blushing. Being called ‘brother’ by Anders always causes a little dopamine to be released.

“Hey,” I say, offering a little wave. “Nice to meet you.”

“Alfie, this is Mirabelle. She runs this place.”

“Don’t go spreading lies now,” the woman says, playfully shoving Anders’ shoulder. “Nobody’s ‘in charge’ around here. I just do my part in keeping things running smoothly, that’s all.”

“She’s being modest,” Anders says. “But she’s a big deal.”

She shakes her head and waves him away, taking another step towards me. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Alfie. Anders has been telling me all about you.” She opens her arms before wrapping them around me, pulling me tightly against her. I don’t reciprocate immediately, caught off guard by the tightness of her grip, but I eventually lift my arms behind her back, hugging her in return.

“He…has?” She relinquishes her squeeze and I instinctively take a small step back from her. It’s occurring to me now just how strange the cadence is between Mirabelle and Anders. From what he’s told me, he’s just an occasional visitor here–whereas others live here full-time. But the two of them seem to have a pretty comfortable rapport with one another–one that suggests a longstanding friendship. Maybe she’s just like this with everyone, or maybe I’m looking at it too closely. Besides, Anders is a pretty charming guy,

“Sure,” she beams. “You’re a writer, yes?

I laugh, surprised that Anders has told her anything about me at all–let alone that I’m a writer. “I mean…technically? But it’s not like I’m writing the next Great American Novel or anything.”

“He’s underselling himself,” Anders says, shaking his head. “He’s very modest.”

“I’m happy that you’ve come to visit us,” she says to me. “Anders thinks you’ll appreciate this place as much as he does.”

“Well, uh…” Would it be rude to tell her that I didn’t come here to visit? That all I really want to do is convince Anders to get the hell out of here? Then again, maybe it’d be worse to play along, despite not being interested. 

I find myself getting lost in her eyes and her plump lips as she smiles at me. She’s too sweet to disappoint, I think. Just ask Maxine, and Julie before her–I’m far too susceptible to batting eyelashes.

“I mean, we weren’t planning on staying long,” I finally say. “But, we’re here now, so…”

“That’s right,” she nods. There’s a hint of condescension in her voice–like a child just answered a question an adult wasn’t sure they would understand. “You’ve seen a lot of strange things so you’ve arrived here, haven’t you?”

“You could say that.”

“I think we could answer all your questions, if you gave us the chance.”

Drink the milk.

“I’d like that, yeah.”

“We could tell you everything,” she says, slowly turning as if she’s going to walk away from us. “Or we could just show you.”

I sigh, already exhausted by the inability to get a straight answer around here. All she has to do is open her mouth and tell me what’s going on here. “Yeah, so, we’re all perverts who like to prance around in diapers. That’s really all there is to it.” Instead, I feel like I’m being led on a wild goose chase. Mirabelle is going to take me somewhere else, only for someone to say: “Sorry, your diapers are in another castle.” Repeated ad nauseam.

“Sure,” I say, feigning interest. “Why don’t you show me what this place is all about, then.” I wish I could push back a little, but Mirabelle’s smile continues to have a hold on me.

It’s fine.

I need to tell myself again: It’s fine. 

In an alternate reality, Anders and Nikki get back in the car with me and we drive out of this place. We drive past Harper’s Bell, and we drive all the way to the airport. We go home, and Sam and Anders duke it out for a while. They’ll be fine in the long run, but they’ve got to work past some trust issues first. Months from now–years from now–I reflect on my short experience in The Cradle, and I wonder: “What would’ve happened if I just humored them and let them show me whatever it was they wanted to show me?”

It’s fine. I’m going to play along. I’m going to go with the flow. I’m going to…drink the milk, I guess.

I recall what Bria said to me while we were on the side of the road, and Nikki was fixing her and Reid’s tire: “When you get there, you’re going to think everyone is so fucking weird. But then it all just…makes sense.” 

Mirabelle is walking, and Anders is following behind. It takes me a few moments to realize this is happening, and I have to jog up to them to catch up.

“Not just anyone can come here,” she says. “We have to be careful about who we allow in. There’s a vetting process.”

“You didn’t vet me,” I say. “That I know of.”

“We have,” she shrugs. I can’t see her face, but I’m certain she’s smirking–I can hear it in her tone. “Anders’ word goes a very long way. And if he’s sure we can trust you, then I’m sure.”

“So you two know each other?” I ask.

Anders, his face blushing a little, says: “We go back a ways.”

I’m choosing to hold my follow-up questions for later. I think I’ll get more honest answers if I talk to Anders while we’re alone–preferably with some alcohol in hand.

I find my eyes slowly gravitating towards the back of Mirabelle’s shorts as she walks. I feel guilty for checking out her trunk, but I tell myself that it's in the name of science. Is she, too, wearing a diaper? I could probably just ask–she seems like the kind of person who’d be very honest about the answer–but I’m curious, and I have the right vantage point. It’s a nice round bottom, just barely squeezed into her shorts–but is that her natural shape, or is there some extra padding there? I study the small creases and folds in her pants, looking for the outline of a diaper where her thighs meet her pelvis. Maybe she is? I spot the slightest wisp of white sticking out from the waistband. It could be the top of a diaper, but it could also just be part of the shorts, for all I know.

Anders lightly taps my arm with the back of his hand, and when I look at him, he’s chuckling softly. “Yeah,” he says, nodding. Clearly, he saw where my eyes were directed and was able to deduce what I was looking for.

I nod in appreciation.

“A few years ago, if you had told me that I’d be living out here in a place like this,” Mirabelle says as she walks, “wearing the things that I’m wearing, I would’ve called you a liar. I probably would’ve even been offended.”

“So…you weren’t into, uh, diapers before you came here?” I ask.

“Nope,” she laughs. “And I’m not alone in that regard. There’s plenty of us around who never would’ve dreamed that they’d end up here. Of course, that’s not universally true. For some, this place just marks a point of vindication for them–a place that they might have dreamed about, but didn’t believe actually exists.”

“Count me in with the former, then,” I say. 

She laughs and nods her head. “My favorite kind, honestly. You have no idea what a rush it is to make a believer out of someone. I probably shouldn’t say this aloud, but I could almost get off on changing people’s minds.”

“Wow.”

Two people walk past us on the footpath in the opposite direction, a middle-aged man, and a woman who might be younger by, as best as I can guess, a decade. There are streaks of silver in the man’s hair, giving him a distinguished look that’s almost familiar. The woman is in a loose fitting white dress with colorful flowers embroidered across the chest. It does seem a little juvenile looking, but maybe I wouldn’t be thinking that if the bottom of her diaper wasn’t hanging out past the edge of her dress.

“Does the name Everett Tiltan mean anything to you?” Mirabelle asks.

“Wait, uhm, I know that name.” It’s, obviously, nobody I know personally, but I feel like I’ve heard the name before. “He’s a…politician? A senator?”

“That’s right,” she says. “And you just walked right past him.”

“Oh, uh…” I crane my neck over my shoulder to watch as the man disappears over the hill behind me. “Holy shit.”

“Pretty cool, huh?” Anders says. “A nice guy, too. Had breakfast with him the other day.”

“Are there, like, other famous people here?” I ask.

“We try to keep our list of members pretty private,” Mirabelle says. “As you can imagine, there are people out there who’d really want to know that Mr. Tiltan was staying here, and what he did with himself while he was here.”

“Sure. Makes sense.”

“Stick around long enough and you might see a few other familiar faces,” she says.

“Do you put that on the pamphlets?” I ask. 

She sighs with delight. “Oh, I’m glad you’re here, Alfie. I like you already.”

Again, I resist the urge to remind her that I’m not planning to stay long.

The next bend in the trail takes through a little grove of trees, and when we emerge on the other side, I’m surprised by the sight of a large building. Its old stone foundation suggests it’s been here for a century, though I can also see that a lot of work has been put into it more recently. There’s new wooden siding, painted a deep umber, while the silver roof shimmers in the sunlight. It says a bit about the size of the property, that I didn’t even know a building of this size was here until now.

“We believe this was used to be a barn,” Mirabelle says. “There was a good foundation left behind, but not much else. So, we built upon it and made it something new.”

“And what is it now?” I ask.

“Now,” she says, turning around so I can see her big grin, “it’s where the magic happens.”

===

“I meant what I said earlier,” Mirabelle says. “I’m going to show you what this place is all about. You’re going to have your questions answered. But in order for that to happen, I need to know that you trust me.”

“I mean, I want to,” I shrug. “But I don’t know you.”

“You know me, Alf,” Anders says, his hand on my shoulder. “You trust me, right?”

This question was easier to answer a few weeks ago, when I didn’t know he was running off to some secret diaper-commune on the other side of the country. But, yeah, I trust him. I respect him. I look up to him. “Yeah.”

He nods. “I’m asking you to trust Mirabelle, okay?”

“I just…” I sigh, trying my hardest to expel the bad feelings. I want to be open-minded about this. “Please don’t make me do anything that I don’t want to do.”

We’re in a lobby, of sorts. A waiting room. There’s some benches and chairs, but there’s also blankets and bean bag chairs. There’s large stuffed animals and thick pillows. As of right now, we’re the only three people here–though it looks like the room could hold close to 50 people if it had to.

“Consent is important,” Mirabelle nods. “We wouldn’t dream of taking away your agency in that regard. If you say ‘no,’ then that’s all we need to hear. Promise.”

“Okay. So what now? Is there, like, a video I watch? A tour through…whatever this place is?”

“I’m going to introduce you to someone,” she says. “Someone special. Someone important. Someone who’s going to change your life.”

“I’m jealous,” Anders says to me, shaking his head a little while his eyes are closed. He almost looks like he could cry. “I wish I could meet her again for the first time.”

“Meet…who?”

“You’ll see soon enough,” Mirabelle says. “But first, we have to get you ready.”

I grimace a little at this. I’m thinking of a horror movie again. This is the part where they season me to perfection with herbs and spices, before leading me to the otherworldly creature who’s going to make a snack out of me, right?

“Okay? What does that entail?”

“You have to trust me,” Mirabelle says. “You trust me, right?”

“Well…I trust Anders,” I say, thinking aloud. “And he trusts you. So… Yeah, I guess.” 

“You’re going to walk through that door ahead of us, okay? And once you do, some of my friends are going to be in there, waiting for you. They’re going to help you get ready. I promise you, they only want to help.”

Anders, his hand still on my shoulder gives it a squeeze. “Just go with the flow, man.”

I laugh and shrug. What else is there to say, except: “Alright. Let’s do this.”

===

The second room is smaller and a little cozier. The lighting is dimmer, and I can hear some music playing faintly from someplace–the delicate plucking of a harp, though I’m not sure if that’s just a recording or if there’s actually a harpist in this building.

I can see some furniture off to the sides of the room–another bench, maybe? A shelf? I’d try and take in more of the sights, but I’m not alone. There are two other people in the room with me, two women. They’re each wearing similar gowns–white and almost transparent, though it’s hard to tell with the lighting in this room. One of them is a tall and slender woman with long fiery hair, who looks to be about my age. The other looks closer to being middle-aged, though I find her short dark hair and kind eyes to be just as enchanting.

“My name is Freya,” the redhead says. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Alfie.”

“My name is Marta,” the dark-haired woman says, doing a slight curtsy. “We’re honored that you could join us today.”

“Hi. Uhm…” Where to begin? “You know who I am?”

“We know who you are,” Freya smiles. 

I’m holding all my questions until the end, and so I leave it at that. Mirabelle promised me answers, and I’m holding her to it. “Okay, so what’s next?”

“Alfie,” Marta says, her hand landing so gently on my upper arm that I barely even realize it's there until I look to my side and see it there, “you’ll need to take off your clothes. May we help with that?”

It’s such an absurd question, that it doesn’t even register for a moment. “My…what?

“I know it may seem uncomfortable, Alfie,” Freya says, her body suddenly at my other side, so close that I can feel the heat from her body, “so we want to make you feel as comfortable as we can.”

“Uh…I mean…I don’t know that I’ve ever felt comfortable taking my clothes off in front of strangers.”

“You’re here because you trust us, right?” Marta asks. 

I trust Anders, who trusts Mirabelle, who trusts…whoever else is next in this weird chain. 

It’s fine, I tell myself again. I see myself in that alternate reality again, kicking myself in the future because I didn’t let two attractive women take my clothes off.

“If I have to take them off,” I say, “I think I can manage on my own.”

“I’m sure you could,” Marta says. 

“But we’re here to help you,” Freya adds.

“I think I’ve been doing a pretty good job of undressing myself for the 20-something years I’ve been doing it,” I shrug. It feels a little silly to be saying this, honestly–who argues against having two beautiful women pull your clothes off for you?

Go with the flow, they said. What do I have to lose by going with the flow? A little dignity, maybe–both of these women are out of my league, and the types who I could imagine snickering behind their hands while staring down at my exposed manhood–which I’d describe as adequate, at best.

Okay, but… I’m on the other side of the country, in an isolated building in an isolated farm in the middle of nowhere. Even if I walked out of this place with all of my dignity completely depleted, who would know? I’d just go home and this moment would only exist in my memories.

So, I’m thinking I’ll go with the flow.

“Alright then,” I say, a nervous tremble in my voice. “If you insist–have at it.” My tone almost sounds like a warning: “Look, I don’t want to hear it if you don’t like what you see.”

“We only wish for you to be comfortable,” Marta says, her fingertips gently caressing the exposed skin of my arm, causing little goosebumps to rise.

“You’ll tell us if we do something you won’t like, won’t you?” asks Freya.

I release an awkward laugh–a weird “Har!”–as my cheeks get warmer. “I might not like any of this. But, uh, sure.”

I close my eyes, choosing the darkness over having to look these strangers in the eyes as they disrobe me. I’m going through a mental checklist of fears: Is my deodorant holding up alright? Did I wash my undercarriage enough the last time I showered? Do I have too much body hair? Not enough? Do I have any open wounds I should let them know about? 

With my eyes tightly shut, my other senses feel enhanced–or perhaps I’m just able to focus on them more now. I smell baby powder again. Something else too, something light and floral. Lavender? I find the combination calming, whatever it is. Too, I feel their hands on me–except now that I can’t see them, it’s somehow easier to imagine it’s one body with four hands than it is two bodies. 

They are quick. They are careful. They are completely in sync with each other. They begin with my tee, two hands on either side of it. My arms are lifted in the arm at the same time, and while held there, the shirt is lifted up my body, past my head, and pulled off from my arms. While the room may be warm, but comfortable, my chest’s exposure still manages to send a chill through me. Hands support me at the waist, while other hands carefully lift my foot off the ground to carefully pull my shoe from my foot, followed by my sock. The hands on my hips hold on so tightly that I feel safe and secure, despite standing on only one foot–I know I’m not going anywhere. Then, that foot is lowered and the next is lifted so the process can repeat. My fitness band is taken off my wrist. My ring is pulled from my finger.

“Are you okay?” Freya asks in a soft, smooth, tone. Her mouth seems very close to my ear.

“I’m okay,” I say. This is an honest answer, as I feel completely safe and at ease while in their care.

“We’re just going to take your shorts off,” Marta says.

“Okay.”

Hands are on either side of my pants now, and there’s a hand carefully unfastening the button and zipper at my crotch. What underwear am I wearing? I think it’s a pair of Halloween-themed boxers–out of season, but certainly not the most embarrassing pair I own. The hands slowly pull my shorts and boxers down together. Another little chill as my most private bits meet the room’s air.

Maybe they’re smirking, or exchanging amused glances as my flaccid manhood dangles between them–but as long as I can’t see their faces, it doesn’t matter.

Men–just about every man I can think of, at least–would kill to be in a position like this. Someday, as me and some guy-friends huddle around the propane barbecue grill during a Memorial Day picnic, I’ll tell this story in a hushed tone. In the retelling, my eyes are open, and I’m watching the women share impressed looks as they pull down my shorts. 

At last, I am completely nude. I still have no idea why it has to be this way, but I’ve at least mostly accepted that it just is. 

“Do you see that door over there?” Freya asks.

“It’s okay,” Marta adds. “You can open your eyes.”

I do so, seeing their bodies on either side of my periphery, while also seeing the door directly before me. I want to turn my head to look at them again, or to at least see if I can spot where they put my clothes–but I’m not sure I want to see the expressions on their faces.

“I see it,” I say.

“All you have to do is walk through that door,” Freya says.

“Are there more people on the other side of that door?” I ask. My worst fear, I think, would be to walk into a banquet hall full of fully-clothed strangers, while I’m still standing there without a single thing on me.

“There’s someone there, yes,” Marta coos. “But it’s just one person.”

Just one. I think I can deal with that.

“Anything else I need to know?” I ask.

“Just be open,” Freya says.

“Embrace this opportunity,” Marta adds.

“Drink the milk?” I ask.

Out of the corner of my eye, I swear that I see Freya smiling. “If that was all you had to do, does that sound so bad?”

“No,” I say, shaking my head a little. Of course, it doesn’t explain why I have to be nude, but what do I know? Mirabelle promised I’d get answers, and I’m still choosing to believe that–even if I seem to be thinking of new questions by the moment.

I step forward and put my hand on the door. There’s no handle of any sort, but I sense that I can simply push it open–and so I do, stepping into whatever weirdness awaits me.

===

There is more of the room that I cannot see than I can. It is lit only by candles, and their intermittent placement makes the room seem formless and infinite. If there are walls and a ceiling, I can’t see them. I can barely see the floor.

Here’s what I can see: a small mound of blankets, cushions and pillow in the center of the room. And there’s a figure, too–draped in a flowing white garment with gold accents. It looks more like a robe than a dress, though like the room, it’s hard to truly understand its shape.

“Hello, Alfie,” the figure says. It is a feminine voice with a smooth tone.

“Uh, hi.”

“You seem anxious.”

I laugh while shrugging, my hands strategically hanging in front of my crotch. “Y’all are asking a lot of me, you know? Nobody can give me a straight answer as to what’s happening here. I don’t know if I’m a cult compound or a summer camp, but everyone is walking around in diapers like it’s not a big deal. And then you take off all my clothes and you tell me to go into this room and…” It would be at this point that Nikki would say “Rambling,” and she’d be right. I stop and take a breath. “Yeah, I’m a little anxious.”

“Come closer,” she says.

I take a few cautious steps forward. I can see her face now–light tan, with large green eyes. Her dark hair is pulled back behind her head. I can’t discern if she’s younger or older than me, as she has a sort of timelessness about her. She is beautiful though, I’m certain of that. It’s more than just a skin-deep beauty, I swear she radiates goodness and comfort from her core. Against all odds, it helps to set me at ease.

“It’s perfectly natural to be apprehensive,” she says. “Fear might be our very first emotion when we’re born, yes? We’re carried into the world, naked and confused. Nothing makes sense to us.”

I nod. I understand what she means, but I feel like I’m still missing the greater point.

“What do you think happens next?” she asks.

“Uh…like, after a baby is born?”

She nods.

“I mean…I can’t say that I was all that lucid when I was born…” Still, I want to humor her question, thinking it might be a clue as to the true purpose of this exercise. “But I imagine the baby is then…given to the mother.”

“Yes,” the woman says, nodding her head. “That’s right. And despite the child’s vulnerability and fear, they know that they are safe and secure in their mother’s care.”

I chuckle a little. I don’t mean to be rude, but I feel like I’m seeing some pieces of the puzzle connecting, and I’m proud of myself for it. “And so, I’m the naked baby. And you’re…the mother?”

“Come closer,” she says, her hand–draped in the thin white sheet–extends towards me and her fingers curl to beckon me.

I do so. My heart is racing, and I’m feeling so overwhelmed that I can barely focus on any one thing. Milk. This is the part where they give it to me, isn’t it? I don’t see it. Where is it?

“You came here for your brother, didn’t you?”

I don’t bother correcting her on my relation to Anders. “Yes.”

“But what if you were here for a different reason?”

“I’m sorry?”

“What if I called for you, Alfie? And that’s why you came?”

“That…doesn’t make any sense,” I say. “Because the only reason I’m here is…” There’s a part of me–somewhere deep, deep, down inside, that almost wants this to be true. Because why else would I be here in this room? Any other sane human wouldn’t have stumbled this far into the spider’s web, right? Nikki’s not here. She saw the same things I did, and yet she’s not here like I am.

“Okay, sure,” I say. “What if, then?”

“Are you tired, Alfie? Are you stressed? Does the world feel too large and too terrifying?”

“I, uh… I guess.”

“Does the future seem too uncertain? Do you spend too much time thinking about what’s next?”

“Maybe.”

“Do you miss the warm embrace of someone assuring you that everything’s going to be alright?”

I sigh, feeling my cheeks warm again. “Yes.”

“Come closer, Alfie.”

I do so, even though there’s not a lot of distance left between us. It’s only when I take these last few steps that I realize the garment she’s wearing is sheer, and I can make out the contours of her skin through it. ‘Beautiful’ doesn’t begin to describe her.

She wraps her arms around me, pulling me against her. I let it happen. Her body is warm and comfortable, and her hands gently caress my bare back. This should be weird and awkward, but instead, it’s the most sensuous thing I’ve felt in ages. My hands slide around her body, clinging to her tightly. Her perfectly voluptuous breasts press against my chest. There’s tears in my eyes suddenly.

“You’re just a baby,” she says. “You need Mother’s love.”

“Yes,” I say. Now, the tears are rolling down my cheeks.

“Let it out, baby. Mother has you now.”

I can’t remember the last time I cried this hard. I’m sobbing–my face plastered to her shoulder as she squeezes me tightly. It’s, strangely, the most cathartic thing I’ve ever experienced. I don’t even know what it is I’m crying about, but I can feel the tensions and stresses of my life dissipating into the air as I make my loud blubbering sounds.

“You are hungry,” she says. It’s not a question, it’s an observation.

“Y-yes.”

“Will you let me feed you, baby?”

“Yes.” Milk. I just know.

She releases my body and slowly lowers herself down to the floor in a sitting position. She pulls open her robe, fully exposing her chest to me. For a moment, I just stand there and look down at her, tears still dripping down my face and my nose running. Most embarrassing, however, is my cock–now standing completely erect. Even when being treated like a child, the adult reaction to being squeezed by such a gorgeous woman cannot be suppressed.

“I…I’m sorry,” I say, my hands trying to conceal my stiffness. “I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s quite alright,” she coos. “It’s just human nature, isn’t it? Come down here.”

I do. There’s a brief moment, as I kneel on one of the many cushions that surround me, that I wonder what it is I’m supposed to do. But I think I do know. And when I see that she’s holding one of her breasts in her hands, seemingly offering it to me, my instincts are confirmed to be accurate. I lay myself flat over her lap, my face staring up at her body and the darkness beyond it. Elsewhere, my cock still stands straight up, but it feels miles away from me now.

“Milk?” I ask.

She looks down at me and smiles, nodding her head. “Yes, that’s right.”

More pieces of the puzzle begin to connect.

“I just, uhm…”

“It’s probably been a while,” she coos. “But your body will know what to do once you start. Just put your lips right here.” A finger slowly circles her nipple, just inches from my face. She even gives the nipple a little squeeze, allowing a white droplet to dribble from it. That’s milk. That’s the milk.

I fight the urge to ask more questions. She’s made it very clear what I have to do, and so she’s just waiting on me now. I take one last deep breath through my mouth, hold it, exhale, and slowly lift my head up to her nipple–her hand on the back of my head to support me.

Drink the milk.

Don’t mind if I do.

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  • quietlyhumiliated changed the title to Milk! [Prologue, Chapter 4 posted 11/04/2024]
Posted

Five: Either a Dream, or That Orgasm Has Transcended Space and Time

Almost immediately, I recognize that the milk is more than just milk. Sure, it’s from the breast of a woman–fed to me directly from the source–but if breastmilk did this to a grown man, we’d all be drinking it all the time. As I feel the warm liquid slide down my throat, everything seems to change. Mother–I am certain that this is what we are to call her–seems even grander than she did before. I, on the other hand, feel smaller–though I don’t believe I’m actually shrinking. It’s as if my perception has been distorted, and I have no sense of scale.

My adult mind remains intact. I can think. I can process. I might even be able to speak if I wanted to. But I also feel dulled and slowed down. It seems harder to send signals to parts of my body. 

My sense of time is distorted. Seconds feel like minutes. And then, with no warning, time minutes become just seconds. 

My face is carefully pulled away from Mother’s bare breast, saliva mixing with remnants of milk, drooling from the corners of my mouth and sliding down my neck. I’m being lowered onto the ground, atop the cushions and pillows. Mother stands, looking down at me. It’s hard to see her face from down here, especially in the darkness, though I’m certain that I see her smiling down at me.

“You and I, we’ll meet again,” she says. She pulls her shroud over her chest, turns, and leaves me. She seems to just disappear in the darkness.

For a few minutes, I’m just left like this on the ground, staring up in the darkness as my efforts to move and shift myself around only yield little wiggles. This should be distressing–if I were anywhere else, at any other time, I’d be panicking. Now, this feels fine. This is comfortable. For the first time in a very long while, I feel free. Free of the excesses and stresses of adult life. All the worries I carry around with me seem too far away to be of any concern now.

God. That milk, though. It was…amazing. I keep thinking about the feeling of her nipple in my mouth, and the way that I suckled on it so naturally. I think about each spurt of liquid in my mouth, and how rewarding it felt to taste it over and over again. 

I need to feel her in my mouth again. It takes a surprising amount of effort, but I manage to lift my hand to my face, and I slowly slide my thumb into my mouth so that I can suckle on that instead.

===

Time passes, though I can’t say how much. There are hands on me again–more than two. I slowly open my eyes, unsure if I was asleep or not, and find that Freya and Marta are both looking down at me.

“Hello, little one,” Freya coos.

“Welcome to the world,” Marta says with a smile.

“H-hi,” I say, though the word sounds distorted when coming from my mouth.

“How do you feel?” asks Freya.

I nod my head, hoping it conveys what I don’t think my words can at the moment.

“We just need you to lie still for the moment,” Freya says. “We have to put your diaper on you.”

“Diaper?” I ask. Well, that’s what I try to say. It doesn’t sound right aloud though–sounding more like “Da-pa?”

“I never get sick of that,” Marta says to Freya. “That innocent sounding little baby babble when they’re still drunk on milk?”

“It’s precious,” Freya nods. 

Drunk? I’m not drunk, am I? I don’t think so. Though something has definitely happened to me. The most similar experience to the fuzzy euphoria I’m feeling now is the time I took mushrooms with Nikki. And yet this still feels quite different than that.

“I’ll hold his legs,” Marta says, grabbing my legs and lifting them high into the air. She does this so effortlessly that it makes my legs look like they weigh only a few ounces each. Freya, meanwhile, is unfurling a large white diaper between my legs. 

“Ha la I bah la dah,” I say, my words sounding so different from how I intended them, that I’m not completely sure what I meant to say either.

“You’re being a good boy,” Marta says, giving the back of my thigh a soothing caress. 

Part of me knows this is humiliating and abnormal, but most of me just doesn’t care. I like this. This might be the best I’ve felt in a while. This might be the best I’ve ever felt before. I’m not just fine with the diaper, I’m excited for it.

“Look at his little feet wiggle,” Freya says. “I think he’s happy.”

I’m reminded of Maxine, thousands of miles away from me now. Not long ago, I was watching her feet wiggle in front of my face. I wonder what she’d say if she were here now.

I feel the thick padding slide beneath me. I thought I was still lying on the mound of cushions that I was earlier, but I realize now that I’m lying on top of a large pad of some sort. I must’ve been moved at some point, but I don’t know when. Or how. Marta lowers my legs a little, allowing my bottom to land on the open diaper. The scent of baby powder is suddenly strong, and I realize thick clouds of it are wafting past my face.

“And what about this?” Marta asks, her hand grazing the tip of my still-engorged cock.

I can’t explain it well, but despite feeling smaller and helpless, my sexual drive seems to be in overdrive. I crave pleasure like I’ve been starved of it for years.

“We could probably just tuck that right into his diaper,” Freya says.

“Sure. But then what? Look at the way he’s thrusting himself up and down. If we wrap him up while he’s like this, he’s probably going to hump his diaper until the thing falls apart.”

“Hm,” Marta considers.

“Besides, once he’s a little softer, we can make sure he’s good and tucked in so there aren’t any leaks later.”

“If you’re so sure,” Marta grins, “do you want to do the honors?”

Freya giggles a little. “You know I do.” She presses her palm against the side of my shaft and wraps her fingers around the length of it. She turns her head so that she’s facing me again. “Besides, I don’t think this will take long.”

Starting from the base of my cock, her hand slowly glides up to the head, pauses, and then slides back down it again. I’m no stranger to having my cock tugged on–usually by my own hand, though Maxine has lent hers on multiple occasions–but this doesn’t feel like anything I’ve experienced before. I’ve never felt so sensitive in my life, and a single stroke of her hand feels like 10. By the time she’s completed just a handful of strokes, I’m out of breath and my back is arching–feeling that I might erupt any second.

“Aw, look at him,” Marta coos. “He wants it so bad.”

“I love when they get like this,” Freya says softly. “Just look at his little eyes. He can’t even handle it.”

“Go on then,” Marta says. “Finish him up. I’ve got wipes to clean him with when you’re done.”

Half of a stroke–that’s all it takes before my body surrenders to the overwhelming pleasure and a spurt of cum launches onto my belly, followed by a slow and steady stream that oozes from the tip and coats Freya’s fingers. I don’t say any actual words, but a pathetic slew of nonsense escapes my lips. 

The orgasm is so intense that I feel entirely disconnected from reality. I swear, I can see my body below me as I drift into the air. I can’t see Marta or Freya anymore. The dark room seems to get darker. The orange light from the candles’ flames fades.

And then…all I see is white.

===

Everything is white. Then, I see colors. Not just one or two–all the colors. All at once. I see shades and hues I’ve never seen before. I look down at my hands, only to see that they’re growing and aging. I blink, and suddenly my hands are growing smaller and the skin is getting smoother. I blink again. I’m in space. I blink again and I’m underwater. I blink again and…I don’t even know what I’m looking at–shapes and landscapes that seem pulled from the strangest paintings I could ever imagine. I close my eyes again, deciding to keep them closed this time.

“Hello,” a voice says. I don’t recognize it.

When I open my eyes, everything is just white again. White in all directions. I close them once more–it’s easier to keep my eyes closed than to try and parse if I’m floating, falling, or standing on an unseen surface.

“I’m sorry?” I ask. Here, my words come out of my mouth as expected.

“Who might you be?” the voice asks. I can’t discern if it’s a masculine or feminine voice. It’s calm and friendly, but I wouldn’t know how else to describe it. It doesn’t come at me from a particular direction, it seems to just be all around me.

“Where am I?” I know I was asked a question that I haven’t answered yet, but I think I need more information before I can.

There’s laughter. “I don’t think I have an answer that you would understand.”

“I don’t know how I got here.”

“I’ve never had a visitor before,” the voice says.

“Have you ever cum so hard that you transported yourself to another dimension?” I ask. It’s the most ridiculous question I’ve ever asked in my life, but in my post-orgasm headspace, it somehow seems like a legitimate possibility.

“No,” laughs the voice. “Can’t say I have. But it sounds nice.”

“Right now it’s kind of concerning,” I say.

“Are you scared?” the voice asks. “Because this isn’t a scary place.”

“Okay, sure, but…”

The white is beginning to fade. Wherever I am, it feels like I’m departing again. 

The voice says something, but I can’t make out what it is. Everything is getting darker and darker. And then black.

===

I have to assume that was a dream. My eyes open, and I find myself in my body again. And while it’s brighter than the room I was in with Freya and Marta last, it’s definitely not all white.

My current situation gradually reveals itself to me. There’s a bedsheet pulled over me, but when I kick it off, I find that I’m still nude. Mostly nude. Sliding my hands between my thighs causes my fingers to rub against something thick and soft. No doubt the diaper the women were putting me into, before Freya blew my mind with her handjob.

I’m lying atop a narrow mattress with a soft cotton sheet draped over it. To each of my sides, I see…bars. I see them past the end of my legs too. Am I in a cage?

No. It’s a crib. This causes me to have the momentary panic that perhaps I have somehow shrunk, but it seems far more plausible that it’s just a very large crib.

“Ah, look who’s awake,” a familiar voice says from above me. It’s Freya, peering over the rail.

“Is that little Alfie?” Marta calls from somewhere else.

“Indeed it is. Hello, little boy. Did you have a nice nap?”

It should be easy to simply say the word ‘yes,’ but when I try, it comes out as “Dah.” 

“I bet you’re feeling pretty small yet, huh?” she coos down to me. “It’s okay if you are. The first time is always pretty intense. It’ll pass, but it might take a little bit.”

I try to move around, but still find it harder than it should be. My strength is sapped, and my coordination is still off. A part of me knows that this should be concerning, but I also understand that this is the way I’m supposed to feel.

“Next time we’ll let you out of the crib so you can crawl around and explore a little,” Freya says. “But for the very first time, we find it’s best if we keep you in the crib. Just relax and get comfortable. And if there’s anything you need, just do your little babytalk, and we’ll come running, okay?”

“Ba ah be-nah,” I say–adorable babble to her ears, I’m sure, but it’s frustrating that I can’t actually communicate specific thoughts to her.

“Yes, of course,” she smiles. Her hand reaches into the crib, lightly stroking the underside of my chin. “I’ll see you soon, big boy.”

So what am I supposed to do? Just…lie here? Actually, that sounds kind of nice. I’m never one to just lay down and relax or take a nap. I can’t say that I’m always doing something productive with my time–there are always movies to watch, books to read, and videogames to play–but it's rare that I allow myself to just chill without any sort of distraction. Even being away from my phone–wherever that is–feels liberating. Maybe NIkki was right about that.

One thing is for certain, though–Mirabelle was more right than wrong. She said that this would answer all of my questions, and while I do have a few that remain–I feel like I have a better understanding of what’s happening at The Cradle. People from all over flock to this farm in the middle of nowhere and drink the milk from a beautiful woman’s tits. Said milk overwhelms the senses and leaves you feeling helpless and docile like a baby. It sounds like it would be terrible–but it's not. It's actually one of the best feelings I’ve ever experienced.

When Anders was trying to sell me on this place, he should’ve just told me this. Of course, if he had, I wouldn’t have believed him. In fact, I would’ve thought he was insane. Right now, I’m kind of wondering if I’m insane.

Lie here. Relax. Breathe. It’s surprisingly easy to turn my brain off. The longer I lie there, the more content I am with just staying like this. I bring my hand to my mouth again, and let my thumb slide past my lips. It’s not the same as suckling from her breasts–Mother, is that how she referred to herself?–but I do find it quite soothing.

I stop thinking about Anders. I stop thinking about Nikki. I don’t think about being somewhere in the woods of California, the furthest I’ve ever been from home. It’s just me, my thumb, and my diaper.

My diaper.

My heart leaps for a second, as if remembering something. You weren’t supposed to end up in diapers. Oh well–too late for that now.

I should be weirded out by the thick padding. I should be ashamed of myself and disgusted. But I’m not. I actually kind of like the way they feel on me. The way everything is contained within layers of soft padding and a more rigid plastic exterior. Everytime I squirm or wriggle, the diaper responds with a crisp and loud crinkle. I run my hands over the front of it, feeling the smooth plastic beneath my fingertips. I had never pegged myself for a diaper fetishist before, but I might just leave this place with a few new interests.

Somewhere beyond the bars of the crib, I hear movement. Nowhere close to where I am–maybe in the hallway or another room–but it reminds me that I’m not completely alone. 

Where am I? What kind of room is this? I roll onto my side, trying to peer through the bars, but my vision is kind of blurry. I can make out shapes in the distance, but I can’t say what they are. I don’t mind that–it doesn’t really matter what’s beyond the crib. Everything I need is right here. 

And then–something new happens. Suddenly, the diaper feels different. Why does it feel…wet? And warm? And…

It’s me. I’m wetting myself. I’ve never experienced a sensation like this before–wetting, without any warning. As far back as I can recall, even into my childhood, I only ever remember using a toilet. I didn’t have ‘accidents.’ I didn’t wet the bed. But now, whether I like it or not, my bladder continues to release, letting it drain until every drop has been dispersed, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. This feeling–this lack of agency–is a little distressing, but it’s also a little exciting. The diaper’s presence, catching the entirety of my stream, makes it even more exciting.

How much can this thing hold? Apparently, all of it, as the thick padding just continues to warm and swell as I flood it. And when I’m done, I let my hands grope at the front of the diaper again. It’s squishy. The warmth seems to make the outer plastic a little softer and less crinkly. It feels wrong, but it also feels good. I’d go as far as to say that it just feels right.

I enjoy feeling like a baby. It’s not even that I’m lying here pretending, or acting, or even roleplaying. I don’t think I’ve ever been any good at those things. This feels genuine. It feels like I am a baby. I am helpless.

I have no concept of time. There’s no way to tell how many minutes pass by. Even when I try to count seconds, I quickly lose focus and stop. All I really have is the diaper itself. Gradually, the warmth of my accident fades to something more lukewarm. Then room temperature. Then, it almost starts to feel cold and clammy against my skin. What was once so comfortable and delightful now feels kind of gross and…icky.

I need to be changed.

I try to shout for Marta or Freya, but it just comes out as nonsense: “Ma-ba-fa-ah!”

I sound ridiculous, but the longer I sit here in my wet diaper, the more uncomfortable I get. I need to try again: “Ma! Ba! Fah!”

No response.

This is frustrating. Don’t they understand that I need them right now? I’m in a wet diaper! I can’t stay in this thing all day. The longer I stay like this, the more uncomfortable it gets, and the more uncomfortable I get, the harder it gets to think.

I try to get their attention again, but it sounds even less like words this time–sounding, instead, like a primal cry. And, even then, there’s still no response.

The limited amount of patience I’ve been able to muster is now completely exhausted. As I feel the tears welling in my eyes, and the slight shake in my chest, I realize I’m on the verge of losing control of myself once more. Because as much as I don’t want to throw any sort of temper tantrum, I know that’s exactly what’s about to happen.

I lead off with a high-pitched yelp that gives way to a long and whiny groan. I bark out a series of pathetic sobs, taking momentary pauses to either catch my breath or to sniffle. My eyes are leaking. My nose is leaking. There’s even slobber sliding out of my mouth as I sob uncontrollably.

“Oh no!” exclaims Marta, suddenly appearing at the side of the crib. From my vantage point, I can hear genuine concern in her voice–though there’s a part of me that suspects it would sound a little more sarcastic to me if I weren’t in a crib. “What’s the matter, baby?”

I’d love to explain my issue to her, but all I can do is offer blubbering whines.

“Oh, I think I see the problem,” she says, reaching into the crib and cupping the bottom of my diaper with my hand. “Uh huh. Looks like we got a soggy diaper here, huh?”

My sobbing begins to subside a little, and I offer a sniffling nod.

“My goodness. How much did you pee, little boy? This thing feels like it’d weigh ten pounds.”

That makes sense to me, as the swollen padding feels like it’s an anchor tethering me to the bottom of the crib.

“Is that all you did?” she asks, making a few obvious sniffs in my direction as she leans further into the crib. “Am I going to find anything stinky in the back of that diaper?”

She won’t, but for the first time I realize that it could actually happen–me messing myself helplessly. If I couldn’t stop myself from pissing my diaper, there’s probably nothing that’d prevent me from just unloading my bowels without any warning too. I’m grateful that I didn’t have that kind of accident. Yet. 

How much longer will I be like this?

“Hmm,” Marta says, taking one more exaggerated sniff near my crotch. “I think I’d smell it if you did. Just wet. That’s easy! How about we get you cleaned up and into a fresh diaper?”

I nod my head, sliding my thumb back into my mouth so I can get back to sucking on it.

“First thing’s first,” she says, her hand heading towards my face with a little cloth in it. “Your face is an absolute mess! All that crying you were doing–was that really worth it, Alfie?”

It got your attention, didn’t it?

Someone, somewhere else, is saying something to Marta. It might be Freya, but I’m not sure. 

Marta laughs and shouts back: “It’s just Alfie! He had an accident.”

The other person says something else I can’t make out.

“No, no,” Marta says. “Just wet.”

I suck my thumb even harder as my cheeks warm, wondering how many people heard her loudly announce what I had done in my diaper.

“Usually, we’d want to get you on the changing table,” Marta says, lowering the side of the crib. “But I’m not sure I can get you over there by myself–and you’re not in a state where you could get there on your own either.”

For a moment, I want to prove her wrong, and I start to roll myself towards the edge of the mattress. But I quickly tire–no amount of exertion seems to move my limbs in the way I need them too. Okay, fine. I guess I’m just stuck here for now.

“It’s okay,” she giggles, brushing my cheek with the back of her hand. “There’s plenty of room for you to be changed right here. Let’s just hope that you didn’t leak.”

That can happen? Of course, I can’t actually ask this, and so I just surrender myself to her whims. 

She spreads my legs open so she can peel up the diaper’s tapes. When she pulls open the diaper, letting the heavy padding flop open between my thighs, I watch her face light up as she observes the, presumably, yellow-stained interior.

“My my, what a big pee-pee you did,” she coos. “Nothing I can’t handle, of course.”

She has a damp wipe in her hands, and she proceeds to carefully wipe my skin clean, starting around my shriveled cock–still tuckered out from Freya’s earlier handiwork. A few hours ago, I think, I didn’t know these women. Now, they’ve spent more time with my cock than Maxine has in the last week.

I wonder what I’m going to say to Nikki and Anders about this later. Anders will probably understand. But Nikki? “Yeah, so, they breastfed me, put me in a diaper, and then I pissed myself and had to be changed like a baby. Anyway–how was your afternoon?” She’ll probably just snort and tell me that she told me so.

The dirty wipes are tucked into the wet diaper, before it’s bundled up in a tight ball and taken somewhere else to be discarded. Marta returns with a fresh diaper, which she wastes no time in sliding under my freshly-cleaned bottom–her well-practiced hand lifting my legs up enough so that I don’t have to exert myself for her to ease the diaper beneath me. Before she finishes wrapping me up in it, though, she shakes a bottle of baby powder over my crotch–once again coating me in a layer of scented white. All I can think of is how I’m going to smell like a baby when I meet up with Anders and Nikki again. I won’t even have to tell them what happened–they’ll smell it on me and just know.

“I think that should do it,” she says, giving my sealed diaper a firm pat between my legs. Little puffs of white shoot out from the waistband when she does this, causing my cheeks to turn red again. “I’ll check on you again soon, okay? Thanks for being a good little boy during your diaper change, Alfie.”

I offer a gracious burst of baby-babble, though I’m not sure how she interprets it. She smiles, waves, and lifts the side of the crib back into place again before drifting away into the blurry area beyond my crib.

It’s just me again. 

I wiggle my legs a little, feeling the thick–but dry–padding crinkle between my thighs. I might have discovered my new favorite sensation.

I suck my thumb and squeeze the front of my diaper until everything fades away and I have the greatest nap of my life.

===

After rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I slowly sit up. Oh, nice, I can do that again. I test the limits of my movement, finding that I can flex all my limbs and fully rotate my head on my neck. 

“Uh, testing,” I say. “One, two, three…” It seems like I’m back in action again. 

Though, of course, I’m still in a diaper. I run my hand over the front of it, reaching all the way down between my legs. It seems mostly dry, though it feels like there might be a little warm spot at the very bottom. I blush a little, thinking about how I must’ve effortlessly wet myself in my sleep.

“Well, well, well,” a woman in round glasses says, standing at the edge of the crib. She looks to be about my age, her dark hair mostly covered by a bandana over her head.

“Are, uhm, Marta and Freya here?” I ask.

“Oh, they’re done for the day,” she shrugs. “But I’m here. I’m Patty. And you must be Alfie?” 

“Y-yeah, that’s me.” Now that my infantile haze seems to be mostly dissipated, I realize how embarrassing it is to be stared at while I wear only a thick diaper. My hands rush to the front of the padding in a pathetic attempt at covering it up, but I already know it's not worth trying.

“Trust me, I’ve seen plenty of those,” Patty says, her finger pointing down at my diaper. “Everyone here has. The sooner you stop worrying about it, the better you’re going to feel.”

“I…I’ve just never…worn one of these before.”

“Everyone has a first time,” she shrugs. “But if it makes you feel better, you look cute as a button in them. We’re not supposed to say this but, well, not everyone can pull off a diaper as well as you can.”

I laugh a little, shaking my head. “I’m not sure I wanted to hear that I look good in a diaper.”

“It’s a good thing,” she says. “You know, Freya and Marta were very excited about you. They don’t always get excited about new babies–but they were both eager to tell me about you.”

“What did they say?”

She shrugs. “Oh, Freya was gushing about the face you made when she was, uhm, relieving you?”

“Oh, uh…” I’d like to hear about that too. What did my face look like while she was stroking my cock so hard that I left my body altogether?

“How’s your diaper doing, Alfie?”

“Dry?”

She laughs. “Are you asking me?”

“I mean…I think it’s mostly dry. Maybe a little damp at the bottom.”

“Mind if I check for myself?”

“Well…” My instinct is to protest, but I’m already in a diaper. I’m already sitting in a crib. I already had my diaper changed once today–that I know of. “Yeah, go for it.”

She feels the exterior of the diaper’s bottom first, before sliding a finger into the leg band, feeling some of the interior padding. “I think you’re right. Just a little damp. This one will probably hold a while longer. I could change you again if you want, but I think you’d be okay with just sticking with this one.”

“Couldn’t I just…not wear a diaper?”

“Sure,” she shrugs. “But do you really want to risk wetting your pants without one?”

“That…could happen?”

“Bowel and bladder control are always the last things to come back after you’ve had some of Mother’s milk,” she says. “And it affects everyone in different ways. Seeing as how this was your first time, and we don’t really know how it’ll affect you yet, maybe it’d be a good idea if you keep them on, yeah?”

“I mean, I guess. But…” I’m thinking about Nikki laughing at me. “How long do you think these, er, effects might last?”

She shrugs. “Everyone’s different. But try not to worry about it too much. You’re in a diaper. And if you do have an accident, there’s plenty of people who can help you out.”

I want to ask what I should do if I don’t want help, but that feels like the wrong question to ask. Maybe, I think, it’d be best to just wear this diaper for a while, crossing my fingers in the hope that I don’t need to use it. Then, a few hours from now, I can ditch it in a garbage can and act like it never happened.

“So…what now?” I ask. “Am I free to go?”

“So long as you feel up to walking again,” she said. 

She opens the side of the crib again, allowing me the space I need to swivel my legs out from off the mattress and onto the floor. Admittedly, it does take a little bit of extra effort to move around, but I don’t instantly collapse when I put weight on my feel to stand up again.

“I think I’ll be okay,” I say.

“Excellent,” she coos. “Let me grab your big-boy clothes and we can get you out of here.”

After Patty strolls away, leaving me with blushing cheeks at the mention of ‘big-boy clothes,’ I take a better look around me to see where I’ve been for the last however-long. 

It is, as best as I can tell, a nursery. Big crib. Big changing table. All the diapers and baby supplies one would expect to need are on some small shelves in the corner. It’s not a very big room. The door, left slightly ajar when Patty left, lets in some sound from whatever lies beyond. I hear footsteps. Talking. The babbling of other babies. I suspect that the little nursery that I’m in is just one of many. In other rooms like this one right now, there are other adults getting their diapers changed.

Yeah, I suppose I still have plenty of questions. But I think I have the one answer I truly needed.

Why do people come here?

Because of what I just experienced–a feeling unlike any I’ve felt before. It was strangely transformative. Uplifting. Thrilling. And yet it feels like I’ve barely scratched the surface of what I could be feeling here. I want…more. I already want to taste that milk again. I can almost taste it in my mouth still.

I see why Anders is still here now. I see why I want to stay a little longer than I had originally planned.

And I see why someone is probably going to have to drag me out of here too, when it’s time to go.

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I'm loving this. It's so different—the real world with a bit of something extra—and it is absolutely fascinating.

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A big 'thank you' (just imagine those words in a very large font hovering above your face) to everyone who has commented, liked, or read this story so far. Very appreciated.

Six: Murder and Other Messes

“Does my butt look big in these shorts?” I ask, twisting my body around in an attempt to look at my own ass. I figured the thick diaper would make my shorts fit differently, but I didn’t realize my shorts would be this much tighter. 

Anders laughs a little and puts his hand on my shoulder. “They look just fine, man. You alright?”

I walked back outside, expecting the same late-afternoon sun I saw when I first went into this building. Instead, the world is shrouded in darkness, and everything is now illuminated by lanterns, strings of lights, and a few sporadic lampposts. 

I feel a little panicked for a minute, thinking about all the loose threads that got away from me while I was suckling breasts and pissing myself. I still have to talk to Sam. I still need to get Anders out of here. I should touch base with Maxine. I should find Nikki. I should… 

My grumbling stomach reminds me that I should probably eat too. Aside from the milk, I haven’t actually had a meal since the diner earlier in the day. That feels like weeks ago now.

“I’m alright,” I shrug. “A little, uh, disoriented.”

“It can be like that,” he says. “You’re good to walk, though?”

“Y-yeah, I seem alright.” Truthfully, I’m not at my most steady. I haven’t actually toppled over yet, but I have moments where I feel a little wobbly on my feet and I need to grab something for extra support. I’m hoping to have shaken that feeling off by the time I find Nikki–I don’t think I want her to see me like this. I mean, I don’t really want her to see me in a diaper, nor smell the baby powder on me either, but I’m not sure there’s much I can do about that.

“Come on,” Anders says, waving for me to follow. “We should get you something to eat.”

I nod. “Good call. Is there, like, a place we can get food?” 

I’m thinking about my time spent in sleepaway camp when I was a pre-teen. There was a mess hall, but it only served food three times a day, and you had to be there at those specific times or else you didn’t eat. This place sort-of feels like summer camp.

“There’s always something to eat at the dining hall,” Anders says. “Worst case scenario, we just ask Shara to cook you up something.”

“I’m not going to inconvenience anyone like that,” I say. “Are there, like, packs of crackers for soup? I can just eat crackers.”

“You need to eat, Alf. Especially after everything you just went through.”

It’s tempting to say that he doesn’t know what I went through, but I’m sure that he does.

“Yeah, so, let’s talk about that for a minute,” I say.

He chuckles. “I’ve been waiting for this opportunity since the very first time I came here. Tell me that you loved it.”

“Well…I didn’t hate it.”

“Close enough.”

“That was a trip. I don’t even know how to begin processing that. There’s bits of it that feel like a dream.”

“I bet you’ve never experienced anything like that before, huh?”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “So, like, what is it?”

“What’s what?”

“The, uh, milk. Is it magic? Some sort of drug that makes her milk, like, trippy?”

He shrugs. “I honestly don’t know. And I’ve talked to enough people to come to the conclusion that maybe nobody knows for sure.”

“Even Mirabelle?”

“So she says,” Anders says. “I believe her.”

“We still need to talk about the two of you,” I say. “I feel like there’s some history there?”

“Maybe,” he shrugs. “Nothing scandalous.”

“Well, besides the fact that you’re running around in diapers and drinking milk from a woman’s breast while Sam’s back home looking for you.”

It’s hard to tell in the dim evening light, but I think he’s blushing. “Well, yeah. And…hey, you’re here too. Are you going to tell your girlfriend about this?”

I frown, my hand rubbing my ass again, checking to see how obvious the bulge is through my shorts. “Maybe. Someday.” I hadn’t actually thought about the fact that this was a decision I’d have to make now–telling Maxine about this or not. I won’t lie, there’s a part of me that wonders if I just kept this to myself long enough, we’d eventually break up anyway and then I’d never have to explain it to her.

“Where’s Nikki?” I ask, changing the subject.

“I saw her earlier. She might’ve made a friend.”

I snort–though it’s not until after I’ve done it that I realize how perfect of a reaction that was. “I’d have to see it to believe it.”

“Well, she was hanging out with someone. I’ve seen her around, but I don’t know who she is.”

“Wow,” I say. “That’s, like, almost a bigger surprise than the fact that I drank enchanted milk today.”

Anders laughs and playfully punches me in the shoulder. “Man, I can’t get over how good it feels that you’re here right now. That you actually got to experience this. And that you liked it! Goddamn, it’s so vindicating.”

There’s a lot that I want to say, and a lot I want to ask. I can tell that Anders has a long list of things he’d like to talk about himself. But we’re going to have all the time in the world to talk about these things in the hours and days and weeks to come. 

“Just up ahead,” he says, pointing to another larger building. I think I might have walked past this earlier, though it’s hard to say–the darkness has changed this place so much that nothing looks familiar to me now.

“Seriously, though,” I say. “What are we going to do about Sam?”

He sighs and shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“If I call her and tell her that not only are you not coming home, but that I want to stay too, she’s going to fly across the country herself just so that she can drag us all the way back to New Jersey by the hair.”

He smiles. “So you want to stay too, huh?”

That’s the part that you’re focusing on?”

“I did what I needed to do,” Anders says, nodding his head a little. “All I wanted was to get you to experience this too. Because I knew you’d get it. I knew you’d like it. And, you know, if I was right about that, maybe I wouldn’t feel like…” He shrugs as his voice trails off.

But I think I know where he was going with that. “If I liked this place too, maybe you wouldn’t feel insane for liking it yourself.”

He chuckles. “Yeah. Something like that.”

“A few hours ago, all I could think about was how I needed to get you out of here. Now, I’m wondering who’s going to get me out of here.”

“Yeah,” he says. “That happened to me once, too.”

===

The doors to the dining hall were open when we got there. It was surprisingly easy to walk up to the counter that separated the kitchen from the dining area and request something to eat. Shara, apparently the head cook, had a number of options ready to go that just needed to be warmed up. I settled on some chicken tenders–which later seemed like the perfectly juvenile choice for a day like today.

“I’m going home,” Anders says as we sit at one of the tables.

“When?” I ask.

He sighs. “As soon as I can. You’re right–Sam’s going to murder me. The longer I’m here, the worse it’s going to be.”

“Tomorrow?”

“I think,” he nods. “Do you think you’ll be ready to go tomorrow?”

No. I want to stay longer. I want to see more. I want to meet more people. I want to taste the milk again. But I also know I can’t stay. This isn’t my home–and there’s people and responsibilities waiting for me. And bananas.

“Yeah,” I say.

Neither one of us says anything for a few minutes. Anders seems lost in thought–no doubt running through what he’s going to say to Sam over and over again, trying to streamline it into something that makes the most sense. Meanwhile, I’m pondering the brief foray into infancy I experienced today. I still can’t get over how incredible it felt, and the idea of being so far away from the opportunity to experience it again breaks my heart a little.

What finally snaps me out of my train of thought is the sudden sensation of warm dampness between my legs. It would appear that I’m wetting myself again. It’s temporarily distressing–the feeling of helplessness, combined with the fact that I momentarily forgot I was still wearing a diaper. But this quickly subsides, giving way to comfort–and maybe a smidge of pleasure.

“Hey,” I finally say, swallowing the last of my breaded chicken chunk. 

“Yeah?”

“So, like, when you drink the milk…is it always like it was the first time?”

He shrugs. “I’ve heard it’s a little different for everyone. But from my own experience, I think it just gets better every time. It gets a little easier to move around, but you can also get a little deeper in that, uh, headspace.”

“Hm. And, like, how long does it last after?” I ask. “Like…needing to wear diapers?”

He chuckles a little. “Seems to take a little longer every time. Not a big deal when you’re here. But the first day or two when I’m back home can be a little challenging.”

“Okay,” I nod, not really sure how I feel about those answers just yet. “And, uh, Mother?”

“She’s quite the woman, eh?”

“Wh-who is she?”

He shrugs. “Haven’t the slightest. I’ve only ever seen her in that room–in that, uh, context. I’ve asked around about her before, but I can’t seem to get a good explanation for what her deal is. Mirabelle knows more, I’m sure, but she won’t say much either. Honestly? I’ve stopped thinking about it. For me, the mystery is just part of the experience now.”

“Okay. Here’s a question for you, though.”

“Shoot.”

“So this is going to be a little awkward…”

He laughs. “I mean, we’re both sitting here in diapers, right?”

My cheeks warm some. “Y-yeah…”

“Just ask, Alf. Anything.”

“Have you ever…” I have no idea how to phrase this, but I still want to ask the question. “...had an orgasm after drinking the milk?”

He laughs. “Freya, I bet. Right?”

“Yeah…”

“She got a little handsy with me my first time too. But what an orgasm, right? I have to be real careful about that now, because I’m worried I’ll never want to have sex again. Well, sex without having had some milk first.”

I grimace, remembering that when he’s talking about ‘sex’ he’s talking about having it with my sister. 

“Okay,” I say. “But, when you…came, right? Did you experience anything weird?”

“Weird?” he laughs. “Weirder than blowing my load in a diaper after having been breastfed?”

“Believe it or not…yeah.”

His head tilts curiously. “What did you experience, Alf?”

I shrug, not really sure where to start. “I mean…it might have been a dream. Or, like, some sort of hallucination. But for a minute there, I felt like I was somewhere else entirely. Out of my body. Off of the planet.”

“Yeah… I don’t think that actually happened. Probably a weird dream, or your brain was all cloudy.”

I sigh and nod. I don’t think he’s right–I’m certain that I was actually there–wherever that place is–but I don’t know how else to explain it. Maybe it’s like the milk, though–it’s the sort of thing I’d never believe if I hadn’t experienced it for myself. 

“You’re probably right,” I say. “Forget I said anything.”

===

I don’t have to find Nikki, because she’s the one who finds us. Anders and I are just leaving the dining hall, when a figure emerges from around the corner. I’m a little startled until I spot her familiar silhouette in the pale moonlight.

“I was starting to think I wasn’t ever going to find you,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t know what kind of day I was in for. And, well, our phones are pretty useless here.”

She shrugs. “Anders told me you were getting the grand tour?”

“What else did you tell her?” I asked Anders.

Anders holds his open hands out in front of him. “I didn’t tell her anything else, Alf.” That probably checks out–he’s always been a little uncertain of how to act around Nikki, and I couldn’t imagine him trying to explain the whole milk-thing to her.

Nikki snorts. “So–it was more than just a tour, then?”

“Well…”

“You smell like a baby,” she says.

I immediately start to panic again, thinking her freakish sense of smell has sniffed out my wet diaper. “Wh-what do you mean?”

“You do know you smell like baby powder, right?”

“R-right…”

“You’re wearing a diaper aren’t you?”

“In my defense…”

“Are you or aren’t you?” she asks, her grin and little shake of the head suggesting she already knows the answer.

“Yeah…”

She snorts. “I knew this was going to happen. How did they get to you?”

“Well, it was a pretty good tour,” I shrug. “Very thorough. Maybe if you were there, they’d have gotten to you too.”

She winces a little. “I doubt it. But let me guess, there was a pretty girl involved?”

Now, Anders is the one snorting.

“He’s got a weakness for a pretty face,” Nikki sighs. “All a girl has to do is pay attention to him and he’s under their control.”

“There’s a few beautiful women there,” Anders says, glancing at me. “Right?”

“Yeah,” I sigh.

“And do you…like them?” she asks. “The diapers?”

I see no reason not to be completely honest. Anders already knows for himself, and there’s nobody I trust more than Nikki. “I do, yeah.”

“You’ll have to tell me all about it,” she says.

I nod. Honestly, I’m thinking it’ll be pretty nice when I can get her calm and rational take on today’s events–as opposed to Anders’ biased view. “Let’s talk about you for a minute. I heard you made a friend?”

“I wouldn’t use the word ‘friend,’” she shrugs. “I made…an acquaintance.”

“Uh huh. Details?”

She sighs, already annoyed that she has to talk about herself. “Her name is Tess. She manages a lot of the farm-stuff. She showed me around. It was nice.”

“There you go,” Anders says, a little wistfulness in his voice as he stares up into the starry sky. My eyes follow his, noticing for the first time how spectacular the stars look here. No light pollution from the suburban sprawl–just infinite blackness, speckled with dots of light. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen the sky look like this before. “So…we’re headed out tomorrow? Everybody’s on board with that?”

I don’t want to go. But I know I have to. “That works.”

Nikki is staring into the sky too, biting her bottom lip a little like she’s debating about saying something else. “Yeah,” she finally says. “Whenever.”

“Shit,” Anders says. “I was supposed to show you two where you’re sleeping tonight. There’s a cabin not too far from mine that’s vacant. I should’ve showed you sooner so you could’ve brought your stuff over.” “It’s fine,” I shrug. “I don’t mind a little extra walking on a beautiful night in a place like this.”

“If you can get us back to where your cabin–and the one we’ll be staying in–is, I know my way from there to the car,” Nikki says to Anders.

“Right. Follow me.”

Another stream of warmth enters my diaper. It’s not as much as the first time, but it’s enough to remind me that I’m probably overdue for getting out of this thing. My walk is more of a waddle than anything else now, and I feel the sudden urge to pop my thumb into my mouth again. I fight that urge for now–though I hope it comes back later, when I’m all alone.

“One more thing, Anders,” I say.

“Yeah?”

“Where does a guy go to get a, uhm, change?”

Nikki laughs–one of her heartier belly-laughs this time. “I fucking knew I smelled pee again.”

===

I insisted on joining Nikki for her trek back to the car to get our things–or at least the things we’d need for just staying overnight–but she assured me she’d be fine taking care of it on her own. “Besides,” she said to me, “you need to do something about your diaper.”

She really seemed to get a kick out of saying that to me.

I’m standing outside of Anders’ cabin when he points to another building down the hill from his with a symbol neatly carved into the door. It’s simply a large ‘M’ inside of a circle. I recognize this cabin as the one that Anders emerged from earlier today when we first ran into him here.

“This is what you want to look for when you need something,” he says. “Have a dirty diaper? Look for the ‘M.’ Not feeling well? Look for the ‘M.’ Just need someone to talk to because you’re freaking out a little? Look for the ‘M.’”

“You’ve needed all those things at one time or another?” I ask him.

He shrugs and smiles. “That’s what they’re here for.”

“And who are…they?”

“The Maternal Council,” he says. “They kind of do everything around here. You probably met some of them when you went to see Mother earlier.”

“Freya and Marta,” I say.

“Yep, they’re part of it.”

“Patty too?”

He nods again. “And Mirabelle too. They insist that they’re not ‘in charge,’ but…they kind of are.”

“And they also change grown adults’ diapers.”

“Right,” he shrugs. “Look, I know it all seems pretty weird. But spend enough time here and you just kind of end up going with the flow.”

“I’m quickly learning this,” I say. “And who’s here in this particular cabin?”

“They rotate every few days, but Ingrid was here earlier, so she’s probably still here now. I like her a lot.”

“And what do I do? Make an appointment? Or do I just pound on the door and tell whoever answers that I pissed myself?”

He laughs. “More the latter. Just knock. I know some of them don’t mind if you walk right in, but I think the etiquette is to knock first, just in case they’re taking care of another, uhm, baby.”

“Easier said than done, I bet,” I sigh. I’m trying to imagine what it’d be like to knock on a door and then have to try and explain that I need my diaper changed to a complete stranger. 

“Want me to come with you? I’ll show you how easy it is.”

“N-no…that’s okay. I can manage. It’s late, though. Do you think they’ll mind?”

“It’s their job,” he says. “And they take it very seriously. I promise, if you need them, they’ll help.”

“Okay, fine. I guess I’ll go, uh, ask for a change then.”

“Good call. You don’t want to get a diaper rash, trust me.”

“R-right. And, uh, one more thing: I really need to be able to make a call or two. You said you could usually get reception near the front gate?”

“Absolutely,” he says. “See this path here? Just follow that for a bit. The path eventually forks, and you want to take the left path, which will take you to the road that leads to the gate. You probably can’t get lost because there’s signs everywhere, and the path is lit the whole way.”

“Thank you. Alright, I’m going to go and see if I can make a call or two. Then I’ll, uh, get my diaper…taken care of.” I’m not sure that I’d ever get used to saying that.

“Are you…going to call Sam?”

“One of us has to,” I mutter.

“Right. Look, if she asks why I haven’t called her yet…” He sighs and runs a hand through his hair before laughing a little. “Fuck, I don’t know what to tell her.”

“I’ll figure something out.”

“Alright,” he nods. “I trust you.. If you need anything else from me, just knock. Otherwise, why don’t you head back to your cabin when you’re done. Get some sleep and I’ll see you in the morning. Then, we can make a plan for the trip home.”

“I’ll see you later, Anders.”

“See you later, Alf. And, hey, thank you for coming. Thank you for humoring me. Thank you for…going with the flow.”

Really, I should be the one thanking him, but the dread that’s slowly consuming me at the thought of talking to Sam has me a little annoyed with him again. “Sure.”

===

It’s late in New Jersey. Late enough that Maxine is probably asleep. Late enough that Sam should be asleep, though I’m sure she’s not. Late enough that I, too, should be asleep. As badly as I want to call Maxine and hear her voice, it just feels rude to wake her up. Besides, if we leave tomorrow, I’ll probably have a better opportunity to catch her while she’s awake and I have better reception.

But I still need to call Sam. And I’m certain she’s going to answer.

The phone rings once before she accepts the call.

“Well?” she asks. “Is he dead?”

“Nah, he’s still alive,” I say. 

My heart is pounding in my chest. It’s not just talking to my sister–it’s the entirety of my current situation. I just waddled a half-mile on dimly lit paths in the dark. In a sopping wet diaper that, I think, is starting to leak into my shorts a little. When I’m making this call, I’m standing on a dirt road that’s mostly just illuminated by moonlight. I can see that there are trees around me, but I can’t see past the trees into the forest beyond. I imagine bears, coyotes, or–I dunno–zombies just waiting for me to lower my guard so that they can spring out and attack me. 

It’s the gate, a few yards ahead of me and lit by two lamp posts, that gives me just enough peace of mind so that I don’t freak out. The gate reminds me that there’s a giant fence that circles the property, which reminds me of Tommy’s earlier comment about keeping the bears out. I’m probably fine.

“Send him home then,” she says. “I’ll kill him myself.”

Growing up, Samantha always seemed like the most mature person I knew. It wasn’t that long ago, around the time I became an adult myself, that I realized that Sam only acted so grown-up around me because she felt like I needed someone more mature in my life. Both of our parents, as wonderful as they can be in their own ways, are complete trainwrecks, and always have been. Now that I’m more or less out on my own, it’s like I get to know my sister all over again. Sure, she’s mature and adult-like, but she’s also snarky and sarcastic as hell.

“Tomorrow,” I say. “I think the plan is to load up the rental and head to the airport with Anders in tow.”

There’s a bit of relief in her sigh. “Why couldn’t he tell me this himself?”

I want to try and cover for him, but I also don’t want to lie. “Honestly, Sam, he’s feeling pretty embarrassed about the whole thing. I think he got caught up in things here and made some decisions he’s not proud of.”

“Hrm,” Sam grunts on the other end of the line. “So what is this place that he’s at. That you’re at?”

“It’s like a, uh…” How on Earth do I explain this to her? “It’s like a health spa, I guess. Very exclusive.”

“Is it nice?”

“It’s different.”

I’d like to go to a health spa, you know? He never takes me to a health spa.”

I can’t imagine my sister lying down on a changing table as someone else wipes her ass. Nor do I want to. “I’m not sure this place fits your vibe. But you should definitely find one you like and go there.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” she says. “After I’m done murdering him, he owes me. Vacations. Dinners. Some real pampering.”

Don’t say that word…

“I’ll, uh, pass along the message.”

“But you’re alright, Alf?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m good. A little jet-lagged, maybe. Exhausted from a long day. And, uh…” I’m interrupted by a sudden cramp in my abdomen. I groan as I bend over, doing what I can to stumble towards a tree that I can cling to for support.

“Alfie? Are you okay?”

“I…I just, uh…” The cramping in my guts gives way to an embarrassingly propulsive fart in my diaper. My face turns bright red as I listen closely to my phone’s receiver, hoping that Sam didn’t just hear what happened.

“Alfie? You’re starting to worry me.”

“N-no, sorry, I just…give me one second and…”

There’s another blast from my bottom, but it’s not just gas this time. My bowels–much like my bladder before–have simply decided that I’m at capacity and it’s time for release. Whether I’m ready or not. Warm sludge fills the back of my diaper in an instant. A moment later, there’s another wave, further expanding the shape of my diaper in my shorts. 

I know this is crazy. I know this sort of thing isn’t supposed to happen to adults, and I know it’s a big deal. But the truth is, now that it’s all out, I feel a little relieved. The needle is no longer in the red on the imaginary pressure gauge for my asshole. 

“O-okay,” I say cautiously. “Sorry about that. I had to, uhm, pick up something I dropped.”

“Dad called today,” Sam says.

It’s really hard to pretend to care about anything she’s saying when I’m propping myself up against a tree in a semi-squatting position with my diaper filled to the brim with my own mess.

“Oh yeah?” I say, my hand feeling my ass for evidence that my diaper might be leaking. “Wh-what did he say?”

“He knows better than to call me if it's not an emergency,” she says. “That’s probably the only reason I answered. He said he was looking for you. Did you tell him you were going to California?”

“I, uh, didn’t really tell anybody,” I say. “I figured I’d be here and back so quickly that nobody would notice.”

Holy shit. I pooped my pants. I messed in a diaper. I stink. I smell like…a baby who needs to be changed.

“Look, I don’t care if you did or didn’t tell him. I just said that if I talked to you, I’d let him know he was looking for you. So consider that message sent.”

“Message received,” I said, almost gagging at the noxious odor now emanating from my backside.

“Look, I don’t want to keep you too late,” she says. “I’m sure it’s late there, and it’s really late here, and I have to get up early tomorrow.”

“Y-yeah, you should definitely go and get some sleep.” If she could smell me through the phone right now, she’d be so angry.

“I’m happy you got to meet up with Anders and I’m glad that you’re all coming home. That’s all I need to know for now. We can figure out the rest later.”

“Right,” I say, giving my backside the slightest experimental squeeze to see how it feels. As it turns out–not bad. “Okay, I’ll give you a call tomorrow, then. When I can.”

“Of course. Thank you again, Alf.”

“Sure.”

“Love you.”

“L-love you too.” It’s an extremely awkward thing to have to say to anyone, I think–especially my sister–while feeling my own mess pressed against my skin by the diaper in my tight shorts.

I end the call and slide the phone back into my pocket. All I can think about is sprinting back into the area where our cabin is and knocking on the nearest ‘M’-marked door in the hopes that someone can help me with my diaper, but it only takes a few steps on the trail to realize that the more I exert myself, the more of a mess I’m making in my pants.

“So this is it,” I say to myself. “This is the full baby experience, huh?”

People like this? People want this? People keep coming back here for more? 

Up ahead on the trail, I see a cone of light bouncing around. Someone walking with a flashlight. Ah fuck. The last thing I need is a lookie-lou or some well-intentioned stranger taking pity on a dumb visitor who pooped his pants for the first time. I consider diving off the trail and hiding behind a tree until the pass, but considering how the flashlight is shining right on me, I have no doubt they already know I’m here.

“You’re not lost, I hope,” says a familiar voice.

“M-Mirabelle?”

“Hey, Alfie. I wanted to check in on you and see how your experience was today. Anders said you might have wandered over here to make a call.”

“Yeah. Uhm…I did do that. But maybe you should just…keep your distance?”

“Is everything okay?”

“I just…”

“Alfie,” she says softly, her body coming closer and closer to me. I can hear her footsteps on the gravel path, “did you have an accident?”

There are tears in my eyes again. I don’t mean to cry–I certainly don’t want to cry, but I just can’t help it. “Maybe.”

“May I help you?”

I’m not like this–I’m normally the kind of person who never asks for help. But as tears stream down my cheeks, and as my forward waddle mushes up shameful mess further, I just know that the only way out of this is to ask for help.

“Yes,” I say. “Please. I…I don’t know what to do.”

She’s suddenly right in front of me, giving me the tight and reassuring hug that I need.

“Take my hand,” she says. I do so immediately. “Let’s get you back and cleaned up, okay? I bet a fresh diaper sounds really good right now.”

I nod. A fresh diaper sounds like the greatest thing in the entire world.

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On 10/15/2024 at 4:28 PM, quietlyhumiliated said:

Hi. Here's a new story for you. I hope you enjoy!

Prologue: Anders Goes West

There was a time when Anders was scared of flying. 

He supposed, if he really stopped and thought about it now, maybe he still would be. It’s hard to feel good about the concept of giant metal cylinders that just get thrown across the country by powerful engines. 

But he’s flown enough times in his life that it barely phases him anymore. At most, it’s just a mild unease. It’s like going to the dentist, really–at the end of the day he’ll go and do what he has to do, but that doesn’t mean he likes it.

There’s an older woman sitting next to him. They exchange pleasantries when she sits down, and it makes him think of the guy he sat next to on his last flight. That guy seemed to go out of his way to avoid interacting with Anders, and he found it to be a little annoying. It’s fine to not want to talk to your neighbor, but it’s such a small amount of space to be sharing without even so much as a “hello.”

“A nervous flier?” the woman asks, not long after they were officially somewhere in the middle of the sky. Anders didn’t think his mild discomfort was that obvious.

“I’m sorry?”

“Your leg is shaking like a leaf. I have some dramamine if you’d like some.”

“N-no, thank you.” He should just leave it at that, but he feels compelled to clarify: “I’m not nervous. Just…excited.”

“I know that feeling,” she laughs. “I felt that way when I was flying last week. I just spent a week seeing my grandkids. Such a delightful time. But now I have to go home to Harold.” Her enunciation of the man’s name drips with disdain. “Oh, would you like to see some photos of the kids?”

He doesn't, but part of the unspoken social contract of life states that when an older woman asks if you want to see photos of children you didn’t know, you just say ‘yes’ and suffer through it.

To his surprise, they’re actual printed photographs. Seeing as how Anders is a photographer himself, he’s no stranger to them–but it's rare to see anyone else with them these days. He expects some sort of narration from her, or at least some sort of context as to who these kids are. Names. Anything. But she remains silent as he shuffles through the pictures. Kid with blue shirt. Kid with hat. Kid with blue shirt on a tractor. A bunch of kids. Does she have 18 grandchildren, or is it the same three kids in every photo?

“That’s little William,” she finally says, pointing to the baby being held in the arms of a woman. Well, the woman is certainly attractive. His eyes linger on this photo a little longer than the others. It’s not the baby, nor the pretty woman, that catches his eye - it is the things in the background. A package of diapers. A bottle of baby powder. A stuffed animal.

“V-very cute,” he says, handing the photos back to her. 

He suddenly feels restless. There is an abrupt stirring in his bowels. He needs to be anywhere else instead of on this airplane–packed into this small window-seat next to this woman.

“Excuse me,” he says, hurriedly getting up. He awkwardly slides past her and begins his trek to the restroom.

Using a restroom on a plane is the epitome of a miserable experience. Shuffling his way down the aisle, making eye contact with all of these strangers who know where he’s going and have a good idea of what he’ll be doing once he gets there. And then, later, he'll have to return to his seat, and they’ll all be wondering if he accomplished what he set out to do.

The restroom is vacant, thank goodness. He rushes in, slamming the door shut behind him. He frantically pulls down his pants as he looks ahead to the small wall-mounted mirror above the sink. It is a little disappointing that the mirror isn’t big enough for him to see anything below his head–he kind of wants to see the whole picture. He wants to see himself with his pants pulled down and his thick diaper exposed. Does it look as ridiculous as I think it does?

He can’t hold it anymore. Everything releases at once. Loudly, forcefully. Both his bladder and bowels unload into the diaper. He’s had enough experience with full diapers to know that this is an especially loaded disaster.

There is a moment–extremely brief–where he feels an incredible feeling of bliss wash over him. And then it’s gone.

What now? He’s in an airplane bathroom with an absolutely vile diaper. He has no supplies with him to make changing himself easier. He doesn’t even have another diaper with him. What is he even supposed to do with the diaper? It’s probably too big for the little trash chute, and he can’t flush it. Is he going to have to carry it back to the seat with him and ask an attendant to throw it out? Or does he just…not take it off?

No, absolutely not. He can’t go back to his seat like this.

The world seems a little hazy. A little distant. His worries seem to fade into the background, and he slides a thumb into his mouth. It’ll be fine. He can just stay here for a while, enjoying the comfort of this warm gooey diaper, and eventually he’ll figure something out.

There’s a knock at the bathroom door that shakes him from his daze. He didn’t think he had been in the bathroom that long…though he knows he has a knack for losing track of time while sucking his thumb.

“Hello? Sir?”

It sounds like one of the attendants. “Y-yes?”

“Sir, I’m sorry to bother you, but we’re getting complaints from the other passengers. It seems that your diaper might be too full. It does smell rather awful, I’m afraid.”

“What? You...you can smell it out there?” Wait, that was the wrong question. “How did you know about my diaper?”

“If you’d like,” she says, “I can bring you a fresh diaper and a garbage bag for the old one. Would you like that?”

“I...well… I’m not sure what my other options are.”

“Actually...there’s a small line building out here,” the attendant says. “A number of folks want to use the restroom. Maybe it’d be best if you come back to the cabin and we can change you there.”

That doesn’t seem like the worst idea. He doesn’t really have the skills to handle something like this himself anyway. 

The door is opening. Didn’t I lock it? The flight attendant’s arm reaches in, her hand clutching his wrist. 

“Come now,” she says. “Let’s get that taken care of.”

She drags him past the line of annoyed-looking passengers waiting for the bathroom and down the aisle now. Everyone is staring. Some people hold their noses or wave hands in front of their faces in disgust. Most are snickering and laughing. He knows that he should probably feel humiliated, but he figures that so long as he keeps his thumb in his mouth, he can let their reactions roll off his back. He stumbles and waddles behind the woman, his pants still around my ankles. 

Wait, he thinks. I don’t think the world is supposed to work like this…

“Sir?”

Who’s talking to me now? He turns to his left and then to his right, though he can’t determine where the voice is coming from. 

“Sir? Hello?”

Anders’ eyes slowly open, and he’s back in his window seat. No laughter coming from the other passengers. No shame. No contamination of the air quality. No…

His hands discreetly tap the crotch of his pants, though he doesn’t hear the familiar crinkle of a diaper beneath them. He sighs, wishing that he had gotten over his fear of being checked by airline security and just worn one on the plane.

“Oh...I must’ve dozed off there,” he says, slowly turning his head to view the attendant standing in the aisle. She, or someone who looked kind of like her, had just been pulling him down the aisle in a dirty diaper. But it’s now safe to assume that didn’t actually happen.

“I’ll say,” the woman laughs. “There aren’t many who can sleep through that kind of turbulence.”

“Did we…land?”

“Just about everyone else is already off the plane,” she says with a smile. “You looked so peaceful that I would’ve liked to have left you alone. Sadly, policy dictates that…”

“No, it’s good you woke me up,” he sighs. He can’t decide if that had been a nightmare or a pleasant dream. 

He needs a few seconds to compose himself. Honestly, he’d like a good half hour or so–but there’s obviously not time for that. He’s in that post-dream haze where his brain is still processing things and there’s a fuzzy line between the current reality and the slowly fading world of his dream.

He’s thirsty, and takes a swig from the bottle of water he had been given during the flight. The hydration is nice, though it doesn’t satisfy him in the way that he needed it to.

No, what he really needs is…something else. Something he can’t have right now.

But, he thinks, it won’t be too much longer and then I’ll get to taste it again.

After finally stepping foot in the airport, and on his way to the baggage claim, he checks the missed texts on his phone. Alfie has sent him a meme. Sam asks if he’s landed yet. But it’s the third message that interests him the most–Mirabelle is also asking if he’s landed yet. 

“So, have you joined us on the west coast?”

He quickly texts her back: “Sure have.” He’s tempted to type out the details of the strange dream he just had, but he wonders if it might be better if he tells it to her in person later. He’ll be seeing her soon enough, and he can already imagine the smile on her face as she hears about it.

And there’ll be milk there too. Lots of milk.

His mouth waters and his cock twitches a little at just the thought of tasting it again. This is probably neither the time nor the place to get too caught up in thoughts like these, so he steels himself and continues to walk forward.

He’s pretty sure that this is going to be a really good week. So good, in fact, that he might just stay a little longer than that.

 

Milk! Part 1: Rescue Mission

 

One: Chainsaw Country

I’m thinking about how good some orange juice sounds right now.

I’m thinking about Maxine. 

I’m trying not to think about diapers.

My eyes are fixed on the road, and I can assure you that I’m devoting the bare-minimum amount of consciousness towards making sure the car doesn’t end up in a ravine. But the rest of my brain cells are currently dedicated to just about anything else.

Nikki is sitting in the passenger seat, but because she’s not saying anything, it’s pretty easy to forget she’s there. It’s not until a very specific smell reaches my nostrils that I shake my daydreams of Maxine’s toes away and remember that I’m not alone.

“What is that?” I ask. “Teriyaki?”

“Yeah,” Nikki says. “Want some?”

For a few weeks now, Nikki’s been obsessed with beef jerky. Everytime we walk into a store that sells it, she leaves with a bag. I keep meaning to ask what that’s about, but I also know that sometimes it’s best to let Nikki be Nikki.

I shake my head. “Uh, no.” I don’t have the craving for it that she does. I had a few pieces in days prior, and have met my quota already.

“Your loss,” she shrugs, chomping at another dark-brown slab.

“Be honest,” I ask. Maybe I’m changing the subject, or maybe I was just never committed to the subject of jerky in the first place. “Am I stupid?”

Without the slightest bit of hesitation: “Yes.” If I turn my head to the right, I’m certain that she’ll be grinning–and so I keep my eyes focused straight ahead on the road.

“Fair enough,” I sigh. 

“Was there, like, a particular thing you thought you were being stupid about?” In typical Nikki fashion, she leads off with a punch to the gut, quickly following it up with a show of support.

“Maxine.”

She groans. I can’t hold that against her–the topic feels exhausted at this point.

“I know, I know. I’m as sick of thinking about it as you’re sick of hearing about it.”

“Look, regardless of what you did, you already knew how this was going to end. She’s going…” Nikki abruptly stops herself, stretching her open hands in front of her to signal that she’s not going to finish that thought. “What’re you thinking?”

“She’s not even giving me the option for a long-distance relationship. She doesn’t want one.”

Nikki shrugs. “Why would you even want that?”

“She’s going to college–not, uh, Madagascar. She’ll be home for the holidays. She’ll be close enough that we can visit each other for a weekend once in a while. And then, you know, next summer. I know it’s not great, but it just feels like a big ol’ slap in the face that she wouldn’t even consider it.”

Nikki snorts–her standard style of laughing. It is often a hard sound to truly translate–more often than not it’s a sarcastic rebuke, but occasionally the same noise will be used to show genuine pleasure.

“What’s so funny about that?” I sound like I’m whining. You know what? I’m probably whining.

“Where do we even start? Uhm, for one, you’re five years older than her. Which would be fine if you were, like, 40. But you’re 24. She’s 19. She’s going to college. You already graduated. She’s in a completely different part of her life. She’s going to meet all these new people, and she’s gonna want to bang them–experiment with some girls, maybe.”

“So cliche.”

“I guarantee you she’ll do it too. But that’s besides the point–I’m not even done listing the reasons why that’s funny.”

“Fine,” I sigh. “Go on, then. Get it all out.”

“Right,” she nods. “So her family doesn’t even know that you exist. And if they did, they’d fucking hate you.”

“Aw, come on. I’m a nice guy.”

“Yeah, but you’re not from some wealthy bloodline. You don’t wear polo shirts and play golf on the weekends. You aren’t an investment banker or a doctor or a lawyer or whatever other profession people like that care about. You’re a barely-employed writer who smokes too much pot and still reads comic books.”

I scoff. “There’s some really mature comics out there. They have, like, blood and swearing in them. They are not for kids.”

She snorts again. “That’s what you took issue with?”

“I just…I’m crazy about her. Isn’t that enough?”

“No offense, but that’s a hard sell when you left her on the other side of the country.” She’s not saying anything I didn’t already know, but it still feels like another punch to the gut.

We are in California now, thousands of miles from our home in New Jersey. Thousands of miles from my parents. From my sister. From the bananas I left in a bowl on the counter of my apartment, that I worry are going to be brown and stinky by the time I return. 

Thousands of miles from Maxine, who was probably still confused about why I decided to take an impromptu trip across the country during our last few months together before she goes away to college. She wanted to come with me. She begged me to take her. Now, here I was in a rental car in the middle of who-knows-where with Nikki instead of her. I had reasons for these decisions, but I’m having trouble remembering what they are at the moment.

Nikki asks: “Did she actually give you, like, an expiration date for your little romance? Or is she already done?”

“She made it pretty clear that we’d be making a clean break when she left for college,” I shrug. “But we might be done now–I don’t think I left on the best terms with her.”

I’d been to California before–years ago, we took a family vacation to San Fran–but we’re far from there, or any other city, now. This long expanse of highway could be anywhere. If I squint my eyes a little, I can imagine myself driving through New Jersey or Pennsylvania. 

I don’t know where I’m going, but the GPS does. The rental is nicer than anything I’ve ever driven before, and I can't help but wonder if I’ll ever own a car this nice. It has a computer screen in the dashboard, which seems to control just about everything. Right now, it’s showing the map for the GPS–a wide expanse of green with the occasional blue splotch of a lake or river. Maybe–if I ever get my shit together–I could have a car like this someday. 

“So what’s the plan when we get there?” Nikki asks. “Stumble around, asking questions?”

“More or less. We’re supposed to meet with this guy named Tommy.”

“Do you know where you’re supposed to meet him?” she asks. “And when?”

“The address in the GPS is a diner. He said to text him when we get there.”

“Kind of hard to believe there’s a diner out in the middle of nowhere, isn’t there?”

“There’s a whole town, apparently,” I shrug. “Harper’s Bell.”

Nikki snorts. “Can’t wait for that. A remote village of people who don’t trust outsiders. They’re going to chase us out of town with pitchforks.”

“It won’t be like that,” I laugh. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t thinking the same thing.

 

Two: Parking Lot Pacifiers

Maxine sipped Coca Cola out of a can through a straw. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen someone do this, but it seemed pretty weird the last time too. This is exactly what I like about her.

She’s quirky and strange in a way that she’s probably not supposed to be. She should’ve been riding horses, shopping for high-end purses, and jetsetting around the world on her family’s dime. Instead, she was taking a drag from a joint, reading a comic book about a stripper-turned-assassin, and tapping her foot to some punk-rock banger while lying on her back on the carpet. Her feet were kicked up on the coffee table, her slightly dirty bare feet wiggling close enough to my face that I couldn’t help but stare at them. Her dark hair exploded out from around her horizontal head, almost looking like a lion’s mane.

I told myself that was going to be the day for a conversation about our future, but I knew it wasn’t actually going to happen. Maxine was the coolest thing that’s ever happened to me, and I wasn’t ready to talk about endings yet–even if Maxine had already stated that the end was nigh.

“This is good,” I said, a finger in the air as if I was somehow able to point at the music playing throughout the room. “What is this?”

“Hagbody,” Maxine said. “I got this LP at their show a month or two ago. The bassist was working the merch table when I bought it. Her picture’s on the back cover.”

I reached over and grabbed the LP’s cardboard sleeve from the coffee table and flipped it over, finding a black and white photo of the band. I assumed she was talking about the only woman in the five-piece–a curvy cutie with light-colored hair and a nose piercing. “Was she cool?”

“She told me she liked my shirt,” Maxine shrugged. “I wish I could remember what shirt I was wearing.”

This was how most of our hangouts went: Maxine brought over a stack of records and maybe a snack, and we sat together in the living room–getting high and spacing out to said records. Usually, this was my favorite thing in the entire world. On this day, there was just enough eating at me that I found it hard to get into the usual groove. “Cool.”

“What’s your deal today?” she asked, putting a little extra wiggle into her toes. She knew I liked that. “You seem off.”

“I’m fine.”

“I knew you were going to say that,” she laughed. “You’re so predictable. Like, I already know that I’m going to nag you until you finally tell me what’s going on in your head. So you might as well just tell me now.”

I couldn’t argue with that logic. Smart as she is cute. “Just thinking about things I don’t want to think about.”

She sighed. “You’re thinking about August?”

“It’s hard not to. You’ll be gone, and I’m not ready for that yet.”

“We’ve got plenty of time.”

“It’s not enough.”

“You’ll be sick of me by then, just watch. Come July, you’ll have thrown me in the trunk of your car so that you can drop me off at university early.”

“You’d like that,” I said, finally cracking a smile.

“Kinda, yeah. Can we try that sometime? You’ll, like, tie me up and shove me into the trunk of your car, right? And then you’ll take me somewhere–I won’t even know where–and then, when we get there, you’ll open the trunk and…”

“It’s more than just you leaving,” I said. I didn’t want to cut off her little fantasy, but I was far too distracted to picture it playing out in my mind. “Can I tell you…something weird?”

“Okay. Let’s hear it.” Her little toes wiggled, and despite being distracted, I still felt the urge to bite them right off her feet–but in a fun and flirty way.

“So Anders, my brother-in-law…”

“I know who he is. You talk about him all the time.”

“R-right. So, he travels around the country to take photographs or whatever, right?”

“Sure,” she said, either already knowing this or just taking my word for it. We always seemed to have a hard time telling each other about our families, so we rarely did. My theory was that Maxine doesn’t like to tell me about her family, because her family didn’t know about me. Because of that, I don’t talk to her about my family.

“He went to California for a week or two, and he was supposed to come back the other day. Except…he didn’t. He reached out to my sister and I and said that he needed to stay there a bit longer.”

“I don’t know much about your family,” Maxine shrugged. “But that’s, like, weird for him?”

“I dunno,” I said. “My sister, Samantha, she’s kind of freaking out about it. He never does that, you know?

“Sure,” she said. “I guess that’s kind of weird.”

“Wait, but here is where it gets weird. A few months ago, he took a different trip to California, right? And I don’t really know where he was or what he was doing out there, but he sends me a bunch of pictures of him at some sort of–I dunno–resort? Wellness retreat? Some place in the woods with a lot of cabins. And he’s, like, raving about this place. He’s telling me that I have to go there, because it’ll, like, change my life.”

“Uh huh.” Given the way her feet were swaying to the music, I doubted her full focus was on my story. Not that I could blame her–she didn’t know Anders well enough to know why this was so strange.

“Okay,” I said, scrolling through my phone in a search for the pictures. “I want you to look at these pictures. Tell me if you see anything strange about them.” Her little hand reached up from the ground and I handed my phone over to her.

“Huh,” she said, flipping through the photos.

“I’m not crazy, right? You see what I see?”

“Why is everyone wearing…diapers?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t tell me. And when he came back, and I tried to ask him about it, he kept brushing me off and telling me that we’d have to talk about it later.”

She looked at the phone curiously. “Maybe he’s one of those adult babies?”

I laughed. I had a very basic idea of who they are, though it’s a world that has absolutely no overlap with my own. “I don’t think so.”

“Isn’t that their whole deal?” she asked. “They waddle around in diapers all the time? Kinda looks like what’s happening in these photos, right?”

“You seem to know a lot about them,” I teased. “Something you want to tell me?”

“Oh yeahhh,” she giggled. “I forgot to tell you sooner…” Her voice took on a frighteningly good infantile affectation: “Me jus’ a wittle baby.”

“Careful,” I laughed, shaking my head. “People probably already think I'm a creep because you’re younger than me. You can’t also act younger.”

“There’s weirder things in this world than diapers,” Maxine shrugged. “I respect anyone who can embrace the freakier side of life.” God, Maxine was precious. I wanted her all to myself forever and always. “Besides. I’d looking fucking cute in a diaper.”

I didn’t doubt that. I almost immediately forgot about the things clouding my mind, and was instead trying–as discreetly as possible–to adjust my pants to make room for my slowly inflating manhood. I wasn’t proud of being excited about picturing her in a diaper, but that was why I’d never say a word about it to anyone–Maxine included.

“I don’t think it’s that,” I said, attempting to nudge the conversation back on course again. “But what do I know?”

“That sounds like his problem, not yours,” she said. “You have your own problems.”

Yeah, don’t I know it. But, judging by the smirk on her face and her little toe-wiggles, she wasn’t talking about any of my actual problems. “And what are those?”

“You’ve got a baby of your own,” she purred, her feet spreading apart on the coffee table to give me a clear view down her legs and up her skirt. “And she needs some attention.”

This, at least, was a problem I know how to solve.

===

Nikki’s knuckles rapped on the table in front of me, snapping me back into the present. “Hello? Anyone in there?”

“Uh, sorry,” I sigh. “I was…somewhere else. What were you saying?”

“I said this menu doesn’t make any goddamn sense. It’s got all the standard diner stuff, right? But then there’s also pasta. And pizza. And tacos. Look–gyros. What the fuck?”

“Maybe if you’re the only restaurant in town,” I say, unsure if this is true or not, “you have to have every possible food option accounted for.”

The diner–Harper’s Dinner Bell–looks almost exactly like I thought it would–an aged relic of a different time. Its stainless steel siding and neon-lit sign are charming at first, but closer inspection reveals that the last time this place had been renovated was in the 80s. I can already taste the grease-soaked food in my mouth. Admittedly, I’m excited for it.

“How good do you think the tacos are?” I ask.

Nikki grimaces. “I wouldn’t take chances on tacos in the middle of nowhere. You gotta know where the bathrooms are.”

“Fair,” I say. This makes me think about diapers again. Maybe they’re onto something?

“What about this guy we’re supposed to meet?”

“Tommy,” I say. “Yeah, he said he’d meet us here. I don’t know what he looks like though, but he said he’d find us.” Though now that I say the words aloud, I’m not sure how he’s supposed to know what we look like either. Maybe it’s just obvious who the out-of-towners are. Looking around the diner, I see that most of the other patrons skew older and male. They wear work boots and worn clothing. Lots of beards and trucker hats. 

“And who is Tommy?”

“A friend of Anders’ maybe? I’m not sure. When I told him I was coming out here, he gave me this guy’s number and said that he’d help us ‘get in.’ Whatever that means.”

“‘Get into’ what?”

“This, uh, club that Anders is in. This resort or camp or…”

“Cult,” Nikki says. “It sounds like a cult.”

“What? No. It’s not a cult. This is just some weird–I dunno–lifestyle thing.”

“Do you know it’s not a cult?” Nikki asks. “Or do you just hope it’s not a cult?”

“Cults are, like, spooky and mysterious,” I say. I know this is a terrible argument, but in my defense, I wasn’t expecting this question. “This is…people walking around the woods in diapers. It’s different.”

We’re approached by a young woman in some high-waisted jeans and a tucked in teal shirt with the name of the diner on the front of it. The phrase ‘small-town cuteness’ comes to mind when I gaze upon her amber hair and light freckles, but I don’t know if that actually means anything, or if I’m now coining that phrase to describe anyone that looks like her

“Hey,” she says, her lips curved in a big smile. “I’m Celia, I’ll be taking care of you today. From out of town, are ya?”

“Is it that obvious?” I ask.

“Maybe,” she shrugs. “But also, I know everybody in town, so it's pretty easy to spot the new faces.”

“You, uh, get a lot of visitors here?” I ask. 

She shrugs. “Oh, sure. Plenty.”

I look across the table at Nikki to catch her reaction to this. Nikki seems uninterested in the conversation, reading through the lengthy menu instead. “Yeah?” I ask. “Seems pretty out of the way for there to be a lot of visitors.”

“Well, you’re here, aren’t you?” she smirks. “What brings you here?”

Touche. I try the same line I used on Reid and Bria earlier: “I’m here for a family member.”

“You folks hungry?” she asks, seeming to skirt right over response. “We’ve got a lot of options on the menu.”

“Too many,” Nikki mutters.

We need a few more minutes parsing through all the options, but we at least request some drinks. But no sooner than Celia wanders off, I already find myself thinking about anything other than ordering lunch. I’m curious about where Anders is right now, and what he’s doing. What he’s wearing.

When I finally called Anders, a week after he failed to return to the east coast, I made a vague threat about going across the country to fetch him myself. To my surprise, he encouraged me to do just that. “Yes!” he said. “You really should come out! I want you to see it for yourself.” He even offered to pay my way, which allowed me to allocate my own funds for Nikki’s ticket–she wasn’t going to tag along if she had to pay for the trip. 

Now, there were missed calls on my phone from my sister, and a handful of texts. I texted her back, just before we walked into the diner: “Reception isn’t great. Will call you later when I can.” I’m hoping this buys me some time. It’s not that I don’t want to talk to her, it’s just that I know she has a lot of questions about where her husband is that I’m not able to answer just yet. When I talk to her, I’d like to at least have a few answers ready.

We finally order food, sticking with the more traditional sandwiches and burgers instead of getting experimental with diner tacos. Then, as Celia finishes jotting our order down on her notepad, I decide to do a little investigating: “Hey, can I ask you something?”

“What’s up?”

“Do you know about the, uh, farm?”

In advance of asking this question, I predicted that she’d either deny any knowledge of it, or she’d act cagey about it–like this was the local urban legend that nobody in town liked to talk about. To my surprise, she instead offered a nonchalant shrug. “A little bit, sure.”

“What’s that all about?” I ask. It’s a terribly vague question, but this is why I write filler content for online news-blogs and not travel to war-torn countries on behalf of major newspapers.

“You a reporter or something?” Celia asks. It’s not said in an accusatory way, as if a reporter wouldn’t be welcome here–she just sounds curious.

I wonder what response would get her to open up more. I flip an imaginary coin. Tails.

“Nah,” I say. “My brother-in-law was telling me about this place. He, uh, seemed pretty into it, but I couldn’t get a good answer out of him when I asked what it was all about.

“People around here, they like things that stay the same, you know? And that place had been the old Hammond Farm for as long as this town’s been here. So when the property was bought by some outsiders a few years back, I don’t think most people in town were too happy about it.”

Outsiders. She says the word so casually. Horror movie vibes intensify.

“But,” she continues, “it’s hard to argue that it hasn’t been a blessing for us. It’s brought lots of folks, like you, to it. And those folks like to spend money here. Nobody’s mad about that.”

“Uh huh,” I say. “And what do you know about the farm? Who lives there? What are they…doing there?”

She shrugs and laughs a little–that classic ‘if only you’d seen the things I’ve seen’ kind of laugh. “There’s lots of rumors around town about that. I bet if you asked ten different people that question, you’d get ten different answers.”

I fully intend to put that theory to the test later. “Right, but what do you think is going on at this farm?”

She smirks. “I…don’t want to speculate too much. I can say that everyone I’ve ever met that’s either coming from, or going to, the farm has been really nice. Whatever they’re about, it sounds like a good community. Whoever they are, I’m happy they’re here.”

I’m not really satisfied with her response, but it’s going to have to do, as I see she’s itching to move on and help other patrons. 

===

I’m staring down at my phone, waiting for either a call or a text from Tommy. We finished our meal a half hour ago, and I sent him a text message letting him know that we were here, but there’s been no response. It’s possible that he’s somewhere without reception–I imagine it’s easy to find yourself in a place around here without any–but we had agreed on a time and a place, and he’s a no-show.

“How hard can it be to find this place ourselves?” Nikki asks. “If everyone in town knows where it is, we just ask them for directions.”

“Maybe,” I sigh. “But I told him I’d meet him here. And what if he shows up after we’ve left?”

“Sounds like his problem–not ours.”

She isn’t wrong, but I’m not keen on making that someone’s first impression of me–especially if they’re trying to help me get to Anders. Besides, if it was as easy as driving up to the place ourselves, wouldn’t Tommy or Anders have just told me to do that?

We have to wait for Tommy. He’s going to ‘get us in.’

“I’ll be right back,” I say. “I’m going to use the restroom.”

“Have fun,” she says. 

A few minutes later, I’m washing my hands in the diner’s bathroom, and my eyes happen upon a sign posted on the wall near where the trash can sits: “DO NOT DISPOSE OF USED ADULT DIAPERS IN THIS TRASH CAN. PLEASE TAKE THEM WITH YOU AND DISPOSE OF THEM ELSEWHERE. IF THIS CONTINUES TO BE AN ISSUE, FUTURE USE OF THE FACILITIES WILL BE RESTRICTED.”

The fact that the sign calls them ‘adult diapers’ instead of something like ‘incontinence products’ seems to suggest something, I think. I wonder if it symbolizes frustration on the part of the diner–maybe whoever made the sign had determined that there was a difference between ‘incontinence products’ and whatever it was they were finding. Or, maybe, the sign’s author just didn’t know better verbiage.

I consider how it’s probably not just Celia that notices the people that pass through Harper’s Bell from ‘the farm.’ Celia had said it herself–ask ten different people what they think is going on there, and they’ll give ten different answers. But I wonder if there’s any commonalities in their responses. Ten different answers about what goes on at that farm–but they might all agree that a lot of people there wear diapers, for example.

I see something behind the sign on the wall–the letter “k” scrawled in black marker, peeking out from behind the paper. Curious, I lift up the sign, finding another message scribbled directly on the wall itself in an almost child-like fashion: “DRINK THE MILK.”

The hell if I know what that means.

===

There’s only so much sitting around I can do before I start to get restless. I send one more text to Tommy, letting him know that we’re still at the diner–and threatening to just drive to ‘the farm’ ourselves if we don’t hear from him soon. Then, nervously turning my phone over in my hand, I decide to use this downtime to call my sister. Nikki agrees to wait at the table, just in case, while I step outside with my phone.

“Heyyy,” starts Sam’s voice mail message. There’s a brief pause after that word that makes me think she might actually be on the line, but then the recording continues: “This is Samantha Elkin. I’m not available at the moment so leave me a message and I’ll call you back, alright?”

Beep.

“Hey Sam, it’s me. I’m calling you from, uh, Middle-of-Fucking-Nowhere in beautiful California. We’re at a diner right now, waiting to meet the guy who’s going to take us to wherever Anders is. Reception here is spotty, but call me back when you get this message and hopefully I’ve got a bar or two. Hope you’re doing well. Nikki says hi. Well…actually she didn’t say anything, but I’m sure she’d say hi if I asked her to. Okay, well…talk to you later. Love you, bye.”

Saying ‘love you,’ still feels a little weird to me. Not in a bad way, it’s just a little unnatural. Our family was never really the lovey-dovey kind. We claimed to show each other acts of love instead of talking about it. But after my parents’ divorce turned into a bitter bloodbath, Sam and I pledged to be more upfront about our feelings and not just assume we knew how the other felt.

And, yeah, I love Sam. My mother’s fine–I harbor no negativity against her–but in the pie graph of who contributed the most in raising me, my sister has the biggest slice. 

It’s one of the reasons I’m here, I suppose–for her.

The sun on my skin feels preferable to the artificial cold of the diner air conditioning, so I linger outside a little longer. I lazily scan the area around me, trying to spot other points of interest in this town. Either there are none, or they’re just not visible from over here.

Further out in the parking lot, near a lamp post, I spot something small and colorful. I’m too far away to see what it is, but I’m curious enough to stroll forward to investigate. The closer I get, the more vibrant the object’s pinks and oranges get. Finally, I’m able to identify it–a pacifier. 

This probably shouldn’t be very noteworthy–I feel like I’ve seen abandoned binkies in parking lots my whole life. Wherever you go, it seems, there’s always a trail left behind by someone’s toddler. Abandoned toys. Crushed cereal bits. Crayons. But here, in this town, the sight gives me a little pause. It’s possible that an actual child left behind their precious pacifier–but it was just as likely that it was some adult-diaper wearing resident of ‘the farm.’ The same person–or type of person–who’d leave behind dirty diapers in a public restroom.

I think about the back of Bria and Reid’s minivan, and the baby bottles and stuffed animals I spotted inside.  I was imagining Bria, again, on her back with her dress hiked up as Reid changed her diaper like she was an infant. Suddenly, Reid was me, and Bria was Maxine. And then I imagine myself on my back, getting my diaper changed–Maxine hovering above me, cooing about how I’m wet. 

Would I like that? Seems best that I don't think about it–it’s a question that doesn’t need answering right now.

My phone vibrates, and I see that Tommy is finally texting me back: “Sorry to keep you waiting. I’ll be there soon!” I’d much rather he tell me that he’s already here, but what’s a few more minutes of waiting?

“Hey there” a voice says. It’s not a familiar-enough voice that I immediately recognize it–nor am I expecting anyone to talk to me at all–so I jump a little. It’s Celia, walking towards me with a vape between her fingers. Must be her smoke-break

“Hey.” 

“It’s pretty nice out today,” she says, using a hand as a visor as she gazes up into the partly-cloudy sky. “I’d much rather be out here than in there all day.”

The air here seems different than it does back home. Cleaner and fresher. I’ve never thought of New Jersey air as being bad, but I guess I just didn’t know what good air is actually like. I take in a good lungful, hold it for a second, and slowly release it.

“No offense, but it’s a little more comfortable out here,” I say.

“No argument from me.”

“Hey, uh, I saw the sign in the restroom. About the diapers?”

She chuckles and runs a hand through her hair. “Are you disappointed that you have to take your dirty diapers with you?”

“I don’t wear–” I stop myself, seeing the telltale smirk of sarcasm on her face. “Is that really a problem around here?”

“Take a walk downtown and count how many stores have signs on their doors stating that there’s no public restrooms or changing stations.”

“It’s that bad?”

She shrugs. “Honestly? I doubt it. What probably happened was, just once or twice, someone left a particularly gross present behind in a public bathroom and it got everyone all worked up. I meant what I said before–everyone I’ve ever met from that little group seemed pretty nice.”

I kick at the pacifier on the ground, turning it over. I know I should probably pick it up and throw it out, but I don’t know where it's been. The more I stare at it, the stronger my feeling is that it fell out of the mouth of an adult.

“It’s pretty rare that we get a visitor anymore who isn’t coming or going from there,” she says. “Are you sure that’s not your destination?”

I laugh. “Oh, I am going there. I’m just not going for the baby-treatment, or whatever it is they do there. I’m here to find my brother-in-law.”

“Ah,” she says. “He’s one of them?”

“I think so. His name is Anders. You know him?”

She shakes her head. “The name doesn’t mean anything to me, but I might have seen him before.”

I take my phone out of my pocket and pull up a picture of him. “I know you probably see all kinds of people here, so I can’t expect you to remember every face. But here’s what he looks like.” 

“Hmm,” she says, nodding her head. “Yeah, I think I’ve seen him. Maybe a few times over the last year. Nice enough guy.”

This might confirm one of my theories that Anders has been coming here a lot longer than he’s been letting on. All of those ‘business’ trips–I wonder how many of them were actually cover stories for his excursions to baby-land. I still don’t know how I’m actually going to get him out of here. Can I just convince him to come home? Or do I need to drag him out while he, quite literally,  kicks and screams like a toddler?

“I should probably get back in there,” I sigh, glancing back to the diner. “Nikki’s waiting for me.”

“Is she your girlfriend?”

“No, my best friend. My sidekick. Or…maybe I’m her sidekick–I’m not sure.”

“Well, it was nice talking to you, er…” Her voice trails off at the end to signal that she’s waiting for me to give her my name.

“Alfie,” I say.

“Good luck on your quest, Alfie. But just a little word of warning?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re not the first person I’ve talked to who says they’re just going to visit the farm, for whatever reason. Picking someone up. Dropping someone off. Running an errand. More often than not–the next time I see them, they’re in diapers too. I’m not saying it’s against their will or anything, but…that place seems to have a pull on folks. Maybe it’s something in the air. Or the water.”

The message scrawled on the restroom wall comes to mind: DRINK THE MILK.

“Thanks,” I laugh. “But I think I can just say ‘no’ to wearing a pair of diapers.”

This is another wonderfully constructed story. I am just curious about a few things. I understand the prologue is coming from Anders encounter to the "farm".

Chapter one has me a bit confused. The first three sentences,  is this still a continuation of Enders thoughts or is it Alfie? "I'm thinking about Maxine.  I'm trying not to think about diapers." Because Alfie supposedly knows nothing about the diapers prior to arrival at the Cafe, why would he even be thinking about this? Also, I take note of Alfie not even really being introduced as of the whole chapter. I can't remember how many times I had to read and reread the first few chapters to finally get the characters firmly established in my mind.

I'm not trying to be critical, I just think that maybe there could have been some sort of introduction to the characters and how they are related to certain individuals. I'm still trying to figure out Nikki. She seems a bit like Lyndie from the previous story. What is her relation to Enders or Alfie?

Again I just want to reiterate what an amazing story you unfolding here. Sometimes it makes me wish I could be living out one of the characters lives. Great writing, great imagination!

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Posted

@Sumi Those are some good questions. I worried if pairing the introduction with the first chapter would be confusing due to the change in perspective. And...that might be true.

Let me try to answer your questions:

  • The introduction is from the perspective of Anders
  • The first chapter, onward, is from the perspective of Alfie.
  • Alfie knows about the diapers prior to the start of Chapter 1 (as can be seen in the first part of Chapter 2, which is a flashback).
  • That's a good point about Alfie not being formally introduced in the first chapter. I think I've spent so much time writing in this world that I sometimes take for granted the information I have vs. the information that you, the reader does.
  • Nikki is a friend of Alfie's. A sidekick (or, Alfie is her sidekick, as she's already pointed out herself). She has similar traits to Lyndie from Doing Business, but in the greater scheme of things, she has a different role than Lyndie had in her story.

Truly, thank you for pointing out these things. I'm going to make some very minor edits to the first chapter, based on your feedback, in the hopes of making things a little clearer for a new reader.

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Seven: Getting Out, Just When It’s Getting Good

Distracted by the squishing mass in the back of my shorts, I veer a little off the path and almost trip over an exposed root. At the very last second, Mirabelle detects the potential danger I’m in and gives my arm a firm tug to guide me back onto the path again. My cheeks blush and I let out a sheepish laugh–humiliated at just the thought of an alternate reality where I tumble onto my diaper with a sickening ‘splat.’ She just smiles, shrugs, and continues to lead me by the hand into the darkness.

I try to think of the last time someone has held my hand like this. Maxine and I hold hands all the time, but that’s different. That’s, like, intimacy–relationship stuff. Mirabelle’s grip is more maternal in spirit–the kind of hold my hand hasn’t experienced since my own mother had to guide me around the world when I was a literal toddler. Ironically, I was probably wearing a diaper then too.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

That’s a hard question to answer. No permanent physical damage has been inflicted, but my dignity has taken a rather thorough thrashing. If the sticky feeling on the skin of my ass wasn’t enough, every breath through my nose reminds me of what I’ve done.

“I’m fine,” I sigh.

“Not much further,” she assures me.

“I…” I almost apologize. But what would I be apologizing for? I didn’t purposefully poop my pants. And I only did because I drank the milk that she wanted me to. She’s the one who ran into me out here, and she’s the one who took me by the hand. 

“Hm?” she asks.

“You don’t have to, like, clean me,” I say. “I can take care of that part. Just point me in the direction of a shower and I’ll do the rest.”

She laughs. “You know that’s not how things work around here, right?”

“It just seems kinda unfair to put you through that. You shouldn’t be subjected to, uh, this disgusting atrocity.”

“Do you think that your diaper will be the worst I’ve ever seen?”

“I dunno,” I shrug. I imagine, in the grand scheme of changing hundreds–or maybe thousands–of diapers, she’s seen worse than mine. But still: “It’s the worst that I’ve ever seen.”

“When you have guests in your home, Alfie, do you make them wash the dishes after they’ve eaten dinner?”

“Uh, no, but…”

“You’re a guest in my home. Let me take care of this, okay?”

I’m not entirely sure her analogy works, but I also know I won’t come up with an argument that will convince her not to change my diaper for me. This, as she’s said, is the way this place works. 

“Fine,” I say. “But if you ever poop your pants in my home, don’t expect me to change you.”

“Noted,” she says, turning her head so I can see the cheeky grin on her face.

Up ahead, I see a cluster of lights. I assume we’re nearing some of the cabins, but as my eyes begin to focus, I see that it’s actually the stone farmhouse where Alfie had introduced me to Mirabelle in the first place.

“Almost there,” she says in a sing-song voice. “How are you holding up?”

“I’ll make it,” I say. 

“Good,” she says. “I’d hate to have lost you on your first night.”

“And last night too,” I add.

“Oh?”

“Well…Anders has to get back home. And Nikki and I only came to fetch him. So we’re all probably going to head out tomorrow.”

“That’s a shame,” she says. “I really thought we’d get to keep you a little longer.”

Admittedly, it feels good to hear her say that. There’s plenty of times when I can assume that I’m wanted, but it’s not always something that’s said to me. “M-maybe I’ll come back?”

She pulls open the screen door on the porch and waves for me to enter the house. “Are you asking me if you’ll come back?”

I laugh, taking a few cautious steps past the house’s threshold. “I have to think about it some more. I didn’t expect to, uh…” I consider my words carefully. “Well, I kind of like it here. Or, if nothing else, I’m just really curious about it.”

“It sounds like you’re not ready to go, then.” She closes both the screen door and the heavier wooden front door behind her.

Stepping in front of me, she grabs my hand again, leading me out of the foyer and down a short hallway. I take only brief, cursory, glances at the rooms we pass. Some are too dark to really see, while others flash by so fast that most of the details are lost on me. A kitchen. A sitting area. An office, I think.

“I could take you upstairs,” she says, “but we might have guests up there tonight. I don’t think they’d mind seeing you–but you might not want to see them. Well, not in your current state.”

“Guests?” I ask. I’m a guest–why am I not staying here instead of a cabin?

“Certain kinds of guests stay here,” she shrugs. In a softer tone, she adds: “Usually, the types of guests who have thick wallets and like to make donations.”

“Oh. Like, uh, VIPs?”

“Everyone’s a VIP here,” she smiles. “But…maybe some have a little extra V.”

“Do they wear diapers too?” I ask. 

“Of course,” she says, opening a door and ushering me through it with both hands. “They’ve all had the same milk you’ve had.”

The room she’s led me into reminds me of the one I was in after having been breastfed. There’s no crib here, but there is a large changing table, and a few shelves stocked with various packages and boxes.

“This isn’t my favorite nursery,” she says, “but it was the closest one, and it’ll do just fine.”

“Do you need me to, like…get on that table?”

She smiles as her hand releases mine so she can rub my back gently instead. “That’s exactly right. Would you mind doing that for me?”

“I can, but…” I’m running through the logistics for such an action in my mind, and every scenario involves me putting weight on my bottom–likely spreading the swampy mess contained within my diaper even further. “I don’t think it’ll be pretty.”

“That’s why they call a poopy diaper a ‘mess,’” she shrugs. “You won’t hear anyone calling them a ‘delight.’”

“I dunno,” I shrug. “Try it out. That might just catch on. Oh Miss Mirabelle–I made a delight in my diaper.

She giggles behind her hand. “See, if you were staying, I’d ask you to help spread the word about that.”

I shrug. “I wish I could.”

“Come on, stinky,” she says, her hand patting the top of the changing table. “The sooner we can freshen you up, the sooner you can go get some rest. It sounds like tomorrow’s going to be a long day for you.”

She’s right about that. Just thinking about the drive back to Harper’s Bell, and the drive from there back to the airport, and then the time spent trying to get a flight back to the East Coast, was exhausting enough. Maybe this is why people stay here–it’s too much of a pain in the ass to get back to civilization.

I kick off my shoes and push them aside with my feet. I then use a small step stool next to the changing table to propel myself onto its surface. I lie on my side for a moment–knowing I need to be on my back eventually, but dreading what that’s going to feel like. All it takes is another glimpse at the warm smile on Mirabelle’s face, though, to motivate me to just get it over with. I cautiously roll onto my back, immediately feeling my diaper–and its contents–squelch and smoosh between the table’s cushion and my body. I feel the mess spread in all directions, no doubt making its way into places it shouldn’t be. I have the impulse to, again, warn Mirabelle about what awaits her, but I already know she’ll tell me not to worry about it.

“I’m going to take your shorts off,” she says, standing at the foot of the changing table. It’s a statement, but I also feel like she’s giving me an opportunity to speak up. The momentary pause that follows is more than enough time for me to tell her if I truly don’t want her to change my diaper. 

I say nothing. 

“So, is this always how it works?” I ask as her hands land on either side of the waistband of my shorts. “Someone stumbles through the gates, you rush them to a room with a lactating woman, and watch as they helplessly poop themselves after?”

She smirks as she tugs on the shorts, sliding them down from my hips. “Not always. This was a unique situation.”

“How so?”

“Well, for one, it’s not often that one of our community members asks to bring someone from their family here. But also, Anders is someone I consider to be a good friend–so I didn’t mind when he asked if you could jump the queue.”

“The queue?” I ask. “Like…the queue to be, uh, breastfed?”

She nods, my shorts clearing my feet before she sets them down somewhere behind her. “The human body only produces so much milk per day. It’d be nice if we had an infinite amount, but there’s not much we can do about that.”

“How long is the queue?”

“Everybody’s on it somewhere,” she shrugs. “Where in the queue you are, however, can vary depending on a few factors. How long you’ve been here, for example. Or how long it's been since the last time you’ve last been fed.”

“Or…how much money you donate?”

“Sometimes,” she says. “But that only seems fair, doesn’t it?”

I don’t feel like I know enough about this place to answer that question. But speaking of that… “You don’t mind if I ask a few questions about this place, do you?”

“I don’t mind at all,” she says, the back of her hand gently caressing the front of my diaper. I try to will my cock to stay soft and unintrusive, but I can’t help but feel a little arousal blooming between my legs. “I have a feeling we’ll be here for a while anyway.”

“Is it, uh, that bad?”

“I don’t know just yet,” she shrugs. “But I suspect it’s not good.”

Her fingers latch onto the first of the four tapes that keep the diaper sealed around me, and she gives it a firm tug, tearing it free from the plastic it was bound to. My heart leaps a little at the prospect of her being a quarter of the way towards revealing one of the most humiliating things I’ve ever done in my pants before.

I distract myself by pulling a question from my mental list: “So, like, what is this place? Is it really just a bunch of people getting drunk on strange breastmilk that turns you into a baby?”

“It’s certainly that,” she says, pulling the second tape up with a loud ripping sound. “Though it’s also a lot more than that. We've been given a gift here–something unprecedented. Something that few people outside of our community could even begin to fathom. Take yourself, for example–would you believe anyone if you were told what was going to happen?”

“Nope.”

“Exactly. Still–we can only speculate about what this gift actually means. Maybe it’s a fluke. Or maybe it means something. It could be part of something bigger. Something that…” The third tape is pulled up.

“...transcends space and time?” I say, thinking about the words I used to describe my orgasm earlier. 

She laughs a little, pulling up the last of the tapes. “Yeah, something like that. That’s what we’re doing here. We’re experiencing this gift as we look for answers to the greater meaning of it all. Well, some of us. Others just want to be a big baby. And that’s okay too.”

My heart pounds faster, knowing that all she has to do now is pull down the front of the diaper to fully reveal my catastrophic environmental disaster. I practically bark out my next comment, as if I only have seconds to get it out of my system before the end of the world: “That kind of reminds me of…a religion of some sort.”

Her hand, reaching for the diaper’s waistband, pauses as she seems to consider this for a moment. “Maybe you wouldn’t be surprised, then, by how many members of our community feel similarly.”

She opens the diaper, pulling the front of it back and letting it drop between my thighs. An uncontrollable spurt of pee bursts from my semi-hard penis, adding a wet spot to my t-shirt. I blush more brightly, but she doesn’t so much as flinch at this.

I don’t stare at my own crotch–I only watch her face. To her credit, I don’t see even the slightest hint of disgust or regret in her eyes. Instead, she carefully studies the scene before her like a mathematician staring at a blackboard filled with complex equations. She’s analyzing it and developing a plan.

Keep talking, I think. I need to keep myself distracted. “Wh-what about, uhm, Mother? Who is she?”

“Lift your legs up for me, sweetheart,” she coos. I might not have understood her request, were it not for my earlier experiences with Freya and Marta–whose manhandling of my legs has taught me they should be to give my caregiver all the access they need. My cheeks burning red, I hoist my feet into the air, making myself more vulnerable than I can ever recall being in my life. My physician doesn’t even ask me to do this. She can see all of me when she looks down–though it’s probably all covered in a good layer of muck at this point.

“As you can imagine, we wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for Mother. She’s one-of-a-kind, and the lifeblood for our community.”

Mirabelle pulls a wipe from a plastic package and holds it between her hands for a moment. It takes a second or two for me to realize that she’s warming it up before she runs it across my skin–the sort of practiced touch that reminds me of how she’s probably done this plenty of times before. And that messes like mine are probably common around here.

“But who is she?” I ask. 

“I’m afraid I don’t have a good answer to that question, Alfie. She doesn’t tell us very much about herself. She’s just ‘Mother’ to me, just as she is to you.”

“But how did she get here? How did all of this happen?” I ask, waving my hands a little, as if to somehow signify that I’m talking about the entirety of The Cradle.

“I love your curiosity,” she coos, carefully using the wipe to stroke my inner thigh. “But you might be asking questions that are a little too big for a diaper change.”

“If not now then…I’d eventually like to get some answers.”

“I’ll tell you what. I understand that you have to go home–you probably weren’t expecting to wind up in the situation you’re in now.”

I reach up with my arms to grab the undersides of my knees, hoping to give my thigh muscles a little break. “True.”

“Go home. But I would like for you to come back, and I want you to stay here a little longer next time. If you can do that, I promise that you and I will sit down and have a nice long chat about anything you’d like.”

“I’m going to hold you to that,” I say.

I’m too distracted–too humiliated–to be hard anymore. My manhood has shriveled to a more manageable size and just dangles in front of me. As she wipes away my mess–one very deliberate swipe at a time–her fingers occasionally move it about to better access the next area that needs her attention. 

“I do have some bad news for you, though,” she says.

“Hmm?”

“While it’s not the biggest mess I’ve ever seen, it is a big one. Big enough that you might have had a little blowout.”

“Uh, blowout?” I can almost imagine what that means, but I’d rather her tell me.

“Some of what was inside your diaper may have…escaped a little. Into your shorts.”

“Shit…”

“Exactly,” she smiles.

“How bad is it?”

“I wouldn’t wear them without a good washing if I were you.”

I’m thinking about the fact that I was stumbling around this place in a diaper so loaded that it leaked into my shorts. Anyone could’ve seen that if it wasn’t for the darkness. What if this happens again? What if I don't have immediate access to a bathroom or a place where I can change?

“How long do you think I should, uh, stay in diapers?” I ask.

“You should take some home with you,” she says. “You could be fine as soon as tomorrow morning. Or…it could take another day or two.”

The last place I want to be while in a dirty diaper is a plane. Or a crowded airport. Or…home. I can’t even begin to imagine how my sister would react to that. Or Maxine.

“And you know what? I guess that’s how I know this place has some sort of pull on me. Because despite how much I’m dreading the next day or two while in diapers…I’m still thinking ahead to the things I’d need to do so I can come back.”

She stops what she’s doing for a moment to give me another big smile. I can’t help but notice the dirty wipe in her hand–the brown stain on it causing my entire face to turn a few shades pinker. “Alfie, if there’s anything I can do to help make that possible, just let me know.”

“I think it’d just be a matter of, uh, affording the trip again.”

“We can help,” she says. “I’ll be sure to send you home with some diapers. And my number.”

“Do you do this for everyone?” I ask.

“I’d do this for anyone who I truly believes should be a part of our community, Alfie.”

It’s late. I’m tired. So much has happened today, and I’ve barely begun to process it all. I stare up at the old plaster ceiling and close my eyes. I never actually fall asleep, but my mind manages to settle a bit. It’s just me, the darkness, and the soothing sensations of Mirabelle’s hands on my body as she finishes cleaning me before sliding a new diaper underneath me.

It’s nice. I could get used to this.

===

Mirabelle walks me back to the cabin I’m staying in for the night. We don’t talk much, but it’s nice to have her company as I traverse the dimly lit path. The night around us seems even darker than it did earlier–I’m not sure I can remember a time I’ve seen the night sky this dark.

I’m a little disappointed that I see both Anders and Nikki waiting for me as the cabin door comes into view. It’s unlikely that they were just hanging out together, so they’re probably talking about–or looking for–me.

“There he is,” Anders says. “I was worried you got lost out there.”

“He wasn’t lost,” Mirabelle says. “But we had some..business to take care of.”

“Where’s your pants?” Nikki says to me. 

Back at the farmhouse, I had told Mirabelle to just throw away my soiled shorts. I figured it would be easier to just buy new ones later than to drag those all the way across the country, only to have to keep my fingers crossed that I could clean the stains from them. I didn’t love the idea of walking across The Cradle in just a diaper, but Mirabelle assured me that this was a common sight around these parts. From my own limited observations, I knew this to be true. Still, I probably wouldn’t have emerged from the farmhouse at all, sans pants, if it wasn’t pitch black out. 

Almost got away with it too. If it weren’t for these meddling kids…

“They were, uh, compromised,” I shrug.

Nikki snorts, while Anders shakes his head and smiles. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “It’s happened to all of us.”

“Speak for yourself,” Nikki says.

“I’m just happy to have been in the right place at the right time,” Mirabelle smirks. She turns to me. “But you’re good now, yes? Dry? Comfortable?”

“I’m, uh, fine,” I say, hoping my blushing isn’t too obvious in the dark. “Thanks again.”

“He’s not going to, like, stink up the place while he sleeps, is he?” Nikki asks, her eyes narrowing as she glares at me.

“If it’s a big deal,” Anders says, “you can sleep in my cabin and I’ll sleep here with Alfie.”

“N-no,” I say, blushing brighter. “That’s ridiculous. We don’t have to do that. I’m not gonna…”

“Yeah, I’m going to take you up on that offer,” Nikki says to Anders. “You babies can have each other’s company.”

I open my mouth to protest some more, but the gears are already in motion. Nikki’s gone into the cabin to get her things, while Anders runs up the hill to grab a few of his own things to bring back.

“You’re okay, Alfie?” Mirabelle asks when it’s just her and I again.

“I’m good,” I sigh. My exhaustion is quickly catching up with me. I’m going to need far more sleep than what I’m probably going to get tonight. I’m already thinking about how hard I’m going to crash when I get back to my own apartment. “Just…tired.”

“I can imagine. It’s been quite the day for you.”

“A slight understatement.”

“Get some rest. If there’s no rush to leave tomorrow, I hope all of you will join us in the dining hall for breakfast.”

“I’ll run it past the rest of ‘em,” I say. “But that does sound good.”

“I’m going to put together a little care package for you to take home with you,” she says.

“You don’t have to do anything like that.”

“Just some extra diapers,” she shrugs. “Some wipes. Some information on how to contact me again if you decide you want to come back.”

“Right,” I say, running a hand through my hair. “Yeah, maybe that is a good idea.”

“Please consider returning, Alfie. I feel like you’d fit in around here.”

I want to believe this, but I also wonder if this is what she says to everyone. It’s nice to hear, regardless. “I’d like to come back, I think. I feel like I’m getting out, just when it’s getting good.”

“Oh, Alfie,” she chuckles. “Believe it or not, it gets so much better.”

===

All lights have been extinguished and I’m completely swallowed by the darkness. I should be sleeping, and my body is begging for me to give in to the tiredness I feel, but my brain is working overtime at the moment, which isn’t as conducive to rest as I’d like.

“You awake?” I ask, keeping my voice as soft as possible in case Anders is already sleeping.

“I thought so,” he says, sounding a little groggy. “But I guess not.”

“Shit, sorry. Go to sleep. I won’t bother you.”

“Nah, you’re good, Alf. What’s up?”

“How did you know that I’d like this place? Why were you so eager to get me here?”

“I think you and I are pretty similar in many ways,” he says. “So when I came across this place, and it scratched an itch I didn’t know I had, the first thing I thought of was how you might just have the same itch.”

“An itch for…diapers?” I’m tempted to be offended.

“No,” he laughs. “Well, maybe. A bigger itch than that, I think. I feel cared for here. Understood. Unjudged. There’s something really, uh, liberating about having some of those adult trappings stripped away, and being allowed to just need again, right? We’re not supposed to be needy things, you know? We’re supposed to have things figured out. We’re supposed to be able to take care of ourselves. But here, I feel like I can just be vulnerable in a way that I can’t anywhere else.”

“Yeah,” I say, thinking back to a little earlier, when my legs were up in the air as Mirabelle wiped my filthy skin clean. It was terrifying to have someone look at me while in such a state, but the fact that she didn’t so much as grimace once had put me in a strangely comfortable place. One that I wouldn’t mind returning to again.

“I’m not going to pretend I fully understand what’s happening here,” Anders continues. “But I like the way this place makes me feel. And I think you do too.”

“Probably.”

Anders releases a long sigh, like he’s expelling all the stress and worry from his body that he can. “Sam’s really gonna kill me, huh?”

“Well, she’s not going to bake you a cake, that’s for sure.”

“That’s going to be rough. But…I’m going to do it–I’m going to talk to her and tell her as much as I can.”

“You’re going to tell her about the diapers too?”

He laughs. “I don’t know what the hell I’m going to say to her. Here’s to hoping I can figure it out before we’re in New Jersey again.”

The cabin falls silent again for a few more minutes. Once more, I know I should be sleeping, and that Anders might just be already. But I still have too many thoughts tumbling about.

“One more thing,” I say, again very quietly in the hopes that I don’t wake him if he is sleeping.

“Yeah?” I’m very relieved to hear his voice.

“Is this a cult?”

“Nah,” he says. “Though that’s probably what a member of a cult would say. Cults don’t call themselves cults.”

“That’s not very reassuring.”

“Look, you like it here, right? You want to come back, right?”

“Sure.”

“That’s all that matters. Who the fuck cares what it is?”

He’s probably right about that. If we say anything else to each other, I don’t remember it, as I finally feel my body’s need for sleep trumping my mind’s need to endlessly dissect the day’s events.

===

“It hardly seems worth the trip,” Nikki says, sliding a piece of cantaloupe into her mouth. “Who flies across the country, spends hours getting to their final destination, and then turns around and goes back home?”

Nikki and I are sitting at one of the tables in the dining hall, enjoying a rather delicious plate of french toast and fresh fruit. Anders had been with us for a little bit, but he’s since wandered off–stating that he had to say goodbye to a few friends.

“We knew we wouldn’t be staying long. The whole point was to shake some sense into Anders so that he came back home with us.”

“I guess.”

My eyes widen a little as I tilt my head curiously. “Nik, it almost sounds like you want to stay.”

“Maybe,” she says, her cheeks reddening just a tiny bit–probably unnoticeable by most, who don’t have her usual complexion memorized like I do. “But don’t get it twisted, okay? I’m not interested in tromping around in diapers and peeing my pants.”

“What else is here for you then?” I laugh. It’s an honest question–I thought that was the whole point of this place.

“I saw something here I didn’t expect to,” she shrugs. “Like, people just getting their hands dirty and doing meaningful work. They’re not doing it for money or for themselves–they’re doing it for a greater good. For their community.”

“Ah,” I nod. “And that appeals to you?”

“It might. It kind of puts into perspective how meaningless a bartender is.”

“Well, I mean, people are always going to need someone to, uh, shake up their martinis.”

“Maybe I just want to get my hands dirty too,” she shrugs.

“I’m thinking about coming back, you know?”

She nods, but doesn’t say anything.

“Maybe you should come back with me.”

She nods again, cracking a smile. But then I watch as her eyes spot something behind me. I turn around a little, just enough so that I can follow her gaze. I spot Bria and Reid, getting themselves some breakfast from the counter. It would seem that they finally made it here. I’m tempted to approach them and say hi, but it feels like it might be dangerous to do so.  We’re trying to get out of here–the more I embrace this place–and the people who stay here–the harder that’s going to be.

I just need to go home and get my affairs in order, I think. Pay some bills. Talk to Maxine. Talk to Sam. Throw out the bananas. I need to get some work done. Too, I need to sit down at my laptop and record every thought I’ve had about this place so far, while it’s still fresh in my head. I need to use a toilet again. 

Part of me imagines that this is where the story ends. I go back home and realize that I was just being foolish while in California. Sure, it was a nice, if trippy, experience–but I’ll realize this place isn’t actually for me. I’ll soon be consumed by the daily hum of life again, and the idea of returning will just fade further and further into the back of my mind. Years from now, this will be a funny story that Nikki and I tell people at a party. Or something Anders and I will reminisce about over a beer. 

“You finished with your food?” Nikki says, pointing at my mostly cleared plate. “I can take these up to the counter and then we can grab our stuff and Anders and get out of here.”

“Yeah,” I say, pushing my plate towards her. “Sounds good.”

I pivot my head slowly, watching the other people in the dining hall. I spot Bria and Reid taking a seat with a tall young woman in a pair of overalls and a curly-headed man. They all seem to be excited to see each other again, and they’re laughing and carrying on. I spot Mirabelle talking to a tanned-skin woman near a door that, I think, leads to the kitchen. She notices me looking at her and offers me a friendly little wave. I wave back. I spot Anders and Marta talking at another table. Whatever he’s saying, Marta seems to find it amusing. I even spot Nikki, near the counter where people are dropping off dirty dishes, talking to a woman with bright blonde hair, pulled back into a ponytail–the woman’s stained pants, and the work gloves sticking out of her back pocket, suggest that she’s probably the new friend Nikki made yesterday while I was suckling someone’s breast. 

And, speaking of, I feel a warm burst of wetness in my diaper, and the stream continues until the padding is good and soaked. I think that I might be able to stop it, if I really wanted to. But I let it happen.

This could be where the story ends.

But I suspect this is actually just the beginning.

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Happy holidays! I hope everyone is enjoying the story so far!

Act II: Coming & Going

Eight: Life on the East Coast

I wasn’t gone long enough for ‘reality’ to feel new or fresh. It feels like the same garbage I escaped from a few days ago. In fact, the further I get from my brief adventure in California, the more unlikely it seems that I went anywhere at all. Which was more believable–that I flew across the country and suckled milk from a woman’s tit until I was wetting myself uncontrollably; or that I’d just been in New Jersey the entire time? Because I was willing to write off my entire experience as a strange dream I experienced.

Nikki, she didn’t bat an eye. She woke up this morning, dressed for the gym, and went on her way without a word–like it was just another day. I was tempted to stop her as she walked out the door. “Hey, real quick…did all that stuff happen? We did go to California, right?”

I hadn’t heard from Anders since he dropped us off. I haven’t heard from Sam either. It worries me a little, as now I’m just imagining the murder scene that police are stumbling into at their house. 

And me–I’ve got plenty to do. I’m just not ready to do it yet. I’ve got some articles to write for work. I’ve got to talk to my editor. I’ve got to return Maxine’s messages. I probably need to see Maxine sometime soon. I need to decide if I’m eating those bananas or if I’m throwing them away.

I need to get some diapers too. Something I never thought I’d need to say before. I woke up to the feeling of wet padding this morning–immediately destroying any hope I had of being over these ‘accidents.’ And things went from wet to messy not too long afterwards. There was a small part of me that still liked the thrill of helplessly expelling myself into my pants, even after we landed in New Jersey again–but the realization that I have to interact with people that I know again has ruined any lingering charm. Worse, I’m currently wearing the last of the diapers that Mirabelle sent me home with. Yes, I would’ve had one more if I didn’t accidentally spill my coffee on one of them, but it’s best if we don’t think about that.

I don’t think it’s important to note why a clean diaper was in such close proximity to a full cup of coffee either.

“I got to go to the store,” I announce to the apartment. I hear Nikki–back from her workout by now–stirring in her room.

“I need a few things,” she says. “Mind if I tag along?”

“Why don’t you just, like, give me a list of what you need?”

She snorts. “What, I can’t just, like, come with you?”

“Well I was planning on going alone,” I sigh, “because, uh…I need to get things.”

“Things?”

Things.”

“Oh,” she laughs, eyes a little wider. “Like…baby things?”

I clear my throat. “They’re not baby things. They’re adult diapers. Ah-dult! It’s right there in the name.”

“Mmhmm,” she hums, walking past me so that she can put her shoes on. “Let’s go, baby.”

It seems easier to say nothing at all than to continue to argue my case, so I let it go.

===

“Really, Alfie?” Nikki asks. “Lowery’s?”

“I don’t like it either,” I reply, “but nobody shops here. You can be damn sure that I won’t be caught dead at ShopSmart carrying a pack of adult diapers.”

Nikki snorts. “You think people give a shit about what you’re buying?”

“Most people? No. But ShopSmart is busier, and more people means a greater chance of being spotted by someone curious. Maybe even someone I know.”

“You care too much about the dumbest stuff.”

“Do you want me to drop you off at ShopSmart and you can buy them yourself? Be my guest.”

She groans and shrugs. “Well…they’re for you, so…”

I laugh as I pull into the parking lot of Lowery’s Market. Broad Street, the closest thing this town has to a ‘main’ street, is bookended by two grocery stores. Lowery’s, an ancient institution, sits on the western end and had been unopposed for half a century. In the last decade, though, a ShopSmart has popped up on the eastern end. Talk to anyone five years ago, and they’d have told you that they were Lowery loyalists, through and through. These days, however, one would find the ShopSmart parking lot packed at all hours of the day and evening, while Lowery’s is looking more and more like a ghost town.

Thus making it the perfect place to go if one needs to buy something embarrassing.

“I have a few things to grab while I’m here,” Nikki says, getting out of the car. “Some toothpaste. Oatmeal. Jerky, for sure. Uh, I think we’re good on bananas, right?”

“We’re on a mission,” I say. “We can’t be lollygagging. Get in. Get diapers. Get out.” 

“Lollygagging?” Nikki mutters. “Look, if you’re that stressed about buying them, just order them online and have them shipped to the apartment.”

“A great idea,” I say, a bit more snidely than I intend to. “But I kind of need them, like, now.”

We walk through the ancient automatic doors at the entrance; they open with a mechanical skronnnnnnk and close with a similar sound. 

“The whole point of me coming was so that I could get the things I needed,” she says. “We’ll get your precious diapers last, alright?”

Precious. I roll my eyes and shrug, following her lead. She’s a better shopper than I am. I have a tendency to just kind of mill about in a store, getting distracted by new products and daydreaming about whether or not they’d fit into my life. Nikki, on the other hand, is a machine. She knows what she wants, she knows where they are, and she doesn’t waste time.

“Where even are adult diapers?” I ask, after Nikki signals that she’s gotten everything she needs. “Are they near the baby diapers?”

She snorts. “That’d be insulting to old people, wouldn’t it? I think they’re usually in the same aisle as the feminine hygiene products.”

“Well I don’t know where that is either.”

Nikki sighs as she picks up her pace a little so that she’s walking ahead of me now, leading the way. This would usually be about the time when she makes a comment about how helpless I am, or how it’s a miracle that I’m capable of breathing on my own. I’m grateful that she’s sparing me that commentary today–because it’d probably hit a little too close to home as I feel a fresh patch of wetness in my diaper.

“Here,” Nikki says, her finger pointing at the sign hanging from the ceiling that describes what is in the aisle: FAMILY PLANNING, FEMININE HYGIENE, INCONTINENCE CARE.

“It’s wild that they’d put that on a sign,” I say, realizing I’ve never really thought about it before. 

“What? Incontinence?”

I nod. “Just seems needlessly humiliating. Any person walking into this aisle has to worry if someone watching them thinks that they’re either pissing themselves or needs a condom.”

Usually, this would be where Nikki reminds me that I think too much about stupid things–but she’s already said that in the car. Instead she says: “Maybe there’s someone who’d need both? Even the incontinent might want to get their bone on.”

Damn. What if that’s me?

There’s more options on the store shelves than I’m expecting. Maybe I should’ve done a little bit of research first. Who could I even ask questions to? Anders, probably–though I don’t know if I’m ready to give him a ring about diaper recommendations just yet.

“Well, let’s see,” I say aloud. “They’ve got pads.Undergarments made to look like underwear. Undergarments labeled ‘maximum protection’ that look like, uh, diapers.”

“Any with cute little animals on them?” Nikki asks. “Or Minnie Mouse?”

“Fuck off.”

“Maximum protection,” she says, pointing to the bulky package on the bottom shelf. “Just get those and then you’ll be sure that they’re, like, absorbent enough.”

I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help but laugh. “Jeez. Really? Do you think I’ll be spraying like a fucking firehose?”

“That’s just my advice,” she shrugs. “And I’m certainly no expert on diapers.”

I’ve been meaning to ask if she has any regrets about not tasting the milk for herself. I suspect I already know the answer, but she did seem hesitant to leave the farm. I wonder if, given the chance to go back, she’d eventually allow herself the experience–even if it was just once.

“Just pick something out and lets go,” Nikki sighs. “You were the one who didn’t want to–what was your word? Lollygag. Well, it seems to me like you’re lollygagging.”

She’s probably right about that. Right about two things, actually. I am lollygagging. And, also, without knowing what to expect from my continence, the ‘maximum protection’ incontinence briefs are probably the way to go. I survey the aisle one more time, spotting nobody that seems overly invested in what I’m shopping for, and I quickly grab a package from the shelf–pressing it against my chest like it’s a secret treasure I need to protect.

“Carry them like that,” Nikki says, “and people are going to look.”

===

“Well, well, well,” comes a voice from the canned fruit and vegetable aisle. “If it isn’t everyone’s favorite dynamic duo.”

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” Nikki mutters under her breath. 

I’m thinking the same thing. I hope it’s not who I’m sure it is, but I hold on to a sliver of hope as I spin around. Sure enough, it is her. Julie Ross–not only an ex-girlfriend of mine, but the most probable candidate for future stepmother. And here I am with a thick package of adult diapers in my hands.

“Julie,” I nod, feigning a grin. “It’s good to see you.” It's frustrating that she’s good looking, as it almost makes my words true. Her long brown hair is pulled back behind her head in a ponytail, her top seems to barely contain her chest, and her shorts are gloriously short. 

I’d never say this aloud–especially to my father–but he has good taste.

“Likewise,” she says. “I almost didn’t recognize you. I guess it’s been a little while since we’ve been in the same place at the same time, huh?” No doubt a jab about the fact that I mostly refuse to visit my father when Julie is expected to be present as well.

“Yeah,” I shrug. “How about that? Just have a busy schedule and all that.”

She seems to ignore my remark and instead turns her gaze to Nikki. “And Nikki, a pleasure as always.”

“Uh huh,” Nikki shrugs. Pretending to like people is my specialty, not hers.

“Funny running into you,” shrugs Julie. “I almost never come here. I’m more of a ShopSmart girl, myself.” It’s tempting to dissect that a little, to see if she is somehow being judgmental of the type of person who usually shops at Lowery’s–though I resist that urge for the time being.

“Just had to, uh, run an errand,” I say, nervously glancing from the plastic package over to Nikki.

“Interesting,” Julie replies, her lips forming into a curious smirk as her eyes wander down to the package. “Please tell me those aren’t for you, Alfie. You’ve always been so good at making it to the bathroom on time.”

“You’d feel pretty shitty right now if he admitted that they were for him,” Nikki says.

Julie’s smirk dissipates and she clears her throat nervously. “Sorry…maybe that’s none of my business.”

I actually thought ahead to a situation like this. Maybe not, specifically, running into Julie at the grocery store–but running into anyone I knew. The plan was to state that these were for my father. Of course, seeing as how Julie probably knows my father’s bathroom habits better than anyone else these days, that story just isn’t going to fly.

“Th-they’re for my, uh, mother, actually,” I say. Please-oh-please don’t let this come back to bite me later.

“Oh my,” Julie frowns, some genuine concern in her voice as she holds a hand up to her mouth. “Is she okay?”

“I think so? She just had a procedure done, you know? And these are just a, er, precaution.”

“I had no idea she had a procedure,” Julie sighs, shaking her head. “I don’t think Peter knows either. Or, if he does, he didn’t tell me about it.”

“Well it’s not the sort of thing she likes to talk about,” Nikki says, always knowing when I need some backup. “So maybe it’d be best if we just kept all this between us? Especially the incontinence pants.”

“Right,” Julie nods. “Of course. Well, look, I shouldn’t hold either of you up much longer. I hope your mother has a speedy recovery. And, hey, you really should reach out to your father sometime. I know he’d love to see you.”

“Yeah, I’ll do that,” I nod, hoping I’m selling this little fib too.

“It was great seeing you, Alfie. And Nikki, you too.”

“Uh huh.”

===

“Of all the people we could’ve run into, why’d it have to be her?” I ask, tossing the package of undergarments in the back seat of the car and slamming the door shut.

“I’ll never understand why you’re so polite to her,” Nikki says as she gets back into the passenger seat. “She broke your heart, remember?”

“Well, sure. And if she had just broken up with me, I might have shivved her.”

“You would not have.”

“Okay. But you would’ve. On my behalf.”

“I won’t lie–I was thinking about it.” Nikki’s the best.

“Right. But she’s–and I still cannot believe I have to say these words out loud–dating my fucking father now. So I kind of have an obligation to be polite.”

“Your sister certainly doesn’t feel that obligation.”

“My sister also hates my father, so she’d hate Julie by default–even if Julie wasn’t younger than her and her brother’s ex-girlfriend.”

“See, when you talk about your sister like that,” Nikki says, “it makes me wonder why me and her don’t get along better than we do.”

“Don’t take it personally,” I shrug. “Sam hates everyone equally. I’m, occasionally, the exception.”

“You realize Julie’s going to run back to your father and tell him she saw us, right?”

“I know.”

“And she’s going to say that she saw you hauling around a pack of adult diapers.”

“I know.”

“And she’s going to tell him that you said they were for your mother. And that she had a ‘procedure.’”

“I know.”

“And your dad’s probably going to call your mom.”

“I know.”

“And your mother’s going to say that she has no idea what you were talking about.”

“I know.”

“Okay. I just wanted to make sure you knew.”

===

It was the day after my high school graduation party, and Samantha, myself, my parents, and Samantha’s then-boyfriend Crispin had gone out for breakfast. This particular breakfast remains embedded in my mind because, for one, it was when my parents announced they were getting a divorce. And, too, it was the very last time our family–Crispin aside–was in the same place at the same time together.

The divorce was one of those things that seemed like it came from out of nowhere. My parents always seemed happy. They always seemed polite to each other. Up until the very end, they were still planning things like vacations together. It was only after the fact, with hindsight being 20/20 and all, that Sam and I started to see the cracks that had always been there, but we just weren’t paying attention to. Sam couldn’t remember the last time she saw them holding hands. I recalled how my mother always went to bed long before my father did. They always needed someone else around–be it myself, Sam, or a family friend–and never just spent time together. 

Up until that point, I had always assumed that I was incredibly lucky to be in a well-adjusted and functioning familial unit. I watched as friends and cousins were rocked by their parents’ divorces, and took solace in the fact that I didn’t have to worry about things like that.

Until I did.

I actually took the divorce a little better than I thought I would. After the initial shock wore off, it was easy to get distracted by all the other things going on in my life. High school was over, I had a big summer ahead of me, and then I was going to college in the fall. Had the divorce come any sooner–at a time when I was a little more dependent on them–I imagine I would’ve lost my mind. It’s for this reason that I believe my parents waited until when they had to make their announcement. And, even now, I wonder how long they knew the end was coming. Months? Years?

Sam, on the other hand, didn’t take the divorce well. Like me, she saw our family as a well-tuned machine–though she knew this machine a lot longer than I had. She took it personally–as if my parents did this to her. It was tempting, from time to time, to tell her that she was being a little dramatic–though who was I to tell her how to grieve?

The next few years got a little weird, as my parents went in their separate directions. My mother kept the house we grew up in, where she still lives today, and almost immediately began cohabitating with a new partner. The idea of someone new staying in our house was wild enough, but then we learned her new partner was Janet–a co-worker of our mother’s who we had known for almost our entire lives.

Sam was not happy about this either.

My father, meanwhile, promptly entered his ‘mid-life crisis’ phase, splurging on a lakeside condo, hair transplants, and a new motorcycle. While I was a little troubled by my father’s newfound recklessness–he had always been a more careful and reserved father figure while I was growing up–I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt that he just needed to find himself a little. 

And he did find himself–he found himself, and his motorcycle, wrapped around a tree just outside of town on a crisp autumn afternoon. He spent a good amount of time in the hospital afterwards, recanting some of his more recent decisions. Of course, it was during this time in the hospital that he met his new ‘true-love,’ the much younger nurse, Julie Ross, who was tending to him. And, for whatever reason, she seemed just as smitten with him. It wasn’t until later–after he was out of the hospital–when his new gal was moseying around his condo and spotted a picture of me, that they put all the pieces together. 

“Oh, you know Alfie?” she asked.

“Well…that’s my son. Do you know Alfie?” he replied, or so his version of the story goes.

“We used to date,” she said. “Wait…haven’t you and I met before?”

“I didn’t have hair then,” he shrugged. 

“And I had green hair at that time.” 

And then they both laughed a lot about how crazy it was that they hadn’t recognized each other until now. This was the part of the story where I would’ve liked it if they agreed that seeing each other was strange and a bad idea–but, alas, they kept on trucking. They’re still together now.

Sam was really unhappy about this.

These days, I maintain a very casual relationship with both of my parents. I’d say I’m a little closer to my mother than my father, but that’s mostly because I try to avoid my father when I know that Julie is going to be around. And she’s always around. Sam, she avoids both of my parents like the plague. The entirety of her family now is just myself and Anders. 

All this to say, I had a lot of regret about California when Anders and I came home. We were all Sam had, and here we were daydreaming about diapers and breastfeeding.

Maybe Anders will explain this all to her in a way that makes sense.

But that just makes me laugh. No…I probably need to talk to her about this myself.

Eventually.

===

I had texted Maxine less than twenty minutes ago, and she’s suddenly in my apartment–looking extra cute. If I didn’t know any better, I’d assume she was just waiting around for me to reach out to her.

“I missed you,” Maxine says, wrapping her arms around me and squeezing tightly.

“I was gone for, like, three days,” I say, reciprocating her embrace. I don’t mind her doting affection, of course, but I can’t help but state the obvious. 

“Every day counts,” she says, likely alluding to the scheduled end-date of our relationship looming in the future. “Did you bring me back anything from California?”

I laugh, trying to imagine what keepsake from my bizarre weekend I could offer her. “Would you care for a used diaper?” I shake my head. “Well, we weren’t in, like, the touristy parts. It was pretty hard to find a gift shop.”

She frowns, though quickly reverses it into a smile before repeatedly pressing her lips against my face. I can feel the oily residue of her lipstick as it makes contact with my skin, and I can just sense that she’s left little kiss-marks on my face. Maxine doesn’t wear makeup all that often, leaving me to wonder if she only wore lipstick so that she could decorate my face.

Usually, I don’t think much about Maxine’s age. She’s more mature than some people I know who are older than I am, and she’s always proven herself to be very intelligent and thoughtful in a way that seems beyond her years. Still, once in a while, I catch a glimpse of her youth. This is one of those times. It makes me wonder if she’s just acting more immature than usual, or if I’m just more attuned to it after my milk-induced trip to babyhood.

She pushes me down onto my couch and straddles my lap, her legs wrapping around my body while she continues to deliver smooch after smooch to my head. I attempt to take a mental screenshot of this–this is one of those scenes I’ll want to remember a few months from now after Maxine has gone to school. 

“So you found your brother, huh?”

“Sure did,” I sigh. We’re on the verge of talking about things that I don’t know how to talk about yet. I’ve been pondering this all day–how much do I tell Maxine? And how do I explain what I do tell her?

“How’d that go?”

I almost laugh, thinking about how complicated the answer to that simple question is. “Well, we got him back here. So well enough.”

“So what was that place?” asks Maxine. “Like, a weird…diaper-spa?”

“Yeah, kinda,” I shrug. It seems much nicer than calling it a cult.

“Was it cool?”

“Cool?” I laugh. 

She shrugs, her cheeks getting a little pinker. “I dunno. LIke, I’m sure it was weird. But, this place was full of people who wanted to be there, right?”

“Uh huh.”

“Right,” she nods. “It kinda makes me a little jealous that there’s this place that people can go and be their true selves without judgment–whatever those true selves are. I mean…I guess I’m romanticizing a concept–I don’t know shit about what this place is actually like. But that’s how I’ve been thinking about it.”

As far as I know, Maxine has never been a diaper fetishist herself, but I could actually see her enjoying The Cradle.

“Did you like it there?” she asks

“Uh, well, I didn’t spend that much time there, so it’s kind of hard to say for sure, but…”

“You saw people in diapers, right?”

“Sure did.” 

“Okay,” she laughs. “Sorry, sorry. I’ll drop it. I’m sure the last thing you want to do is talk about that place endlessly. I’m just so freakin’ curious about it, y’know?”

I rub the center of her back with my hand. “Maybe you ought to go yourself sometime.”

She giggles, her face turning red. “N-no…”

“So,” I say, ready to change the subject for now. “What’ve you been up to while I was away?”

“Oh, you know,” she coos, twirling some of her hair around her finger. “Just missing you and all that.”

I like the idea of being missed. I like the idea of someone thinking about me when I’m not around. I like when she thinks about me. But I sometimes find it a little confusing when considering her proposed end date for our romance. Whatever feelings she has that allow her to miss me now–does she really believe she can just turn them off later? I’m tempted to ask, but it doesn’t feel like the time for that conversation.

Of course, it never seems like the time for that conversation.

Her bottom slides back and forth on my lap a little, causing some stimulating friction in my pants. She knows I’m a fan of this move. 

“Actually, I missed you a lot,” she says. She gazes down at me, her eyes clearly filled with lust. My cock immediately responds to this, quickly growing firmer.

“I missed you too,” I say.

“We have a little catching up to do,” she says.

“Really now? Are we that far behind our quota after only three days?”

“Afraid so,” she coos. “We’re going to need to pull an all-nighter.”

“Good call,” I say, my throbbing cock feeling like it’s going to bust a hole through my pants at any moment. “Maybe we should get started on that?”

“I like where your head’s at.” One of her hands slips between us, groping at the bulge in the front of my pants and causing me to moan softly. 

It’s only now that I remember that I’m wearing a diaper–and a slightly damp one at that. It’s funny, because since I’ve returned from the west coast, the only thing I’ve been thinking about are diapers. The weight of Maxine on my lap has managed to be the first distraction I’ve had from them.

I can’t do this. I’m not ready for her to know about my diapers. But what am I supposed to do? Abruptly change my mind about wanting to fuck her? I doubt she’d even believe that if I said it aloud–my hard cock was doing all the talking for me right now. 

Maxine doesn’t seem to notice my hesitation, and proceeds to pull her shirt up, revealing her lacy black bra. While one hand remains affixed to the bulge in my pants, the other reaches behind her back so she can unfasten the bra’s clasp. I sometimes fumble with the damn things with two hands, so I’m very impressed when she quickly succeeds with just one. Immediately, the cups of her bra fall away from her chest, revealing her perky round tits. 

When we first started dating, she was really self-conscious about her chest–afraid that her ‘smaller’ bust size would make her unappealing when compared to other women. But I’d like to think that I’ve spent enough time worshiping her lovely B-cups that she’s gotten over that.

Now, of course, when I see a pair of breasts in my face, I can’t help but think of the breasts of Mother. I’m thinking about my lips wrapping around her nipples. I’m thinking about the taste of the first few drops of warm milk that dribbled onto my tongue. I’m thinking about the short bursts of milk that were released with each suckle. 

And it’s only then that I realize I’m suckling on Maxine’s breast.

“Oh…fuck,” she mutters. “I don’t know what this is all about…but I like it. Did you learn a few new tricks in California or something?”

Yeah, kinda.

I know that I shouldn’t be doing this. Because this is going to lead to more. And ‘more’ is going to lead to my pants being pulled down. And my pants being pulled down is going to expose my diaper. But I just can’t help myself–I feel locked on to her nipple, and I’m sucking on it for dear life.

“Shit,” she says in a breathy gasp. “Shit, shit, shit. This is good, Alf. Keep this in the rotation, alright?”

It’s very hard to stop, but I finally manage to at least slow down before I get myself too worked up. I’m playing with fire, and I’m afraid that having my diaper exposed to Maxine before I talk about it is the equivalent of getting burned.

I sigh as I release my mouth from her breast. Both her skin and my face are covered in a thin layer of my saliva. “So, like, I really want to…”

“Fuck me?” she interrupts. “Yeah, I want you to do that too.”

“I’m, uh…” I have no idea what to say, but I feel like I need to say something to delay any further canoodling. “I’m thirsty. I hate to pause the action like this, but I really need some water.”

“Oh,” she says, sliding away from my pelvis a little. “I’ll go get you some.”

“You’re a doll,” I say. “Thank you.”

She removes herself from my lap, wriggling out of her shirt and bra entirely and leaving them on the couch next to me as she walks into the kitchen topless. I’m thankful that Nikki is at work right now, as I think Maxine would’ve done the same thing even if she had been home.

I have a moment to think now, though she’ll be back soon. First things first, I stand up–my logic being that she can’t sit on my lap if I’m not sitting. Still, I feel a little foolish with the front of my pants tented out like I’m a horny teenager. I bite my lip and rock on the heels of my feet nervously, unsure of what I should say or do when she comes back. Because she either finds out about the diapers, or I shut down this moment altogether. Neither sound all that pleasant to me.

I quickly dip a hand into the waistband of my pants, sliding it into my diaper. I feel wet, but I’m curious as to how wet. Wet enough, it seems.

I suddenly have an idea–an idea so obvious that I can’t believe I hadn’t thought of it earlier. I’ll just take the diaper off. Easy peasy. I begin a hasty stroll towards the bathroom, only to run into Maxine as she rounds the corner from the kitchen with the glass of water in her hand. We bounce off each other, and some of the water splashes on the both of us.

“Ooh!” she squeaks. “That’s cold!”

“Here, hold on,” I say. “I’ll get you a towel and…”

“It’s just water,” she shrugs. “If you’re thirsty, maybe you start by licking it off my skin.”

Maxine, you’re killing me here…

“J-just one sec,” I say, sounding way more distracted than I want to. If this were any other time, I’d be very happy to lick the droplets of water off her bare skin. “I’m going to run to the bathroom.”

“Try not to be long,” she says. “Wouldn’t want you to get dehydrated.”

But then she reaches down and grabs my crotch again, getting a big handful of my stiff cock along with some damp padding–though she doesn’t know that. 

Well, she didn’t know that. Because her hand lingers in my crotch a little longer as she narrows her eyes. She looks like she’s considering something.

“Alfie…what are you wearing?”

I play dumb: “What do you mean? I’m wearing, y’know, pants.”

“No…there’s something else.” Her fingers explore my midsection a little more as I stand there, seemingly paralyzed. She asks again: “Really, what are you wearing?”

I could just break away and run to the bathroom, slamming the door behind me.

But. Perhaps it’d be better to just get it all out there. I’m not a fan of lying to Maxine, nor do I think I’m very good at it. Sooner or later, she’ll know–and she’d be disappointed that I didn’t just tell her what was up in the first place.

“So, uh, there’s something I need to tell you. Just try not to judge me, alright?”

Maxine’s a smart girl, though. She’s probably already considered all the possibilities and has computed the most likely answer. She smiles, leaning in close so that she’s whispering in my ear: “Are you wearing a diaper?”

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I think Maxine may be into diapers, I am pretty sure if I was Alfie I would have an immediate “accident” when she asked about the diaper.

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Posted

Nine: Next-Level Boning

“Oh my god,” Maxine coos, briefly biting at her bottom lip like she’s so excited that she can barely contain herself. “You are wearing a diaper!”

When she asked if I was wearing a diaper, I thought it’d be better to respond by showing her instead of telling her. I wordlessly opened my pants and pushed them down to just above my knees, revealing the truth to her.

What upsets me most is not that I have to show her my diaper, but that I have to show her this diaper. These ‘maximum protection incontinence briefs’ seem functional enough, but they lack all of the charm of the diapers I had been given by Mirabelle back at The Cradle. Those diapers were fun. Those diapers made me feel like a big baby. These feel far too practical to elicit any kind of real joy. The cloth backing feels cheap. They’re not thick enough. The sticky tapes have been replaced with velcro tabs that provide no tactile thrill when peeling up. I don’t even like the way they sit on me. They don’t feel like diapers–they feel like weird underpants.

And that’s the point, I guess. These briefs weren’t made for me.

“Oh my god,” Maxine says again. “Are these wet?”

Okay, so, maybe these briefs are made for me. But is it so bad that I want something both absorbent and…fun? Or does ‘fun’ imply that I like diapers?

“W-wet?” I stammer, unsure of how to answer that question. “Uh, well…you did just splash that water on me and…”

“Come on, Alf,” she says softly, shaking her head. “Tell me the truth. Did you wet yourself?”

“Yeah. But, uh, just a little bit.”

“Did you wet yourself…on purpose?” I sense that it’s a rhetorical question–I doubt she thinks that I’m having legitimate accidents in my pants. 

“It’s…complicated.”

Part of me expects her to recoil and slink away with a look of disgust on her face. Instead, her hand stays on my diaper, her fingers curiously probing the moist padding.

“When were you going to tell me?” she asks.

“Right about…now.”

This might be the part when someone else gives me the chance to explain myself, but Maxine’s got too many questions she needs to get out. “How long have you been wearing them? Does anyone else know? Does Anders know? Did you really go to California to find your brother-in-law, or were you going because you wanted to see this place for yourself?”

“Well…”

“How often do you wet yourself? Have you ever worn them when you were hanging out with me before? What brand of diapers do you get? Where do you buy them? How long do you wear one before you change it.”

“H-hold on,” I say, putting my hands on her bare shoulders. It’d be tough to have this conversation at any time, but it’s especially hard when she’s topless and her hand is on my diaper. “You’ve got to give me a chance to answer one question before you ask twelve more.”

“Right,” she says, the sigh that follows sounding like an engine winding down. “So, uhm…how long have you been wearing these?”

“Since…two days ago.” I try to answer the rest of her questions too–at least the ones I can remember: “Anders knows, but only because he was there with me. I really did go to California to talk to him. I’m not wearing diapers because I want to, it’s more like…I have to. Actually…maybe I do kind of want to wear them too? Honestly, I’m still processing these things for myself. It’s all still pretty weird for me too. I don’t want to keep this stuff from you or anything…I just don’t know what to say about it.”

To my relief, I see a warm smile on her face. “The good news is that you look cute in diapers.”

My face feels way too hot and I’m so flustered that I can barely stand to make eye contact with her. “S-sorry…I should’ve told you sooner. I just… Well, I’ve been thinking about it a lot, and I’m still trying to figure things out, you know? And then you were in my lap and I forgot about them and…”

“It’s all good,” she says. “And I shouldn’t have barraged you with questions like that.”

“Look,” I say. “You can tell me I’m a freak. Maybe I need to hear that.”

“It’s weird,” she shrugs, her fingers now slowly stroking my still-stiff manhood through the padding. “But that doesn’t mean I hate it.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s clear you like your diapers,” she giggles. “And if you like it–I like it too.”

“But I don’t want you to say that just because you think it’s what I want to hear.”

“I’ve never done that before, and I’m not going to start now.”

It’s moments like this that make it hard to believe there will be a time when Maxine is no longer in my life. I’m never going to find anyone like her again. It takes all my willpower not to pick her up, carry her to my closet, and lock her inside of it so that she can never leave my life.

“I don’t deserve you,” I say.”

“No, probably not,” she says playfully. “Now, how about we pick up where we left off on the couch.”

I scoff. “No, we don’t have to…”

“Don’t pretend like you don’t want to,” she says, her hand giving my diapered cock another good squeeze. “I assume this thing isn’t hard because all you want to do is talk.”

I’m feeling incredulous–I’m standing in front of her in a wet diaper and she wants to go back to the couch and get back to foreplay? “Are you serious?”

“Be honest with me, Alfie. Whatever’s going on here with you and diapers…is there a sexual element to it? Does wearing them excite you?”

It feels like another question that’s more complicated than she realizes. I still need the diapers, as best as I can tell. Also, my feelings on them are connected to the experience of how I was first introduced to them–the women who stripped off my clothes, the woman who breastfed me, and the woman who changed my first messy diaper. But, sure, if all I had to do was pick between ‘yes’ and ‘no’ to answer her question, I’d probably have to go with…

“Yes.”

“Good,” she nods, finally releasing my diaper so she can grab my hand. “Come back to the couch with me. Let’s have fun with that.”

===

We don’t go back to the couch right away. First I drink what’s left of the glass of water Maxine brought me. Then, she insists that I remove my pants and shirt–leaving me in just a diaper. Finally, just before I begin to sit down myself, she swoops in before me, sitting down in the exact spot where I had been earlier.

“I thought we were picking up where we left off earlier,” I say, meaning that she’d be back in my lap again.

“Doesn’t it seem more appropriate that you sit in my lap?” she asks.

My face, again, feels hot and I release a series of flustered huffs. 

“Come on,” she says, patting the top of her thighs. “Don’t be shy.”

“But…” I have no idea what I want to say. I think I want to do exactly what she’s asking me to, but the sudden reversal of our entire dynamic has thrown me off. It’s not that I’m ever the one in ‘control,’ but I’m always ‘the older guy.’ The ‘mature’ one. The ‘adult.’ And now, I’m literally in a wet diaper, about to sit on my girlfriend’s lap like I was a toddler.

“Just do it,” she giggles. “Obviously I’m not going to make fun of you for doing it. I mean, unless you want me to.”

“Yeah, I know. I just…” I sigh, attempting to shake the last of my anxieties away so I can just enjoy this moment. I’d really like to enjoy this moment.

“Less thinking,” she says. “More sitting on my lap.”

With one last stubborn grunt, I take the last few steps it takes to get to her and I slowly park my diapered rear onto her lap–my bent legs on either side of hers while I face her. 

“There,” she says. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

I swear my diaper feels a little wetter now than it did when I first got off the couch. I don’t remember peeing more–but it also wouldn’t have surprised me if I had. Now, I feel it squish between my ass and her thighs. It feels good–a lot better than it should. That feeling alone would probably keep me hard, let alone the fact that I’m on Maxine’s lap. Let alone the fact that I’m staring into her bare chest. Let alone the fact that she’s running her hands through my hair slowly and biting her bottom lip again.

“Do you want me to treat you like a baby, Alfie?”

“Ah…” I’m not sure what she wants me to say.

“It’s not a trick question, silly. I just…I’m trying to understand.”

“I don’t know what I want just yet.”

“Okay,” she nods. “Do you like…sitting on my lap?”

“I do, yeah.” This answer comes as a surprise to me, though it doesn’t feel untrue.

“Before, when you were sucking on my nipple…were you, like, pretending to be fed or something?”

Oh, honey, if only you knew what I was imagining when I did that.

“Y-yeah, something like that.”

“You, uhm, said something before,” she says softly, her eyes still meeting mine. “Something about how you felt like you have to wear diapers?”

I was worried that detail had been lost in the hubbub of her fondling my diaper and coercing me to sit on her lap. A few minutes ago–when I was still standing–I’d have been more willing to elaborate. Now that I’m sitting on her lap, it doesn’t really feel like the time to explain anything. I need action now, not talk.

“I might have said something like that.”

“Obviously I’m gonna be a little curious about what you might have meant by that.”

“What if…I explained everything a little bit later?”

“Hmm,” she smirked. “I suppose that’d work. But I’m going to hold you to that.”

“Fair enough.”

“I mean it. I want answers. I’ll spank them out of you if I have to.”

I think she’s joking, but I can’t be sure. Spanking is something we’ve had some experience with in the past, though I’ve always been the one swatting at her ass. I find the idea of myself getting spanked–especially as I sit in her lap in a diaper–to be quite humiliating. And exhilarating, though I try not to be too obvious about that.

“R-right,” I say. “Whatever you have to do. But, that’s later. And we’re her now.”

“I do want you to fuck me,” she says, sliding a hand between us so that she can feel the stiff lump in the front of my diaper again. “I might even want you to do it while you’re wearing your diaper.”

“Really?”

She smirks, the fair skin of her cheeks getting a little pinker. “Sounds dirty, doesn’t it?”

“Heh.” I sound like a fucking teenager again. “A little.”

“But…I think I need something from you first.”

“Anything,” I say, sexual desperation washing over me. “Want me to lick your pussy? I’ll fucking do that all night.”

“I need you to suck on my tits again–like how you were doing it before.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh yeah. I need to feel that again. That was really, really…”

But she doesn’t get to finish that thought, as my mouth is already on her breast, and my eyes are closed tightly as I imagine warm milk spurting into my mouth once more.

===

I’m looking down at Maxine’s back as she’s bent over the couch. My cock is deep inside of her, and I can feel the strong pangs I usually associate with an incoming orgasm. I brace myself, arch my back and attempt to give her some sort of warning, though it comes out sounding like: “Gonnn-ugh cummmm…”

And when I do climax, I feel myself shuddering as the tremendous explosion overtakes my body. It is an intense orgasm–nothing like what I usually experience. The only time I’ve ever experienced something like this before was, well, when I was at The Cradle–just after I got a bellyful of breastmilk.

Like that instance, the world around me begins to fade away. Everything turns white.

Okay… This again?

“Oh,” a voice says, though I’m still not certain where it’s actually coming from. “You’re back?”

I open my mouth to speak, only getting out: “I…”

But the white is already dissipating. Once more, I’m staring down at Maxine’s bare back. My cock is still inside of her. My damp–but not soaked–diaper is stretched between my knees.

“Holy shit,” Maxine says. “Seriously, though-what the hell happened to you in California? Because that was some next-level boning.”

===

We’ve finally relocated to my bedroom–arguably, where we should’ve been in the first place. I’ve sprayed some air freshener in the living room and opened a few windows, hoping that the smell of sweat has dissipated by the time Nikki comes home. She generally doesn’t care about what I do with Maxine–or where I do it–though I’m sure she’ll make a few comments if the whole apartment still stinks of our naughty deeds when she comes strolling through the door after a shift at the bar.

On my bed, I’m lying on my back and wearing the same diaper I was earlier and nothing else. Maxine is on her side next to me, one of her arms and one of her legs draped over my body. My right arm runs beneath her and is currently gently caressing her back. She’s not wearing anything at all. Her hand is positioned over the front of my diaper. 

“It’s warm,” she says. I assume she’s talking about the diaper.

“Makes sense,” I say. “I’m warm.”

“No…this is a different kind of warm.”

She’s not wrong about that. Somewhere between the end of our fornicating and when we collapsed on the bed, I wet my diaper again. Admittedly, this wasn’t as much of an accident as the previous times had been. In fact, for the first time since when I had consumed Mother’s milk, I felt like I had some level of control over my bladder. If I wanted to, I could’ve gone to the bathroom and used the toilet. Instead, I gave my body the rubber stamp to wet the diaper once more. It wasn’t a heavy wetting, but combined with what I had previously done, it felt safe to assume that this diaper was in need of a change.

“Did you pee yourself again?” she asks.

“Maybe.”

“When?”

“Before. Uhm, just before I came in here.”

Her hand casually explored the padding a little, feeling the way it had swelled and bulked up after being used some more.

“How does it feel?” she asks.

The answer embarasses me, but there doesn’t seem to be any reason to lie to her now: “It feels good.”

“I thought so,” she smirks, shifting her head a little so that she’s staring into my face again. Taking on some sort of exaggerated faux-babytalk, she adds: “Does da widdle baby wike his diapies when they’re dirty?”

I sigh, flustered by how much I like that.

“I’m just teasing,” she says.

“You’re good,” I say. “Promise.”

“I want to know everything,” she says.

“I know. And I really want to tell you everything too. Just, you know, bear with me. Some of this stuff is easier to talk about than others.” I still have no clue how I’m going to explain enchanted breastmilk to her.

“Of course,” she says.

“Maybe it’d be easier if you just ask questions. Otherwise, I don’t think I know where to start. Or end.”

“Fair enough,” she shrugs. “So…you have to wear diapers?”

I should’ve known she was going to start here. “Yeah. I…have been having, like, legit accidents. If I wasn’t wearing a diaper, I’d be ruining my pants.”

“How the hell did that happen? As far as I know, you’ve never had a problem with that before.”

“No, it’s never been a problem before. Not until a day or two ago.”

“Did something happen?”

I laugh and shake my head back and forth on my pillow as I stare up at the ceiling. I’m still not ready to answer these questions just yet. “Yeah…something happened.”

“Care to…elaborate on that? A little?”

“I… Well, uhm…” But I don’t really know what bits and pieces I can pick from the last few days to explain the basics of my current situation. Each detail seems predicated on another detail which seems predicated on yet another detail.

And so, I guess, I really only have two choices: I tell her nothing at all, or I tell her everything. I don’t really love either option, though I know in my heart that the latter is probably the way it needs to be.

“Were you gonna say something?” Maxine asks, her fingertips playfully dancing on my chest.

“Alright, so I decided I needed to be the one to go to California and tell Anders he’s an idiot and had to come home, right?” 

“Uh huh.”

“So Anders wanted me to fly out there. He wanted me to see the place he was staying at. He made arrangements for me to meet some guy from his, uh, group in this nearby town who could get us in, I guess. So after Nikki and I got a rental car, we drove to this town in the middle of nowhere. Well, uh, actually, I guess the story starts just before that–when we saw a van on the side of the road with a flat tire.”

I tell her about Reid and Bria, and the diaper change in the backseat of my car. I tell her about driving into Harper’s Bell and the diner we went to. I tell her about there being tacos on the menu. Celia. The sign in the bathroom. The graffiti under the sign. Tommy. Driving through the gate. Catching Anders just as he was about to get his diaper changed. The tour. Mirabelle. Everyone’s suggestion that I just ‘try it’ once. And then, I tell her about the milk. I tell her about the uncontrollable accidents. I tell her about how it truly seemed like I needed diapers for a while. I tell her that I had to go to the store to buy more. I even confess that there’s a small part of me that likes the diapers, though I’m still trying to figure out why that is.

The only details I choose to leave out of the story are how the milk was actually delivered to my mouth, my world-breaking orgasm, and the absolutely vile diaper I was wearing when Mirabelle changed me. I don’t have a lot of time to consider why I omit those details, though I’m sure I’ll be thinking about this a lot later on.

“And, well…here I am now,” I say. “On a bed with you in a wet diaper.”

She doesn’t immediately say anything, though she continues to be cuddled against my side, her fingers still slowly swirling around my chest. When she finally opens her mouth–minutes later, though it feels like it’s been hours–it’s to say: “That’s quite the tale.”

“I know it’s not very believable.”

“Do you believe it?” she asks.

“I do,” I nod. “But I don’t think I’d believe it if anyone else told me about it, though. Like if Anders had told me everything before I got there, I would’ve told him to fuck off.”

She snickered a little. “No you wouldn’t have.”

“Well, I would’ve thought it.”

Another minute or three passes, and we both remain silent. I choose to believe that her continued presence at my side means that she’s not upset or completely weirded-out by anything that’s she heard, but I’m still dying to know what she’s thinking.

“So,” I finally say. “What do you think about all that?”

“I’m a little jealous that you got to have this weird little adventure without me,” she says, her head pivoting a little so I can see her smile. 

“You…believe me?”

“I think so,” she shrugs. “It’s all really strange. But…I think I know you well enough to know when you believe something is real or not. And you look like you believe. And so I want to believe too.”

“Well…I was thinking about going back, so…”

“Really?” she asks. “You’d go back.”

“I think I want to,” I nod. Actually, I think I need to, but I’m not ready to let on that there’s a slow-building desperation inside of me just yet.

“And so what happens now?”

Her question catches me off guard. “Hmm?”

“I mean, like, do you have to just…wear diapers for now?”

“Until I regain control of, uh, functions, I think.” I’m tempted to mention that if the wetting I had a little bit ago was anything to go on, I might be done with diapers sooner than later–but I hold onto that information for a moment, curious to see how she responds.

“Can I ask you a weird question? Kind of a, er, gross question?”

I sigh, bracing myself for whatever it might be. “Uh, sure.”

“So, like, does this mean that you poop yourself too?”

I could respond to this with the story of running into Mirabelle in the middle of the night. I could also respond to this with the story of how I loaded the back of my diapers while making myself breakfast this morning–powerless to do anything about it. But, once more, I’m not sure I’m ready to go there yet. I offer just a vague “It does,” and hope that’s sufficient for now.

“You’ve gotten yourself into quite a pickle, haven’t you?” she says. I detect a little bit of amusement in her tone–I think she might like my current predicament.

“Seems that way.”

“Wouldn’t it be nice if you had someone close by who could, uh, lend a hand?”

“And…I just want to be clear,” I say, my heart beating a little faster now. “When you say ‘lend a hand,’ you mean…”

“I mean that if you need someone to, uhm, change you…”

“No,” I say, feeling my face getting very warm again. “No, no, no. I could never ask you to do that. I don’t even know if I want you to do that–if only because I don’t think you should have to be subjected to my, uh…shit.”

She laughs, bringing her hand up to my face so that she can stroke my cheek with the back of her hand. “Come on, Alfie. It’s got to be easier than handling it yourself, right?”

This morning’s mess had been quite the handful. My attempts to clean myself up in the bathroom seemed to make things a lot worse before they ever got better. I was in a standing position when I unfastened the velcro tabs–causing the heavy garment to fall to the floor with a dramatic splat that caused some rather unfortunate splashing. Then came my attempts to wipe myself, which seemed to only further spread the damage around instead of clean. At some point I gave up and just jumped into the shower. Of course, then I had to clean the shower out when I was done. Truth be told, I probably could use a hand with that.

But I just can’t ask Maxine to do that. She’ll never look at me the same way again.

“N-no, Maxine. I really appreciate you offering, but I think I need to, uh, clean up my own messes.”

Her hand recedes from my face and her leg pulls itself away from my body as she rolls off my arm. I watch her carefully, wondering what it is she’s up to. After she slides off the bed, she rights her nude body and proceeds to stroll to the foot of the bed where she stares down at me.

“Wh-what are you doing?”

“I’m going to show you that I’m up to the task,” she shrugs, stating it as if it was the most obvious thing. “Spread your legs. I’ll change you right now.”

“Maxine…”

“Stop,” she says. She puts her hands on her hips, and there’s something powerful about this pose–especially when her pussy is still glistening and her exposed chest juts out in front of her. She could demand just about anything right now and I might just give it to her. “Let. Me. Help.”

“I…I just don’t know that I can ask you to do that.”

“That’s why I’m making it easier for you,” she says. “I’m telling you that I’m doing it, and that way you don’t have to ask me anything. Capice?”

“But it’s gross, Max.” I don’t call her ‘Max’ very often. She never seems to mind when I do, but she never refers to herself that way, so I usually just follow her lead. “It’s…pee. What if it was poop? I couldn’t expect you to–”

“Let me decide what’s too gross for me, alright? Isn’t that what soap and water are for?”

“I guess.”

“Would it make you uncomfortable if I changed you? If you think it will, say so. But if the only reason you don’t want me to do it is that it’ll, like, hurt your dignity, then I’m just going to do it.”

Okay, yes. I want her to change my diaper. I want that very much. I just didn’t want her to feel like she was somehow obligated. If she wants to change me, then I guess we’re on the same page.

“Go ahead,” I say, my voice very small. “Let’s get this over with.”

I slowly spread my legs apart, granting her access to just about anything she needs access to. I’m reminded of the vulnerability I felt when I was with Marta, Freya, and Mirabelle back at The Cradle. One might think it would be easier putting myself in such a vulnerable place with someone I know and am already comfortable with, like Maxine–but I’m not sure that’s the case. In fact, it feels even harder–she probably shouldn’t be seeing me like this. 

“First thing’s first,” she says, her body bending towards me–her perfect breasts dangling like tempting carrots just out of my own reach–so that she can pull at the diaper’s tapes. “There has to be better diapers than these, right?”

“Wh-what do you mean?” I ask. I mean, yes, she’s right about that–if only she could’ve seen the ones that Mirabelle sent me home with. But what would Maxine know about diaper quality?

“These just feel so cheap,” she shrugs. She pinches the cloth-backing and gives it a few tugs. “It’s like you’re wearing a stack of napkins or something.”

“I mean, this is what people who are actually incontinent wear,” I shrug. “These were the best ones the grocery store had. ‘Maximum protection!’”

“I hate to break it to you,” she smirks. “But aren’t you actually incontinent right now?”

Maybe? “I don’t know.”

“Look,” she says, holding two fingers closer to my face. 

“What am I looking at?”

“My fingers. They’re wet.”

“Wet? Wet with…what?”

“All I did was run my fingers near the leg cuff of your diaper and my fingers got wet.”

I’m sure she’s making an obvious point, but in my post-coital state of diaper-change-induced humiliation, my brain is far too scrambled to understand what she’s getting at. “Okay?”

Maxine maintains her smirk, though she rolls her eyes. “Alfie. You’re leaking. This stupid thing doesn’t even work.”

“Alright, alright. I get the point. So what do we do about that?”

“I bet I could find cuter diapers for you,” she says.

“Cuter? I don’t think ‘cute’ is the issue here.”

“R-right, she blushes. “Sorry, I think I just, uh, slipped there. I think we can find, like, better diapers for you. Ones that don’t leak.”

I’m tempted to tell her that I don’t think I’ll be needing diapers for much longer, but I bite my tongue when I see the look on her face as she pulls open the cheap padding. She looks…excited. She looks happy. She looks like she’s discovered something new about herself. 

And who am I to stifle something she’s happy about? Something that I, too, might be happy about?

“Yeah…” I say. “M-maybe we do need some better diapers.”

“And you’ll probably need more wipes,” she says. “And, like, baby powder? That’s important, right? You don’t want to get a rash or anything.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she says, her eyes catching the opened pack of grocery store diapers I had purchased from Lowery’s. “I’ll get the things you need.”

There’s a part of me that’s nervous that things are escalating too quickly. I still feel like I need to process the time I spent in California, and yet I’m already charging into a new adventure with Maxine. 

But I see that smile on her face, and I just can’t help myself. A few days ago, she was lying on the carpet and we were joking about her being the one wearing diapers. Look at us now. 

Bring it on.

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  • quietlyhumiliated changed the title to Milk! [Chapter 9 posted 1/9/2024]
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Posted

Ten: Meg Ryan at the Grocery Store 

I stare at the piece of notebook paper that Mirabelle had sent home with me. I’ve stared at the page countless times–so much so that I’m starting to think that I have the phone number and email address memorized.

I keep thinking back to when she was changing my diaper that night. I asked her something about if she was this nice to everyone who visited her community. Her answer still resonated in my mind: “I’d do this for anyone who should be a part of our community, Alfie.” The more I think about her answer, the more it feels like a puzzle that I haven’t quite solved yet. Was she saying that she’d do this for anyone, because anyone was welcome to join the community? Or was I somehow special, and she specifically wanted me to join them?

And if that was the case…why me?

There is a part of me that kind of wants that to be true though–that I am ‘chosen.’ It feels like the kind of thing that never happens to me. I was the kid picked last for the kickball team in gym class. When my job reaches out to me for an assignment, I sometimes get the feeling that they’re only asking me because everyone else is too busy. 

I want to belong, and I feel like Mirabelle has provided me with the means to achieve that. I already know I’m going to reach out to her–I just haven’t figured out when, or what I’m going to say to her when I do. I just don’t want to sound desperate–even if sometimes I feel a little desperate.

I start typing a text message that I’ll send to Mirabelle: “Hi, so, I don’t know if you’ll remember me or not. My name is Alfie and I was recently a guest in your home and…”

I delete it. Try again.

“Hey Mirabelle. It’s me–your boy Alfie!”

I delete it. Try again.

“So, I need my diaper changed. Do I just fly across the country again and have you take care of that for me? Or…”

I delete it. I’ll try again later.

===

Samantha and Anders’s house is in one of the sprawling new-ish developments north of town that everyone hates–save for the people who actually live in them. Sam had initially objected to moving there–the development now stood in the very field we used to go sledding on when we were little kids, and she saw it as a betrayal of her roots. It is a very nice house, though, and I suspect it was hard to find many other local alternatives. Sam seems to have since forgotten her hesitations once they closed on the home.  

Sam does well for herself these days–she did something important for a large online retailer. Whatever her title is, I didn’t pay enough attention to her when she initially told me about it, and now it was far too late to ask again. She’s the breadwinner in the house, for sure. Anders claims he does pretty well with his photography work, and I’m sure that’s true–but I’m also sure that Sam’s consistent paychecks are what actually keeps them afloat.

I park behind Sam’s SUV and knock on the front door. She almost immediately opens the door, beckoning for me to follow her inside. Admittedly, the first thing I do is take a cautious sniff of the air–curious if I’ll catch notes of stale diapers or baby powder. I might be picking up the faint scent of powder, but I also might just be imagining that.

I’ve reached out to Anders a few times since we returned to New Jersey, but it’s been hard to get him to commit to any sort of conversation. I’ve begun to take it personally, wondering if he was mad at me about something. When I asked Sam about it, she didn’t give me any answers–instead, just inviting me over for dinner. And, obviously, I’ll take Sam’s cooking over anything I’d be reheating from my freezer–or take-out–any day.

“How are things?” I ask. I always ask her this when I talk to her, though the question feels a little more weighted today.

“Fine,” she sighs. “It’s been an interesting few days.”

I can probably take a few guesses as to why, but I feign ignorance. “Oh yeah?”

She shakes her head as we cross the doorway into the kitchen, where she immediately starts stirring some vegetables being sauteed on the stove. “I swear to god, Alf, I don’t know what to do with that man anymore.”

“I assume we’re talking about Anders?”

“You bet.”

“Is everything okay between you two?”

“I don’t know. He told me a lot of stuff. And, like, I could tell that it felt good for him to get it off his chest. But I just don’t know what to make of the things he’s been saying.”

“Uh, what sort of stuff is he talking about?” 

“Milk?” she says, pausing to laugh at how absurd that must sound to her. “Diapers. Some sort of cult out in the middle of the woods. Like…what the fuck?”

“Yeah,” I nod. “He, uh, told you all that, huh?”

“He won’t stop talking about it. I can’t tell if he’s telling the truth or if he’s just certifiably insane now.”

“Well, it was quite the place.”

“See, that’s why I wanted to talk to you about it,” she says. “You were there, right? At his little diaper-resort?”

“Well, it’s not really a… Actually, I guess it kind of is like that,” I shrug, scratching my head. 

“So there really were people walking around in diapers?”

“Yep.”

“And my husband was too?”

“Yep.”

She sighs again–a slightly more flustered-sounding sigh–as she stirs the vegetables again. “I just don’t know what to make of that. My husband likes diapers?”

Honestly, I’m surprised that Anders told her as much as he had. But I’m also sure that he didn’t have much of a choice. Given his stubbornness to come home–and all the times he had probably lied about going to a photoshoot when he was actually visiting The Cradle previously–he had backed himself into a corner where the only way to keep her from just lopping his head off was by starting to explain things.

“There’s something about that place,” I shrug. “Like…I get it. The idea of adults walking around in diapers seems like a really weird thing. But there, they make it seem normal. They make it feel like a good idea.”

“Why though?” she asks. “Why diapers?”

“It’s not actually about the diapers, I don’t think. I think they’re a part of, like, something bigger. You know–getting in touch with your inner-child. Rebirth. Something like that.” Am I trying to explain it to Sam? Or am I trying to explain it to myself?

“That sounds even crazier to me,” she says. “But…maybe I had to be there.”

I’m a little surprised to hear her say that. “So…how are things between the two of you now?”

“Not good,” she says. “But I haven’t kicked him out of the house yet.”

“Or killed him.”

“Or killed him,” she repeats, smirking at me. “So I suppose it could be worse. But he’s still in the doghouse. And he’ll be there for the foreseeable future.”

“What about me?” I ask. “Did he say anything about me?”

She shrugs. “What would he have said about you? Other than that he was really happy you went out there to meet him. Whatever you did, it seemed to have made an impact.”

I come close to asking if Anders mentioned anything about me wearing diapers, though I’m already confident that if he had, Sam would’ve already given me an earful about it. Anders must have kept those details to himself, and I’m thankful for that.

“I probably shouldn’t be saying this,” she says, her voice a little softer now. I can barely hear her over the sizzle of the pan. “But…the diapers…”

“Uh, what about them?”

She shakes her head. “Since he’s come back, he swears he’s needed them. I don’t know if I believe that or not…but I can’t imagine there being any other reason he’d shit his pants.”

“Oh. You’ve seen him do that?”

“Seen it. Smelled it. Oh yeah.”

“Do you, like, help him out?” I ask.

“Help? What do you mean?”

“Like…change him?”

“Are you asking me if I change my husband’s diapers?”

I wave my hands in front of me, hoping to convey that I don’t mean any disrespect–she seems perturbed that I’d ask such a thing. “Just curious, that’s all!”

“I’m his wife,” she says. “Not his mother. Why? Is that what they do at his little Baby Camp? Do people change his diapers for him?”

“I, uh, have no idea,” I shrug. It’s a fib, for sure. 

“He says he’ll be better soon,” she says. “Don’t ask me how he knows that. Past experience, I guess. But I’m sure as hell not changing his diapers. Frankly, I’m having trouble even being around him while he’s wearing a diaper. I want this diaper thing to be done, and I want to move on.”

“Yeah,” I say. It’s hard to hear her say that–especially as I wear a diaper under my pants right in front of her. She doesn’t get it. And maybe that’s okay–not everyone is going to understand this. But I’d like to think that Sam is open-minded enough to be able to accept this if it was just pitched to her better. In another world–one where her husband hadn’t been lying to her about where he went and how often he had gone there–maybe there was a chance for introducing the concept to her in a way where it doesn’t sound like a burden.

But it’s not my place to convince her, and I don’t need her approval. I need Maxine’s approval–and I think I got it. I need Nikki’s approval–and, as best as I can tell, I’ve got as much of it as I’m going to get.

“Food’s almost ready,” she says. “Why don’t you go grab Anders. He’s in his office.”

“Yeah, of course.”

“And Alf?”

“Yeah?”

“Please don’t tell him that we had this conversation.”

“No problem.” I worry that might be another fib–but we’ll see.

===

Knocking on Anders’ office door, I can hear the distinct, though muffled, sounds of Paul McCartney coming from the other side of the door. Wings, not Beatles. Classic Anders.

“Yeah, come in,” calls out a voice from inside.

“Hey buddy,” I say, closing the door behind me. Sam has remarkable ears, and on more than one occasion Anders and I have managed to stumble into jokes or anecdotes that got Sam riled up when she overheard them. Better safe than sorry.

“Alfie,” Anders says, standing up to give me the patented Anders-Fist-Bump. “How’ve you been?”

“How have you been,” I counter. 

“Been better,” he sighs. “Did you talk to Sam much?”

“Just a little.” Just enough. “Guess things are kind of dicey between the two of you right now?”

“Let’s just say the odds of me going back to The Cradle aren’t very good right now. Soon enough, she’ll be asking me for receipts to prove I went to the grocery store to get bread.”

“You don’t think that, maybe–”

“Oh, I know I deserve it,” he laughs. “I’ll do my time. Complete my penance. Earning back her trust is more important than anything else right now.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that,” I say.

“Did she tell you anything?” he asks.

“Nah, not really,” I say. Yet another fib–but it seems better to not get myself too involved into their situation by saying anything else.

“I messed myself right in front of her yesterday,” he sighs, cheeks bright red. I’m surprised he’s even admitting as much to me–though I’m probably the only person he could say this to. “That’s never happened before. Maybe that was the reality check I needed though, y’know? I gotta stay clean now.”

“Clean?” I laugh. “We’re not talking about drugs here.”

“You sure about that, Alf? Because is there really that big of a difference between snorting something that alters your mental state and sucking down milk that does the same thing?” 

“Yeah…but I’m not, like, addicted.”

“You could be,” he says. “I was. I am. If I had the milk here in front of me right now, I’d drink it. I wouldn’t even think about it.”

I’m not addicted,” I say.

“You were thinking about going back though, right?” he asks.

“I mean…maybe.”

“Just be careful, man–that’s all I’m saying. Like, yes, I think you need to go back. I think you need to stay longer. I think you need to experience more of everything that place has to offer. But just, like, be careful.”

“Noted,” I say. “Look, we should probably head over to the kitchen. Sam’s almost done with dinner and…”

“Right, right,” Anders nods. “Let’s not give her any other reasons to be annoyed with me.”

“Hey, real quick,” I say, turning around at the door on my way out. “Did you not tell Sam about me and the, uh, diapers and all that?”

“She sees you as the hero of this story,” he shrugs. “And you’re not the one married to her. I figured I’d save you some grief.”

“You’re a good man,” I laugh, clapping my hand on his shoulder.

“Well…just remember this favor when you’re annoyed at me later because you have a diapers-and-breastmilk addiction.”

===

An awkward energy hangs over the dinner table, and we’re all feeling it. Nobody has actually said anything about certain topics being forbidden, but it’s clear that we’re all trying to avoid a few specific subjects. Nobody mentions diapers. Or California. Or milk. Instead, the sounds of us chewing are just occasionally interrupted by short bursts of small talk about the weather or local traffic.

“Oh, uh, guess who I saw at Lowery’s the other day,” I say to Sam at one point.

“First of all,” Sam says, “what were you doing in Lowery’s?”

I already regret this conversation, as it means I’ll have to be doing a little more fibbing. “Oh, well, I needed to pick up a few things and I was in the area, so…”

“That store is ridiculous,” she says. “You’d think that having competition for the first time in a million years would result in their prices being a little more reasonable. But no. Not only is it dirtier and more run down than ShopSmart, but it’s more expensive too? LIke, seriously, what’s even the point of going there?”

“I mean, I don’t love it there either,” I sigh. “I just…”

“Right,” she sighs, downing a sip of white wine to center herself. “Sorry about that. That place just irks me. Now who did you see there?”

I’m nervous to complete this story now. If she got that fired up about just the grocery store I went to, she’ll probably flip the table once I mention Julie’s name. If I were a more clever man, I’d make up a story about running into someone else instead. But when I try to think of who I could talk about, the only names that come to mind are far too famous–or far too dead–to make for believable subjects. Tom Bergeron? Abraham Lincoln? Meg Ryan?

“Uh, just…Julie.”

“Julie?” Sam spits. “Julie Ross? Julie, your ex-girlfriend and the little slut who’s currently sleeping with Dad?”

“Yeah, that’s the one.” 

Now I really wish I had lied instead. Hell, I could’ve thrown in some embarrassing details about myself while I was at it, and it still would’ve gotten a better reaction than speaking Julie’s name in Sam’s house. “Yeah, I was buying diapers for myself–because I, too, am occasionally pooping my pants now–and I ran into Meg Ryan. She practically knocked me right over. The craziest damn thing.”

“So,” Sam shrugs, “did you kick her? Run her down with your cart?”

“No…I just talked to her.”

Sam rolls her eyes, like that was the worst thing I could’ve done. “Did she actually talk to you?”

“Just for, like, a second,” I say.

“Long enough to want to vomit in your mouth, I’m sure,” she sighs.

I really wish I said that I had run into Meg Ryan instead.

“I know this won’t be a very popular opinion,” Anders starts. 

I’m already cringing. I grip my fork tighter, scared to death about what dangerous thing is going to come out of his mouth.

“Go on,” Sam sighs.

“I’m just thinking, like, if your Dad is happy with this girl, and she’s happy with him, don’t they deserve that? I mean, I know there’s history and stuff, but…”

“No,” Sam says, wagging a finger. “Nope. Shut it down. I don’t want to hear any more out of your mouth tonight. You’re done.”

“But…”

“Nope. No more. Shut your mouth and keep it closed, or I’ll shove a pacifier in your mouth to match your diaper.”

Anders and I exchange the briefest of looks–though it’s long enough for us to transmit a telepathic message to each other: “Yes, that was a really stupid thing to have said to Sam. Also: Yes, her threat was weirdly hot.”

Dinner goes back to being awkwardly silent again. I wet myself a little as we eat. Not a lot–but just enough for the moment to feel even stranger than it already does.

===

I usually strive to stay out of Nikki’s hair when I can. I love spending time with her–and we spend plenty of it together–but I can respect that we both need our space, and she tends to treat the bar as a sanctuary. She’s one of the few people I’ve ever met that seems happier at work than anywhere else. I don’t completely understand the concept in general, but I especially don’t understand the appeal of being a bartender. Any other time, any other place, Nikki has no interest in interacting with strangers. But here, at Sarny’s Tavern, she seems to have no issues with it.

It’s the bar itself, I think–that expanse of wood countertop that separates her from the rest of the world–that I think she likes. Behind it, she dispenses good vibes, ways of forgetting, and escapes from reality. Behind it, she’s powerful. 

“Haven’t seen you in here in a while,” Nikki says as I take a seat on the barstool.

“I don’t mean to bother you at work,” I say. “It’s just been a rough night and I’m thinking I’d like to drink away one or two of my woes. And I’d rather not do it alone.”

“Where’s your girlfriend tonight?” Nikki asks with a smirk. “Daycare still?”

“Har har.” Nikki can be pretty skilled when it comes to jokes about Maxine and I’s age gap.

“Oh wait,” she says, holding a finger up to her chin. “Shouldn’t you be in daycare too? On account of the…”

“Stop,” I say. “Not here.”

She snorts and shrugs. She probably wasn’t actually going to say ‘diaper,’ in public, she just wanted to get my heart going.

“What do you want?” she asks. “I’ll pour you something. On the house.”

“Oh, you don’t have to do that. I can pay.”

“You can,” she shrugs. “But I ate your cereal this morning for breakfast. So how about I pay you back with some booze?”

“Fair enough. Can I get a cognac and ginger ale?”

“Feeling fancy, huh?”

“Just make the drink, ma’am.”

Nikki snorts again and wanders off to fetch a bottle of cognac. I slide my phone out of my pocket, finding that I’ve missed some text messages from Maxine.

Maxine: “Hey you. Just checking in to see how that diaper is doing.”

Maxine: “You know if you need any help changing you can reach out and ask me, right?”

I quickly put my phone back in my pocket. It’s not that I think anyone else can see her texts, I’m more nervous about anyone seeing my reaction to them. My face feels hot, and I’m immediately flustered. Nikki, of course, notices right away as she places the glass in front of me.

“What’s up with you?”

“Huh? Me? Nothin’. Everything’s fine here.”

“Says the boy who sounds like he got caught with his hand in the cookie jar.”

“I just got this text from Maxine that’s got me all turned around.”

Nikki laughs. “She sexting you?”

“N-no…” But then I try to imagine Maxine’s face as she sent me those texts–and I see her using that cute smirk she has on her face when she wants me to fuck her. It is, I suppose, a sort of sext, in a weird way. “Maybe.”

“Keep it in your pants, baby,” she says. “We don’t have a changing station in the bathroom.”

“You don’t? Has anyone ever suggested that you get one? Almost all public bathrooms have them these days.”

“Alfie,” she says. “This is a bar, remember? There shouldn’t be any babies here ever. And if you start to stink, I’ll throw your ass out too.”

“S-stink? I don’t stink.”

“Just a friendly warning,” she smiles–even throwing a wink for good measure.

The most embarrassing part of this exchange is that there is a chance I could soil my diaper while I sit here. There are times when I can feel some semblance of control over my continence returning to me, but everytime I think the worst is behind me, I find myself involuntarily spraying–or worse–into my diaper when I least suspect it.

It’s easier when I just don’t think about it. Because now that the inevitability of another accident is on my mind, it’s all I can think of. I should probably finish up this drink and get out of here.

“You said you had a rough evening?” Nikki says, standing on the other side of the bar from where I’m sitting again. “What’s up?”

“I went over to Sam and Anders’ for dinner tonight.”

NIkki snorts. “How was that?”

“You can probably guess. Sam’s still pissed at Anders. Anders is…Anders. And I made the mistake of running into Julie Ross, and that got Sam extra-pissy.”

Speaking of extra-pissy, and right on cue, I can feel a new wave of warmth between my thighs as a fresh batch of pee is delivered into my diaper. I think this is the point where I cross from ‘a little wet’ to ‘wet enough that I should do something about it.’

“Did you tell her that we ran into Julie while buying you your, uhm, special underpants?”

“I left that part out of the story,” I shrug. “It turns out that while my sister knows plenty about Anders’ antics, she doesn’t know about my own. And I’m thinking I’d like to keep it that way.”

“She’s not your mother, you know.”

“She’s pretty damn close,” I counter. “I certainly talk to her more than I talk to my mother. I don’t think I could handle her disapproval right now.”

Nikki begins to open her mouth to respond, but a hand gesture from somewhere further down the counter–a paying customer who needs another beverage–distracts her. She motions to me with a single finger that she’ll be back in a minute, though I can immediately tell it might take more than a minute. This guy–trucker hat, unruly beard, and giant plastic-framed glasses, looks like he knows her, and he’s already sharing his own saga with her as she pours him a draft.

I take this opportunity to go back to my phone, and I pull up the text thread between Maxine and I. “Just checking in to see how that diaper is doing.” I feel my face getting warm again as I re-read her message. My go-to attitude about diapers when talking to Maxine, thus far, has been to play the victim–I don’t want to be a diaper dependent baby, but…well, here we are. But after yesterday, when she not only changed my diaper but seemed to be excited about the prospect of buying new supplies with me, I was starting to think it was time to change things up a little. She accepted the diapers. She accepted my need for them. She’s now offering to provide aid. If I’m going to take her up on that offer, I need to embrace my role a little more.

Baby-steps, I think, noting the irony. I text her back:

Me: “I think I’m a little wet at the moment. But I’ll be alright.”

Somewhere along the way in life I picked up a little skill that allows me to detect when a woman wants to take care of me. A maternal instinct radar, of sorts. I don’t think this is exclusive to me either–I bet there are plenty of boys and girls out there who’ve figured out, whether they’re conscious of it or not, when they can play to a woman’s need to nurture. Right now, I’m picturing Maxine’s face as she reads my text message. Her eyes are widening and she’s shaking her head. He says he doesn’t need me, she’s thinking. But I know that he really does.

Sure enough, I’m rewarded a few moments later with a new message on my phone’s screen:

Maxine: “Where are you right now? Home? I can be over there in 10 min if you need me to be.”

I don’t even know why I’m doing this. Even if I left the bar right now, I wouldn’t be home in ten minutes–and I’m not going to ask her to come to the bar. I think I just wanted to see her care. I wanted to feel the warmth of knowing that she’d help me if I needed help. 

Me: “I’m okay, I promise. I really appreciate you offering though.”

Maxine: “Are you sure?”

I’m just about ready to type a response–probably something like “Yeah!”–when I feel another warm burst in my diaper. But this isn’t like the last one. It’s a different kind of wetness, and it’s in an entirely different spot of my diaper. It’s soft and mushy–not quite liquid, but certainly not solid. I feel it spread everywhere it can in an instant, no doubt covering my bottom in a layer of something vile and…brown.

Fuuuuck.

“What’s that face for?” Nikki says, finally headed back over to me again. 

I can’t even imagine the face I’m making–I’m still having trouble coming to terms with whatever has just happened in my diaper.

“Oh, I, uh…” Shit. Shit. Shit. Literally. Shit.

It wasn’t a lot, but it also doesn’t have to be. Any amount of shit in my diaper is bad when I’m not in the comfort of my own home.

She snorts and shrugs her shoulders. “What, do you need your diaper changed or something?”

“Nikki…I don’t know if this is the time for that joke.”

“Aw, don’t tell me that I hurt the little baby’s…” Her voice trails off and I see her nose scrunching. It’s just about at the same moment as something foul wafts into my own nose. There’s no mistaking what that’s the smell of. “Alf, please tell me that’s not you.”

“Look, don’t get mad, but…”

“Jesus.” 

I start to slide off of the barstool, but that’s when I observe the wet spots in the crotch of my pants. It’s these damn diapers I bought from the grocery store–they just keep leaking. So not only have I loaded my diaper, but I’ve managed to ruin my pants too. 

“Nikki, I don’t know what to do.”

“You can’t stay here like this,” she says.

“I need to change.”

“So go home and change!”

“But…my pants are wet. And I’m parked, like, two blocks away and…” I shouldn’t have to keep going. I don’t want to walk around the town I live in looking like I just pissed myself and smelling like I just shit myself–even if it’s true.

“I can’t go home and get you a change of pants,” Nikki shrugs. “I’m the only one here.”

“You smell something?” a patron further down on the bar asks Nikki. 

She quickly replies: “Might be the toilet backing up again. Sorry about that.”

“I can take a look at it if you want,” the guy shrugs.

“Nah, you just stay right there,” she says. “Thanks though.” Turning back to me again, the smile she briefly flashed at the customer has already faded. “We need to figure out what we’re going to do with you, and we need to figure it out now.”

“I know, I know. Look, I think I need to text Maxine. She can bring some pants over here and…”

“Just go home, Alfie. It’s dark out. Nobody’s going to see your pants. And there’s barely anyone out there to smell you. And if they do smell something? They’ll just assume you stepped in dog shit or something. Just go home and take care of this, okay? Seriously, you’re stinking up the place.”

“Yeah, okay,” I say, hopping off the stool. I feel the swamp in my diaper shifting a little–warmth and gooey wetness are seeping to entirely new areas. “I’ll, uh, see you at home.”

“Yeah,” she nods. “But, like, light a candle or something after you get the situation under control, okay?”

===

The phone rings twice before it’s answered. I wasn’t sure that I wanted to call at all, and even when I held the phone up to my ear, I was hoping that it would just go to voicemail.

“Hello?” Maxine asks. She knows it's me, but she’s probably confused as to why I’m calling. I never call. “Alfie? Are you alright?”

“Hey Maxine. By chance, are you busy right now?”

“Nope! What are you up to? Wanna hang out?”

“Uh, well…I was just thinking about something you said earlier.”

“What’d I say?”

“Just, you know, about, like…if I needed help?”

“Oh,” she says, sounding almost like she’s on the verge of giggling. “Do you mean, like, with your diaper?”

“Yeah…”

“See? I had a feeling you liked when I lent a hand. Does the wittle baby need help with his soggy diaper?”

Now, I’m hard in my dirty diaper.

“Well, if you’re not busy with anything else.”

“You’re so cute, Alfie. Just say it.”

“Say it? Say what?”

“Tell me that you need me to change your diaper for you.”

“Maxine…” I can’t be mad at her–she doesn’t know the current stakes yet, because I haven’t told her.

“Come on,” she coos over the phone. “Just tell me what I want to hear and then I’ll be right over.”

There’s a part of me that doesn’t want to play this game right now–but there’s also a part of me that wants to take this game too far. That same part of me wants to suckle on her tits again and feel her hands on my body as she wipes me clean.

“Maxine…I need you to change my diaper.”

She explodes in a fit of giggles, lasting for a few seconds before she composes herself. “Okay, now I think you should say that again, but call me ‘Mommy’ this time.”

“Please, Maxine. I really just need a hand in getting, uhm, cleaned up.”

She clears her throat, and when she talks again, she sounds slightly more serious. “How bad is it?”

“It’s…gross.”

“How gross?”

“Like…stinky-gross.”

I expect the call to just end. Later, I imagine that when I try to reach out to her again, she won’t return my phone calls. She won’t return my texts. I’ll never see her again, and it’ll be because she realized she was in way over her head. It’ll be at this point that she remembers she wants a boyfriend and not a baby.

But the call does not end. “Are you home?” she asks.

“No. But I could be there soon.”

“Go home,” she says. “I got you.”

And so I drive home, the seat of my diaper messy, the crotch of my pants soggy, and my cock hard as a rock. I didn’t need to call her–I know I can clean this disaster up on my own. But I want her to help me. I want to feel small while she takes care of me again. 

Once more, I’m thinking about how I need to make contact with Mirabelle soon.

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Eleven:  Wasting Food

I’ve put a lot of thought into it, in the time that I’ve known Maxine, and I’ve come to the conclusion that she is at her absolute cutest when she’s trying to stifle a smirk. There’s just something about the way her lips twitch and eyes narrow in that particular moment that makes me want to devour her. 

She has this cute expression on her face when I answer my apartment door, and I can’t help but lean in to press my lips against hers. For a moment, I forget about the current state of my diaper, and the noxious cloud that seems to be following me around.

But she hasn’t grown used to that stench just yet, as I have. She pulls back from me, blushing as she waves her hand in front of her face.

“Alfie, is that you?”

“Yeah…”

“I’m glad I’m here,” she says. “You’re gonna need all the help you can get.”

As she walks into the apartment, I see she’s got a plastic shopping bag in her hand. Through the white plastic I can see something colorful, though I can’t make out what it is. I want to ask about what she’s brought, but it seems like the last thing I should be caring about right now.

“So,” I say. “Where do you think we should do this?”

“Your room,” she says, grabbing my hand and pulling her behind me. “We’ll do it on the floor.”

“Look,” I say as she tows me across the living room in a rush, “I just want to make sure you know–you don’t have to do this. You don’t have to do anything.”

“I know that, silly.”

“But…I mean…this isn’t going to be pretty and…”

“I was going to save this for later,” she says, stopping just before we reach my bedroom door. “But it seems to me like we need this now.” She releases my hand and rummages in the back she brought with her until she reveals a cardboard package with a little plastic window in it. I can’t quite see what it is, though the picture of a baby on the package is making me blush already. With one mighty tear, she splits the cardboard in two, freeing its contents.

I begin to ask: “What is that–” Before I can finish the sentence, something has been shoved into my mouth.

“I picked out a pacifier for you,” Maxine shrugs. “Shouldn’t every baby have one?”

I lift my hand to pluck it out of my mouth, but she swats it away.

“Nope. That’s going to stay in your mouth until I say so. Got it?”

That tone, and her boss-lady body language, is a more than compelling argument. I nod as I take a few test-sucks on the latex bulb between my teeth. It feels a little too small to effectively suckle on, but I think I get the appeal. If nothing else, it feels like it shaves decades off of my age simply by being in my mouth.

“Right there,” she says, pointing to the floor near my bed. “Lie down.”

“Buth–” I say through the pacifier, finding that I even sound more infantile now. “Ith gonna geth all oveh.”

She snorts, then clutches a hand to her face as she giggles behind it. “Goddamn, Alfie. I’m not going to lie. It’s fucking adorable to hear you talk like that.” She composes herself with a deep breath. “Look, you sat in your diaper to drive home, didn’t you? I’d bet it’s already pretty gross in there. You’re not going to make it any worse by lying down now. The sooner you’re there, the sooner I can start my job.”

I sigh and lower myself down to the floor. I keep a mostly tidy room, so there’s plenty of space for me to lie down. My head rolls to the left, and I look under my bed to spot a few things I had forgotten about. There’s the missing Pac-Man coffee mug I had been looking for. There’s that comic book I swore I bought, but couldn’t find–and so I went out and bought it again. Were this any other time, I’d be elated to have made these discoveries–but by the time I pivot my head back to see Maxine hovering over me, I’ve already forgotten them.

“Spread your legs for me,” she says. “I have to get in there.”

Maxine seems strangely confident in her role as a caretaker. I wonder if she has some sort of experience with diaper changes–though it’s nothing that we’ve ever talked about before. She has two siblings, but both are older than her. In general, she seems somewhere between being indifferent and being annoyed by children, so I find it hard to believe that she’s ever been a babysitter or anything like that. Perhaps she’s just a natural at this sort of thing.

I make a mental note to ask her about this later.

“The good news,” she says, dropping to her knees between my legs, “is that we don’t have to use these terrible diapers for much longer.”

“Why?” I nervously ask through my pacifier.

“Better options are on the way,” she smiles.

“Bether?”

“I may or may not have ordered a few things last night,” she shrugs, her cheeks glowing a little. “Of course, I had them shipped to your place–there’s no way in hell I could ever explain these things to my family if they ended up on my front porch. Just, you know, try and act surprised when you get them, alright?”

Right now, this idea excites me–and it excites me a lot. But I wonder how I’ll feel about it a week from now. There’s a part of me that wonders what happens after Mother’s milk runs its course through my system and I’m no longer forced to spend all my time in diapers. Will I still feel the same way about them and all the baby-ish things that are starting to bring me joy now? I suspect that it can’t change too much, since people like Anders, Reid, and Bria keep making trips back to The Cradle. But how will I feel?

“I’m thorry,” I say to her as she plucks the velcro tabs up from the diaper. I could probably be more specific with what I’m sorry about, but I suspect she already knows. If she thinks I smell bad, wait until she sees what awaits her when she opens up the diaper.

“Don’t be silly,” she laughs. “I can handle this. 

But the smile fades a bit when she finally opens my diaper. She’s looking a little less confident. She almost looks…green.

“Oh,” she says, gawking at the disaster within. “Oh…wow.”

“Thath bad?”

She releases a contemplative sigh, as if to say “I can’t believe I agreed to this.”

I hate to be a rule-breaker, but I think the situation calls for a little more ease in communication–I pull the pacifier from my mouth. “Hey…maybe this was a bad idea.”

She laughs, her cheeks are blushing though her smile still seems genuine. “Stop. I said I’d do it, and here I am.”

“It’s clearly worse than you were expecting.”

“I’m sure every mother goes through this same exact experience, don’t they? What can prepare you for your baby’s first dirty diaper?”

But she’s not my mother. She’s not anyone’s mother. She’s a 19-year-old girl who likes punk music and candy. She shouldn’t be staring down at her older boyfriend’s stiff cock and poopy butt.

I lift my back off of the ground and reach forward, grabbing the front of the diaper so I can pull it back to where it was and cover everything up again. My face feels like it's burning. I feel ashamed of myself for allowing things to go as far as they have.

“What are you doing?” she asks. “We’ve got to clean this up.”

“No,” I sigh. “I’ve got to clean this up. This isn’t your problem. I can’t ask you to–”

She slaps my hand–not hard, but hard enough to send a message–and it causes me to release the diaper. She opens it up again before pushing me back down to the ground.

“You stop that right now,” she says. “I said I was going to take care of this, and I meant it. Yes, you’re stinky. Yes, you’re yucky. But that’s just what happens to little boys. I want to take care of you, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

It’s hard to argue with a spiel like that.

“Fine,” I say. “But…ooph…

She cuts off not only what I’m about to say, but what I’m about to think. She shuts down my entire brain when her hand suddenly wraps around the base of my shaft. Her head bobs downwards, letting the head of my cock slip between her lips. 

It feels so wrong.

It feels so right.

It feels so right because it feels so wrong.

I fight any lingering temptation I have to stop her–not that there’s much–and let her do what she wants to do. She doesn’t have to do it long, though. Within a minute, I feel like I’ve already reached critical levels of pleasure, and all signs point to an eminent explosion. I feel I have an obligation to signal to Maxine that I’m about to burst, but I find myself feeling mostly paralyzed–the best I can do is to frantically wave my hands in a way that probably reads as me just feeling excited. Which is also true.

When I’m finally able to get a word out of my mouth, it’s just a primal “Guh!” as I unleash my load. To her credit, Maxine seems prepared for this–leading me to believe she knew this would happen as soon as I did. She expertly swallows the contents of her mouth, downing everything in about a gulp and a half. 

I brace myself for that sudden rush of pure white, and the feeling like I’ve been transplanted to another place altogether–the aftermath of my last two orgasms under the effects of the milk. Sure enough, the world does turn white once again–albeit just for a single moment, fading away quickly. I wonder if this is yet another signal that Mother’s milk is losing its hold on me.

Maxine slides her mouth back off of my cock, offering a reassuring smile before reaching for the package of baby wipes. The last of my cum, a tiny droplet, rests on her bottom lip, which she detects and licks away a few moments later.

“Alright,” she finally says, pulling a wipe from the package. “Let’s do this.” I suspect she’s talking to herself more than she’s talking to me.

===

The windows are open and I have a candle lit. When I return to the apartment after walking Maxine to her car, I find the scent to be mostly acceptable. If I really focus, I think I can still make out the hint of a dirty diaper, but I’m hoping that’ll dissipate soon enough. The pine-scented candle is working overtime, and my biggest fear–that the apartment will just smell like someone took a shit in a pine tree–seems to be alleviated. 

I’ve got a little bit of time left before Nikki comes home from work–alone-time that I could really use. I feel like I haven’t had much of that lately. Certainly not since coming back from The Cradle, and I don’t remember having much before going there either. 

I open up my laptop and slide into my usual seat on the couch. This just feels normal. Nothing has felt normal for a few days now. Sure, the diaper between my ass and the couch cushion adds a small amount of extra thickness that I’m not accustomed to when I sit in my spot, but I barely notice it. There’s a few-days-old email from my editor in my inbox that I’ve been putting off reading. I have a good idea of what it says–something like “Hey, where’s that article?” What the hell was I even writing about anyway? Something about…celebrities’ dogs? I decide to make that tomorrow’s problem–I’ve become a bit of an expert at knowing how long I can put off work.

There are many gears spinning in my head right now–each of them competing with the others for control over what I think about right now. California. The Cradle. Milk. Mother. The white place, and whoever’s voice I hear when I go there. Mirabelle. Maxine. Diapers. Julie Ross. Work. Sam. Anders. Celia. 

Under the coffee table, I spot the old plastic margarine container I use to store my pot. I had to forgo such pleasures while I was jetsetting back and forth across the country, but there’s nothing stopping me from partaking now. I reach for it and proceed to prepare a bowl in my pipe. Light it up. Toke. Repeat. Sit back. Relax. Toke. Repeat. So on and so forth.

It’s in this state that I feel like I can finally reach out to Mirabelle. Call it vaporous-courage, or just the right inspiration, but moments after pulling up a new email on my laptop, my fingers go to work on typing out a message. I’m barely even thinking about what I’m writing–I just open my mind and let it all spill out.

Every few sentences I stop and wonder if I should be doing some proofreading–there’s a part of me that knows this is just a rambling mess of wild thoughts and stoned musings. But there’s another part of me that’s convinced that if I stop now, I’ll never actually reach out to Mirabelle. 

I know the gist of what I’m typing–I’m thanking her for her hospitality. I’m thanking her for going above and beyond in making me feel cared for. I’m gushing about my experience with Mother and her milk, and that it’s all I can focus on now that I’m back home. I want to come back. How can we make that happen? 

The ‘gist’ seems pretty straightforward, but when I finally decide I’ve finished writing, it looks as if I’ve written her a small novel. Maybe I should edit. Maybe I should just save this as a draft and work on it tomorrow when I’m completely sober. Or…

I hit send. Done.

I set my laptop aside and toke on the pipe again. Repeat.

===

I wake in the morning to a notification that I have a new email from Mirabelle Hapsbergen. 

Hapsbergen. I had no idea that was her last name. 

I’m initially elated to have received an email from her, though it dawns on me that she’s responding to the email I sent. And in the sober clarity of the morning, I recall the ill-informed decision to write said email while high as a kite. Not only do I not want to read the email that I sent, but I don’t think I’m ready to see Mirabelle’s, no doubt, polite response to my intoxicated ramblings. I’ll save that for later.

The other big news of the morning is that my diaper is dry. I was certain that I’d wake up to a soggy wad of padding between my thighs and a big wet spot beneath me, but there’s no such disaster. I’m so proud of myself that I almost burst out of my bedroom to proclaim my victory to Nikki–though I doubt she’ll share my enthusiasm.

I slip a pair of shorts over my diaper and put a t-shirt on before meandering to the bathroom to take care of my usual morning routine. I’m almost excited about the prospect of using a toilet again–though by the time I close the bathroom door, I feel traces of warm dampness that weren’t there when I woke up. I decide to finish what I started and give my body the go-ahead to piss myself as I brush my teeth. I study my face in the mirror as I wet, curious to see if I have any obvious tells that give away what I’m doing–but either there are none, or there just aren’t any while I watch myself.

“Wet the bed last night?” NIkki asks as I emerge from the bathroom. She’s frying an egg in the kitchen.

“I did not, thank you very much.”

“Well you’re waddling like a toddler, so…”

“Shit. You can tell?”

She snorts. “Yep.”

“Okay, so, I’m a little wet. But I’ll have you know that it’s only because I chose to piss myself.”

“Ah,” she says. “That’s so much more mature.”

I waddle over to the coffee maker–now very aware that I do have a waddle–and pour myself a mug as I debate if I want to make breakfast for myself or not. Most days, I skip it.

“So is that where we’re at now?” Nikki asks. “You’re just embracing your best diapered life?”

“I dunno,” I shrug. “I could almost see myself getting used to this.”

She shakes her head. “It’s too early for you.”

“Love you too, Nik. ”It’s good having a friend that I can be this open around. Even if Nikki thinks I’m insane–and I’m sure she does–I know she’ll continue to have my back. 

“Are you still, like, all milked up?”

“It’s fading,” I say. “I think.”

Another snort as she lays her egg out on a plate. “But you’re just going to stay in diapers?”

“Would it be weird if I did?”

“Yes,” she says without hesitation.

“But…you’d learn to live with it, right?” I ask.

“I mean, you can wear whatever you want to wear,” she shrugs. “If you want to dress up like Batman, dress like Batman. If you want to dress up like a baby, dress up like a baby.”

“What if I want to dress like Batman and I want you to call me ‘Batman’ too?”

She groans and shakes her head. “I probably won’t do that.” She squints, trying to process something as she talks: “Are you saying that you want to dress like a baby and that you want me to call you a baby?”

“I..uh… Well, I think I was just making a joke,” I shrug. My cheeks suddenly feel warm and I’m more flustered than I thought I’d be.

“Well that’s what it sounds like to me,” she says. She leaves it at that, the ball left in my court for me to say whether or not I want to be called a baby. I decline to say anything else on the matter.

“So, uh, I reached out to Mirabelle last night,” I say as nonchalantly as I can, taking a seat at our small kitchen table across from her.

“She’s the gal from the cult, right?”

“Well, y’know, I don’t think they consider themselves to be a cult…

“Right,” she says. “So you contacted her because you want to be best friends? Or because you want to go back?”

“I wouldn’t mind being her friend,” I shrug. “But, yeah, I kind of want to go back. She said she’d help make that happen.”

“What is it about that place that appeals to you?” she asks. If anyone else heard her ask that question, they’d probably assume she was being judgmental. But I hear honest curiosity. She genuinely wants to know, and I’m happy that I trust her so much that I can give her a genuine answer.

“I just feel like I belong there,” I say. “Or maybe I just want to belong there. I’ve never seen a place like it before–all these people living their truth with each other, as weird as the truth is, you know?”

“And this has nothing to do with sucking on some lady’s tits?” she smirks. 

“Well I don’t hate that.” 

“Do you believe in magic?” she asks. 

“I, uh… I don’t know.”

“You and Anders both claimed that this milk turns you into these pants-wetting babies. And there’s that whole compound of people who probably think the same thing is happening.”

“You don’t believe in it?”

She shrugs. “It’s not that I don’t believe in it–but I need to see how things work. Is her breastmilk laced with psychedelic drugs? Is everyone in this place just so enamored with the idea of sucking on some pretty woman’s breasts that they share this mass delusion? Or…”

“Or is it magic?” I ask, looping back to her original question.

“Right,” she nods.

“No,” I say. “I don’t believe in magic. But I do believe that something happened, and I think everyone at The Cradle would say the same thing. I don’t know what it is. Maybe we are just…delusional. Or, maybe it’s something else. You know, I complain a lot about my job these days, and I think it’s because I’ve forgotten why I wanted to be a journalist in the first place. I want to see things, you know? I want to investigate them. This place speaks to that desire. It makes me remember who I wanted to be. I want to figure this place out. And…yeah, maybe I want to be a part of that community too.”

I expect a snarky comment, or at least an amused snort, but Nikki simply nods as she swallows some of her breakfast. “Good for you,” she finally says.

“You mean that?”

“Alfie, I don’t think it’d be shocking if I said that we both tend to live in our comfort zone. We don’t do new things. We don’t grow. Maybe this is a good thing. Maybe this is the kick in the ass–the kick in the diaper–you need. I don’t really know what to make of it all, but I think you should follow your heart here.”

“You mean that?”

She shrugs. “Mind you, I’ve only had one cup of coffee so far this morning. Ask me again after I’ve had another and maybe my answer would be different.”

===

Alfie,

I’m so happy that you reached out! First and foremost–you need to stop apologizing. I didn’t mind the long-winded nature of your email at all. In fact, it’s a good feeling to know that you felt so comfortable sharing this much with me. I’d go so far as to say that your passion only further convinces me that you belong here with us. That’s exactly the sort of passion we’re looking for.

You asked a lot of questions, and I think I have plenty of answers for them. However, I’m worried that some of the answers require more context. Context you’d probably get from the questions you didn’t ask–or, context that you’d get from being here and seeing more of what we have to offer for yourself.

And so on that note, I’d like to get that ball rolling. If you have the ability to give us a week of your time, I think that’d be enough for us to really show you what The Cradle is all about. As I’ve mentioned to you previously, I’m willing to assist you in making those accommodations in any way that I can–including the flight and any car rentals needed. We’re blessed enough, here, to be in a financial position where we can aid children like yourself in coming home to Mother.

You state, at multiple points, in your email that you want to come back. Let us help facilitate that. Take some time, think about when you can make the trip, and then let me know. 

We can’t wait to see you again.

-Mirabelle

===

I’m writing an article on my laptop–Ten Perfect Movies for Summer That You Can Stream Now–when I feel an ache in my bladder. It's nothing urgent, but the sort of thing that years of life experience has taught me to deal with sooner than later. I think nothing of it, standing up and walking to the bathroom where I open my pants, lowering them and my underpants just enough so that I hold onto my dick and aim it into the toilet bowl. Then, it’s just business as usual–a yellow stream with a satisfying arch that makes a trickling sound when it hits the water in the bowl.

It’s not until I go to tuck my manhood back into my pants that I realize I’m tucking it into my diaper. This is followed by the realization that I didn’t just piss into my pants without any sort of control. It would seem that continence has been restored. I know I should be relieved by this, but I’m more disappointed than anything else. As strange and occasionally embarrassing as this time in diapers has been, I’ve grown fond of my ‘baby days.’

Still, this sense of disappointment seems to coincide nicely with Mirabelle’s email response. I continue to refuse to reread what nonsense I sent to her in my initial email, but her response was polite, nonjudgmental, and inviting. What more, she’s already given me the answer to her next question of: How do I experience that feeling again? It’s simple–I take her up on her offer to fly back and I drink the milk again.

I briefly consider removing the diaper–it’s that basic instinct to shed things that are no longer necessary–but ultimately I decide to leave it on for now. 

As I walk back to my desk, I think about Maxine and how she had just told me about the supplies she ordered–which were probably somewhere between a warehouse and my apartment building. What would she say if I told her that I no longer needed the diapers?

I don’t think she’d care. After all the fun we had with diapers yesterday, it’s safe to say that she wasn’t ordering more of them just to keep my pants dry. 

I should be getting back to work, but now I’m just thinking about my diaper again. I’m thinking about how I wish I had wet it instead of using the toilet. I want to, like, drink a gallon of water in the hopes of needing to wet again soon, but I’m not even sure I can be patient enough for that. I need to feel that warm swampy feeling, and I need to feel it now.

I stand up from my desk, yet again, and shed my pants as I leave my bedroom and head to the kitchen–where I’m hoping to find something that can help me simulate the feeling I so desire.

Warm water seems like the obvious choice, and so I turn on the faucet–cranking the hot water knob all the way. I give the water some time to run hot, and when I see light wisps of steam rising from the sink, I fetch a mug from the drying rack and fill it up. I cautiously dab a finger into it, making sure it’s not so hot that it scalds my skin. It’s pretty warm, though I’d say it falls just short of ‘hot.’ Perhaps the perfect pee temperature. 

One hand holds open the waistband of the diaper, while the other carefully tilts the mug into the padding. The first splash is a bit messy–dribbling down the side of the glass and causing water to drip onto my foot–but I quickly correct the flow to get a steady stream of warm liquid to pour right down the front of the diaper.

It’s not quite the same thing, but I’m hoping it’s close enough. I audibly sigh with pleasure as the new wet spot forms and expands. The more water I pour, however, the more discrepancies I find between this and the real thing. The base of my ‘accident’ is in the wrong spot of the diaper. The wetness doesn’t seem to spread through the padding in the same way. Even the warmth is a little off–just enough that I know it's not the same.

All that said, once the mug is empty and my diaper has had the chance to absorb all the new liquid, I do feel pretty satisfied with the results. The diaper is so swollen that it droops from my body, large gaps showing in the legholes. It clings to my hips for dear life.

This is good, but I still feel like I’m missing something. I want something else too–but it takes me a few moments to put a finger on what that something is. I think I know what it is, but I’m not sure I want to admit it to myself. 

I think the feeling I’m missing right now is that of a…messy diaper.

Could I? It’s one thing to uncontrollably empty my bowels into my pants, but I wonder if I could willingly do such a thing. And if I did, would I like it?

I spread my legs apart a few more inches and squat down, curious to see if by just putting some pressure on my bowels I could summon the load I need to complete this picture. A few grunts later, though, I don’t even feel the slightest tremor in my abdomen. Either the tank’s empty, or it’s just not time yet.

“Okay, but…” I look around the kitchen again. Just as I simulated the wetting, I wonder if I can simulate the messing. Maybe there’s something around here with a similar consistency? 

I start going through cabinets. Peanut butter? Maybe, that seems like a nightmare to clean up. Marshmallows? No. I look through the fridge next. Hard boiled eggs? Leftover Chinese takeout? Butter? 

I have to pause and laugh. It feels like a sign of desperation when I’m considering putting butter in my diaper. I close the fridge door, convinced that I’m better off leaving my diaper in its current state.

But this is when I spot the answer–the golden, hand-held, over-ripe option sitting in a basket on the counter. Those fucking bananas. I try to imagine what it’d feel like to sit on an unpeeled banana, and I feel pretty certain that it’s the experience I’m looking for. I rush to the basket, tearing two bananas from the bunch. Darker spots are starting to form on the skin, though none big or dark enough to suggest that the banana was bad now.

Is this a waste of food? Well, maybe. But I also know what the fate of these bananas would be if I didn’t go down this path. A few days from now, I’d smell something funky in the kitchen and I’d follow my nose to the bananas, and I’d finally and unceremoniously drop them into the trash can.

“Fuck it,” I say aloud, unpeeling the first banana and holding the naked tube of fruit in my hand. I put some pressure on it with my fingers, just enough to break it a little–a small test to see if the texture is what I’m looking for. 

Close enough.

With no further fanfare, I reach around my back and hold open the waistband of my diaper with one hand and dump the contents of my other into the gap. I shake the diaper a little, trying to maneuver the banana pieces into the appropriate place, and as best as I can tell, I’ve accomplished that. The diaper is sagging too much to feel the banana against my skin just yet–but I’ve got plans for that too. Next comes the second banana. Peel. Open diaper. Deposit. Shake.

As soon as I feel the weight of both bananas sink into the right place between my thighs, I immediately lower myself into a sitting position–my eagerness in squishing the contents of my diaper so strong that I practically fall onto my bottom with a simultaneous thwomp and splat.

This is the feeling I wanted–the unpredictable chaos of how and where the mass in my diaper squishes. It’s not a perfect simulation, but it’s close enough–and moments after I feel the mush spread into new corners of my diaper, it’s far too easy to forget that this isn’t the real thing. 

What am I doing? A wave of shame washes over me. This is what I’ve been reduced to? Sitting on the kitchen floor in a diaper full of…bananas? All while wishing that it was full of something even worse? I feel so stupid and pathetic.

But then, all it takes is a slight shift of my hips for my ass to slide in the diaper in a way that shoots pleasure up my spine. The squishy banana goop, mixed with the warm water stored in the padding, creates a slippery layer that seems to coat almost everything within the diaper. I shift my hips forward and backward again, finding the sensation to be rather nice. Shame be damned–I feel like I need to make the most of what I have. I continue to slide my ass back and forth in the diaper, while hands clasp the front of it–pressing it tightly against my cock as it slides through the slick mush with every forward movement of my hips. This shouldn’t be working, but it is. 

Back and forth. And back and forth. And back and forth. In less than a minute I’m moaning and biting my bottom lip as I squirt an entirely different kind of wetness into my padding.

No trip into ‘the white’ this time–even if the world does seem especially fuzzy for a moment. Instead, when my wits begin to restore themselves, I find myself lying on my side on the tile floor–the sticky diaper plastered to my skin.

If only Maxine could see me now.

I should get up, but I won’t. I can’t decide why I’m staying down here, on the uncomfortably hard and cold floor–it’s either out of some sort of penance for being a perverted weirdo, or I’m just not ready to get up and start the process of cleaning myself up yet.

Just a little longer, I tell myself. Then I’ll get up. But I keep saying that to myself as the minutes continue to creep by. And then minutes span into an hour. 

And then I hear the apartment door opening. I hear footsteps. They’re getting closer and closer. And I know I should probably get up or make some effort to conceal my current state, but I just can’t bring myself to do it.

All I really want right now is some milk. Is that so much to ask? Because I feel so empty without it. I didn’t know I needed it before, but I already know that I don’t care for the idea of a world without it.

“Alfie,” Nikki says. I feel her presence looming over me. “What the hell are you doing? What did you do to yourself? Why does it smell like goddamn bananas in here?”

I have to go back. That’s all there is to it.

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Twelve:  An Invitation

I’m hesitant to use the word ‘withdrawal.’ For one, it feels like a word that belongs to someone else. Someone fighting with an addiction to anything other than diapers. And, well, I’m not sure I’m actually addicted to anything at all. I can’t be addicted to Mother’s milk if I’ve only had it once, right?

I keep telling myself that it’s not ‘withdrawal’–it’s a hangover. The hangovers I know are a little different, sure–but this special milk isn’t quite the same thing as alcohol either.

It’s more than just the need for the taste of that milk, or the feeling of a diaper as it swells or sags. It’s something, somehow, grander than that. It’s that, plus other needs that I can’t even find words for. It’s this need to be…small. 

“A need to be a baby?” Anders asks with a wry grin on his face. A knowing grin. The grin of a man who understands exactly what I mean. Quite possibly the only other person I know who would get it.

“Yeah, I guess,” I shrug.

I invited Anders out to get some lunch, but he insisted I come over to the house instead. For one, Sam was at work. And also, in his words: “I’m on house arrest right now. Gotta keep my head down and be on my best behavior for Sam.” I do believe that Sam is being extra critical of him right now, though I wonder if ‘house arrest’ is a slight exaggeration.

We sit on the deck in his backyard, which overlooks a sea of other houses that look just like his. He seems in pretty good spirits, though I’m not sure how much of it is a show that he’s just putting on while I’m here.

“So how are things with you and Sam right now?”

“She hasn’t told you herself?”

“Honestly, I try to avoid the subject when I talk to her,” I laugh. “It’s a subject that tends to rile her up.”

He laughs while shrugging his soldiers. “I suppose I have that kind of effect on her, huh? Yeah, we’re far from ‘normal,’ but I’d like to think that things are stable right now. And I’ll take it, right? Anything’s better than getting kicked out of the house.”

“Does she know everything?” I ask.

He squints a little, looking generally uncomfortable with the question. “She knows…a lot. Enough for now, I’d say.”

I give him a skeptical look, though I bite my tongue. He knows his situation better than I do–and I’m sure he’s doing what he can just to survive at the moment. But I wish I didn’t know that there were still a few secrets being withheld from my sister.

“Look,” he says, likely noticing my displeasure and trying to make me feel better, “she knows all the important things. She knows about the diapers. She knows about the repeated visits to The Cradle.”

“Does she know about milk?” I ask. “Does she know…where it comes from?”

He laughs. “Alfie, do you want to explain that to her?”

“Uh…”

“Right. That’s a hard detail to know how to explain well. And in the scheme of things, maybe it’s not that important for someone on the outside.”

The outside–thus implying that we’re on the inside. I sigh, a little annoyed that he might be right about holding off on a few of the details. Admitting that he suckled from another woman’s tit probably wouldn’t score him any points with Sam, and no amount of context would help. 

I think back to a day or two ago when I explained everything to Maxine. I was lucky in that she was quick to accept whatever it was I said to her. The big differences, of course, were that Maxine wanted to believe, and hadn’t been lied to previously. And even then, I recall, I still withheld the detail about being breastfed.

“We’ll get through this, Sam and I,” Anders says, taking a swig from his bottle of beer. Meanwhile, I’ve barely touched mine.

“Do you want to go back?” I ask.

“Do I want to? Absolutely. But I don’t think that’s happening for a long time. What about you? Are you going back?”

“Yeah,” I nod. “I don’t know when yet. But I think I have to.”

Have to,” he repeats. “Yeah, I know that feeling.”

“I thought you would.”

“I suppose this is the part where I offer some sort of cryptic warning, right?” he laughs. “Something about how it seems good at first, but then it gets its claws in you. Or…how the seedy underbelly reveals itself over time–but once you realize it, it’s already too late.”

“Or,” I add, “something about how the need to taste that milk becomes so strong that it’s all you can think about.”

“Yeah,” he nods. “That’s a good one too.”

“Well? Are you going to give me any of those warnings?”

“Nah,” he says with a little chuckle. “I think you should go back.”

“Is there, uh, any truth to those other things you said? About The Cradle getting its claws into you? Or seedy underbellies?”

“Not that I know of,” he says. “If there’s anything wrong with that place at all, that’s exactly what it is–it’s too perfect.”

“That’s what I was afraid of.”

“I knew you’d like it, Alf.”

“So…let me ask you something,” I say. I finally tip my beer into my mouth, the brief rush of amber liquid giving me a little boost.

“Anything.”

“How the hell did you find out about this place anyway? I doubt you just stumbled upon their gates while walking through the middle of nowhere.”

“Luck,” he shrugs.”

“Come on,” I sigh. 

“That’s a long story,” he says. “And long stories are not my forte.”

“Bullshit. All of your stories are long.”

“The extremely short version?” he says. “I’ve known Mirabelle for a few years now. We met while I was working on a photography project. We, uh, kind of hit it off. This is before The Cradle or California. We actually met in Chicago, of all places.”

I narrow my eyes, giving him my most cursed glare.

“No, no, it’s not like that,” he sighs. “I mean…I guess there was a little bit of a romantic component in the beginning. But this was before your sister and I were in a serious relationship. And once we were together, I didn’t go behind Sam’s back with Mirabelle.”

“But you stayed in touch?”

“Well, sure–but just as friends. Once she started working on this ‘big project’ out in California, she’d send me all kinds of updates about it. She wanted me to come and check it out when it was finished–which I did.”

“Did you know her ‘big project’ involved…diapers? And breast milk?”

“Uh…”

“You did?”

“The breast milk and all that…that was news to me,” he says. “But I’ve known about her thing for diapers since I first met her. In fact, that’s kind of how we met in the first place. But that’s a whole other story.”

“What? Tell me that story.”

“No, no,” he laughs. “Maybe some other time.”

I roll my eyes again.

“Besides,” he shrugs. “We’re getting sidetracked. We’re supposed to be talking about you right now.”

“I’m so sick of talking about me,” I say. “Can we please talk about anything else?”

“Can we talk about your girlfriend?” he asks. “The one you pretend you don’t have when Sam asks if you’re dating anyone?”

“How do you think Sam would react if I said my girlfriend was only 19 years old?”

He immediately laughs and shakes his head. “Well…she’d probably have a few sarcastic comments to make.”

“Yeah. So…that’s probably all I’ll say about her then. I trust you can keep your mouth shut about that?”

“Fine. But you’ll have to keep your mouth shut about Mirabelle, okay?”

“But I thought…”

“We haven’t been romantic in a very long time, Alf. But I doubt it’d look good for me if Sam knew that I not only kept going back to the weird diaper-place, but that it was run by someone I used to date.”

I nod my head and laugh. “Okay, I’ll give you that.”

===

I remember this one time I was dreaming that I had to drive a moving truck full of explosives on this icy road. I don’t know how to drive a big truck, and winter driving scares the shit out of me. But there I was, my hands clutched on the wheel for dear life as I carefully pressed down on the accelerator. Out on the road in front of me–slipping and sliding back and forth on the ice–are penguins. Hundreds of them. So not only do I have to be mindful of the explosives, but I have to try and avoid hitting the penguins. 

No part of me thought it was a dream. I was completely convinced that I was either going to have kill a bunch of penguins, or that I was going to blow up half of New Jersey. I try avoiding a few penguins at first, but the sharp jerks of the wheel prove to be too dangerous–each time I make a sudden movement, I feel the truck begin to careen out of control. I feel like I have no choice but to just drive forward and pray that I don’t hit any.

It wasn’t until after I woke up that I realized it was a dream. And not even then, if I’m being honest. I remember lying there for a half hour after, running the scenario over and over again in my mind, trying to figure out if there was a better way for me to have handled it. Next time I’ll do better, I thought. It was only after I got up and went to take my morning piss that I realized it didn’t actually happen.

Sometimes, though, I know it's a dream right away. 

Like when I open my eyes and I see that everything is white again. There is no up and there is no down. There’s no ground to stand on. It’s just white. I’ve been here before. After I had been nursed by Mother–and after I had cum–I was here. 

It didn’t feel like a dream then, though I’m not sure if it actually was or wasn’t. Right now, though, it feels like a dream. I’m sure of it. I’m sleeping, and this is a dream.

A lucid dream. They don’t happen often, but this is one of them.

Details begin to emerge in the white. Beneath my feet, ground suddenly appears. Rocks and grass. Dirt. I see trees springing up in the distance, even if the sky is still just an infinite expanse of white. I take a few cautious steps, testing the new earth with my barefoot to see if it’s stable or not. When it seems to hold, I take a few steps forward, feeling the soft grass on my feet. It reminds me of being a kid, when I’d run around in the grass without any shoes on. I realize that it’s been a very long time since I’ve experienced that feeling.

I keep walking. It’s hard to say if I’m really traversing forward or not, though–things like rocks and patches of dirt pass by me, but the horizon stays exactly the same. There’s no real sense of movement.

Up ahead, I see something. It might be a person, but it’s hard to say. I just see a shape–dark and fuzzy, setting it apart from the endless boring terrain. I try steering myself towards the shape, hoping to get closer to it, but it seems harder than it should be. It feels like just the strain of trying to get closer is somehow breaking the world around me. The grass and dirt begin to fade, and the white slowly fills my vision again. 

I don’t know why I think it’s a person–it doesn’t definitively look like anything at all–but I’m somehow sure that it is.

The shape speaks. Or, perhaps, there’s a voice that I can hear, and I just choose to attribute it to the shape. The voice is distorted and garbled–I can only make out the very end of it: “...a favor?”

Just as I’m sure this is a dream, I’m sure that the dream is coming to an end. I sense the world around me starting to dissipate and disperse. The grass, rocks, and trees fade into nothing, leaving just white again.

I attempt to ask: “A favor?” but I sense that my words aren’t audible.

When I open my eyes, I’m in my bed again. It’s dark, and the alarm clock says it's a little after 3 a.m. If nothing else, this only seems to confirm that it was, in fact, a dream. 

I have reasons to suspect that it wasn’t a dream. Even in my most lucid of dreams, I don’t think I’ve ever felt so…present before. And it did, kind of, feel like a continuation of the last time I had been in that all-white space. 

But what is that place? And how did I get there? Because last time, it took an orgasm to get me there. And this time I was just…sleeping?

I reach down and feel my diaper. To my surprise, it’s wet. Warm, even–like I had wet it pretty recently. I sigh and stare up through the darkness at my ceiling, keeping my hand on the soggy bulge between my legs. A few seconds later, and I realize that I’m slowly stroking the front of the diaper. 

A few minutes after that, the speed of my strokes has increased tenfold and I’m moaning softly as I shoot my load into the padding. 

A minute after that, I’m feeling sleepy again. As I feel myself succumbing to sleep once more, I wonder if I’ll visit the white place again. 

As best as I can recall in the morning, I don’t.

===

“How’s my little baby doing this morning?” Maxine asks, a joyful smirk already on her face. 

“Uh…” I run a hand through my disheveled hair and rub at my sleepy eyes. Had we made plans to see each other this morning? I’m never opposed to spending more time with Maxine–especially when the probable end of our relationship grows closer with each passing day–but I’m still caught off guard at the sight of her at the apartment door. “Did I know you were coming?”

“I doubt it,” she shrugs, walking past me and into the apartment. “I just decided when I woke up that I should come check in on you.”

“Always happy to see you,” I yawn. “But you really don’t have to check on me. I’m fine.”

“Uh huh,” she says, putting her bag down. “And how’s your diaper, mister?”

I feel my cheeks warm as I sigh. I haven’t had a chance to take off the diaper I had wet during the night, though I’m already well aware that it’s something I should consider doing soon.

“It’s fine,” I shrug.

“You sure about that?”

“Uh…”

“Let me check.”

“You don’t need to check me, Maxine. I’m not a…” I stop myself from finishing that thought–it’d be pretty silly of me to insist that I’m not a baby at this point.

“Oh, come on,” she says. “You act all defensive, but I’m sure you actually like it.”

“Well…”

“Just get over here and let me take a look,” she commands. There’s some extra sternness in her tone–very mom-like. I bite my bottom lip as I feel a little jolt in my crotch.

I do as she asks, taking a few cautious steps towards her.

“Turn around,” she says.

I do so. As if it’s something she’s done countless times before, she pulls open the waistband of my shorts and peers in to view my diaper. I doubt there’s much she can see from this angle, but it’s humiliating nonetheless. Next, she pulls open the back of the diaper itself. Again, I’m not sure what she’s expecting to find–she’d probably already know if there was something in the back of the diaper or not. Finally, her hand slides into my shorts, feeling the back and the bottom of the diaper. I feel her fingers sliding into the leg cuffs to touch the inside padding. I’m sure she could’ve already guessed the condition of it, but this would just confirm it.

“It’s not very warm,” she says. “How long have you been in this diaper, babe?”

“Uh…”

“Did you wet in your sleep last night?”

“Maybe,” I shrug. We both know that there’s no ‘maybe’ about it, and that I had–but I just can’t bring myself to say that.

“Do you want me to change you?”

“You don’t have to do that, Maxine.”

“I didn’t ask if I had to do that. I’m asking if you want me to.”

It’s at this moment that I hear movement coming from the hallway. I glance up to see Nikki walking into the room, still wearing her usual sleep-outfit–an oversized t-shirt that hangs down to her mid-thighs. There’s a brief moment where she looks annoyed to see Maxine here–likely displeased with her morning routine being interrupted by an interloper–but when she sees that Maxine’s hands are inside of my shorts, groping at my diaper, she can’t help but smile and shake her head.

She snorts. “I’m not interrupting anything here, am I?”

“Just checking baby’s diaper,” Maxine says, sounding so casual about it that it almost seems like a completely normal thing for her to say.

“Ah,” Nikki says, nodding her head. “And…should I expect this to be a daily occurrence moving forward–you being here first thing in the morning?”

“Maybe. Someone ought to help him with his diapers until he’s properly potty trained again.”

Another wave of warmth washes over my face as I sigh. “I-I’m fine, guys. I don’t need help with my diapers.”

“Uh huh,” Nikki says, smirking as she reaches up to the cabinet to grab the coffee beans.

“Maybe we take this conversation into my room,” I say to Maxine, looking over my shoulder. I spot Maxine’s face gazing off towards Nikki’s backside in the kitchen. 

Can’t say I blame her there–Nikki’s ‘night shirt’ has a tendency to ride up when she reaches like that. It doesn’t matter how long I’ve lived with Nikki, I never tire of seeing the very bottom of her panty-less ass cheeks when her shirt rides up like that. And Nikki, for her part, either doesn’t know it’s on display or just doesn’t care.

“Y-yeah,” Maxine says, finally pulling her eyes away from Nikki and back to me again. “Let’s do that.”

“I’m still here, don’t forget,” Nikki says. “And I’ll be here for a while before I have to go to work, too. So, like, be respectful of that.” Translation: Don’t have loud sex while I’m around. Maxine has a tendency to get a little vocal when our genitals are involved–and Nikki’s had to ask us to keep it down on more than one occasion.

“Yeah, of course,” I say. Honestly, it was probably a good thing that Nikki reminded me she’d be here for a while.

I’ve never got a good read on how Nikki and Maxine feel about each other. I know that Nikki disapproves of my relationship with Maxine–mostly on the grounds that she knows it’s going to end with my heart being broken–but I suspect that she likes Maxine as a person. Maxine, meanwhile, just likes everyone.

“Does she always walk around like that?” Maxine asks after I usher her into my bedroom door, closing the door behind us. “Like…just the shirt?”

“Yeah,” I shrug. “Maybe she wouldn’t have if she knew you were going to be here, but…” Nikki also didn’t seem very fazed about her shirt even after she knew Maxine was here, so it’s actually hard to say if that’s true or not.

“You know, any other girl might get pretty pissy if they knew you lived with someone who had an ass like that.”

“Are you, uh, pissy about that?” I ask.

“Nah,” she shrugs, her cheeks turning a little pink.

Maybe Nikki was right, back when she suggested that Maxine was eventually going to go through a phase in college where she started dating girls. 

“It wasn’t a bad view,” Maxine continues. “Besides, how threatened can I be when I know she wants nothing to do with your diapers?”

I shrug. “Sure.”

“And speaking of ‘pissy,’” she smiles. “Are we going to do something about that diaper or not?”

“Do you really want to change me?” I ask. 

“If I didn’t want to, do you really think I would’ve gotten up so early, put on clothes, and left my bedroom to come over here?”

“In that case…the extra diapers are over there,” I say, pointing over to the open package of grocery-store incontinence briefs.

“I can’t wait until your new diapers arrive,” she says.

“What are they like?” I ask.

“Cute.”

“Cute how, though?”

“Like…they look like baby diapers,” she shrugs. “Little designs printed on them. Seriously, you’re going to cum your pampers when you see them.”

The phrase ‘cum your pampers’ would probably get me a little worked up no matter what, but especially now–when I was reminded that last night I had rubbed myself in my wet diaper until I came in the diaper that I was still wearing now. I doubted she’d be able to tell, but it was still embarrassing to think of her manhandling my wet padding without knowing I had blown my load in it too.

“Is your pacifier over here?” she asks.

“I don’t need a…” Again, I stop myself from just automatically shutting her down. It might have been humiliating to suckle the plastic pacifier while she changed my diaper the last time–but I still liked it. Then, I feel myself blushing a little as I point towards my bedside table, where the pacifier sits next to my lamp and alarm clock.

“Oh,” she smirks. “Keeping it close and accessible, I see. Do you use it when I’m not around?”

“I might have used it briefly last night,” I shrug.

“You’re so cute sometimes.”

“Just sometimes?”

“The more babyish you act, the cuter you get,” she says. “Keep that in mind, alright?”

“Noted.”

“Okay, then,” she shrugs. “You ready to do this? Get down on the floor, baby.”

“You don’t have to call me ‘baby,’ you know?”

“Okay,” she says. “But do you like it when I do?”

“Just…” I consider this as I lower myself down to the floor, lying down on my back so that I was looking up at her smiling face. “Yeah, it’s okay.”

“Thought so. Baby.”

She kneels down next to me, once again taking the waistband of my shorts in her hands as she slowly pulls them down. Past my diaper. Past my knees. Then down my ankles and off altogether. She pushes my thighs apart from each other, creating a space for her to then step into. 

“Is it weird that I like seeing you like this?” she asks.

“If it’s weird…I’m weird too.”

“We know you’re weird,” she laughs.

Staring up at her face as she pulls the velcro tabs up from the front of the diaper, I suddenly think of The Cradle. I think of how Mirabelle has insisted I return, even making it clear that she’ll make it easy to do so. I think of how I’m almost positive that I’m going to take Mirabelle up on that offer.

Which means that Maxine should probably know at some point.

“This one’s not as stinky as your last one,” she says, pulling the front of the diaper open.

“Does it smell at all?”

“Smells like pee,” she shrugs. “Probably because you’ve been sitting in it for god-knows how long. This is how babies get rashes, you know? I want to make a comment about how the threat of diaper rashes–especially for adults who wear diapers–is probably exaggerated, but there’s a new rawness I’m feeling in my inner-thighs. 

It’s all but confirmed by Maxine: “Ah jeez–look at your legs! I think you’ve got a little rash starting already.”

“Shit…”

“It’s fine,” she says. “They make ointment for that. I could grab you some later.”

“If you want to.” Truthfully, I’m very happy she’s volunteering to get it. The last thing I need is to run into Julie Ross again, this time while holding diaper-rash cream.

“I got it,” she nods, pulling a wipe from a package she had grabbed from the dresser.

I’m still learning how to have my diaper changed. I’m sure if I said that aloud, I’d be met with “Well, you don’t have to do anything when getting changed.” Physically, that’s true. But there’s this emotional dance taking place while the moist wipe is being slid across my skin–the battle between the feeling of humiliation and the feeling of feeling comforted and cared for. Both are important. I’d argue that both are good–but feeling both, at once, is completely exhausting. 

“What are you doing today?” she asks, her voice almost entirely nonchalant–as if she’s not changing her older boyfriend’s diaper while she talks to me.

“I, uh, don’t know,” I shrug. “I guess I’ve got some work I should be doing.” It’s hard to think of much beyond this moment. “Why? What are you doing today?”

“I was going to take a train to the city later,” she says. “Maybe hit up a bookstore and a record shop or something. I’m meeting a friend for dinner at this vegan place he likes. We’re going to a show tonight.”

“He?” I regret asking as soon as I do–it sounds so silly and petty of me to immediately fixate on that part.

“Aww,” she coos. “Is the wittle baby jeawous. You shouldn’t be. Kellen is my friend from high school. And, like, super gay.”

“Sure,” I shrug, trying to play it off like it’s not a big deal. “Sounds like a good time. What, uh, show are you two seeing?”

“Some band I never heard of,” she says. “Crystal Antelope or something stupid like that.”

“Sounds like a fun time, though. Even if the band sucks.”

“Do you want to come?” she asks.

I do. But even at my best–even if I wasn’t waddling around in diapers and pissing my pants–I’m sure I’d feel out of my element. I’d be worrying about being judged for which books and records I picked up to look at. I’d be lost at a vegan restaurant. I’d probably be staring down at my phone while at a concert for a band I’ve never heard before. Next, I imagine all of that while wearing a diaper–and while the risk of pooping my pants is even an iota higher than nil–and I’m even more sure that I’d rather not tag along.

Still, her invitation has me thinking about my steadily-increasing desire to return to California. I was thinking that I had to have a difficult conversation with her about leaving the east coast again–further reducing the amount of time we’d be spending together this summer. But what if there was another option? 

I could just invite her to come with me.

“I don’t think today works for me,” I say, realizing I never answered her question.

“No worries,” she shrugs. “Plenty of time this summer to do stuff together. Like, I was thinking for next weekend, we should do a, uh, picnic.”

I laugh. “A picnic? That’s not a very Maxine thing.”

“I know, I know,” she says. “But, c’mon, doesn’t it sound kind of cute? Like old-school? I could even get one of those wicker picnic baskets and a red-plaid blanket. What do you think?”

It’s so easy to commit to this. All I have to do is say that it’s a cute idea–which it is–and say that I’m in. But when I think of the future–and it doesn’t matter if it’s next weekend or even two days from now–I think of California. How quickly can I get back to The Cradle?

“It sounds good…” I say.

“I sense a ‘but’ coming.”

“I just, uh, I might already have some plans for next weekend. But let me just confirm them and–”

“Plans?” she snickers. “What plans do you have?”

She’s right to question me–I rarely ever have plans. I don’t do a whole lot. I don’t go many places. “L-like I said, I can let you know soon, I just need to make sure I don’t have other plans first.”

“Alfie, what other plans?” she repeats. She doesn’t look mad yet, but she’s starting to look, at least, slightly miffed. At this point, she’s finished wiping my skin clean, and she’s pulling the soggy diaper out from under me so that she can roll it up into a tight wad and tie it shut.

Let’s just do this. Let’s just pull the band-aid off.

“I want to go back to California,” I say. 

She laughs at this. “Like…now? Soon? So soon that you can’t even commit to a fucking picnic?”

I sigh. “I don’t know yet, Maxine. I’ve been in touch with someone from the, uh…” I don’t know what to call that place, especially when talking to someone who hasn’t been there themselves. “That group in California is eager to have me go back out there again.”

“And you…want to go back too?” she asks, unfurling the new diaper on the ground between my thighs.

“I do.” Most of my desire for this has been internalized up through now–I have no doubt that this comes as a surprise to her. 

“And it has to be this weekend?”

“I mean, I don’t know when I’m going to go back yet, but I’m just saying that I can figure that part out first and then…”

“Is it really that important for you to go back this summer?” she asks.

“Well…”

“I’ll be going to college soon, Alfie. It’d be nice if we had the rest of the summer to spend, you know, together.”

“Right,” I say, “but I was thinking about that too. What if you came with me?”

“To…California?”

“Right.”

“I don’t know if that’s going to happen, Alfie.”

“What? Why not? You and me on a cross-country trip? Going to Cali together? I could show you all the amazing things that I experienced?”

“Alf…I might technically be an adult, but I still live with my parents and for as long as they–you know–give me money…” She pauses, seeming to consider how to finish this thought before sighing and shrugging. “I don’t think they’d be okay with me flying across the country with you, Alfie. They don't even know we’re dating. They don’t even know…”

“They don’t even know who I am,” I say. This isn’t new news to me, but it’s something we don’t talk about very much. Saying the words out loud–especially to her–hurts a little. 

“Alfie…”

“You are an adult, Maxine. I mean, you’re going to the city tonight, right? Did you get their permission to do that? Or are you just going?”

She rolls her eyes as she stares down at me. While I’m on my back–legs spread and with a diaper between my thighs–it’s hard to feel like I have any sort of advantage in this conversation.

“That’s different, Alfie. Look, I don’t think I’m asking for a lot, okay? If you’re going to go back to, uh, Diaper Camp–or whatever the fuck that place is–couldn’t you just wait a month or two when I’m at school? Stay here. With me.”

“It’d just be a week,” I say.

“So you say now.”

“What do you mean?”

“You just got back from there the first time,” she says. “And you didn’t even want to go that first time. And now, here you are, already talking about going back. Clearly that place already has a pull on you. You’ll go back for a week, and you’ll probably fall even more in love with it. And then what? You’ll stay for longer than a week. Or you’ll come back and then decide you need to go yet again.”

“We’re kind of jumping the gun here, aren’t we?” I ask. “I want to spend as much time with you this summer as we can. But I also want to go back for a little bit. Is that really asking so much?”

“Isn’t this nice?” she asks, sliding the fresh diaper under my ass. “Look at me, Alfie–I’m treating you like a baby. I changed you after you pooped yourself, remember?”

“I… Of course I remember.” I’d never forget, either.

“You don’t need to go back there right away. Stay here and I’ll treat you like a baby all summer long, if that’s what you want. Please?”

“Maxine…”

“Do you want to be with me or not?”

I’m feeling pretty flustered. It sounds an awful lot like an ultimatum, and that just doesn’t seem fair to me. Am I really asking that much? Am I being so selfish by wanting to go back sooner than later?

“Are you asking me to choose between California and you?” I ask.

She shrugs. “What if I was?”

I love Maxine. I’m crazy about Maxine. If there are flaws in our relationship–and I’m smart enough to know that there are–I usually choose to just ignore them. But moments like this make it hard. She wants me to stay here and put my plans on hold, but what is she doing for me? Is she telling her friends and family about me? Is she promising any sort of future for our relationship once she goes away to school?

“Look,” Maxine says after a few moments of waiting for me to respond, “this is a silly argument to be getting in. We can figure all that stuff out later, okay? One thing at a time. So, first, let’s get you into a clean diaper.”

“Right,” I sigh. 

She pulls the front of the diaper up through my thighs and positions it over my crotch before pulling each tab into place. It’s a good feeling–Maxine already has a sense of what makes for a great caregiver. But it’s hard to truly enjoy the moment, knowing that we might have just hit a wall in our relationship. 

Whether we talk about it now or later, a decision will still need to be made at some point soon. Milk? Or Maxine?

  • Like 10
Posted

This is a fun story. If it would help out Alfie you could just have Maxine reach out to me, I could always provide a diaper to be changed!

  • Like 1
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On 1/31/2025 at 10:20 PM, zzzz50 said:

This is a fun story. If it would help out Alfie you could just have Maxine reach out to me, I could always provide a diaper to be changed!

You're a good friend. I'll pass this along.

  • Haha 1

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