40. Human. I write AB/DL erotica. New stories (and better versions of the stories on this blog) are on Ream. This content is strictly for indivuals aged 18+ with no excepton.
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Fifty-Nine: ASSISTANCE NEEDED
Should I be resisting more?
Should I be kicking, punching, and wriggling with every muscle in my body–pushing my body in some sort of adrenaline-filled last stand?
I like the idea of that, but it also seems like so much work. And, well, I’m kind of tired.
There’s a lot that I don’t understand about my interdimensional galavanting. Is this, the body I’m inhabiting, my body? Or does my body just get recreated in every new world that I go to? And why am I still incontinent if I haven’t had any milk in… Well, I don’t know how long it's been, but I know it’s been a while. Is it because my body–in the world I originated from–is in some milk-addled stupor? The hell if I know. And it’s not like there’s an instruction manual or anything.
But I am tired. Not like I need to take a nap–though that would be nice too–but like there’s a general worn-out feeling in my bones. A mental fatigue. I’m sick or running. Of worrying. Of stressing.
Right now, I could be fighting or running, but it just seems easier to let this robo-mommy do her thing.
I made little effort to escape as MAMA drew nearer. And now that my wrist is trapped in the tight grip of her fingers, and she’s leading me back upstairs, I just don’t see how I can break free without expending more energy than I think I have.
Eventually, yes, I’ll need to get away from her and out of this place. CRAD13, or whatever it’s called. And Audry will need to get out of here too. But we can figure that out later. First, we’ll assess the situation, and then we’ll figure out the best means of busing out. ‘Tommy’ was apparently able to figure that much out, per his journal, so it feels like a good amount of the work is done.
Back in the nursery, I see that Audry is already in the crib, kneeling on the plush bottom in a frilly pink dress, a thick diaper that juts out the bottom of it, a pacifier sticking out of her mouth, and her hair tied in pigtails. She does look kind of adorable–which is just as weird to admit to myself as it would be to say it out loud. I’m also kind of impressed with how quickly MAMA, and perhaps the house itself, were able to doll her up like this. I didn’t think I had been downstairs all that long.
“Now, little boy, let us get you atop the changing table,” MAMA says.
I glance over my shoulder at Audry again. Her hands grip the wooden bars of the crib’s wall, looking like a prisoner. “Save yourself,” her eyes seem to say. “Get out of here.”
But I’m sure she feels the same exhaustion that I do. If we think alike–and I’m almost certain that we do–she’s on the same page as me right now: Assess first. Get out later.
I lay down on the changing table’s padded surface, and MAMA takes my wrists and ankles and guides my limbs into the right place so that the automated metal straps can wrap around me and hold me in place.
There’s the slightest vibration to the changing table as the mechanical arms begin to emerge all around my body. It’s funny how much different this experience is with the chang of perspective. From this vantage point–on my back on the changing table and looking up–I feel like I’m in some weird horror movie as strange hands appear and disappear from my vision.
There are hands with wipes, and they carefully stroke at the skin of my groin to clean me off. Other hands have a large disposable diaper, and they’re unfolding it and preparing to slide it under me. I see a hand with a bottle of baby powder. A hand hovering above my head plants a pacifier into my mouth, just as it had with Audry earlier.
MAMA herself does very little at this juncture. It’s the changing table itself–perhaps the house, at large–that’s doing the actual work of diapering me. MAMA seems to just be supervising. She’s like a conductor, I suppose. I imagine her as the mobile hands of CRAD13, doing all the things that the house itself isn’t able to do on its own.
But it’s not like this hurts or anything. The hands are as gentle as they are quick. Dare I say, I even feel strangely comfortable throughout this entire process.
Hands slide beneath me and lift my bottom into the air so that the unfurled diaper can be slid beneath me, and then I’m lowered atop it.
It’s kinda funny, I guess, how much I’ve come to love the ceremony of a diaper change. I’ll never get over the shared vulnerability involved–the inherent trust between the baby and the caretaker. It’s no wonder that there was a sizable group of ‘adult babies’ in the world–or, at least, the world I come from. They all probably realize that human contact never got any better than what it was like when we first popped out of the womb.
Which is to say that this experience right here–getting changed by a fleet of robotic hands–is not the same. There’s no intimacy here. No personal touches or flourishes. It’s all very inhuman and cold. I feel like a product on an assembly line. These hands aren’t diapering a baby, they’re building a refrigerator, or packing crackers into boxes.
I’d feel sorry for the child who was raised in an environment like this–deprived of the human experience of diaper changes.
Baby powder is liberally shaken over my midsection, causing new clouds of white dust to drift across the room. The diaper is pulled up through my legs and smoothed over my flaccid penis. The tapes are opened and pulled into place with mathematical precision–like these hands know the exact point they need to be stretched towards for the perfect fit.
The binding bracers retreat from my wrists and ankles and back into the changing table’s surface again, but they’re replaced by new robotic hands, providing temporary restraint while other hands unfold pieces of clothing.
A onesie, sailor themed. All white with navy blue trim, collar, and blue kerchief around the neck. It’s…cute. Embarrassingly so. I tilt my head a little to look at Audry’s face. Her cheeks are good and pink, and I think I see the corners of a smile behind her pacifier. She’d probably have something snarky to say about this outfit–not that she’s one to talk, in that babyish dress of hers.
The onesie is slipped over my head and pulled down my body, the bottom snapped shut around my thick diaper. Given the way the hands have to pull at the bottom of the onesie to close it, I get the feeling that it’s a tight fit, which somehow makes my cheeks blush a little more.
But apparently that’s not all I get to wear. I feel something being pulled onto my head. A hat? But in my periphery, I see white ruffles. The hands below my chin, tying two pieces of ribbon together, confirms it–this is a bonnet.
“There you are, little boy,” MAMA says as the hands begin to retreat back into the hidden crevices and cavities they originally came from. “Now you are appropriately dressed.”
I’d respond–probably offering a sarcastic ‘thank you’ if I could–but the pacifier in my mouth feels like a message that babies are not to be talking.
“You poor babies must be famished,” MAMA says. “Not to worry, you will be fed soon enough. Look forward to scrumptious meals, chock full of the nutrients growing babies like you need.”
Audry and I share a look of disgust with each other. What kind of food could this place possibly be serving us? If nobody’s been here in years, it’s hard to believe that there’s anything here that is still in edible condition.
This is going to be how I die, isn’t it? Food poisoning from decades-old baby food. I’m just going to violently poop my diapers until there’s nothing left inside of me.
I realize, suddenly, that I’m being picked up. Cradled in MAMA’s arms effortlessly, like I really did weigh as much as a toddler. I won’t lie, this feels kind of nice. She carries me over to the crib, and without her taking any action of her own, one of the panels on the side of the crib slides open automatically so that she can deposit me inside of it, next to Audry. Then she walks away, and the panel closes and clicks shut.
“I shall return shortly with your lunch, children,” MAMA says. “Be good boys and girls, yes?”
And she just stands there, staring at us. There are times when she almost seems more human-like, but this is not one of those times. She doesn’t breathe, and she doesn’t blink. And she doesn’t make any whirring sounds when she’s not moving either–so she’s just a statue, gazing at us indefinitely.
Audry realizes at the same time I do that MAMA is awaiting a response from us. Audry nods her head finally.
MAMA’s lips pull into something kind of like a smile before turning and leaving the room.
===
“Is that not the creepiest thing you’ve ever seen?” Audry asks, motioning towards the door that MAMA just walked out of while spitting her pacifier into her hand.
“She’s like the Terminator,” I say, happy I could finally make that joke out loud.
“More like…the Momminator,” Audry remarks.
“The Term…mom…inator?”
“Maternal…nator…”
“Okay, okay,” I say. We could attempt to find the perfect ‘Terminator Mommy’ joke all day, but we’ve got bigger things to worry about.
“We’re trapped in here,” she says.
“The crib?” I wobble into standing position, using the bars of the crib wall to keep my balance. I can reach the top of the wall, but I’m realizing how freakishly large the crib is now. It’d take a lot of arm strength to pull myself up and over it to escape. More than I have, that’s for sure. Between the height of the walls, and the fact that both Audry and I can comfortably sit in here at the same time, I’m made aware of how this crib isn’t just ‘big,’ it’s ‘freakishly big.’
“There’s no, like, latch or anything either,” she says. “As best as I can tell. Not one that we can reach from inside the crib, at least.”
“Probably the way it should be,” I say. “Babies aren’t supposed to be able to escape their cribs, right?”
She sighs. “I guess. But isn’t this, like, a fire hazard? Or what if the machines malfunction or something. Then we’re just stuck in this thing until we die?”
“I’m, uh, going to hope that those situations aren’t things we have to deal with.”
“She’s going to give us old food, isn’t she?” Audry asks. “We’re going to be forced to have food poisoning.”
I laugh. “Hey, I had the same thought!”
“Okay, but…that doesn’t really help us.”
“Hold on,” I say, tapping my chin. I’m looking around the room, taking in everything. Maybe there’s opportunities for escape here we’re overlooking.
Audry giggles.
“What? What’s so funny.”
“I…I dunno. The bonnet? The onesie? You’re a cute little sailor, you know that?”
“Oh please,” I sigh. “You wanna talk about cute? Take a look at yourself and that floofy dress you’re wearing. Little princess over there.”
She sighs, her cheeks getting almost as pink as the ruffles on her dress now. “Sh-shut up…”
“Oh please,” I say. “Just as I know that I like feeling cute and small, I know that you like it too.”
“Maybe I’d like it more if I didn’t feel like I was in baby jail right now,” she says.
I can’t help but laugh, realizing that this is exactly what it feels like. Not only that, but it seems consistent with my world-hopping experience so far. Held prisoner by giant women. Held in a bunker beneath the ruins of The Cradle by post-apocalyptic cheerleaders. My captivity at the hands of Not-Celia. And now: trapped in CRAD13.
“Well, at least we’re trapped together,” I say. “A-and you know…that’s not the worst thing in the world.”
She raises a curious eyebrow.
I continue: “Like, you know… We could always just…do it.”
“Do it,” she repeats.
“Right. Pull down our diapers and…”
“I-I know what you meant,” she says, cheeks blushing again. “It’s not a bad idea. But…she’s going to be back any minute, isn’t she? And who knows where all those little robot hands are…”
I glance around me. “Do you think…they’re in the crib?”
She shrugs. “I bet they’re in places we don’t yet know about–just waiting for us to do something ‘naughty’ so that they can pop out and smack us around.”
“I mean, here’s something to consider,” I say. “Maybe this place wasn’t designed to house two babies simultaneously.”
“Hm.” She seems to be considering this herself now.
“I don’t know how to use that to our advantage yet, but…”
“Oh,” she says, her eyes getting big. I swear I see a lightbulb appearing above her head for a moment. “Give me a boost. I can stand on your shoulders and if you can get me to the top of the crib…”
“So I can get you over,” I say. “But then what about me? And why am I the one who has to help you get out? Why can’t I be the one to get out?”
“Because I’m the girl,” she says with a shrug.
It’s not a great argument…but it still seems to work on me.
“Okay…what then?”
“I dunno.”
“All you have to do is find a way to get me out too,” I say. “In the journal, it says how the last guy here was able to escape. I think…?”
“You think?”
“Well…I don’t know if he actually escaped or not. For all I know, he’s dead now and the last entry in his journal isn’t because he left, but because MAMA tossed him out a window or something.”
“Not instilling much confidence here, Alfie…”
“I don’t think we have much time before MAMA comes back up here,” I say. “If one of us can get out now, we should take that opportunity while we can. We’ll figure out the rest later.”
She nods her head. “You wanna give me a boost then?”
“Uh, one more time,” I say. “We’re sure we don’t want to just, like, have sex in this crib right now and then leave this world altogether?”
She opens her mouth to respond, but pauses before she actually says anything. Maybe this idea is suddenly sounding better to her?
Clop. Clop. Clop. They’re faint yet, but we can hear footsteps at the bottom of the stairs beyond this room. Time is more limited than we thought. Scratch the ‘have sex’ plan.
“Come on,” I say, waving for her to get closer to me. “Let’s get you out of here.”
We’re both nervous. The house–and MAMA herself–are an unknown entity to us. We’ve seen some of their capabilities, but who knows what else this place can do.
I hold out my hands in front of me, palms up, giving her a platform to step onto. She does, and I put my back into helping lift her up.
“Y-y’know,” I say, “I doubt you’re that much lighter than me.”
She doesn’t respond verbally, but she looks down at me with a look that says: “Later, I’m going to punch you for that.” It’d probably be well deserved.
Me, I’m looking straight up at her diaper as she grips the top of the crib wall and begins to pull herself over it. Not a bad view, if you ask me.
It’s kinda weird though–I don’t really see Audry the same way I do someone like Maxine or Celia. I don’t have, like, a ‘crush’ on Audry. I don’t see myself falling in love with her. Audry’s in this weird space where she’s more like an extension of myself. A reflection. She’s a part of myself, given a body and its own agency. It's extremely strange, and I still haven’t figured it all out yet, but I suppose nobody’s ever really had this experience before now. That I know of. I’d be curious to see if she feels the same way, though this hardly seems like the time to ask.
She’s over the wall. She’s dropping down to her feet. She turns to me, putting her hand through the bars, taking mine.
“Let me tell you how to get out of here,” I say.
She laughs. “I’m not leaving without you. All I want to do is see how I can shut this stupid thing down.”
“Hurry up,” I say, hearing that the footsteps are even closer now. “Go.”
Those damn robotic hands are revealing themselves again. They come from the floor and the walls. They are trying to catch Audry–trying to grab at her limbs as she runs past them. I can’t speak for her, but I know that I’ve never really been the poster child for dexterity or athletic skill. If that was me running, I think I’d be captured right away. My luck, I’d probably trip over my own feet. I wouldn’t say that her movements are elegant and effortless, but she shows surprising grace for someone in a thick diaper and a silly dress.
MAMA is at the door, and she also reaches out to grab for Audry–though her hands are full–but Audry ducks the robot’s arms and disappears from my view.
MAMA, perhaps not programmed to say something like “Goddammit.” Simply turns towards me, extending a hand towards me that’s holding a baby bottle. There’s a second bottle in her other hand.
“I will deal with that naughty child,” she says. “But in the meantime, little boy, you still have to eat.”
“I…I’m not hungry,” I say. “Thanks, though.”
“The decision is not yours to make, little one,” she says, striding closer to the crib. I can hear that dreaded mechanical whirring in her joints again. So quickly have I come to dread that sound.
“What’s even in that bottle?” I ask. “You know it’s been a long time since you’ve cared for someone, right? I, uh, doubt you’ve been getting fresh food delivered here. What is that? Fifteen year old milk? You might just be killing me.”
“It is interesting to hear that you care about such things, little one,” MAMA says. “But I can assure you that every morsel of food you are fed here has been properly prepared in a sanitized environment, and scanned thoroughly for potential contaminates. I would not be serving this to you now if it posed a threat to your health.”
“Okay,” I say. “But…what is that in the bottle?”
“You ask far too many questions, little boy,” she says, at the crib now. Her hand slides through the bars, offering the bottle to me. “Just take this and drink it. When you are finished, I will allow you to leave the crib.”
“You will?” I ask. I have to remind myself, though, that being released from the crib doesn’t mean that I’m released from CRAD13, or MAMA’s control. Especially now that Audry is running amok in the house, I imagine I’d be on a short leash.
“Be a good boy and drink up, while I look for your sister.”
My sister. That’s an interesting way of looking at our relationship–though I can’t say that I like it.
I start to reach for the bottle, thinking that I might just humor her–take the bottle and dump it out when she’s not looking. But before I can wrap my own hands around it, another hand has grasped it instead–another of those damned mechanical hands, this one coming from the ceiling.
There’s more hands. I can’t even tell where they’re all coming from. They’re gripping my arms and my legs. Hands hold my face in place, squeezing my cheeks so that my mouth pops open as another carries the bottle closer to my face.
“No…no, please…”
Shunk. The nipple slides into my mouth, and a hand forces my mouth to close around it.
I’m drinking. I honestly couldn’t tell you if I’m being made to drink, or if my body has just surrendered and is letting this happen. It’s…not milk, whatever it is. It’s thick, like milk, but the taste is off. It’s strangely sweet. Maybe a little…oaty? It’s not horrible, but it’s certainly not good either.
I’m reminded of being back at The Cradle–my Cradle–being fed milk by one of the mommies. I miss that feeling of losing control of myself as the desire to be a big baby overtook me. You could say it was Mother’s milk, but it was just as much that place, I think–it felt good to be in a place where you could let yourself abandon those adult trappings so easily. I’ve missed that feeling more than I thought I did, it seems, because I feel the tightness in my limbs easing as I allow these hands to hold me and feed me. The hell if I know what they’re pumping into my mouth, but I just don’t care at the moment.
The bottle emptied, it’s pulled from my mouth and taken elsewhere–handed from hand to hand like a bucket brigade–until it’s set on a table for MAMA to collect later. The hands are now retreating from my body, leaving me free to move on my own, even if I’m still confined within my crib.
The feeling of the liquid sloshing in my gut has a somewhat pacifying effect on me, and I rest my back against the crib’s bars and slouch into a semi-laying position.
While I certainly hope Audry’s okay, wherever she is in the house right now, I wouldn’t mind being given a few minutes to just rest here before I’m freed from my crib and have to start running around again.
===
I space out a little bit as I wait to see what comes of Audry’s schemes. Occasionally I can hear things banging around downstairs. Beeps and boops. Some kind of alarm goes for a few moments.
Meanwhile, I’m just stewing in my diaper. I wet it a little bit ago–absolutely drenched it. It hasn’t happened yet, but I’m pretty sure that I’ll be messing myself soon enough, too. I can feel something rumbling in my abdomen. I’m not even mad about it though. It feels good to just sit here in my dirty diaper.
I’m hard, and I find myself slowly, lazily, pawing at the front of my diaper through my onesie–stroking at the firm shape encased in warm and squishy padding.
Be careful, I remind myself. While I don’t think I can make myself cum with such a lackadaisical approach, I don’t want to get myself too excited. Cumming now would mean that I’m sent out of this world without Audry–and the odds of us connecting again are slim to none.
Of course, the thought of Audry while touching myself causes me to recall that moment, just a little while ago, where I got to look up her dress and see that plump diaper of hers. And then there was that thrilling encounter in the woods where our bodies got tangled up in each other’s.
Oh yeah, that was good…
Despite the fact that I’m trying not to think too hard about anything at all right now, a thought still pops into my head: For us to travel back to the, uh, Onion together…do we have to cum at the same exact time? What happens if one of us cums and, like, blasts off to the next world, but the other hasn’t finished yet?
It is rather lucky, then, that Audry and I happened to cum at the same exact time.
Or, perhaps, that makes sense too? Maybe, because we’re different versions of the same person, we have the same exact thresholds for pleasure? Maybe we’d always cum at the same time during sex?
Huh.
That’s some pretty trippy stuff. Makes me wish I was stoned right now. That’s what I want–a bong. I want to exhale a cloud of smoke so thick that I can’t see the TV screen in front of me for a few moments. I want to feel like, despite the fact I’m sitting still on the couch, I’m drifting through space. I want to burst into uncontrollable laughter and…
“Unh…”
A sudden grunt pushes out from my mouth and my eyes widen. Instinct alone tells my body to sit up straight and then bend myself over a little, giving the back of my diaper a little more space.
My bottom makes a loud but muffled rippling sound–embarassingly enough, almost like someone blowing a raspberry with their mouth. The mess that is dumped into the diaper is soft and gloopy. That my diaper feels so full–so swampy–in just a few seconds is a testament to just how big of a mess I’ve made. And the smell–which quickly makes its presence known to me–is especially pungent. I could see a stink like this knocking someone with a nose less acclimated to big babies’ accidents out.
“Erh…” I let out another meek noise as I try and push the last of it out of me. I feel the warm diaper’s new weight tugging at my hips. I should be a little disgusted in myself, I think. A little ashamed. But my hand is still on the front of my diaper.
Oh. I realize that I’m not rubbing my diaper through the onesie anymore. I look down and see that it’s been unsnapped. I definitely didn’t purposefully reach down and pull it open, which might mean that the added bulk to my diaper caused the tight-fitting onesie to just burst open at some point. It’s hard to say why, but the thought of that fills me with joy.
Calm down, I tell myself. I’m turned on. Worked up. I’m horny. And the idea that it’s my disgusting diaper that’s contributing to this excitement is somehow only making me hornier.
“Hoo boy,” I mutter. I try to slow my breathing. I try, and fail, to think unsexy thoughts. But note even the thought of Aunt Dorothy licking peanut butter off a stick of celery is helping right now.
Suddenly, there’s a chiming noise that echoes through the house.
“ASSISTANCE NEEDED IN THE NURSERY,” a monotonous voice drones over speakers that I can’t seem to locate. “SOILED DIAPER IN THE NURSERY.”
“Christ,” I sigh, feeling my cheeks getting red. Even if the only other human who would hear this message is Audry, it’s still plenty embarrassing to be put on blast like that.
Here come the hands again, lowering themselves onto me from all angles.
“N-no,” I say, trying to shake free of their grip. “Go away! I’m not trying to escape or anything, I’m just–”
But I’m cut off by a hand plugging my mouth with a pacifier once again.
The hands are freakishly strong. I suppose there’s a chance that I’m just freakishly weak, but I choose not to dwell on that too much. They pull my hands away from my diaper before pulling my whole body into a sitting position.
“Ermmm…” I let out a panicked moan as the weight of my body splats down in the disgusting load I’ve filled my diaper with. I may not have been the biggest fan of MAMA thus far, but her presence right now, to help clean my dirty bottom, would be quite welcome.
Another chiming noise. “SOILED DIAPER IN THE NURSERY,” the droning voice over the speaker says again.
I roll my eyes. Does it always do this?
And where is MAMA anyway?
Where is Audry, for that matter? What is she doing?
===
A few minutes pass, and then a few more. By my estimation, it’s been an hour since I loaded my diaper. I’m still sitting in my swampy mess. The room still stinks of rotten death. And still? No sign of MAMA. No sign of Audry. The hands are still here, holding me in place–like the system that runs this house thinks I have somewhere to go if it wasn’t holding me in place.
Occasionally–at an interval I can’t quite figure out, there’s another announcement made that there’s a ‘SOILED DIAPER IN THE NURSERY,’ though apparently this doesn’t matter to anyone.
“Hey…can you thust let me go or thomething?” I ask through my pacifier. I don’t even know who I’m talking to. The house itself? These robotic hands?
There’s no response to this–not that I expect one.
It’s a little concerning that I haven’t seen MAMA for a while, though. I’m guessing this means that she found Audry, though the outcome of that altercation is uncertain. If MAMA prevailed, perhaps she’d be up here by now to change my diaper or make some comment about the current status of Audry, but that certainly hasn’t happened yet. Likewise, if Audry prevailed, then why hasn’t she come back up to the nursery yet to let me out?
I try to imagine all the possibilities. Maybe MAMA and Audry have somehow killed (deactivated?) each other in battle, and their bodies are lying in a heap somewhere. Or maybe Audry has actually escaped the house, and MAMA is chasing her through the woods.
There’s that chiming noise again. The droning voice says: “ASSISTANCE NEEDED IN THE KITCHEN.” a monotonous voice drones over speakers that I can’t seem to locate. “SOILED DIAPER IN THE KITCHEN.”
That’s new. That’s…somewhat promising? Would a dead woman poop her pants?
Well, actually…I think that’s a thing that happens, so maybe that’s not the best question to ask right now.
A few minutes pass, there’s a chime again. Then: “SOILED DIAPER IN THE NURSERY. SOILED DIAPER IN THE KITCHEN.”
MAMA is an in-demand woman at the moment. If only I knew where the hell she was.
More sounds coming from downstairs. A banging noise. CLANG. CLANG. CLANG. Then a more alarming sound–like, I don’t know, a small explosion?
“SOILED DIAPER IN THHHHHEEEE…” Then, just silence.
The fuck… I wish I was there to see whatever it was.
I realize, suddenly, that the robotic hands don’t have any grip strength left in them. They hang from the ceiling and the walls on their thin metallic hands, but they’re not actually doing anything. No movement. They’re not holding me in place any longer.
I lunge forward, gripping the bars of the crib wall, and I shake at it, testing to see if it’s still locked in place. To my relief, the crib panel slides away, allowing me to finally leave its confines. I slowly, carefully, climb out and let my feet land on the ground. I wait for more robotic hands to start popping up everywhere that I need to avoid–like when I watched Audry skip across the room earlier–but no such thing happens. The power is still on, given that the lights are on, but all the, uh, more robotic features of the house seem deactivated.
I spit my pacifier out onto the ground. “Audry?”
To my relief, I get a response. “Alfie?”
I run out of the nursery and down the stairs as fast as I can. I run all the way to the kitchen, where I let out an audible gasp at what I see.
Audry’s there, a large crowbar in one hand, and MAMA’s disconnected–and slightly battered–head hanging by a fistful of hair from the other. On the ground is the rest of MAMA’s body, smoking and sparking. Audry herself is smiling, even blushing a little. Her dress is torn in places, stained black in other spots. The bottom of her diaper hangs below the hem of what remains of her dress, looking every bit as brown as my own.
“Hey,” she says.
“Hey.”
“You missed the craziest shit,” she says. “You shoulda seen me. I was a total fucking badass.”
I sigh and shake my head. Isn’t that just my luck?
Sixty: Scenes from the Sex Montage
Audry tries her best to tell me the story about what happened in between when she escaped the nursery and when she beheaded the house’s robot caretaker, but I feel like I miss every other detail. I’ve got a lot going on in my head. I’m not just thinking about my own dirty diaper–I’m thinking about hers too. I’m thinking about what our next move is, after we get out of whatever the hell CRAD13 is.
She went to the basement. She found a crowbar. She tried to pry open the front door in the living room. She was assaulted by robot hands. She smacked them around with the crowbar. MAMA tried to stop her. In fact, she says that MAMA tried to spank her.
“Is it bad that I kind of wish she did?” I ask.
“I was thinking the same thing,” Audry sighs. “But I couldn’t let her, you know?”
So then, she got chased around a little. There were a few minutes there where Audry didn’t think she was going to come out on top (“That was about the time I messed my diaper,” she says). Then–CLUNK–she used the crowbar to clobber MAMA in the head, knocking it right off her body.
In doing so, she inadvertently shut off the ‘automated nursery’ component of CRAD13.
“Pretty cool, right?” she asks.
“I guess.” Admittedly, I have a little bit of a pout on my face.
“What’s wrong?”
“I mean, it sounds like a scary situation. But it also sounds cool as hell.”
“Aw,” she says. “You wanted to be the one to kill the robot nanny with a crowbar?”
“It woulda been nice,” I say, shrugging.
She snorts and shakes her head. “That’s funny, because I think I would be pouting too if I was the one left in the crib while all this cool stuff was happening.”
“Ah well. Thanks for whacking her and saving the day and all that.”
“My pleasure,” she says, a smug smile on her face.
“So, look. You stink. I stink. Maybe we should do something about that?”
She shrugs. “What’s the point?”
“The point? I mean…we pooped our diapers, so…”
“No, I mean, like, why bother changing when we can just leave.”
“Oh,” I say, eyes wide and mouth hanging open a little. “Like, uh, we…”
“Yes,” she says, nodding.
“We do that while we wear our, uh, dirty diapers, huh?”
“I mean, we could change,” she says. “Or clean up a little. But seeing as how we’re both already messy and how, like, when we finish we wouldn’t be here anyway…”
“Right, right,” I say, rubbing my chin as I consider this. “When you put it like that, I suppose it is extra work.”
She smiles and shrugs her shoulders, batting her eyelashes at me–a skill I’ve never really honed myself, but maybe that’s something more inherent for the female kind. “What do you say, you big baby? Wanna roll around with another stinky baby?”
===
Someday, assuming I ever make it out of this strange hell of visiting every other version of the world except for my own, I’ll have to make the decision about whether or not I tell anyone the whole story of what happened to me. It’s the sort of thing that nobody would ever believe because–as far as I know–nobody’s ever experienced it before. Or, if they have and they’ve talked about it, we as a collective community have deemed them to be ‘crazy’ and someone we shouldn’t be listening to.
That could be me. “Oh don’t mind him, that’s just Old Man Alfie. He’s kinda fucked up. Says he’s been to other dimensions, you know? Says he had weird diaper-sex with a female clone of himself or some shit like that. He’s harmless, but maybe it’s best if you just keep your distance from him.”
Like, if Maxine and I were still together, and I said to her: “Hey, I just want you to know that I cheated on you with a female version of myself,” would she consider that to be cheating?
Well, if I know Maxine as well as I think I know her, she’d probably ask: “Okay, so how was the sex then?”
“Uh, not too bad, actually.”
But then, would Maxine–or whatever future partner that I have that I would potentially tell this story to–feel threatened by this revelation (assuming they even believe it in the first place, of course)? I’m trying to think about how I’d feel if Maxine told me that she had sex with a male version of herself. And there’s a part of me that wonders how I’d ever compete with that, you know? Who knows your needs better than yourself? And with the taboo factor being off the fucking charts, there’s already this level of erotic tension that would be hard to match.
And so I’m thinking it’d be best if I just kept my big mouth shut about any sexcapades with Audry. That can just be our little secret.
===
“We’re doing this, huh?” I ask. It’s, like, the sixth or seventh time one of us has asked this question in the last ten minutes. And every time it gets asked, it seems a little sillier than the last time, since the answer is always the same.
“It’s happening,” she says.
It’ll be her turn to ask me next, and she probably will soon enough.
We had initially debated doing it on the living room floor, or the couch, but opted against it. There must be a more comfortable and spacious option available somewhere in this place, and we’re in search of it. Plus, despite the fact that all the robotic components seem out of order at the moment–since the destruction of MAMA–the red light on the security camera in the living room is still lit. At the end of the day, I don’t think either of us cares if someone saw the sinful things we were about to do–be it now or later–but there’s still an inherent creepiness about being watched by a mysterious camera. Maybe there are cameras in the house that we just don’t know about yet–but as long as I don’t see them, I think I can deal with that.
Upstairs, we open a door at the end of the hallway, expecting to see, perhaps, a master bedroom. But no–it’s just a room full of computer equipment. Boxes with lights and meters and little display screens. Some flash and blink, some aren’t lit at all, while some screens show error codes and messages. Audry probably caused some very expensive damage to this system when she separated MAMA’s head from her body.
There is a small bedroom elsewhere–perhaps a place where ‘Tommy,’ or whatever other sucker came to stay here, slept in advance of MAMA turning them into a full-on baby. I suggest we use the bed, but Audry says she has another idea, tugging at my arm to lead me out of the room.
And we’re back in the nursery again. She’s pointing at the crib.
“In there?” I ask. “Really?”
“We know it’s big enough,” she says, shrugging. “And, well, doesn’t it seem fitting for two dirty little babies like us?”
I laugh and nod my head. “You’re right.”
To my surprise, and maybe hers, neither of us asks again if we’re sure about this. Instead, Audry slips into the crib and proceeds to lie on her back, hiking her dress up her waist to fully reveal her browned and lumpy diaper.
I crawl towards her on the crib’s padded surface. “Should I, uh, take my diaper…off?”
“Leave it on,” she says.
“But yours…”
“You’ll have to open it,” she says.
I suppose that I could try and pull the bottom of it aside, while leaving the diaper on her, but that might be creating an even worse mess to contend with, depending on where the contents of her padding are situated at the moment. I pull the tabs free from the front of the diaper, and with each loud tearing noise seeming to further excite us.
I’m hard again. Maybe it’s her, Audry itself, but I think it’s more than that. I think it’s the foul smell in this room–the stenches of our dirty diapers merging together for an entirely new set of strange odors. I think it’s the heavy load in my padding, and the one in hers. It’s all the unspeakable emotions coursing through the both of us as we prepare to engage in this very taboo ritual once more.
The tapes free, I open the front of her diaper, peeling it back and letting it flop onto the crib’s mattress between her thighs. There’s her filthy mess, plastered between her ass cheeks. But there is her inviting pink pussy, practically pulsating and dripping right before my eyes.
I push down the front of my diaper as best as I can, just enough to allow me to fish out my swollen cock. Success. I lick my lips and carefully crawl over her body.
“Do it,” she says in a low and husky tone.
But I want to hear her say it again. “Do…what?”
She laughs. “Fuck me, Alfie. Fuck me, you dirty little boy.”
“Look who’s talking, you…dirty little…girl…”
I’m inside of her. I’m thrusting now. She’s lifting her hips from the mattress in rhythm with my thrusts, like we’re meeting each other halfway.
At different times, each of us tries to talk–maybe we just have some naughty things we want to say to each other, or maybe we just want to mention how hot this moment is–but all we manage to get out is nonsensical babbling. It’s kind of fitting, in a way–baby’s talking to each other like babies.
Her hands pull at my onesie, while mine feel at her body through her dress. My fingers find her pigtails and I wrap them around my digits, pulling at them to make her moan even louder.
A part of me wishes that we did have an audience right now. An ‘adult’ to stumble in on us. Someone who knows better. Someone who could be appalled by the sight of our bodies twisted together–complete with our dirty diapers. Someone ready and willing to punish us for being so naughty.
I feel myself on the verge of cumming. A slow tremble is building in my body.
“Y-yes,” Audry says, as if reading my mind. “Me too.”
I think we’re both a little lost in the moment–all of our senses overloaded as we near climax. The smells–the foulness of our diapers and the softness of the lingering traces of baby powder in the air. The feeling of my diaper when it grinds against her skin. The look I see on her face–and the look that’s probably on mine–whenever one of us opens our eyes. The sounds of our moaning, and the crinkling of padding.
“A-almost…” I say.
“Yes,” she responds.
“I’m…”
But I don’t get to finish that statement.
===
Ah yes. The vast expanse of white, with the rings of doors.
The Onion, so to speak.
I need a moment or two. My heart is still racing, and I’m breathing heavily. Gone is the messy diaper, the onesie, and perhaps, the cum that had just squirted out of me. But I still feel like I’m coming off of an orgasm.
Breathe, Alfie. Breathe.
I’m alarmed to find that I’m alone–I was hoping, and expecting, that Audry would be right here with me. But, then again, this is what happened last time too. I had assumed that we were separated, only to find she was here as well–just somewhere else in the circle of doors.
“Audry?” I shout out.
No response. I try again: “Audry!” I wait a few moments, and after I don’t get a response, I start walking, hoping that I just need to get closer to her.
“Audry!”
I let out a long sigh, feeling like my heart is dropping in my chest. Maybe my earlier fears about what would happen if one of us came before the other is coming true now.
In the scheme of things, Audry and I haven’t spent a lot of time with each other. But I can’t say that we don’t know each other, because I feel like I might just know her better than I’ve ever known anyone in my life. Even if we were always fated to eventually split ways and be parted, I just don’t think I’m ready for that yet.
“Audry! For the love of god…Audry!”
Are there…tears in my eyes? Am I getting a little choked up? It’s quite the whiplash, going from a post-orgasmic high to suddenly experiencing loss.
I open my mouth, ready to shout her name again when I hear, albeit softly: “Alfie!”
I laugh and let out a sigh of relief. “Goddamn.”
I’m running now.
“Audry!”
“Alfie!”
Our nude bodies almost run into each other, and we loudly laugh together as we try to catch our breaths. I’ve got tears in my eyes, and so does she.
“I thought I almost lost you for a moment there,” I say.
“Yeah,” she says. “Same.”
“A-and it’s not like I need you…” I say, though I’m a little worried that this is coming out the wrong way.
“N-no, I know what you mean,” she says. “It’s, like, I don’t want to do this by myself.”
“Yes. Exactly.”
We take a beat to compose ourselves. I won’t speak for Audry, but I know that I’m feeling a little silly for overreacting at the idea of her not being here with me anymore. I’m not sure what to make of that. Is it Audry herself I would’ve missed? Or, is it like she said–that now that I’ve had a companion for this adventure, I don’t want to go back to not having one?
Both. I think both can be true. After all, as Nikki likes to say to me sometimes, my ideal partner would probably be myself. And, well, that’s Audry.
“What now?” she asks. “Pick a door? Do all that again?”
“What’s the point?” I ask.
“Hmm?”
“Like…what do we actually get from going to these new worlds? Strife. Problems. Getting locked up or put in peril. Clearly, we have to go through doors to get to the center of ‘the onion,’ but I think I’m…kind of over these adventures.”
She laughs. “Okay, sure. But what are we supposed to do about that?”
“We, uh, speedrun it.”
Her head tilts. “What’s that now?”
I’m reminded of Harriet–the version that isn’t Mother, as best as I could tell–in that white space at the very start of my travels. I said something similar to her once, and needed to explain what speedrunning in video games was.
“Well, speedrunning is like…”
She sighs. “I know what speedrunning is, you dork. What I don’t understand is how that applies to our situation.”
“I mean, it’s simple, right? Why bother exploring every world we go to? We jump through a door, uh, copulate, and then–badda bing–we’re closer to the center, you know? Then we just do that over and over and over again. However many times it takes.”
“Firstly,” she says. “Copulate?”
“I was being polite.”
“Secondly: ‘badda bing?’”
“What’s with you nitpicking everything I say, huh?”
She laughs. “No, no, it’s fine. I just…I guess I wonder if people think that I sound that corny when I talk.”
I roll my eyes. “Okay, but… What do you think of my idea?”
“It makes sense,” she says, shrugging. “It’s the kind of thing that, when we’re done and looking back on this situation…”
“Assuming we survive,” I interject.
“Sure, sure. It’s the kind of thing that would make a good montage, you know? Sex in different worlds.”
“See, that’s funny. Because that’s exactly what I was thinking too.”
She laughs. “I know.”
===
We peek through a few doors, but it’s hard to really know what you’re getting into from the little bit that you see through the doorways. Sometimes we see a grassy clearing in the woods. Sometimes we see a place that looks similar to The Cradle that we both know from our own worlds. Once, we see a sheer cliff face–which seems like a poor choice of a landing spot for us to jump into a new world. Then, in another doorway, we see a bustling city. I’m curious about that one–but we’ve already promised each other that we won’t waste more time exploring.
We’re ready to go home.
We’re looking for boring places. Places that look quiet and uneventful. The kinds of places we feel we could safely screw without being disturbed, captured, or inconvenienced in any way.
“Here,” she says, pointing through a door. “It’s just a field. Near some trees. It’s a sunny day. Looks as good a place as any.”
“Let’s do it,” I say. “Remember, no matter what we see there, we’re not going to explore.”
“Right,” she says. “We go in, do our thing, and move on.”
“You ready?” I ask. I think I’m asking myself more than her–my heart is racing and my hands feel sweaty. The unknown that lies before us will always be intimidating, I think.
“Ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Let’s do this.”
She smirks at me. “Badda bing.”
===
The field isn’t entirely alien to us, as the clearing kind of reminds me of the place where I first met Audry on another world. We take a few minutes to look around–despite saying we weren't going to do that, we can’t help ourselves. But we just have to know: what’s different about this world? What might be beyond the horizon, that we’d never see anywhere else? Giant women? Monsters? Volcanoes that shoot green lava up into the sky?
Everything looks ‘normal,’ though. I guess that’s exactly what we wanted, isn’t it?
“Come on,” I hear Audry say from behind me. “I’m ready.”
I spin around and see that she’s already lowering herself into the grass. She’s kicking her feet up into the air and spreading her legs.
I know that this is the plan, but I still have to laugh. This is my life now, huh?
“Alrighty,” I say. “Here I come. I’m, uh, gonna give it to you.”
She laughs. “Alfie?”
“Yes?”
“You, uh, don’t actually have to say anything. You can just…do it.”
“Yeah, alright.”
===
I’m back at the circle of doors again. And Audry is too, though it takes us a moment or two to find each other. The curve of the circle seems a little more pronounced to me–like it’s a smaller circle and there are fewer doors–but I’m not completely sure about that.
“It worked,” she says.
I nod my head.
“And that was pretty, uh…good,” she says, her cheeks getting good and pink.
“The sex?”
She laughs and rolls her eyes. “No, Alfie. The buttered croissant I just ate.”
“A buttered croissant sounds really good right now…”
“Ready for the next door?” she asks.
“I…” I pause, needing to take stock of myself and where I’m at, physically and emotionally. I sometimes hear about guys who claim to have sex multiple times in a row, and I applaud that kind of stamina. Maybe that’s a testament to their stamina that I wish I had for myself. Or maybe I just need to, I dunno, have sex more often to be able to perform like that? It was sometimes a little awkward when Maxine and I would finish, and she’d be ready for round two and I had to be, like: “What if I…just took a nap for a little while first?”
But I don’t feel that way now. I imagine that it has everything to do with the bodies we inhabit in one world as opposed to another. It’s either magic or, like, advanced physics–either way it's over my head.
All this to say: I feel good to go again.
“Go ahead and pick a door for us,” I say, a big, stupid smile on my face.
===
The middle of the woods. We don’t bother looking around too much. Audry is bent over an especially large–and rather smooth–rock. Just before I can slide my cock into her, she lets out a little “Oh!” as she lets out a spurt of piss that runs down her thighs. This does nothing to sour the mood–if anything, it seems to excite the both of us.
I call her a ‘pissy little girl,’ and it works to kick things into a higher gear.
===
A dirt road, cutting through the forest. We walk a short distance in search of a good place to do our business, only to stumble upon a strange sight: a box truck of some sort, pulled over on the side of the road and abandoned.
“We should check it out,” I say.
“No exploring,” Audry replies. “Wasn’t that our rule?”
“I think we were saying that we wouldn’t go out of our way to explore, you know? But this is right here in front of us.”
“I guess…”
The rusted truck looks like it's been here for a while, as evidenced by the way the ground and weeds have grown over the wheels over time. No driver. No, like, dead body of a former driver either. The front door is unlocked and so I help myself inside to take a look around.
“Be careful,” she says. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
I don’t know what qualifies as ‘stupid’ to her, but I don’t bother asking. There’s not much in the truck. Though the keys are still in the ignition–that’s interesting. There’s a clipboard on the seat and I take a look at it. Some forms that don’t make much sense to me. And…a shipping manifest, maybe?
A few details jump out at me and I have to laugh.
I say: “You’ll never guess what this truck was delivering.”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. Uh, diapers?”
I laugh again. “Y-yes…that’s exactly what was being shipped. They were being sent to a town called, uh…New Cradle.”
Her eyes widen at this. “Weird. That’s, like, a town?”
I shrug. “It’s in the address. Has its own ZIP code and everything.”
“Are…the diapers still in the back?” she asks.
It’s a good question, and one I’m curious about myself. I grab the keys from the ignition and walk around to the back of the truck where I test a few keys before finding one that allows me to unlatch the back. What’s revealed when I lift the heavy door is, in fact, many cardboard boxes.
“How long have these been here?” Audry asks. “And where did the driver go? Why just abandon them here?”
I don’t bother answering. I’d like answers to those same questions, but I’ve come to accept that we won’t get to hear every story there is. Some things are just going to remain mysterious to us, forever.
My naked body climbs into the back of the truck and I tear open one of the boxes. Yep, there are packages of diapers in them. Not just diapers–but adult diapers. Big ones. Good looking ones. Boxes and boxes of them. Brands I’ve never heard of. Fluffington. Cutesy Bootsy. Momma’s Choice.
“I wish we could take them with us,” I say. “This is, like, a lifetime supply.”
“Oh please. We’d blow through these in a month,” Audry teases, climbing into the back of the truck to join me. She’s tearing open boxes herself, rifling through the different diapers. “I’ve never seen prints like these before. They’re cute.”
“I know.”
“Alright, alright,” she sighs. “We can’t do this all day. We gotta keep moving.”
“But…we’ve hit the diaper payload?” I whine.
She shrugs. “But what are we going to do with them?”
I have an idea. “Well…since we can assume that these diapers are abandoned and nobody’s looking for them… Maybe we make ourselves a little, uh, diaper mountain to have sex on top of?”
She laughs, but immediately tears open a package of diapers, spilling the contents onto the floor of the truck. “That idea is stupid as hell. And we’re absolutely going to do that.”
We rip apart packages, letting thick, folded blocks of diaper tumble to the floor. A stack begins to build, and soon the pile gets large enough that they begin to spill out the open door and onto the ground. But what do we care? We’ll be out of here soon enough. Someday, this will all be someone else’s problem.
I can’t say what, exactly, sounds so appealing about having sex on an absurdly large pile of loose adult diapers, but maybe this is the same thing that drives millionaires to have sex on top of their cash.
Well, I don’t know if that actually happens, but I’ve seen it happen once or twice in movies.
She pushes me down on my back and this time, she’s the one climbing over me, lowering herself and her wet pussy onto my erection. Below us, around us, diapers crinkle and rub together and it’s the most blissful sound I’ve ever heard.
===
In another world, we find a well-maintained, but currently uninhabited, cabin near the clearing we enter into. It’s as easy as lifting up the doormat at the front door to find the key needed to enter.
Admittedly, we get a little reckless, chugging from some bottles of booze we find in a kitchen cabinet, before getting tangled up in the sheets on the bed. This time, I’m the one who loses control of my bladder, leaving a sizable wet spot on the mattress beneath us just before we proceed with our sinful business. I put our copulating on hold for a moment so that I can grab a piece of paper and a pen and scribble out a quick, crude note apologizing to the cabin owner about the mess we’ve made. I start to write something about how we’re extra-planar visitors taking a crash course through the multiverse, but I just don’t think I have the time–or paper space–to do that story justice.
I’m not entirely sure what I did or didn’t write on that paper by the time I went back to Audry. We’re a little drunk.
===
As it turns out, drunkenness–much like post-coital stamina–doesn’t seem to carry over from a world into the white space. We feel fine and sober–ready to jump through the next door.
===
We have sex at the side of a muddy river. It’s fun to get messy. Audry swears that a squirrel watched us the whole time, but I didn’t see that.
===
We have sex atop a grassy hill, looking over a long and wide valley that neither of us are familiar with. We count not one, not two, but three blimps (zeppelins?) floating across the sky overhead, and we both agree that we’ve never seen that many blimps in a sky at once. Maybe there’s some sort of blimp party. Or maybe that’s just how people get around in this world.
This is another world where I wouldn’t mind doing a little more exploring, though we stay on task.
===
A few more worlds pass us by in a bit of a blur. I keep thinking that, if nothing else, we’ll get bored with this routine–the repetitive nature of sex in strange lands. But then all one of us has to do is touch the other and we’re suddenly full of electricity and ready to go at it again. With each world we pass through, the circle of doors gets smaller. There’s noticeably less doors to choose from.
The center of the onion approaches.
We’re instilled with a renewed energy, as it feels like the end is in sight. We may not know what lies ahead of us, but we know there’s a destination–and that still seems like progress.
We find ourselves back in the white space again after fucking our way through another world. We’re giddy at the fact that we can literally count the number of doors left in the next circle on one hand.
“So close,” I say.
“Let’s fucking do this,” Audry says, kicking open the door nearest to her with reckless abandon.
There was a time we were a little more careful about the doors we went through, but we’re a bit too hopped up on our expectations for the short-term future to be so cautious now…
===
…and that’s how we end up in a trap.
We step foot in another small field of tall grass and weeds, surrounded on most sides by trees. It feels similar to places we’ve been plenty of times before, save for the woman we spot almost immediately.
It’s alarming to see anyone at all when we step into a new world. It’s especially alarming for us to both see someone who looks like they’ve been waiting for us. Someone that I, for one, recognize.
“Celia?” Audry asks.
“Y-you know Celia too?” I ask.
“Well, sure, she worked at the diner in Harper’s Bell,” she says. “You know Celia?”
“Same,” I say.
“There are two of you now?” Celia asks. She seems cool and collected, leaning against a tree near the grassy clearing we’ve stepped into. “Don’t worry, I’m here to help you.”
“No she’s not,” I say to Audry. “Don’t listen to her.” I fell for this trick once before, and I don’t intend on falling for it again.
“What do you mean?” Audry asks. “It’s Celia.”
“She’s not Celia,” I warn. Another Not-Celia, if you will.
“I’m here to help,” ‘Celia’ claims. “Just come with me and…”
“We’re not going anywhere with you,” I say, shaking my head.
Celia–or whoever she is–hisses with frustration as she stares at me. It would seem that she’s already giving up the act. “You’ve both been very naughty, running around like you have been. Mother is quite cross with you.”
“Celia, what are you talking about?” Audry asks, suddenly showing some modesty and blushing as she turns her body and attempts to cover herself with her hands.
I should’ve known it wasn’t going to be this easy.
***
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Arrivals
For the last few months–ever since I received the invitation to Bill’s wedding–I had hyped myself up for an adventure that would take me out of my comfort zone. It wasn’t very often that I had an excuse to travel halfway across the country to a place I’ve never been to before, and so I made a mental list of big plans–things I wanted to experience that I didn’t think I could do back at home.
Diapers, for one. I was going to wear diapers as often as I possibly could. 24/7, so long as that seemed feasible. I’d never done that before. I had thought about it countless times, and had come incredibly close to giving that fantasy a whirl, but I always chickened out at the last moment. There were so many scary variables that were out of my control: What if my roommate noticed? What if my co-workers noticed? What if my friends, family, neighbors, or some random girl I went to high school with saw me on the street and noticed?
But here, hundreds of miles away from home, those variables didn’t exist any more. There was nobody I knew here, and even if some random stranger did happen to notice the extra bulge in my pants, it wouldn’t matter because we didn’t know each other and would never see each other again.
That was all big talk, though. The reality was proving to be something different. I had put so much consideration into what it would be like to walk around with a diaper on under my pants in public that I hadn’t bothered thinking about the actual logistics of being padded up full-time.
Case in point, there I was, in the restroom of the midwest airport I had just landed at, holding a heavy, pissy diaper in my hand. Yes, it had been an absolute thrill to soak the hell out of it while we were flying, but it wasn’t until I had somehow managed to change myself into a clean diaper in this claustrophobic restroom stall that I realized I’d have to find something to do with the dirty one. Was I going to walk out of the stall, diaper in hand, and deposit it in the trash can? With all these men coming in and out of here? Sure, maybe most of them wouldn’t think twice about it–they either wouldn’t be paying attention to me, or they wouldn’t recognize what I was holding as a used adult diaper. But…
It was hard to be logical about it, all I could consider were the worst case scenarios. I imagined myself exiting the stall and immediately running into some giant, jock-ish man who looked down at me with a cruel smirk on his face. “What do you got there, little boy? A pissy diaper, huh? Little baby go pee-pee in his pants?”
And, like…fuck. That scenario was almost exciting in my head. But I’d absolutely die if that actually happened.
It wasn’t the most elegant solution, but I decided to just shove the diaper into my bookbag for the time being. I’d dispose of it later, somewhere else where nobody would see me. I’d have wrapped it up in a plastic bag if I had the foresight to carry some with me. But, again, I just didn’t consider things like this when I was packing my diapers into my suitcase and bookbag. So, there was my pissy diaper, shoved next to the book I was reading, a sweatshirt, and my water bottle. It would have to do.
As I waited amongst the other travelers at the luggage carousel for my suitcase to show up, I found myself starting to doubt this little ‘adventurous’ odyssey I had planned. I had traveled out to the midwest a few days early, thinking I’d take my time travelling the few hours from the airport to Bill’s home–stretch it out to a few days. Explore places I had never been before. Allow myself to just…live and relax, always with a thick pair of diapers under my pants–luxuries and vices I rarely afforded myself at home. But I hadn’t even made it out of the airport yet, and I was already stressing out about the pissy diaper stuffed into my backpack. Was I really going to be able to handle a few more days of this?
It didn’t help that, despite the sounds of other travelers chatting, announcements on the PA systems, and decade-old pop songs playing on speakers, that I could still hear my diapers crinkling as I moved about. I tried to assure myself that I only thought I could hear them because I knew what I was wearing. But that didn’t help convince me that nobody else could hear it too. In my head, I assumed that everyone could not only hear the crinkling and rustling coming from my pants, but that they knew exactly what was making those sounds.
And yet, everytime I looked around to check the reactions of others near me, not a single person seemed to be paying any attention to me. Relieving, yes, but…
Well, there was a small part of me that kind of wished someone would be so bold as to call me out on being a big baby. I thought I had already come to terms with the fact that this was never going to happen the way it did in my fantasies, but I think I still clung to the notion that somewhere, over the next few days, I’d be able to experience this just once.
After claiming my suitcase, I made my way towards the transportation hub, where I had planned on jumping on a train that would take me to the nearest city. I had originally wanted to rent a car, but the prices I was being quoted online were simply outrageous. Relying on trains and buses to get me from point to point until I met up with Bill would be slower, but I was trying to see it as a positive. It would be extra time to relax and turn my brain off, I told myself. I could use some of that.
But a funny thing happened as I walked down the long corridor towards the train station–I thought I spotted a familiar face.
At first, I was sure that I was mistaken. I had seen her out of the corner of my eye, and though she looked very familiar, I assured myself that I was mistaken. It couldn’t be her. Out here, in the middle of nowhere, far from her home? Rather unlikely.
But, then again, wasn’t I out here? Far from home? And, well, seeing as how I expected her to also be at Bill’s wedding too, maybe it wasn’t the most absurd thing to see her here.
I stopped in my tracks, turned around, and walked back up the corridor again, hoping to find her again. Of all the random people of my life who I could’ve run into out in the middle of nowhere, I would say that Ellen Adams was near the top of that list.
I must’ve looked frantic as I scanned everyone’s faces. A few people caught me leering at them, and they either turned away or scowled. It’s no big deal, I tried to telepathically signal to the people I passed by, just ignore the crinkly-bottomed man staring at you.
Then, I spotted her–or whoever it was I noticed earlier. She was wearing a bright coral-colored blouse, and her head was down as she read something on her phone. It was the color of her top that probably brought her to my attention in the first place. But wasn’t that her hair–vibrant blonde and pulled back tight into a bun, like a ballerina?
From five or six feet away, I thought I’d try something. “Ms. Adams?” I said aloud. If the woman didn’t look up or acknowledge me, I could just continue on my way, assured that it wasn’t her.
But she did look up–and with a smile on her face, no less. Her head cocked to the side a little bit, and she looked right at me, taking a moment to process who might have just said her name when she wasn’t expecting it.
“That is you, isn’t it?” I asked, offering a little wave to make it clear that I’m the one who’s talking to her.
Her eyes met mine and her smile grew even wider. She looked just as beautiful as she had always looked. I supposed she’d gotten older, but just barely. Her skin was still smooth and radiant. Her posture was still perfect–as tall and delicate-looking as ever. There was still a youthful glow about her, despite being 20-ish years older than me.
When she didn’t immediately say something, I felt compelled to say: “It’s me…Cole Warner.”
Finally, she laughed and shook her head. “Oh, I know who you are, Cole Warner. I just needed a second to take you in. I feel like I haven’t seen you in, what, ten years?”
“Yeah, it’s probably been about that long,” I said. For a moment, that number doesn’t seem possible. Assuming she still lives where she always has, my apartment was only a half hour away from her. It’s wild to me that our paths haven’t crossed in so long, considering how everpresent she once was in my life.
“I’m guessing you’re en route to Bill’s wedding, hmm?” she asked.
“That’s right,” I said. “Or, well…I’ll eventually get there. I thought I’d come up early though and…”
“...take your time getting there?” she asked, finishing my thought for me.
“Uh, yeah,” I said, nodding. “Exactly.”
“Funny thing, that. See, I was thinking I’d do the same exact thing.”
I opened my mouth, unsure of what I was going to say, but before I could actually speak, her arms were wrapping around me and she was pulling me in for a tight hug. Her long arms were so much stronger than they looked. She had made a career for herself in gymnastics when she was younger, and as far as I knew, she was still coaching and training in that field now–she was probably more fit now than I’d ever been in my life.
“This is so crazy that I ran into you here,” I finally said as her hug relinquished and I could step back again. Admittedly, I didn’t want to let go, but it seemed in poor form to cling to her for dear life.
“I run into your mom from time to time,” Ellen said. “But never you. I guess you live outside of town now, though? Or that’s what your mom tells me.”
“Yeah,” I said, shrugging. “But I’m in town often enough that…”
“Well, it doesn’t matter. It’s a delight to see you now.” Her voice got a little softer, though I was so laser-focused on her that I had no trouble hearing her over the ambient noises of the airport around us.
I nervously ran a hand through my hair as I tried to figure out what to say next. I don’t think Ellen had any idea what she meant to me when I was growing up. And, for that matter, the place she had in my life more recently–a place I couldn’t ever easily explain to her.
She sensed my hesitation and took the lead of the conversation: “So where are you off to next?”
“Nowhere in particular,” I said. “I was thinking I’d take the train to the city, find a hotel room, and then maybe do a little exploring?”
She snickered a little, her cheeks getting a tiny bit more rosy. “That’s not too different from what I was thinking for myself.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Well, I actually already made a reservation at a hotel,” she said with a shrug, nonchalantly showing off the maturity I had yet to develop. “I was going to rent a car too, but the line to the kiosk…” She pointed towards a desk where a single clearly-stressed man in a shirt-and-tie contended with a long line of increasingly angry-looking travelers.
Barely even thinking about it first, I blurted out: “You should take the train with me. We don’t have to go and do the same things in the city. But at least then…”
“It’s not a bad idea,” she said, stroking her chin as she looked back at the car rental kiosk. She continued, seeming to be thinking out loud: “If I really need a car later, I could still arrange for that, but at least this way we can get out of this airport.”
My heart pounded in my chest. “What do you say? Want to head to the train station with me?”
“That sounds fantastic, Cole. Let’s go.”
Truths
There are two things you need to know about Ellen Adams.
The first is that she is the mother of Bill Adams–my childhood best friend, and the man whose wedding we are traveling to. I spent a lot of time at Bill’s house when I was a kid–like, a lot. In some ways, I often saw Ellen as a second mother. She’d always been there for me. If she was taking Bill somewhere fun, like the movies or a museum, she’d always extend an invitation to me. She always made enough food for meals to accommodate me if I dropped in–which I did often. She was a good listener if one was needed, and she always offered support for anything I wanted to do. I’d never claim she was a ‘better’ mother than my own, but there were a few years there where my parents were so tightly wound up in their own drama and subsequent divorce that Ellen was the most present mother-figure in my life.
The second thing was that, for a very long time, I truly thought I was in love with Ellen Adams. Perhaps it was because she had always been a beautiful, intelligent woman in my life at a time when my hormones were rampaging my body and mind. I was starting to ‘notice’ the opposite sex, and nothing was easier to notice than the tall goddess I got to see at Bill’s house.
I wasn’t stupid, of course. I never said anything about my feelings to Bill or his mother. I also knew that I was being ridiculous–that there was no future where Ellen and I would ever be able to share some sort of romantic entanglement. Still, Ellen represented perfection–the blueprint for what a future partner would have to be. Needless to say, my love life has always suffered as a result–I’d simply set the bar too high for any potential partners to meet.
I liked to think that I had been getting better in that regard, however. Not having seen Ellen in a long time had allowed me to lower her figurative pedestal in my head. In more recent years, embarrassing as it is to admit, Ellen came to mind most often when my eyes were closed, my hand was on my cock, and I was conjuring complex fantasies of Ellen changing my diapers and playfully sliding a pacifier into my mouth.
In other words: Finally encountering Ellen again, while a thick diaper crinkled between my thighs and a soaked diaper sat in my backpack, had my heart racing so fast that I was afraid I’d keel over at any moment.
Rails
“According to the schedule, it’s going to be an hour and a half into we’re in the city proper,” Ellen said to me as we boarded the train and found some seats together. “I hope you used the bathroom before we got on.”
All these years later, and I still felt like a 13 year-old boy in her presence. I felt my face warm and I nodded my head. She didn’t need to know that I had changed myself out of a pissy diaper not long before stumbling into her. I managed to spit out: “I’ll be okay,” as I crammed myself into the seat next to her–praying that she couldn’t hear the crinkling sounds coming from my pants.
The train ride was rather pleasant–a smooth enough jaunt that it rarely felt like we were traveling at all. I worried that I’d stumble over my words while attempting to make small talk with her, but it ended up being incredibly easy to converse with her. She was a fantastic conversationalist–always listening when being spoken to, a wry sense of humor, and always knowing when to ask a question that would keep things moving along. I caught her up on my last decade–college, getting my own apartment, and taking on my current job as a graphic designer. Likewise, she filled me in on her life as of late–how she powered through the ‘empty nest’ years after Bill had moved out, and had found joy in living for herself again.
“And you’re still…single?” I asked in disbelief. It was hard to believe that no man had managed to snatch up such a gem in all these years.
She smirked, her cheeks taking on a hint of extra pink. “I occasionally have some…acquaintances,” she said with a shrug. “But if I’m being honest, I don’t let men get too close. I’ve grown rather fond of being…unattached.”
“I see,” I said.
“Don’t, uh, tell Bill I said that,” she said, winking. “He still thinks I’m destined to find a man and get married again. It’s easier to let him have those hopes than to squash them.”
I couldn’t recall what happened to Bill’s father. Maybe I never knew–it was just some unspoken fact that never came up. Did he pass away? Was there a divorce? Maybe he and Ellen were never ‘together’ at all. It seemed way too late to ask a question about it now, so I just nodded along.
“What about you?” she asked. “I find it hard to believe you don’t have someone special in your life.”
“Really?” I asked.
She smiled and nodded her pretty head. The way the train’s interior lights glinted off her green eyes reminded me of the way I used to feel about her. All those old lusts–the ones I tried so hard to shake from myself–were creeping back.
“You’ve always been a kind and thoughtful young man,” she said. “I mean, look at you, travelling all this way for Bill’s wedding. Between you and me, of all the people he invited from back home, very few are making this trip.”
The wedding was being held in a location that was far away, though I guessed it made sense. He had a new home now. New friends. New social circles and favorite bars.
She added: “And you’re a very handsome young man, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
I felt my face warm and I sheepishly shrugged, suddenly feeling like a little boy again. “Uh, well…thank you.”
“Oh my,” she giggled. “Just look at your face. You’re redder than a beet!””
“Jeez…” I sighed, my hand running through my hair. “Sorry, I…”
“Don’t be sorry, honey,” she said. “I’m the one who should be sorry if I’m embarrassing you.”
“No, no,” I said. “I guess…maybe I don’t hear that too often.” I was being more honest with her than I meant to–but that was what she did to me. She made me want to pour my heart out to her.
“That’s a shame,” she said with a nonchalant shrug. “A good looking and smart boy like you…” Her voice trailed off and her cheeks got a little redder. “Sorry, you’re a young man–not a boy anymore. I should be more careful about that.”
I wanted to tell her that I was still very much a little boy–perhaps even in more literal ways than she could imagine–but I did my best to keep my mouth shut tight so that I didn’t say something stupid.
The conversation shifted a few times. We compared notes on books we had been reading–it was her love of reading that had gotten me into books as a teenager, and I was happy to learn it was a passion we both shared still. We also did a lot of reminiscing about the days of my youth, and the adventures I shared with her and Bill. Whatever awkwardness I felt when we first sat down next to each other was starting to fade. In a way, it was like we were able to pick up right where we left off, like the last ten years had never happened.
“...and then you had that pirate costume,” she was saying, somewhere in the middle of recalling a story about when the three of us had gone trick-r-treating one year, “and you lost the plastic hook-hand and we had to spend an hour retracing our steps so that we could find it and…” Her voice suddenly trailed off, and she was staring down at our feet.
I didn’t remember that story ending badly, but there was suddenly a concerned look on her face. A moment later, I realized it wasn’t the story that was concerning her–it was something on the ground that caught her eye. I followed her gaze, and it led to my backpack, nestled between my feet.
“Oh shit,” I muttered aloud.
The consequences of shoving my heavy, wet diaper from earlier into my pack were now revealing themselves. The diaper was leaking, causing a large wet spot to bloom in the pack’s canvas exterior. I didn’t even want to think about the damage happening inside. Was my book ruined? Sweatshirt soaked?
“What’s leaking in your bag?” she asked.
“Uh…”
She leaned forward, reaching down to pull the bag a little closer to investigate it further. I don’t think she meant to do this in a nosey sort of way–I think it was her maternal instinct kicking in. She saw a problem, and she wanted to fix it.
But I already knew what the problem was, and I moved faster than she did, grabbing the bag and hoisting it up to my lap. “Oh…don’t worry about that. It’s just, uh, my water bottle. It leaks like that sometimes…”
“Well you should probably take it out, then,” she said. “Everything else is in your bag is going to get ruined otherwise.”
“I know, but…” But what was I supposed to do? As far as I knew, there was no bathroom on the train, meaning that I was stuck in my seat next to Ellen. And if I opened my bag in front of her, she’d see the truth about the source of the wetness. And doing nothing at all would probably be the most suspicious move of all. Who wouldn’t want to correct an issue of something leaking in their bag? “It’s really okay. I’ll just deal with it when we get off the train.”
She laughed and shook her head. “Don’t be silly. It’s best to get a handle on a mess as soon as possible, lest it become an even bigger mess later.”
I was almost positive I had heard her say those exact words when I was just a boy too. I sighed, feeling stuck between a rock and a hard place.
“It’s just…” My lip trembled a little as I stared down at my bookbag, which I was pulling tighter against myself now. I swore I could smell pee emanating from my bag–and I wondered if she could smell it too. There was no way I was going to tell her the truth, so the only option left was to find a believable lie to tell her about why I wasn’t going to bother checking my bag in front of her.
I saw something shift in Ellen’s expression when I looked up at her again. She was reading between the lines, and picking up quiet signals with her motherly intuition. Clearly I was embarrassed about something, and she was realizing it would be best to just step back. “Well, it’s none of my business, Cole–I just wanted to help.”
“S-sorry,” I said. “It’s nothing personal. I just…”
But a thought occurred to me. Nobody in my life knew about my diapers. Not a single person. No friend. No past-lovers. No therapists or counselors. This had always been a me-centric thing. But if I was ever going to trust anyone with this part of myself…wouldn’t it be her?
And despite not having seen Ellen in years, I still knew that I could trust her with anything. Maybe, I thought, this was exactly what I needed. My meeting Ellen here, with a sopping wet diaper in my bag, was serendipitous–an opportunity to open up in a way that I never had before.
I opened my mouth to speak, and when the words didn’t come easily, Ellen said: “Whatever’s going on, we don’t have to talk about it. But, if you do, I’m all ears.”
“It’s a, uh…diaper,” I blurted out–some small part of my brain deciding the solution was to tear off the figurative band-aid from my figurative wound. I was surprised, myself, when the words came from my mouth.
And to her credit, Ellen didn’t scoff, laugh, or even frown with disgust. She considered it for a brief moment, nodded, and put her hand softly on my thigh to comfort me. When she spoke, her tone was just as warm as it had been: “We ought to do something about that. It’s…wet?”
I nodded.
“Is it in a plastic bag?”
I shook my head.
“Do you have a plastic bag?”
I shook my head again.
“Alright, I think I have one from when I bought some snacks at the airport,” she said, rummaging through her purse. When she finally pulled it out and handed it to me, she added: “Let’s get it wrapped up, before it makes a bigger mess of your things.”
I nodded, taking the bag and quickly unzipping my back pack. To my relief, Ellen turned her face away from me, giving me the chance to bag up the bloated diaper and assess the damage with a small amount amount of privacy. The diaper had managed to get my sweatshirt wet, but thankfully that was really the only casualty. For the time being, I stuffed the sweatshirt into the bag too before tying it shut and cramming it back into my pack. This was as much as I could do for now.
Opening my pack and manhandling the diaper had caused the pee smell to intensify around us now. It was possible that other passengers sitting in front of and behind us could smell it now, though I didn’t care much about them. What I was thinking about was Ellen–and that she probably caught a good whiff of what I had done to that diaper.
When she finally turned towards me again, she was still smiling–a kind and supportive smile, surprisingly free of judgment or condescension. “Everything okay?” she asked.
“For now,” I said.
“Good,” she said, nodding. And she seemed content with leaving it at that.
We were mostly quiet for a while after this. I don’t think any harm had been done to our rapport, I think she was just giving me a little bit of space. I was grateful that she wasn’t peppering me with questions about why I had a pissy diaper in my bag in the first place.
Though… Again, there was a small part of myself that wanted that to happen. I wanted to talk about it. I wanted to talk about it with her. Once or twice, I opened my mouth to say something to her, only to stop myself and shy away.
Finally, just for the sake of saying something, I said: “Thank you for not judging me.”
“Oh, Cole,” she said, flashing me the sweetest of smiles. “I’d never judge you. Besides…I can’t say this is the biggest surprise.”
I almost asked what she meant by that, only to realize that I had been repressing a very old memory from a very long time ago.
Memories
I slept over at Bill’s house pretty often when we were kids–at least once or twice a week. When we were 9 or 10 years old, it wasn’t uncommon for Bill and I to share his bed. Once we got a little older, I usually ended up sleeping on the small couch in his room.
There was this one Friday night–we must have been around 13 or 14 years old–where we had gone a little overboard with the sugary sodas. Ellen, who tried to keep the house full of healthier snack and drink options normally, once in a while would relent and buy a bottle or two of soda for us. As I recall, she had bought us two bottles that were intended to last the whole weekend, while I stayed over. But Bill and I, hopped up on adrenaline from some new videogame we were into, chugged down both bottles in just an hour or two. It seemed like a good idea at the time–until we both crashed pretty hard around 1 or 2 in the morning.
Somewhere, in the early morning hours that came after, I woke to the feeling of something wet under my body. I recoiled in horror as I slowly realized that I had somehow managed to wet myself in my sleep–not only soaking my pants, but the cushion of Bill’s couch. Desperate to find a way to undo this damage without waking my friend, I snuck out of the bedroom and wandered to the linen closet in the hallway where I knew Ellen always kept plenty of towels.
I don’t know if Ellen just so happened to be awake, or if I had somehow alerted her while attempting to be stealthy in the hallway, but no sooner than I had opened the linen closet door, I felt her presence behind me.
“Cole,” she said, her voice concerned–but far from angry-sounding, “is everything okay?”
Standing there in my obviously-wet pants, there didn’t seem to be much point in lying to her, so I confessed immediately. I told her that I had wet myself in my sleep–soaking through my pants and into Bill’s couch.
Truthfully, it wasn’t my first experience with wetting in the night. I was told that I had been a ‘late bloomer’ by my mother on countless occasions–and that toilet training me had been challenging. My first 12 years of life had been littered with the occasional wet bed, and my mother’s annoyed grunts when she had to strip everything off the bed in the morning so that she could clean the mattress and the sheets. I thought I had been past that, though–that I wasn’t ever going to wet my bed as a teenager.
But Ellen didn’t bat an eye at this. She assured me that she’d take care of everything, and proceeded to put her money where her mouth was. She whisked me into the bathroom, where she had me take a quick shower. By the time I turned the water off, she had left a pair of Bill’s clean underwear and shorts in the bathroom for me to wear. In the morning, she washed my soiled clothes among some of her own laundry. As for Bill’s couch, Ellen even took the blame for that–telling Bill that she had accidentally spilled a glass of water on the cushions while checking in on us overnight. Bill was none the wiser to the truth, and as far as I know, he never heard the real story.
In hindsight, it’s hard not to see that night for what it really was–the catalyst for the strange desires I harbored now. After replaying those events in my head nonstop in the years that followed, I slowly began to imagine myself wearing a diaper instead–and that when Ellen found me in the hallway, she’d proceed to take care of me in the same way she would a literal baby. She’d lower me to the ground, take off my pants for me, and proceed to change my diaper for me as I stared up at her beautiful face.
I don’t know how I lost track of that memory, though. Perhaps, amidst the shame I’ve felt for the weird kinks I had developed, I buried the origins of it.
Beds
“What are you doing when we get off the train?” Ellen asked.
I shrugged. “I didn’t really have a plan. I guess I was going to find a hotel, book a room, and then, uh…”
“I already have a room booked,” she said. “The hotel isn’t far from the station, either. Why don’t you come with me?”
“Uh, but…”
“How can I ask this delicately?” she said, mostly to herself. “I’m thinking, uhm, if you need a place to…take care of your business, you’d want some privacy, yes?”
“My…business?” I repeated. It should’ve been obvious what she was talking about, but I was drawing a blank.
She leaned against me, bringing her cupped mouth close to my ear: “If you’re wearing…diapers, you’d probably want a place to change, get cleaned up, and deal with your back pack, yes? Come to my room with me. You’ll have all the space and privacy you need to get situated again. And when you’re done, I can help you find a room of your own.”
“Well that’s very kind of you to offer, but I don’t want to impose and…”
“You wouldn’t be imposing,” she said. “It was my idea, silly. And I’m not suggesting it–I’m insisting that you come with me to my room. Let’s get you comfortable and clean, and we can figure out everything else later.”
Her foot had been put down, and I knew I wasn’t going to be able to argue. I didn’t want to argue, either–I had done a poor job of cleaning myself up in the airport bathroom, and I could probably use the chance to freshen up a little.
Of course, I was worried I had done some damage with my diaper antics. I wondered how she saw me now. Did she think I was still having actual accidents? Did she think that I really needed the diapers? More importantly, was I going to let her think that I needed diapers? It seemed wrong to let her think I did, but that seemed much better than the truth. What would she say if she discovered the truth–that I was a diaper fetishist with a fantasy that she was my ‘Mommy?’
I crossed my fingers, praying that I’d never have to elaborate, one way or another.
When we finally reached our stop, we gathered our bags and suitcases, and shuffled ourselves to the street, where I used an app to hail a cab that took us to Ellen’s hotel. I kept waiting for her to start asking me questions about my diapers, but they never came. She remained respectful of my privacy, which only made me feel more guilty about concealing my more elicit desires.
Despite the cab drive being relatively short, it came at the exact moment that my bladder had found itself uncomfortably full again. There were a few times during the train ride where I was tempted to let a hot stream of pee into my diaper, but it just seemed too risky while I sat right next to Ellen. The cab wasn’t much better, but there was at least a little more space between Ellen and I in the backseat–enough room that I felt a little more comfortable about peeing. Besides, I thought, she expects me to change myself at her hotel room. Might as well give myself a diaper worth changing, right?
And so, while Ellen told me all about Bill’s fiance, Kate–who I had never met myself–I carefully bit my bottom lip and loosened my hold on my bladder. Just enough, I hoped, to let a long, slow stream seep into my diaper.
Whatever sort of muscle control one needs for a ‘long, slow’ stream, however, is not control that I have. The second I relinquished my hold on my bladder, a powerful river erupted from me. I could hear the sound of my peeing through the thick diaper and my pants.
There was a moment, a split-second in the middle of whatever Ellen was saying, where it seemed like she was pausing because she heard something strange. But then she just kept on talking, glossing over it like it was nothing. I finished soaking my dapper, and she finished telling me about Kate–a young woman that she, apparently, strongly approved for her son.
At the hotel, I tried to remain a step or two behind Ellen at all times. I didn’t need her watching the pathetic way I had to waddle about in my full and squishy diaper.
“Good afternoon,” Ellen said to the woman at the front desk. “I have a room reserved for my son and I. Last name is Adams?”
Son? For a moment, I wondered if I had missed a detail somewhere along the way. Was Bill coming to meet us here?
No, silly. She meant me. She was telling the woman at the desk that I was her son. I blushed, taking a small step behind Ellen so that the employee couldn’t get a good look at the sheepish man who should be an adult, despite the soggy diaper in his pants.
The woman at the desk hesitated for a moment before pointing out: “Ms. Adams…your room has only one bed, per your request.”
Ellen just shrugged, likely not understanding what the woman was getting at.
The woman said: “Well…I’m guessing you don’t want to share a bed with your, uhm…son? Would you like to upgrade to a room with two beds? I could make that happen.”
“Ah, right,” Ellen said, laughing as she turned back towards me. “You know what? Let’s do that. I’ll take a room with two beds, please.”
The woman only nodded in response, but she said a lot with that nod–mostly “Thank god she didn’t stick with one bed…”
A few minutes later, Ellen and I were in an elevator, heading up to the sixth floor where her room was.
“I hope that’s not a problem for you,” she said.
But I had no clue what she meant by that. “You hope what isn’t a problem?”
“Staying with me,” she said with a casual shrug. “It just makes sense. The room with an extra bed is almost the same price as what I was paying for a single bed. You might as well stay with me. Your stay in town won’t cost you a thing.”
“But…” I truly appreciated the gesture, but I wasn’t sure how to communicate that it seemed just a little inappropriate that I would be bunking with my childhood best-friend’s mother.
“It’s not a big deal,” she said, her gentle hand landing on my shoulder. “We’ll each have plenty of space for ourselves.”
“But, uhm, Bill…” I managed to choke out.
“Are you concerned about what Bill would say?” she asked, her lips puckering into a little smirk. “Perhaps…he doesn’t need to know about this. Now, I’m not suggesting that we’re doing anything untowards. I mean, we’re just two adults making the most economically sound decision about a hotel room. There’s nothing wrong with that, right?”
“N-no…”
“Exactly. So we shouldn’t have to feel guilty. And if we think Bill–or anyone else–would have a problem with this arrangement, we simply keep it to ourselves. That wouldn’t be so bad, right? It’s nobody else’s business but ours.”
I nodded, even smiling a little. I liked hearing her say that.
Questions
No sooner than we were in the hotel room and the door was closed behind us, Ellen hit me with the question that I had been waiting for since she first learned of the pissy diaper in my backpack: “Are you wearing a diaper right now, Cole?”
“Uhm…”
“You can be honest with me. I’m not judging–I just want to know.”
“I…I am, yes.”
“And–hmm–what is the status of that diaper?”
“It’s, uh, just a little bit…wet?”
She giggled a little. “That’s a question? Are you asking me if it’s wet? Honey, I could check if you want me to, but I’m not sure that’s what you want.”
Oh, but it is.
I tried answering her question again: “It’s wet.”
“You wet yourself in the cab ride, right?” she asked.
I nodded my head.
“I thought so. I could’ve sworn I heard it happening.”
My mouth hung open and my cheeks were suddenly very warm. My hands were in front of my crotch, my fingers fumbling like I didn’t know what to do with them.
“I’m only going to ask this once, Cole,” she said. “If you tell me no, then I’m going to accept that answer and that’ll be the end of the conversation.”
I braced myself, waiting for whatever question was coming next. My heartbeat got exponentially faster with every passing millisecond.
She asked: “Would you like some assistance in being changed?”
This was as close to my fantasies as real life had ever come, and it felt surreal. This couldn’t actually be happening, I thought. She was pranking me. Setting me up for some sort of cruel punchline. Like, at any moment, she was going to pull out her phone and snap a few pics of me in my diaper and send it to Bill, along with a message about how she was proud that her son hadn’t grown up into a pathetic, overgrown toddler like I had.
But… That scenario was almost like another fantasy I’ve had too. Maybe this situation was a win-win, regardless of what the outcome was.
When I didn’t immediately respond–on account of overthinking what could happen next–Ellen took a step closer. “Cole, I hope I didn’t offend you. I don’t mean to suggest that you would need someone to take care of you. I was just thinking, you know, sometimes it’s nice to be taken care of and…”
Looking at her face, I was more sure than ever that her motivations were pure. Nobody capable of a kind smile like hers was going to betray me or sell out my secrets. I held out a hand to stop her.
I wanted to accept her offer, but it only seemed right that she knew the truth first. It was going to be hard to come clean about, but she deserved to hear it.
“So…that’s very kind of you to offer,” I said. “But I think there’s something you should know first.”
She tilted her head a little. “Oh?”
“Uhm…we ran into each other at a very peculiar time,” I said. “I didn’t think I was going to run into anyone I knew out here. I was expecting to be on my own, you know?”
She nodded her head, though she said nothing–still looking eager to see where I was going with this. Once again, she was proving herself to be among the best listeners I had ever encountered in my life.
I continued: “So, here’s the thing…” I took a deep breath, gave a little shrug, and decided to just spit it out. “I’m not incontinent. I don’t have, like, any sort of condition.”
She didn’t seem to react in any way after I said this. She continued to watch me, her eyes narrowing a little as she considered this. Finally, she nodded. “Hmm. That’s fair. Though in your defense, you never said you were incontinent. Perhaps it was just assumed…given the diapers.”
It felt like the ball was back in my court, though I wasn’t sure what else to say. Did I need to come out and say that I was a fan of ‘ageplay?’ Of ‘adult babies?’ That I was a ‘diaper lover?’
Her lips cracked into a small smile for a moment before she quickly brushed it away and asked another question: “So, if you don’t need diapers…why are you wearing them?”
She deserved an honest answer, but I just didn’t think I could get the words out of my mouth. It was a cheap way to respond, but I felt like I needed to punt this back to her. “You, uhm, couldn’t imagine any other reason why I’d be wearing one?”
Ellen playfully tapped her chin while gazing up and off into space for a moment as she thought about my question. At the very least, she was still playing along, and had yet to seem offended or disgusted–and that seemed like a good thing. But I was worried that at any moment, she’d be pushed too far, and serious damage would be done to our relationship.
“Well,” she said, thinking aloud, “if you don’t need to wear diapers, I suppose that means you made a purposeful choice to wear them. And I can’t imagine many reasons why a young man would want to wear them, unless…”
She was so close. My heart beat faster and faster in my chest as I waited for her to find the answer herself.
Her cheeks grew a little pink, as if the answer she had come up with was one she was nervous to share with me. “Cole, do you…like wearing diapers?”
“Uh, well…” But, at the end of the day, she had asked me a simple question, and it required a simple answer. I cleared my throat and nodded. “Yes. Yes I do.”
Once again, I braced myself for disgust and rejection. If it was coming, it was going to happen at this very moment. I carefully watched her face, studying every twitch and subtle shift of her expression, trying to predict her mood before she actually responded. I was coming up short, though–I had no idea how she was going to react.
“Well, that was very brave of you to tell me,” she said at last. “I’m sure that was very difficult.”
I nodded, feeling like a little boy who had just confessed to breaking a window.
“I’m…a little surprised by that,” she said. “But maybe because thinking of you in diapers only seemed to make so much sense. I readily accepted that you just needed them.”
I felt my blushing intensify. “R-really?”
She shrugged. “Don’t take it the wrong way, Cole. It just, uh, fits in with who I remember you being. In a good way, I guess–for whatever sense that makes.”
I ran a nervous hand through my hair, thinking about how that made me feel. It was a little embarrassing to realize she thought it just made sense that I wore diapers now, but I also kind of liked that.
“One more question,” she said.
“Hmm?”
“Do you want me to change you or not?”
***
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Here's the first half of one of my latest stories, Girl Talk. If you're digging it and want to read the rest, you'll find a link to my Ream Stories page at the bottom of the story!
“...and he, like, lifted me up with his arms, you know–just wrapped them around me, scooping me up by my ass and lifting me up in the air. It was effortless, like he was either the strongest man in the world, or I was the lightest woman in the world. Either way, it felt really good, you know?”
Jackie bit her bottom lip, leaning in over the table with her eyes wide with anticipation. “So…what happened next?”
There was a time when the three of us gals would meet like this at least once or twice a week–roll into the bar, share some tawdry stories about our lives, and then roll out–but they were getting less frequent as we got older. Taking a sip from my kiwi marg, it occurred to me that it had almost been a month since the last time we met up like this.
I playfully slapped Jackie’s shoulder. “You horn-dog. Living vicariously through Rachel’s stories, huh? Should I take that as a sign that you’re not getting enough at home?”
“Just…” Jackie sighed and shrugged. “I wanna hear the rest of the story, okay? C’mon, Rachel.”
Rachel laughed, no doubt her head getting just a little bigger at the revelation that Jackie needed to hear more of her sexual exploits. “Well, do you need me to draw you a picture or something? I mean, you can guess what came next, can’t you? He carried me to the wall, leaned me against it, and proceeded to, well, take care of me.”
“Standing up?” Jackie asked. “With you pressed against a wall? He was still, like, holding you up?”
I playfully poked Jackie in the side with my finger. “You alright, girl? Need to go, uh, take care of some business in the bathroom? Need to change your panties?”
Jackie let out a long sigh that probably was probably more genuine than exaggerated, running her hand through her hair–as she often did when her mind was somewhere else. “Oh…I’m good.”
Of course, the look on Jackie’s face said otherwise. She looked distracted. Maybe even a little frustrated.
“Seriously,” Rachel asked. “Are things that bad at home? You’re seriously not getting any action of your own?”
“No…Thomas and I haven’t been, uh, frisky in a while,” Jackie said, after a little hesitation. She, no doubt, knew that admitting as much would encourage Rachel and I to ask more questions. I could already get the sense that Jackie wasn’t sure if this was a conversation she was ready to have yet, though with the cat out of the bag now, there seemed little chance that we’d just leave this be.
“Trouble in paradise?” Rachel asked. “How long has it been?”
“Well, it’s been, like, two weeks,” Jackie said, shrugging.
“That’s not so bad,” I said. “Two weeks? Hell, Patrick and I have gone weeks between sex before.”
“That’s the problem with marriage, Rose,” Rachel said to me. “You get complacent, and lose track of time. Days become weeks, and weeks become months. And suddenly, you’re only having sex on birthdays and major holidays.”
I laughed, rolling my eyes. “Is that so? I mean, Memorial Day is coming up. Maybe I should remind Patrick…”
“It doesn’t bother me that it’s been two weeks,” Jackie said, trying to steer the conversation back towards her own dilemma. “I think it’s that…well, I think it’s going to be a lot longer before we get back to it again.”
This admission has Rachel and I intrigued, as we share a curious glance with each other before turning our attention to Jackie.
We called Jackie the ‘baby’ of the group. Well, we didn’t say it to her face, but Rachel and I alluded to it when Jackie wasn’t around. We never meant it in a truly derogatory way–if anything it was meant to be endearing. Rachel was the horny single, sleeping her way through the town’s dating scene. I was living my best married life with the man I loved. And Jackie, after setting aside any interest in dating for a few years as she finished her post-grad education, was finally taking some trepidatious steps into the dating world for herself–a world that she seemed too kind and naive for, in the opinions of Rachel and I. Jackie had a tendency to attach herself to any man who showed her some affection, and so she always seemed to be dating less-than-great men for longer than she should’ve been.
Still, we kind of liked her most current boyfriend, Adam. He was charmingly awkward and goofy–much like Jackie–and Rachel and I both agreed that the two of them seemed rather compatible with each other.
“Trouble with Adam?” I asked Jackie. “Don’t tell me the two of you are breaking up.”
“N-no,” Jackie said. Though she considered her answer and then added: “Well, we’re not officially done yet. But I don’t know if there’s much hope in saving things.”
Instinctively, I reached across the table and took Jackie’s hand in mine. My morbid curiosity hadn’t dwindled, but I was now equally concerned for my good friend’s well-being too. “What happened?”
“You don’t think he’s been cheating on you, do you?” Rachel asked, huffing into her martini.
“No, no, nothing like that,” Jackie sighed. “I… I don’t know. I was hoping I’d be able to talk about this tonight, but maybe I’m not ready yet.”
“Hey, it’s okay,” I said. “We’re your friends, you know? You can tell us anything.”
“See, I do know that,” Jackie said, nodding. “Believe me, I want to tell you everything. But it’s just so fucking weird. And I’m afraid that, like, once I tell you…you’ll never think of Adam the same way again.”
This caused Rachel and I to glance at each other again. I could see the ravenous hunger for gossip and secrets in her eyes, and I was probably guilty of having a similar expression on my own face.
“Jackie,” Rachel sighed. “You cannot tell us that and then not elaborate. Tell us everything.”
“I…I don’t know if I can,” Jackie said, shrugging. “I mean, I don’t think I’ve fully processed it myself yet, and…”
A part of me knew that I should’ve been respecting Jackie’s right to privacy and taking all the time she needed to work through whatever she was feeling. But I had alcohol sloshing around my belly, and Rachel and I seemed to fuel each other’s lust for the whole story.
“Let us help you process it, then,” I said. “Tell us what happened and we’ll figure it out together.”
“Yeah,” Rachel said, wagging a finger at me. “That’s a great idea. C’mon, Jax. Tell us everything.”
“You won’t believe me,” Jackie said, her voice so quiet now that we could barely hear her over the sound of Destiny’s Child, blaring through the bar’s speakers.
“Jackie, you’re the most honest person I know,” I said. “Honest to a fucking fault. If you tell us what happened, we’ll take your word for it.”
Jackie sighed and then muttered a single word. Either she didn’t say it loud enough for me to hear, or the word was so unexpected that my brain just couldn’t grasp what it was she said.
Paper?
Typewriter?
Tighter?
I was about to ask her to repeat what she had just said, when Rachel swooped in: “Did you just say…’diaper?’”
Yes. That was the word I heard too, I realized then. It made absolutely no sense to me, hence why I was so certain that I misheard her. But Jackie had definitely just muttered the word ‘diaper’ to us.
This should’ve been the part where Jackie denied saying ‘diaper,’ and told us what she actually meant. Instead, she sighed again as her eyes glanced back and forth between Rachel and myself. And then she said the word again: “Diaper.”
“Okay, see, you’re definitely going to have to elaborate,” I said.
For a moment, Jackie didn’t say anything, though her mouth hung open like she wanted to. She looked back and forth between Rachel and I again, likely taking stock of our current emotions before she finally asked a question: “So…are you two well-versed in, like, kinks and fetishes?”
Rachel erupted with laughter. “Sure, I know about kinks. I’ve got a few myself. And, I’ve met plenty of fellas with weird interests of their own. I’ve seen it all, you know? Men who like feet. Men who want to sniff my panties. Men who want to wear my panties. Getting tied up. Spankings. Blindfolds. Hot wax. Playing with food.”
My mouth slanted at Rachel, and while I might have had some questions for her about the examples she mentioned, this didn’t seem like the time for it. Instead, I looked back at Jackie and did some mental math: the question about kinks, plus the previous mention of diapers…
“Does Adam have a diaper fetish?” I asked.
I barely knew what a ‘diaper fetish’ was. It was something I had seen references to online in the past–usually as the butt of a joke. I didn’t really have an opinion on it one way or another, myself–it just didn’t seem like the sort of thing that I’d ever have to care about.
Rachel, on the other hand, seemed to have no clue about such things. “What the fuck did you just say? A diaper fetish? He…gets off…on diapers? Who the hell does that?”
“I-it’s not a bad thing, per se,” Jackie said, shrugging. “Like, he’s not hurting anyone, you know?”
“I mean, maybe just tell us a little about what a kink like that looks like?” I asked. Unlike Rachel, who was raring herself up to overreact, I wanted to try and remain calm and open-minded.
Jackie nodded, sighing again. “He likes wearing, uhm…adult diapers. He crawls around in them, you know? He has these special clothes that look like a toddler’s outfit–but sized up for adults. I guess you can buy things like that online…”
Rachel tapped her fingers on the table as she considered this. “Diapers, huh? He wears diapers?”
“Yes,” Jackie said.
“Does he use his diapers?” Rachel asked–asking the question I was curious about myself. “Does he make his little tinkles in his pants?”
“Y-yes,” Jackie said, her mouth hanging open like she had more she wanted to say about that. Instead, she cleared her throat and left it at that for the moment.
“So, he’s got a diaper fetish,” I said. “And he told you about this?”
“Yes,” Jackie said, nodding. “He actually mentioned it pretty early on, too–I guess it’s been kind of a dealbreaker in past relationships, so he wanted to be forward about it now and let me know what I’m getting into.”
“So, like, he’s looking for someone to, uh, participate with him?” I asked.
“That’s not why he told me about it,” Jackie said. “He just wanted to let me know about this one part of his life, so that it was out in the open and he didn’t have to lie about it. He made it very clear that he wasn’t asking me to be a participant, or that it was even something I’d ever have to see for myself if I didn’t want to. He just thought it was important that I know.”
“That’s wild,” Rachel said.
“But I kind of respect that,” I said, quickly jumping in before Rachel could say anything else. “He likes you enough to tell you this–even though he knows it could put the future of your relationship in danger.”
“R-right,” Jackie said, nodding. “That’s what I thought too.”
“So what did you think about what he told you?” I asked.
Jackie laughed, her cheeks blushing a little. It was good to see her finally crack a smile. “I mean, it was all very…strange, you know? I didn’t know anything about adult babies and…”
“Adult babies?” Rachel asked. “Is that what they call themselves?”
“Some do,” Jackie said, shrugging. “He does.”
Jackie and I watched Rachel for a moment, curious to see if she was going to add any more commentary, but it seemed like she was also more interested in hearing more from Jackie.
“I didn’t…hate it,” Jackie said, continuing. “Like, obviously, it’s different and something I have no experience with. But Adam is a sweetheart, you know, and I really appreciate that he wasn’t trying to pressure me into doing anything, he was just educating me.”
“So then what?” Rachel asked–sounding like Jackie did when Rachel was regalling us earlier with the sordid tale of being fucked against a wall by Walter.
“And then…I don’t know,” Jackie said, shrugging. “We just…didn’t talk about it after that. I mean, he brought it up on, like, our second or third date. And we met a few times after that, and he never made mention of it. And that was kind of nice, you know? Like, he had gotten it off his chest, and that was all he needed.”
“It never came up again?” I asked.
But I felt like I already knew the answer to this question. Somehow, this thread would lead us to where the conversation started, when Jackie said that she hadn’t had sex in weeks with Adam, and that they were teetering on the edge of a breakup.
“It came up again,” Jackie said. “I’m the one who brought it up, actually. At this point, we’d been together for a few weeks and things were starting to feel serious. We’d each been to each other’s places. We’d, you know…had sex.” Of course, she couldn’t say this without her cheeks blushing. “So, one night, I invited him back to my place for dinner and some cocktails. And it’s late in the night, and we’re sitting on the couch and we’re all tipsy and flirty. And I’d been thinking about his ‘adult baby’ thing a lot recently–trying to decide if I could see myself participating in that or not, if he ever wanted me to.”
“And what did you decide?” I asked, leaning in with eagerness to know more.
“I was…curious, I guess,” she said. “It’s weird, but it’s not, like, creepy. There was a part of me that was thinking it was kind of cute, in a way.”
“You would think that,” Rachel said, shaking her head. Neither Jackie nor I asked her to elaborate, but we probably didn’t need her to–if any of us had to pick the one most likely to end up dating an ‘adult baby,’ we’d all choose Jackie in a heartbeat.
“So you brought it up to him?” I asked Jackie, hoping to move the story forward again. “What did you say?”
“Were you, like, ‘Hey, let’s talk about your diapers?’” asked Rachel.
Jackie blushed and shrugged. “No…I actually tried a different approach. Like I said, we were a little drunk, and we were fooling around so I, uh…” She paused, seeming to need a moment to work up the courage to tell us what happened next. “I asked him if he’d been a good little boy or not.”
My eyes widened and my mouth hung open for a moment. “Oh, wow. So you just…jumped right into it, huh?”
“A little, yeah.”
I asked: “And, so, how did he react to that?”
“Quite well,” Jackie said, laughing. We all laughed too. “I made him sit on my lap. I, uhm…spanked him. It all went over very well. I think we both had a pretty good time that night.”
“Damn,” Rachel said, playfully swatting Jackie’s shoulder. “Getting kinky with the boyfriend, huh? I’m not going to pretend that I totally get it, but it sounds like you had a good time.”
“I had a really good time with it, yeah,” Jackie says, her cheeks getting pink again. “It’s funny–despite it not being something I would’ve ever seen myself enjoying, there was something about it that really clicked with me that night. Maybe it was seeing him be so vulnerable, or maybe it was feeling like I had power in being the ‘adult’ between the two of us.”
“That makes sense,” I said. “And…I’m guessing that wasn’t the last time it happened?”
Jackie laughed and shook her head. “Things escalated from there. Pretty quickly too. The next time we hung out, we went to his place, and he showed me all his, uhm, stuff.”
“Oh,” Rachel said. “Like his…baby things?”
Jackie nodded. “Yeah. He has a whole closet full of disposable adult diapers. Little outfits. Pacifiers and baby bottles. Creams and powders and oils.”
“Sounds like he’s got a whole damn nursery in his closet,” Rachel remarked.
“Funny enough, I think that’s his dream,” Jackie said. “One day he’d love to have this, like, ‘adult-sized nursery’ in his home. A crib. Playpen. A big rocking horse. Changing table…”
“Changing table,” I repeated, mulling over the words. “That implies that he, uhm, needs changing?”
“R-right,” Jackie said. “I’m getting to that. So, he shows me all this stuff, and I tell him that I want to see him wearing his things. And he’s a little nervous about it, you know? Because he’s never actually had someone to show this side of himself too. He’s never even been able to tell someone about this part of himself without feeling judged and ultimately excluded. So this is a big deal that there’s a woman in his home, asking him to dress up for her.”
“So did he do it?” I asked.
“Of course he did it,” Rachel said. “You know how men are. They get that inch, and they want to take a mile.”
“It’s not like that,” Jackie said to Rachel. “He needed a lot of reassurance and encouragement from me every step of the way. He didn’t want to do more than he thought I was ready for. We took it slow. And, uhm…it was very sweet.”
Some details of this story belong to Jackie and Adam alone, and they’re not for Rachel or I. Still, I can’t help but be curious. “What was it like?”
To my surprise, and delight, Jackie offered me an answer: “I helped him undress slowly. We took off all his clothes, and I had him lie down on his bed. Then I went to the closet and picked out the kind of diaper I wanted him to wear.”
“There’s…variety?” Rachel asked.
“Oh yes,” Jackie said, blushing a little again. “There’s a lot of choices out there for adult-sized disposable diapers. Some of them come in cute colors or have colorful little prints on them.”
Another look was exchanged between Rachel and myself. We wanted to know more, but it seemed like the kind of detail that wasn’t worth getting hung up on now.
“So I picked out a diaper for him,” Jackie continued, “and this onesie for him to wear, and even a pacifier to put in his mouth. Now, I don’t know much about putting diapers on babies, let alone adults. But he walked me through it well enough. And, you know, it’s not that hard to do.”
“You diapered your boyfriend,” Rachel said. It’s not a question, nor even the sort of remark that even seems to ask for a response–it was just Rachel processing the story aloud.
“I did,” Jackie said. “And I have to admit…it was kind of fun. Again, I think it’s that power thing, you know?”
“Power dynamics are very hot,” Rachel said, shrugging. “Remember when I used to date Ken? He liked when I put my feet in his face or walked on top of him. It wasn’t the sort of thing I liked normally, but I liked the feeling of control I had when he put me in that position.”
“Y-yeah,” Jackie nodded. “Exactly. LIke, I wouldn’t have thought that diapers would be my ‘thing,’ but I like the way Adam makes me feel when I’m playing along with his little game.”
“Okay, so I think you have to tell us,” I said. “Did he use the diaper?”
“Yes,” Rachel said, slapping her hands down the table. “Did the big baby make a dirty diaper for ma-ma?”
Jackie’s face got its reddest yet, and while she looked away for a moment, she eventually looked right back at us with a big smile on her face. “He sure did. He wet his diaper that night while sitting on my lap.”
The mental image of this scene is hard to fathom. I can picture Adam, himself, rather easily, as we’ve met before. He’s skinny, and maybe a little on the shorter side. He’s got messy blonde hair and sometimes a little scruff on his face. His entire persona has always seemed kind of ‘boyish’ to me, like he’s perpetually an awkward teenage boy, despite being in his 20s. It shouldn’t be that hard to imagine him in a thick diaper and a onesie, sitting on my best friend’s lap, but I struggle to put all these pieces together.
Again, I feared that I was asking for details that I shouldn’t have been privy to, but I just blurted out the question: “Wh-what was that like? How did that even happen?”
Despite the consistently pink color of her cheeks, Jackie didn’t seem all that fazed by the question. In fact, she almost seemed excited to share the story. “After I dressed him up, we went to the living room and we sat down on the couch together. Except I had pretty quickly suggested that the big baby sit on my lap, and he was more than happy to do so. We put some dumb movie on, though honestly, I don’t think either of us were paying much attention to it. His back was to me, and I couldn’t stop running my hands up and down his back and his sides, occasionally feeling the squishy bulge of his thick diaper under his onesie. And, likewise, I think he was having the time of his life on my lap–letting out these cute little moans as I caressed him.
“We stayed like this for a while. I can’t even say for how long–I think we both lost track of time. But eventually I noticed that he was, uhm…squirming.”
“Squirming?” Rachel asked.
Though I didn’t have any kids of my own just yet–hopefully sooner than later–I had enough experience babysitting my nephew that I felt like I could chime in on this: “Did he have to go…potty?”
Jackie and Rachel both laugh at my on-theme phrasing. Then, a moment later, Jackie nods her head. “I asked him exactly that, actually: I asked if he had to go potty. He said he did. And it kind of felt like a test, you know? Like, what was the caregiver for an adult baby supposed to do in this situation?”
“So what did he say?” I asked. I couldn’t believe how invested I was in this story. Not only did I want to know about Jackie’s experiences, but I wanted to see how these moments–these ones that Jackie seemed to be reflecting on in fondness–lead to where we were today, with a relationship teetering on collapse.
“He said that he had to pee,” Jackie says, smiling wistfully, like it brought her pleasure to recall the memory now. “And so I reminded him that babies use their diapers. And, you know, he really liked hearing me say that, though I think he was still a bit hesitant to let go and use his diapers in my presence.”
“Especially while sitting on your lap,” I said.
“I cannot believe you had this conversation with an adult man,” Rachel muttered to herself.
“Well that’s because he’s not an adult man,” I said to her. “He’s an adult baby, remember?”
Rachel laughed, rolled her eyes a little, and then turned back to Jackie. “So? Did he do it? Did he make his wee-wees in his diaper like a good boy?”
“Not immediately,” Jackie said. “For a little while, he just stayed sitting on my lap, subtly squirming back and forth. I could tell with every passing moment that he had to go more and more, you know? Sooner or later, I thought, he was either going to jump off my lap and run to the toilet, or…well, he was going to have a legit accident in his diaper.”
“And I’m guessing that’s what happened?” I asked. “He finally reached a point where he couldn’t hold it any more and he just…went in his diaper?”
“That’s right,” Jackie said, nodding. “It was actually–well, I don’t know if you’ll believe me or not when I say this, but–cute. The way he went from wriggling and squirming on my lap to just suddenly not moving at all. And he let out this little moan, like it was the best feeling of his entire life.”
“I mean, I bet it was,” Rachel said, in the midst of waving her hands to the bartender in an attempt to signal that we all needed another round of drinks. “The boy was probably living out his greatest fantasy in getting to piss himself while sitting on a cute woman’s lap.”
“I liked it too,” Jackie said. “I could feel his diaper on top of my thighs, and it was slowly getting warmer. Like, I know the idea of that is supposed to be kind of gross–but I wasn’t really disgusted at all. His diaper did its job of keeping everything contained, and I got to hold him while he emptied himself into it. It was honestly a really great moment between us.”
“I had a guy take a piss on me once,” Rachel said, shrugging. “I didn’t care for it all that much.”
“Maybe he should’ve worn a diaper,” I suggested.
Rachel laughed. “Maybe that’s where I went wrong. I’ll consider that next time it comes up again.”
“So I’m assuming that you went and changed your big baby’s diaper after that?” I asked Jackie, turning back towards her.
“Not on that night, no,” she said. “Maybe he was just feeling a little overwhelmed after having shown me so much of his world, but he finally waddled off…”
Rachel let out a laugh. “God, I wish I could’ve seen a grown man waddling around in a wet diaper.”
Jackie continued, not paying Rachel much mind: “...and took care of changing himself. But later that same week, we hung out again, and that time, I changed his diaper.”
“Twice in a week, huh?” I asked, a pang of jealousy coursing through my body as I thought about how it had been so hard for us girls to get together more regularly. “And…it sounds like you were really enjoying your new role as ‘Mommy.’”
Jackie bit her bottom lip and nodded. “I have to admit, I was surprisingly…kinda smitten with the whole thing. I like Adam a lot, obviously. But I like this whole mommy/baby thing too, and the power and vulnerability that comes with it. It’s weird, but it’s fun, you know? I feel like I’ve been learning a lot about myself through playing along with him.”
As strange as the whole ‘diaper thing’ was to me, I liked the way it made Jackie’s eyes sparkle when she talked about it. Still, I was waiting for another shoe to drop and for her to reveal how and why this whole kink went off the rails and why things weren’t going to work out. I glanced over at Rachel, curious to see if she had any caution of her own, but I couldn’t read her expression well enough to know what she was thinking.
Thankfully, when Rachel opened her mouth next, it was to ask the exact question that had been haunting me for the last while: “So, I don’t get it, Jax. If things with your new ‘baby boyfriend’ were so good, why are you now moping around and whining about not getting any? Did you already get tired of changing diapers or something?”
Jackie sighed at this, looking like she was anticipating this exact question from one of us. She opened her mouth to speak, but it still took a few more moments before she actually said anything–no doubt about it, she was looking for just the right words to use.
“It both is and isn’t the baby thing,” Jackie finally said. “I mean, I like that we bonded over it. And for as weird as it is, I do actually enjoy indulging this part of him.”
“But?” I asked, sensing it was coming.
“But…” she said, “...I had this revelation a few weeks ago, and it’s been stuck in my head ever since.”
“Okay, what kind of revelation?” asked Rachel.
“I-I could tell you the story of what happened,” Jackie said. “But I’ll warn you right now…you’re going to think it’s gross. Or maybe just…wrong.”
“Girl, your boyfriend is already wearing pampers,” I said. “How much more gross can it get?”
“Oh wait,” Rachel said, shaking a finger at Rachel. “You don’t mean to say that he actually, uhm…”
I watched Jackie’s face grow redder again at Rachel’s half-asked question. Admittedly, I was feeling a little stupid, as I still wasn’t sure where Rachel was going with her question, nor could I guess what was ‘grosser’ than what Jackie already shared with us–not that I thought any of it was ‘gross.’
“What?” I asked. “What did he do? What am I not getting here?”
“Rose,” Rachel said, leaning towards me. “What else do babies do in their diapers besides wetting themselves?”
Maybe it was the booze, but I still had a moment where my mind was going blank. What else do babies do in their diapers?
And then it dawned on me.
“Oh…” I said softly. “Oh, wait.” I turned to Jackie. “Are you telling us that Adam actually, uhm…”
“He pooped his pants, didn’t he?” Rachel asked, channeling all the bluntness that I was struggling with. “The big ol’ baby did a big number two right in his diaper, huh? And that was the straw that broke the mommy’s back?”
“Well, uhm, yes, that did happen,” Jackie said, her face good and bright red again. “But it’s more complicated than that…”
“You have to tell us that story,” Rachel said. “That’s all there is to it.”
“Y-you really want to hear about how Adam–”
“Yes,” I said before she could even finish asking the question. “Spare no details. We want to hear everything.”
“Yes,” Rachel repeated, nodding her head enthusiastically. “Everything.”
It was weird, and I supposed we all knew it–three friends sitting around a table at a bar, essentially surrounded by the public, and determined to get to the bottom of a story about a grown man who poops his pants like a baby. But we were invested. No matter how weird this story got, or how ‘gross’ the details were, this was a world that neither Rachel and I knew anything about before now, and we were endlessly curious about it.
Jackie shrugged, looking resigned to the fact that she was going to have to tell the next strange story in her strange saga. “Okay, so..."
***
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Fifty-Six: Love Thyself
Alfie #6–the eighth visitor to this world that we know of, counting Alfie Prime and Audry–has a smattering of tattoos all over his body and a questionable moustache not unlike one that I had tried to rock once upon a time. Needless to say, it didn’t go over very well.
Nobody actually sees him materialize–everyone is too distracted with their own issues and conversations. One minute, he’s not there–the next, there’s another naked Alfie walking around, confidently strutting his nude form.
“What’s up?” he says, laughing to himself. “There some sort of Alfie-party going on here?”
We, of course, have to have ‘the conversation’ with him too.
His arrival confirms something though–something that I hadn’t thought a lot about, but still had a mild curiosity towards: what body were we getting when we jumped from world to world? I always assumed I was just in my body, since it always felt and looked right to me. But seeing Alfie #6, with his tattoos and moustache, does suggest that we’re getting the version of ourselves from our ‘home world.’
I’d never thought to check for such a thing until now, but I pull up my pants and glance at the back of my left ankle, finding the scar that I earned from climbing over a fence at my grandmother’s house when Sam and I were playing a pretty intense game of hide-and-seek back in the day.
“We’re out of diapers, and we’re out of clothes,” Maxine says loud enough for everyone to hear. “So…if you’re naked now, you’re probably going to stay that way.”
Some of the Alfies–#2 and #4 in particular are getting antsy. I can tell that they want to get out of here, though I can guess why they haven’t jerked themselves off into oblivion yet: They’re still curious enough about the anomaly we’re all experiencing on this world that they’re not ready to leave it behind yet. Though I think even that interest is now dwindling.
There’s something else at play here too, contributing to the fatigue that we’re all feeling–our own feeling of uniqueness. Here, we’re just another Alfie–a crisis of identity that we, nor anyone else, has ever had to contend with before. It’s getting harder to remember who is who, no matter how hard we try to assign names and notable characteristics to each other. Even Alfie #6, the most ‘obvious’ of any of us, seems overwhelmed by being one of many.
“Where did #4 go?” someone says–which Alfie it is, I couldn’t tell.
“Is he the whiny one?” someone else asks.
“No, I think that’s him with the big t-shirt.”
Alfie #3 pouts. “Wh-whiny? Me?”
“#4 was wearing the rain poncho,” I say. “That shouldn’t be too hard to find. Just look for a blob of yellow.”
“Well…” Audry points into the woods. “That’s the poncho you’re looking for, isn’t it?”
There, a few yards out from the clearing that we’re all clustered in, we spot the abandoned rain poncho lying between some trees and fallen branches.
“Think he made a run for it?” Alfie #2–at least I think it’s him–asks.
“Or…” I don’t have to finish that thought, as everyone nods–likely thinking the same thing: He might have snuck off to a quieter area and grabbed his ‘Little Alfie’ and punched his ticket for the next world.
There’s a hollow feeling in my gut, maybe one that the others can relate to as well–a sense of loss. Alfie #4 isn’t dead, but he’s gone. His future adventures will forever be a mystery to me. I barely knew him, and yet I feel like I know him all too well.
Weird shit, man.
“Right, well,” Alfie #2 says. “Maybe we all ought to think about what we’re going to do next.”
The skunked-and-earthy smell of another soiled diaper–strangely complimentary to our forest surroundings–wafted past my nose. Someone else was now in need of a change, and wouldn’t be getting one. I had this thought about how, if we stuck around here long enough, we’d all be running around shitting in the woods like animals.
“I don’t think I’m done here,” Alfie #3 says. “There’s something weird about this world, and I feel like I want to know what it is.”
“You think you’ll find that answer?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Even if I don’t…this world sounds kinda, you know, normal, right? It’s not in some wasteland. I’m not being kept in a cage here. If I leave here…who knows what’s next.”
Alfie #6 says what I’m thinking, but was being polite by keeping it to myself: “You’re being a coward. Your world, the one where Mother’s got you in some sort of milk-coma and doing god-knows-what with The Cradle, is still out there and you still need to find a way back.”
#3’s response was quieter, meeker: “I don’t know what good I’d be anyways if I was there. I’d probably just fuck something up.”
He’s the personification of my deepest fears and insecurities.
“What about Nikki?” I ask, remembering my discovery in Pisstopia.
“What about Nikki?” Alfie #2 asks.
“Well, look, who knows what similarities other worlds share with the ones we’ve come from. But I’ve seen evidence that Nikki comes looking for me in The Cradle after I vanish for a while. She’s in danger too. That, for me, is worth finding a way back.”
When I look back at Alfie #3’s face, I see that his eyes are wet and his lip is trembling. “Nikki? M-my friend from when I was in elementary school? She moved away. I never saw her again. Lost touch with her.”
The rest of us look at each other, probably thinking the same thing: This is the result of living in a world without a Nikki to anchor us.
I wish she was here right now. I want to hug her, even though I know she’d hate that. She’d probably even push me away if I tried. But, god, I want to feel her push me.
When’s the last time I told Nikki that I love her? Have I ever told her that?
“Do you have a ‘Nikki’ in your life?” I ask Audry.
She shrugs. “A Nick, yeah. Best friend for life? Ride or die, whatever that means?”
“Yeah,” I say, chuckling a little. “Sounds like you’ve got one too.”
===
Alfie #7 sudden, and again unnoticed arrival, causes Audry to say: “I really am the only goddamned ‘Audry’ aren’t I?”
None of us have any examples of another to offer, so for now, we accept this as the truth.
Alfie #2 has taken up the role of meeter and greeter of new Alfies, with #3–the one to blame for the smell of dirty diapers–and #5 joining him sporadically. Alfie #6, now donning the poncho, seems to be badgering Maxine a little, following her around and being not-so-subtle about hitting on her. I wonder what his relationship is like with the Maxine of the world he’s from–does she tolerate him acting like that? Or was she just as annoyed with him as this Maxine seems to be?
Me, I’m mulling over what Maxine told me a little while ago–about how ‘Alfie Prime’s’ big secret to guided-interdimensional-travel was simply…having sex. How was that kind of orgasm any different? Couldn’t one argue that masturbating was still sex, in that you’re fucking your hand? Was oral sex different from intercourse? What about, like, lesbians?
Of course, it’s not like I could ask Maxine these questions, because she probably didn’t know either. What I could surmise, though, was that sex had somehow worked for Alfie Prime–reliably enough that he wanted Maxine to pass along the message to me. Inevitably, any of us Alfies could–or will–figure it out, as unlikely as that seems. We seem to have a hard enough time finding clothes, getting diapers, and not getting ourselves captured, let alone convincing some local to have sex with us. I’d love to know the story of how Alfie Prime first managed to convince someone to do a little horizontal tango with him. Was it someone we knew from our own world–like a Maxine or a Nikki? Someone who might’ve mistaken him for the real Alfie? Was it a stranger? Did the diapers stay on, or did they come off?
Too, I have to consider what Maxine’s thinking when she relays this message to me. Surely she knows that it’s what I’m going to be thinking about now. She knows that I’ll be considering what options I have as far as sexual partners go to give this plan a whirl. Is she anticipating me asking her for that opportunity? If I was to ask her…how would she respond?
“Hey,” says a voice from behind me as I stare off into the dense forest, just thinking to myself. It’s not one of me, and it’s not Maxine, as I see her out of the corner of my eye–trying, and failing, to shake herself free of Alfie #6.
“Audry,” I say. I slowly turn around to face her. I’m realizing, for the first time, that I’ve been unconsciously trying to avoid looking at her too much. It’s the uncanny valley. It’s looking into the void and having the void look back. She looks a lot like me, and yet not like me at all. She looks…cute, with her messy, wavy hair and the pink in her cheeks. Maxine’s red shirt and those short blue shorts. But it might feel a little gross to think like that. I’m not sure.
“Look,” she says. “Whatever’s going on here, I don’t think it helps me any to linger here too much longer.”
“Oh,” I say. “Are you…leaving?” Rubbing your clit into the figurative sunset?
“I dunno,” she shrugs. “What’s the alternative? Wait around here until I need a new diaper? Wait until I’m hungry and find out that we don’t have any food either? I can do that well enough on my own–I don’t need to do that with a bunch of…Alfies.”
“Yeah, that’s fair. But, uh…wait a second…”
“Hmm?”
My mouth hangs open, but I’m not actually sure what I want to say to her. Do I want to tell her about Alfie Prime? About…sex?
Maybe I kind of want to get away from all this too. Too many Alfies fuck with my head. I’ll deal with giant women again, or post-apocalyptic cheerleaders. I could probably do without Not-Celia again, but anything else seems a little better than this.
Still, I think I’d like to spend a little more time with Audry before we go our separate ways. After all, this might be my only chance to experience this. “Before you go anywhere,” I say, “maybe you and I take a walk together?”
To my relief, she nods her head. “Sure.”
===
Either nobody notices us slipping away, or nobody cares because they all have their own things they’re dealing with–nudeness, dirty diapers, and acclimating to yet another world.
We walk on the side of the gravelly road, in the grass. The sounds of Alfies and Maxines chatting and bickering slowly quiets until it’s altogether absent, leaving us surrounded by the pristine beauty of nature at its simplest: wind through three branches, and birds chirping. Neither of us says anything to each other for a while, and it’s kind of nice to just walk in silence like this.
I’m thinking that I probably won’t go back to the clearing. After Audry and I are done waking and/or talking, I’m going to get out of this world and move on deeper into the onion. I’ll roll the dice on what comes next.
“I used to daydream what it would be like to be a boy,” she finally says.
“Yeah? Did you think you’d look anything like me?”
She laughs. “No…but only because I don’t think I had the ability to imagine what I’d look like at all.”
“Is it disappointing, then, to see me? To know that this is what you might have looked like?”
She rolls her eyes. “Oh, stop. You’re not a bridge troll. You’ve got a handsome boyishness about you. If you didn’t look so much like me, I might even think you were…” She trails off, but I can only imagine that she was about to use the same c-word I used earlier to describe her. “What about you, huh? Happy with the female version of Alfie?”
I shrug and nod my head, being careful not to look too excited to answer. “Uh, yeah. Everything looks like it’s in the right place and all that.”
“I have three boobs, you know?”
There’s a split second where I want to ask her if she’s being serious or not, only to detect the same sarcastic sense of humor I often employ. “That’s kind of hot.”
“You don’t mean that…do you?”
“Well, no. But I’m sure there’s someone out there who is dying for some tri-titted pornography.”
She laughs and shakes her head. “What about you? The biggest dick in the world? Or the smallest?”
“There was a while,” I say, with blushing cheeks, “where I was really into SPH.”
“What…is that?”
“Small penis humiliation? Like porn where women talk down to you or belittle you for having too small of a dick.”
She laughs hard, throwing her head back. “Really? Is yours, like…that small?”
“No, no, I don’t think so. I mean, it seems pretty average, as best as I can tell. Nobody’s ever complained about it to my face, at least. But I guess I just liked the fantasy of that–being mocked for something outside of your control. I think I got over it, though. I haven’t looked at any of that stuff in a long time.”
“What are you into now?” she asks.
“Uh…” I feel my face getting hot again. It’s a little weird, having these conversations with a stranger. But it doesn’t feel like I’m talking to a stranger, it feels like I’m talking to myself. Maybe I am, in a way. It helps that she’s female, I think–I’ve always had an easier time talking to women than other men. Maybe she feels just the opposite, and has an easier time talking to men than other women. We’re a grotesquely perfect match. “If I’m being honest, I’m really into this whole diaper thing. Probably because I’ve been brainwashed into thinking that.”
She laughs and nods her head. “Honestly? Same.”
“You like a, uh, diaper boy, do you?”
“I don’t know about other babies, but I know that I like being the baby. I like a strong Mommy or Daddy taking care of me.”
I let out an embarrassingly primal grunting noise. “Er…yeah.”
“Would you…show me yours if I showed you mine?” she asks.
I laugh. “Is that a joke?”
“I mean…no? Come on, do you think you’ll ever again have the chance to see what it would look like if you had a pussy?”
“No, probably not…”
“And I want to see what my dick would look like.”
“I mean, uh, if you really want to. But we’re wearing diapers and…if we take the diapers off, who’s to say we’ll be able to get them back on again?”
“Fuck the diapers,” she says. “We show each other our privates and then…I dunno…have a circle jerk, or whatever, and get the hell out of here.”
My heart pounds in my chest as I process the words ‘circle jerk.’ I think, somewhere in the back of my mind, I was considering something similar. Though, this reminds me, again, of what Maxine had mentioned earlier.
I let out another laugh, my face feeling good and warm again, as I half-jokingly mull over the idea of fucking the female version of myself.
“What?” she says. “Was my idea that bad?”
“No, no, no…” I sigh, debating if I even want to poke at this bagged cat or not.
“What is it?”
Maybe it’s a good idea. Maybe it’s the worst idea I’ve ever had.
“So…Maxine back there,” I point down behind us down the road, in the direction of the clearing, “she told me this little story earlier, before all the other Alfies, and you, started showing up…”
“Okay? So are you going to tell it to me, or what?”
I sigh. “I…I will. Just… Keep in mind that I’m relaying a story, okay? And it’s note even my story. It’s a facsimile of a facsimile.”
“Right, right, got it.”
“And…I’m not using this story to propose anything, okay? I’m just sharing a story.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asks.
“You’ll know exactly what I mean when I get there.”
===
I retell the story of Alfie Prime’s arrival on this world a few weeks earlier as best as I can recall it. I probably miss a few details, while exaggerating others, but I think I got the general jist of it. I explain, as best as I can, the concept of ‘the onion’ and the necessary pilgrimage towards the center of it. I make mention of how Alfie Prime wants my help someday, assuming we both make it to that figurative–perhaps literal–center. Finally, I bring up the last bit of information Maxine gave me–about how sex, and not masturbation, was somehow needed if one wanted control over what worlds they’d venture to next.
It’s not until I’m done talking that I realize that we’re still walking down the road together. I have no idea how far away the clearing is now. By now, someone has to have noticed we’re gone. Do they think we can be found, or are they already assuming that we’ve left this world? And, if we keep walking in this direction, how far would we have to go to get somewhere?
Audry blinks a few times, nervously chuckling to herself. “That’s…something.”
“You’re telling me.”
“So…” She looks away from me, and I can see her cheeks reddening a little. “...earlier, when I was talking about us showing each other our junk, and you started laughing like a mad man… Were you thinking about us, like, doing it?”
I shrug.
“Alright, well. I guess I’m thinking of it now too.”
“You don’t actually think we should, do you?”
“Uh, no,” she says, in a tone that I can’t completely believe. “No, no, no… That’s crazy. Right?”
“R-right.”
“But,” she says, shrugging. “I mean…it’s certainly an idea though, isn’t it? Like, would we ever have an easier time arranging for that to happen on another world? Because I can’t remember a time, in all the places I’ve been so far, where I had the opportunity to ask someone for a quickie.”
“So…” I say, “you are proposing that we…?”
“I-I’m not saying anything definitive,” she says. “I’m just spitballing here, that’s all.”
“Okay, sure, we could easily, uh, take off our diapers and…do stuff. But we’re still, like, the same person. Or close enough. Isn’t that like…siblings? Cousins? Like…incest and mutated babies and… Well, I don’t even have a condom.”
She laughs. “Oh, that’s what’s holding you back right now? Like, if you had a condom right now, you’d be bending me over that log over there?”
I shrug. “Maybe? But what if condom-sex isn’t the right kind of orgasm? What if that somehow qualifies as the same kind of orgasm as masturbating?”
“Okay, sure,” she says. “And what if this ‘Alfie Prime’ just made up this fucked up story because he wanted to help you get laid during our existential odyssey?”
“Well that’s a pretty weird thing to make up.” I think about it for another moment and add: “Just like everything else he told Maxine.”
“The way I see it,” Audry says, there’s only one way to know for sure if he was telling the truth.
“So you’re proposing that we actually do it?”
She holds out her open hands in front of her. “I’m not proposing anything just yet. I’m just saying. But…”
“But?”
She shrugs. “We don’t really have time on our sides. Sooner than later, one of us is going to be stuck in a messy diaper that we can’t clean up. And that would probably kill the mood, right?”
I glance at her face at the same moment she glances at mine. She’s as red as I feel that I am. I’m willing to bet she feels the same buzzing energy that I do too.
We know each other, because we are each other. Our deepest, dirtiest fantasies and unspeakable scenarios. I know that while I'm thinking about the two of us, rolling around on the ground together in our dirty diapers–doing absolutely disgusting things with each other–she’s thinking of the same things.
We walk for a few more yards without saying anything to each other. I’m hard as a rock in my diaper. I wonder how wet she is in hers.
“Nobody would ever know,” she finally says. “It would just be a secret between you and me. And, you know, it might be for the greater good if sex gives us a leg up on where our journeys go from here.”
“So, then…”
“Yes,” she says, nodding. “Call me crazy, but… I think I want to do it.”
“And let’s just be perfectly clear here,” I say. “Let’s not leave anything on the table. When you say ‘do it,’ you mean…”
“I want you to fuck me, Alfie.”
I search my consciousness for a reason–any reason–why I don’t think we can go through with this. Do morals apply here? Biology? Hell, does shame even apply here?
I think: I barely know her. It’s like walking into a bar, hitting it off with a girl you’ve never met before, and then proceeding to fuck her in the bathroom thirty minutes later–knowing barely anything about her. Sure, there are people who could do that, but I’m certainly not one of those people.
But, well, I do know her. Audry is me. We think similarly. And, I’m willing to bet, we’ve had similar lives that have run on different, but parallel, paths. Without even having to ask, I know that’s been to The Cradle. She’s tasted the milk. She’s encountered Mother, having been made to suckle from her tit long enough that she’s been forced out of her home world. Maybe she’s been in the white place and has met Harriet. She’s jumped from world to world in search of answers.
I’m tempted to say that we’re both so desperate for those answers that we’re willing to do something as insane as have sex with each other now, except I don’t think that’s entirely true. We want to copulate. For science. For pleasure. Because, at the end of the day–when someone’s given the chance to do the strangest thing they could ever think of without fear of being seen–we’ll take advantage of that opportunity.
“Back there,” I say, pointing off the road, beyond a few trees to a small clearing of dried leaves near a fallen tree. It seems spacious enough for us to do what we need, while also giving us some semblance of privacy from the road, should someone else drive or walk down it.
She nods her head.
“C’mon. Let’s go.”
===
We slowly strip our clothes off at the same time, down to our diapers. We sneak little glances at each other as we undress, smirking and giggling like children. The sight of her bare tits makes me giddy, while she bites her bottom lip a little when I lower my pants. My padding is soggy and sagging, and I’m not surprised to learn that hers is too.
“Are you a good kisser, Alfie?” she asks.
I shrug. “Maybe.”
“I always like to think I’m pretty good,” she says. “But…you’ll tell me, right? You’ll be honest?”
I feel my lip tremble as I nod my head. I guess we’re kissing too? I hadn’t thought about that, and it scares me even more than the idea of having sex, for some reason. It’s a whole other level of intimacy that I’m unprepared for.
Clad in only her diaper, goosebumps on her skin–she leans towards me as I fumble with stepping out of my pants, catching me off guard. Her hands reach out and land on my shoulder, not just steadying me, but binding us together. I feel goosebumps on my skin now too. Finally kicking my leg free of my pants, I give her my full attention and let my hands reach out and carefully hold her on either side.
There’s something inherently easy about this–making it so much more effortless than it should be. It’s as if we’re each pulling from deep-set and mostly forgotten fantasies we’ve had about what we’d do if we were in this exact moment. Maybe we just know what we, ourselves, would like.
Her face is close to mine, and while I briefly worry about the taste of greasy diner food on my mouth, her eagerness quickly clears that concern away. Either she doesn’t detect it, or she doesn’t care. In a moment, her lips are on mine. We kiss, our lips wet and smacking together. This feels wrong, in that it's something that nobody should ever be able to do. But could it actually be defined as wrong, considering that nobody has ever done this before–as best as I know?
I drive her back against a thick tree trunk, the bulge in my sopping wet diaper pressing against the front of her equally wet padding. She moans into my mouth, her hands sliding down my back and over my ass, giving the thick, crinkly padding there a playful squeeze.
Our hands frantically grab at each other’s bodies. I hold one of her breasts in each of my hands as one of hers cups the bulge where my cock is in my diaper. I kiss her neck, in one of the places that I like to be kissed most. Given the way that she moans and kicks her feet, I’m guessing she likes it just as much as I do.
I thrust my diaper against hers again. We both moan simultaneously.
“These could’ve been your tits,” she says as I lightly twist her nipples between my thumbs and forefingers.
“And you could’ve had this cock,” I say, feeling as her grip on my diapered manhood grows tighter.
“Dirty little boy.”
“Dirty little girl.”
“We coulda had an orgy,” she says. “Me and all you Alfies.”
“Not all of them would’ve been fun,” I say. “But Maxine, she could’ve joined us.”
“Mm,” she moans, nodding her head.
I open my mouth, thinking I want to tell her to take off her diaper now. Instead, I grab one of the tapes on her garment for myself, giving it a quick pull backwards, freeing it from the plastic backing it was adhered to with a loud tearing sound.
She lets out a playful gasp and does the same thing to me. Rip!
Rip! I tear another of hers away.
Rip! She tears another of mine away.
Rip! I tear another of hers away, leaving her with one tape hanging on for dear life.
Rip! When she pulls the second-to-last tape on my own diaper, the heavy padding immediately slides down my legs–that last adhered tape doing nothing to keep this thing in place. It flops on the dirty ground below us, exposing my erection.
“Go ahead,” she says,daring me as her hand wraps around my cock. “Finish what you started.”
WIth a final loud ripping noise, I pull away the last of her diaper’s tabs, and watch as her own padding falls away, leaving her cleanly shaved pussy exposed to the nature around us.
My cock still gripped in her hand, she guides it between her legs, only to hesitate as I start to feel her wet warmth on the very tip of it.
We both breathe heavily, taking turns looking at each other and looking away. We laugh nervously. She doesn’t actually have to say anything, because I think I know exactly what she’s thinking: That this is crazy, and maybe even stupid. What are we even doing?
I consider telling her that we don’t have to do this, but before I even have the chance to open my mouth, she finishes what she started–feeding my cock into her, enveloping me with her tight, wet, warmth.
There’s no turning back now. This is happening. We’re doing this.
“Fuck me,” she moans.
And I am.
“Dirty little girl,” I mutter again.
“Dirty little boy,” she says back, in between gasping breaths.
She pushes me out from her before quickly spinning around, throwing herself over the fallen tree nearby, leaving her ass sticking up in the air for me to take from behind. She glistens in the small beams of sunlight that poke through the forest canopy.
Somewhere, off in the distance, I hear the faint rumble of tires on gravel. Maxine, and god knows who else, is in the car and they’re probably either looking for us or they’re looking to at least find the clothes and diapers we’ve left behind.
I don’t want them to see us like this. But I’m also not going to stop. So that leaves only one option, really: Hurry up and fuck her good.
I slide inside of her again, and she lets out a pleasurable yelp.
With every thrust, we seem to lose a little more of ourselves. What start as pleas to “fuck harder” and “more” turn into monosyllabic grunts and pleasured moans rather quickly. Soon enough, we’re communicating with each other in an entirely new language born of sexual thrill.
I’m about to cum.
She’s about to cum.
The sound of the vehicle on the road is getting louder. Closer.
I want to stop for a moment and say something. I don’t know what I’d say–maybe just something nice and appreciative. “Hey, it was really great that we got to meet like this, huh? I’m gonna miss you, kid.” But there’s no stopping this train now, and at any second, we’re going to be cumming very hard and then dealing with the ramifications of that.
I try to eke out a goodbye at the very last second, but I can’t even manage that much. Our little chorus of moans and grunts has reached a fever pitch, culminating in…
White.
Fifty-Seven: The Onion
It’s a white place, not totally dissimilar from where I had met Harriet. But it’s not the same place. Or, if it is, I’m in a very different part of it.
I’m nude, of course. This is alarming for a moment, but maybe I’m just starting to get used to waking up in new places completely naked, because the terror quickly subsides and I feel mostly comfortable walking around with everything hanging out.
I wonder what happened to Audry. Is she in a place like this?
White as far as the eye can see, in endless horizons in all directions. There is, I guess, a slight distinction between the floor and…everything else that isn’t the floor–there aren’t exactly walls and ceilings in a place like this. I wouldn’t even say the floor is a different color, it just looks different. A different sheen or something.
There’s light, but where that light is coming from, I don’t know.
But, unlike the white space I had been in with Harriet, I am not alone here. There are things present, all around me.
Doors. In front of me. Behind me. All around. For a moment, they seem randomly placed and situated, but the longer I stare at them, the more I realize that they do seem to follow a pattern. They’re in rows. No, enormous rings. Beyond the ring of doors in front of me, there’s a ring behind me, and a ring beyond that, and a ring beyond that. Ditto for in front of me, where rings seem to stretch into the horizon. The further away the doors are from me, the more they seem to blend into the white expanse of nothing.
The comparison to an onion kind of makes sense to me now. I’m between ‘layers,’ or rings, of the onion now. The ring in front of me, and the rings beyond that, do seem, perhaps…smaller? I can’t say for sure, but it would make sense that each ring gets smaller as you make your way to the center. Given the way the rings of doors subtly curve to the left, from where I look now, I can more or less see which doors are the “next” layer in this onion.
Also, I get what Alfie Prime meant by having options now. These doors–I’m guessing I have the ability to choose which I go through. And if movies and video games have taught me anything, each door likely corresponds to a different world.
All of the doors are currently closed. Makes sense. These doors, they’re simple white panels with a simple metallic handle bent into a ‘u’-shape adhered to each side of it–on the left side of the doors in front of me, and the right side on the doors behind me. Sure, like looking at a door from either side. I test one, gently pushing on the handle, and finding that the door begins to open inward. I quickly pull it shut again. Then, I pull on the handle, finding that the door begins to open towards me. Easy enough.
Except…
There’s a door behind me that is unlike the others in that it’s already open. Through the simple white frame–a thin rectangle in space–all I see is a dark void in the place of where the door should be. Dark voids are rarely known for being good things, but I’m curious enough that I cautiously step towards it anyway.
The closer I get to it, the less black it seems. I start to see…things. An image, a little fuzzy, like I’m looking at it through an old TV screen. I see…the clearing, the one I was just in with Maxine, Audry, and the other Alfies. There are still Alfies milling about. Many of them are naked. New arrivals? There’s one in a yellow rain poncho, trying their best to corral them.
I have a thought, and I pull the door closed.
“I wonder…”
Could the world of too many Alfies have just been a mistake on someone else’s part? On Alfie Prime’s part? Had he simply left the door open, allowing other Alfies traversing the multiverse to spill through it? I suppose there’s no way to test that theory, though I feel in my gut that I’m right about this. I’m hoping that this fixes the issue for that world. That Maxine deserves a break from all those Alfies.
Now then, where to next?
There’s space in between the doors, enough so that I think I can walk past them and into the next ring. But when I try to do so, I find that there’s something stopping me. An invisible barrier? I don’t feel anything stopping me, and yet there’s a point that I’m just not able to walk beyond.
There’s rules, I guess. One ring at a time, and I can’t skip one. Who created this place? Who enforces these rules?
Of course, if the questions are enough to give me a headache, I can only assume that the answers would make my cranium explode like someone in Scanners.
God, I wish I was home watching that movie right now.
I choose a door at random–I just point at a door and decide that;s the one–and pull on the handle, freeing the door from the frame. I expect to be hit by something like an icy burst of air, but I feel no fluctuation in the temperature at all. Looking in the open cavity created by the opening of the door, I see just darkness at first. The longer I stare at it, the more it comes into focus.
I see, a building. It looks familiar to me. It’s…the old farmhouse from The Cradle. But is The Cradle I’m looking at? Does that exist in the world I’m looking in on? I can’t tell. The house is just a house. I can’t see enough of it to tell if it’s been renovated like the one I know or not.
So, should I step through this doorway, is that where I’m delivered? That’s where I wake up? I suspect that it is.
And so I close the door and take a few steps and arrive at the next one. I open this one, wait for my eyes to focus, and peer into another new world.
Water. Just…water. A lake, a pond, I don’t know.
What would happen if I stepped through this doorway? Would I just splash into the water? Would I be awake and swimming, god-knows-how-far until I reach land? Would I just…drown?
Yeah, I think I’m just going to close that door. It’s probably better if I don’t find out either way.
Still, I’m left with a few questions–some new, and some I’ve had before. What happens if I die in one of these worlds? What determines the destination I arrive at when I go through one of these doors? Is it the corresponding location of where my body is currently located in the world I originally came from?
That’s my current theory, though I have nothing definitive to back that up. If this were true, though, that would mean that my body is…next to the old farmhouse? I imagine my body just sitting lying there in the grass, insects crawling over me. That seems…unlikely. Maybe I’m not entirely right about my theory.
I walk towards the next door when I hear something. I have no context for how far away the sound is, or where it came from–but any sound at all in a place like this alarms me. I’ve assumed that I’m the only person here–the only thing capable of making a sound. But that noise–whatever it was–didn’t come from me.
“Hello?”
To my astonishment, there’s a response: “H-hello?”
“Who else is here?” I ask.
“I could ask you the same thing?” the voice says.
Oh wait. That voice seems pretty familiar. As in–one I’ve encountered very recently.
“Uh…Audry?”
===
She seems to appear out of thin air, but I know that’s not what it is. Rather, it’s her walking into my view from around the subtle curve of the ring of doors. She’s nude, just as I am, though neither of us make any attempt to hide ourselves. Why should we? I am she, and she is I.
Not to mention the context in which we saw each other last.
“Hey,” she says, a goofy grin on her face. I should know the expression–it’s probably the same one I’m making right now–but it’s still a little mysterious to me. Coy. Smug. Playful. Sarcastic, maybe.
“Hey.”
“And so we meet again,” she says, shrugging.
“Aye.” But that feels like an insufficient response, so I add: “How about that?”
She laughs under her breath, striding closer to me. She seems confident, but I know better than to assume that she’s a confident woman. There’s an inherent familiarity here–like twins who have developed a secret language with each other.
“It would seem the stories you were told were accurate,” she says. “We had sex and…voila.”
“Voila,” I repeat.
“I don’t think either of us predicted that we’d end up in the same place again,” she says.
I shake my head.
“It’s good, isn’t it?” she asks. “I mean…we can keep doing this.”
“What do you mean?”
She points to a door, a random one in between us. “We go through a door. Explore a world. Seen enough of it? Great, we just…boink and be on our way.”
“Boink,” I repeat, laughing.
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes, of course I do. You… You really want to, uh, boink again?”
“Irrelevent,” she says with a shrug. “You could argue it’s a necessity. We pick the best door, right? We explore together–two are better than one. And then, when we’ve seen enough, we…”
“Right,” I say, nodding my head. Thinking aloud: “So every time we orgasm, we’re taken a level deeper in the, uh, onion. You think that sounds right?”
She nods her head. “That’s what I was thinking.”
“We could go backwards by taking one of the doors behind us.”
She says: “But why would we do that?”
“I’m just saying. We could. That’s an option.”
I think she’s got the right idea, here. We have an advantage now. All we have to do is have sex and be taken back here together, ready to move forward into the next ring of the onion.
“But… Why bother exploring any world at all?” she asks, sounding like she’s thinking out loud.
“Hm?”
“Well,” she says, shrugging. “I’m just saying–if our end goal is to get to the center, then what does it matter what’s on each layer of the onion? We’d be wasting our time by exploring every place we went to.”
“So you’re suggesting we…what, fuck our way through the multi-verse? Just keep going until we’re in the middle of whatever this place is? The onion?”
She shrugs again. “Why not?”
“I…” But she makes a good point. What have my experiences on the other worlds gotten me so far? Still: “We don’t know that Alfie Prime was right about that. What if there isn’t a ‘middle.’ What if there is a middle, but there aren’t any answers there like we’re hoping there are?”
“What if, Alfie? You could apply the same logic towards jumping from world to world, exploring for answers that you don’t know are there or not. This lead, true or not, is all we have.”
Her thoughts mirror my own.
“And, uh, can I just be honest here for a second?” she asks.
“Go for it.” But I already know what she’s going to say.
“The sex was pretty good, wasn’t it?”
I let out a long sigh as I slowly nod my head. “It probably shouldn’t be, but…”
Her eyes get large and she reaches towards me, tugging a little at my arm with both hands. “What do you think would happen if we had sex here?”
I laugh “God, who even knows? We’d get teleported into some even weirder infinite room of doors? Our luck, we’d get teleported right into Mother’s asshole.”
Now Audry is laughing, so hard that tears are forming in her eyes. I don’t know if what I said was that funny, but her laughter is kind of contagious, and I find myself laughing too. It gets harder and harder, each of us seeming to fuel the other one. Soon enough, we’re lost in a momentary haze of crying eyes and literal knee-slapping as we let ourselves be overtaken with giggles. It feels good, just having a laugh at the absurdity of everything. I needed this, as I’m sure Audry has too.
The truth–and we both know it–is that there isn’t a knowable ‘right’ answer. Anything that we do could be just as wrong as it could be right.
“Tell me what you want to do,” I say, finally catching my breath. “And I’ll do it.”
She says: “Funny, I was just about to say the same thing to you.”
We open four or five doors, examining what’s beyond each of them. We haven’t really discussed what we’re looking for, and there’s a good chance that we don’t actually know. At the moment, our mantra seems to be: I’ll know it when I see it.
“This one?” she asks, her thumb pointing into the space created by the open door.
It’s a grassy clearing similar to the last world that we were in–no farmhouse or Cradle, and surrounded by trees. No other Alfies or Audry’s. No Maxine waiting for us. No giant women.
“It’s as good as any,” I say.
“After you,” she says.
“Ladies first.”
“No, no, I insist,” she says.
I roll my eyes. We could probably do this all day–if days even exist here. “Fine, fine. Here we go. See you on the other side.”
We begin to step forward simultaneously, and remembering the error that Alfie Prime might have made earlier, I reach behind me and grab the doorhandle, pulling it shut behind me as we walk forward.
===
For reasons I–perhaps because of my status as an insignificant speck in the greater scheme of existence at large–cannot comprehend, this is different. Before, when I reached orgasm and found myself blasting off to a new world, it was a sleepy sort of process. I’d wake slowly in a new environment, groggy and momentarily uncertain of what was happening to me.
But here, I find myself stepping onto the soft grass. I’m wide awake. Audry is stepping into the grass next to me.
I’m baffled to the point of irritation. Why is it that an orgasm derived from intercourse has given us such a different experience? And why do I feel that I’ll never get a satisfactory answer to that question, because of my rank in all things across the cosmos?
Audry looks at me and laughs.
“What?”
“You have such a serious look on your face.”
“I…” I sigh and shrug. “Doesn’t all of this frustrate the hell out of you? What are we even doing? What does all of this even mean? Why is it–”
“I know,” she says, graciously cutting me off before I keep ranting. “But what if…”
I finish her thought, assuming we’re on the same page: “...we just don’t think about it right now? We just…keep on keeping on?”
She laughs, nodding. “Yes. Exactly.”
“Yeah…”
Despite us just seeing each other naked in the place with all the doors, I still manage to feel a little more vulnerable here. Perhaps it’s because this feels more like a ‘real’ place. Trees. Sunlight. Clouds in the sky. Birdsong. If I haven’t been in this exact place before, I’ve been in places like it before. And in that place–on that world–I wasn’t expected to be naked. If someone was to see me now, I’d have some explaining to do.
“What do you want to do then?” I ask. “Just…get right to it?”
She snorts–a sound that makes me nostalgic for Nikki’s trademark laugh. “I am curious, I guess. About, like, what makes this world different from our own.”
“Well…there’s your first clue,” I say, pointing through the woods to a structure I can see through the leaves and branches. The farmhouse, I think, or something similar to it.
“Should we…check it out?” she asks.
“Naked?”
She shrugs. “We’ll go take a peek. If someone’s there, we just come back here and, y’know, roll around.”
I let out a little chortle. “That’s what we call it now, huh? Rolling around?”
“Come on,” she says, swirling her arm in the air to beckon for me to follow her.
It’s quite the sight, two naked people creeping through the grass together. We could be twins, maybe–that probably makes it creepier somehow, I think. We pause for a moment, surveying the land ahead of us, where a boulder, a fence, and old sticks and fallen branches all pose obstacles that we’d need to traverse around in bare feet.
Audry lets out a little gasp. My head quickly swivels in her direction, my mouth open and ready to ask her what’s wrong. But I see that her eyes are pointed down at her legs, and so I lower my gaze to see what she’s looking at.
She’s peeing.
She seems paralyzed while it happens. Her thighs are pressed together, and I watch as the rivulets of urine run in and out from her closed legs as they worm down past her knees and skate down her ankles. She moans, a moan I think I know all too well myself–one of relief, mingled with a bit of forbidden pleasure.
Is it bad that I want to…touch it? Maybe that’s the wrong question, and it should be: Would she allow me to touch it?
I look up at her face, and see that she’s looking down at me, smiling. She says, softly but quickly: “You…want to feel?”
“Yes?”
“Do it.”
Yes, of course she would want me to feel it. If she were watching me wet myself, she’d be wondering the same thing, because this is how we think.
Quickly, before she’s done, I squat a little and slide my hand between her thighs. She draws in a sharp breath as my fingers craze her skin. She makes no effort to distance herself from me, or to shimmy her legs free of my hand–it’s clear that my hand is a welcome presence.
I catch the last of her stream, feeling the warm liquid flow over my fingers as they find new trails to take down her legs and to the ground. Even when the stream is through, my fingers remain in place a little longer, feeling at the trapped moisture between her warm thighs.
“It’s good?” she asks.
“Mm.” I’m daydreaming about it being my face between her legs, and thought of
this makes me say to myself: What the fuck is wrong with me? I slowly withdraw my hand from her thighs, though I don’t stand up straight just yet.
I think it’s that she feels like an extension of myself. She’s me, as I am her, and we have this free reign to experiment in ways that we never could before.
But, this is a tricky space. For as much as we may be in sync, we actually are separate people. She is an autonomous human, like myself. She is Audry, not Alfie. I can’t let myself forget about that.
“I can tell you liked that,” she says, looking down at the erection dangling between my legs as I remain squatting.
“I’d be worried if I wasn’t erect… And you? Did you like…uh, my fingers between your…”
“Yes,” she says. “I’m obviously wet because I just peed right now. But…I think I’m a different kind of wet too.”
We both laugh again, our faces bright red as I finally stand up. Her with her damp legs, and me with my hard cock–we’re quite the sight right now, and certainly not in a position to go exploring anything.
“Maybe we just, uh, hang back a moment before we go any further,” I say.
“Fair.”
===
I was almost positive that our journey on this world would be complete a few minutes ago, right after I touched her pee-soaked thighs. Had there been a stiffer wind, or if one of us had just asked the other for a little more, we’d have collapsed in the grass and done the deed that probably would’ve sent us back to the onion. Somehow we persevere, though, and we are once more trudging forward–carefully blazing a trail through all the more difficult areas for bare feet.
Past a grove of trees, we enter the property surrounding the farmhouse. It’s absolutely similar in design to the house I know from my own Cradle, though the land around it is different. Instead of a field around it–like the one I stood in during the Rebirth Festival–it’s more of a small yard. There is a shed. A detached garage. An overgrown driveway that feeds through the area that looks like it hasn’t been used in a while.
“Think anyone’s home?” she asks.
I shake my head, looking at the tall weeds growing out from the gravel that used to make up the driveway. “I’m guessing not.”
“Want to take a look inside?” she asks, pointing to the house.
“I do, but…”
“But you think it’s a bad idea,” she says, finishing my thought for me. “I know, I feel the same way.”
“But we’re probably going to do it anyway, yeah?”
She’s already stepping up onto the front porch–well worn wood that looks like it might have been a pretty blue color once upon a time–carefully trotting past a window and making her way to the door. I follow close behind and I’m not sure if it’s because I don’t want her to be alone or if it’s because I don’t want to be alone.
The screen door is old and falling off its hinges. The white paint on the wooden door behind it is flaking away and aged by time. She opens the screen door and has to brush away cobwebs left in its wake. She raises her hand to knock on the front door, interrupted from actually doing so by the fact that I’m laughing.
“What?” she asks. “Just in case someone’s here, right?
“Okay, but what if someone actually answered?”
“Good call. Do we want to make a cover story or…”
“I’m less concerned with the reason we’re here and more with the fact that we’re still buck-naked.”
She blushes and laughs again. “Oh yeah…”
“If you want to nose around, let’s be a little more subtle about it,” I say. I wander back towards the window that the two of us walked past a moment ago. Crouching, so that there’s less of my body awkwardly standing in front of the glass in case someone is inside, I cup my hands over either side of my face and get close enough to peer through.
No lights are on, though it looks like it must be wired for electricity, given the ceiling-mounted lamps and the sconces. There’s a TV in the corner–an old 13” CRT thing in an, by the looks of it. The sort of thing I’d seen in pictures my parents showed me from their childhoods–a boxy unit that either had wooden panels on its sides, or it was plastic made to look like wood. It sat atop a short wire rack, with a black VCR unit sitting on a shelf below it. Elsewhere in this room, I see a faded green couch, and a coffee table with a few things on it–newspapers and magazines. It’s hard to tell from here, but everything looks to have a decent layer of dust on it.
“I don’t think anyone’s been here for a while,” I say. “But it also doesn’t look particularly interesting either. Probably just some old folks who eventually moved out or died and nobody bothered to do anything about their stuff.”
“Grim,” she says, walking over to the window. “Let me look.”
I step aside, giving her the window. As she presses her face up to it, I look around the property, just scanning about for any sign of recent life. Everywhere I look, though, I just see more of the same–overgrowth and neglect. Vines work their way up the farmhouse. Part of the garage’s roof seems to have collapsed in on itself. A little garden looks to be the home of just some unkempt shrubbery now.
Even if it’s not my world, and ultimately unimportant to my journey, I am pretty curious about this place. Who used to live here? What were they like? Why did they leave? It’s evident that someone used to take good care of this area, and I doubt that they’d like to see what it’s become if they were here now.
“Alfie,” Audry says, again beckoning for me to come back to the window. “Come here.”
“What? You see something?”
“Come,” she repeats.
Like an obedient dog, I quickly walk over to the window again, pressing my face against the glass near where hers is. “What do you see?”
“There’s a little table next to the couch, you see it? Look next to the lamp there.”
I do so, spotting the little object in question. I might have seen it earlier too, but my eyes just whipped past it, assuming it was either something unidentifiable from this distance, or something uninteresting. I let my eyes focus on it for a moment. Suddenly: “Woah.”
It’s a pacifier.
“Weird, right?”
“Maybe,” I say. “Or maybe…the previous owners–the current owners, for all we know–just had a baby. In fact, I’d say that’s the most obvious answer.”
“Maybe,” she says, sounding unconvinced. And, honestly, I get where she’s coming from. Given the things we’ve seen so far, seeing a random pacifier really does make me curious.
“I don’t see anything else in there that looks like it would belong to a baby,” she says. “No playpen. No baby toys. No changing pad. No–”
“But there could be a nursery,” I say. I’m playing devil’s advocate here. One of us needs to.
“I want to go inside,” she says.
I do too, but it still seems like a bad idea. “Maybe, first we…scope the place out more?”
She seems to agree with this, given the way she scurries off the porch, following the wall until she finds another window to peer through. I want to follow her, but first I take a look through the window here again, looking at the pacifier and the stillness of everything. The dust. The obvious case being made for nobody having been here for a long time.
I walk back to the front door, where the screen door is still opened and hanging on by one frail hinge. I reach out towards the door knob, biting my lip a little as I consider whether or not I want to do this.
Fuck it. Worst case scenario, we run and…get off this world.
My hand wraps around the knob and I twist it, expecting it to not budge on account of being locked. To my surprise, the handle turns, and I hear the door unlatch.
“Uh, Audry?”
“Yeah?” she says from around the corner of the house.
“If you want to go inside…I, uh, opened the door.”
She comes running back to my side so quickly that I swear she just magically materialized there.
My hand is still on the door knob, and while the door is free to be opened, I haven’t actually gone through with it yet. Audry takes it upon herself to do that part for me, nudging me to the side so that she can push through the door. Without any hesitation, she steps into the house.
“You coming?” she asks.
“I guess.”
===
The soft maroon carpet beneath our feet is a welcome change from the uneven turf, gravel, sticks, and the worn boards of the front porch that we’ve been walking on. It feels about ten degrees cooler in the house than it does outside. While it’s felt comfortable enough for a naked body like mine while I was outdoors, it’s on the verge of being too cold here.
We’re in the living room that we had observed through the window earlier. Audry makes a beeline to the pacifier, but only bends over to examine it closer instead of picking it up. Bending over, of course, sticks her ass up in the air, causing me to stare at it.
“Covered in dust,” she says. “Hasn’t been used by anyone in a long time.”
“Uh, y-yeah,” I say, quickly looking away from her ass. “Makes sense.”
Doing my best to avoid looking in her direction, I browse around the room again. There’s the TV I observed earlier. The couch. The coffee table. There’s a book shelf here too, a few rows of what look like encyclopedias, and then a few shelves of what look to be one of those big plastic VHS cases. A little before my time, but I’ve seen them around. I’m kind of curious what I’d see on those videotapes if I slid one into the VCR under the TV–assuming we had power, which we don’t appear to.
I walk over to the coffee table and take a look at the periodicals lying on it. The newspaper lying on the top of the pile, The Harper Independent, is dated Monday, August 1, 2005. That’s a very long time ago. Has this house been in complete neglect for that long? It seems hard to believe that the building would even still be standing at this point. But, then again, what the hell do I know about architecture or engineering?
When I look up, Audry is gone. “Uh…Audry?”
“Just looking around,” she says from another room.
Looking down again, something else, beneath the newspapers, catches my eye and I reach to grab it. It seems to be a blueprint of some sort. A schematic? Some kind of technical drawing, but I can’t make any sense of it. Boxes and arrows. Numbers and abbreviated words without context. Wires and capacitors or something like that–stuff that’s far outside my wheelhouse. I get lost in the drawing for a few minutes, as I study it over and over again in the hopes that some previously unnoticed detail jumps out at me, but to no avail.
Something else on the paper catches my eye: In the corner of the document is a box with what looks to be some identifying information on it. Catalog or reference numbers I assume. And there’s also the name for this project–whatever it is: CRAD13.
I stare at the word for a moment, uncertain about how this makes me feel. I don’t know what it means, but it makes me feel a little queasy.
“Alfie?”
I look up again, and Audry is in the doorway at the far end of the room. She’s holding something in her hand. “What’s that?”
But the moment the words leave my mouth, I realize exactly what it is. It’s a disposable diaper. A big disposable diaper. A big and thick disposable diaper, like the kind intended for adults to wear. Folded, still. Unused. It crinkled in her hand.
Before she can answer, I ask a new question: “Where did you get that?”
She says: “Would you believe me if I told you that there’s a fucking nursery in this place?”
I look down at the schematic in my hand again. CRAD13, whatever that is.
“I think,” I say, “I’d believe just about anything right now.”
Fifty-Eight: CRAD13
I follow Audry’s nude form through the doorway at the other end of the living room–the one where, just a moment ago, she revealed to me the thick, still folded, adult diaper she had found. I was in the kitchen now, a surprisingly narrow space that looked like a corridor lined with counters. I wanted to get a better look, but that would have to wait–all I really wanted to see right now was the supposed ‘nursery’ where she had found the diaper.
Through another doorway, there’s a short hallway, with an opening that leads to a dining room, two closed doors, and stairs leading to the floor above us. If I had previously seen a similarity between this building and the farmhouse back at The Cradle where I’ve come from, those stop here. The layout of this house is nothing like that one.
“It’s upstairs,” she says.
“What’s through these doors?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Didn’t check those yet.”
I open the first, revealing a closet. There’s a rod with hangers hanging from it–a good place for jackets and whatnot, though there aren’t any here. There’s a pair of old boots on the floor, caked in ancient dirt. A broom and a mop. A bucket. Nothing else especially notable.
I check the next door, finding that it’s a bathroom. Out of instinct, I flip the light switch on and off, but it doesn’t cause the lights to turn on.
“You done exploring?” Audry asks, impatiently. “Come on.” She’s antsy–she really wants to show me this. And, honestly, I really want to see it.
I’m about ready to close the bathroom door and follow Audry up the stairs when something catches my eye–something on the ground, stuffed behind the pipes connecting to the toilet. I take a few cautious steps into the darkness, reach around the old throne, and grab at it. It’s a notebook. I step back into the hallway where there’s more light to get a better look at it.
It’s just a spiral bound notebook of line paper–the sort of thing my mom would buy for me in bulk at the beginning of a school year. Scrawled across the green cover was ‘THOMAS.’ Tommy Pritchard from The Cradle comes to mind, but I doubt it's the same person.
Still, I do wonder how Tommy–my Tommy is right now, in the world I had come from originally. What’s he up to?
I flip open to the first page, finding handwritten paragraphs covering the page. In between the entries are dates. This must be a journal. I flip ahead further in the notebook, seeing that Thomas has recorded quite a bit. I doubt I’ll read all of this, but I’m too curious not to at least read some of it to see what this might all be about.
“Alfie, what the hell are you doing down there?” Audry says.
“Uh, just one moment…”
===
Monday, June 6, 2005
I’m not one to keep a diary. Oh, sorry, a ‘journal,’ I guess. But seeing as how this is part of the job, here we go…
Not much to say just yet, as I just moved my stuff into the house today. I expected there to be an orientation or for someone to walk me around the place, but I guess I’m left to my own devices. I took a little self-guided tour. Place seems pretty nice. A little lonely-feeling, being out here in the middle of nowhere, but I suppose the company has reasons for that.
There’s some rooms that I don’t really get. Like the nursery? Is that for people with kids or something? The company made a big deal about me coming here alone, so I guess it’s just kind of weird that there’s a nursery if you aren’t supposed to come here with your family, you know?
===
“Alfie,” Audry says again. The impatience in her voice reminds me of, well, myself. It’s rare that I’m the one being impatient with someone and not the other way around, but when it happens, I certainly sound like she does now. “Seriously, did you get lost? Fall in a hole? Did you poop on the floor?”
“I…I didn’t poop on the floor,” I huff. Though that does remind me that such a thing is possible. Audry’s discovery of adult diapers here is weird–and the journal entry provides me with more questions than answers–but maybe that’s the best possible thing she could’ve found. We both should probably be in diapers before one of us actually does poop on the floor.
“Then what the hell are you doing?” she asks.
“I’m coming, I’m coming.” I hike up the stairs with the notebook clutched in my hands.
At the top of the steps, I see her shadow in a room to the left, and so I pivot into it.
It’s exactly what she said it was. A nursery. But the thing that I notice immediately–and what the ‘Tommy’ of the journal I’m holding seemed to miss at first glance–is the scale of the furniture here. The crib, the changing table, and even the rocking horse–they’re all big. They’re not for infants, they’re for adults.
“This is weird,” I say, taking a little stroll through the room to further assess everything.
She laughs. “Duh.”
“I mean… Like, what are the odds, right? We can’t find The Cradle as we might know it, but we find a house with an adult baby nursery?”
And then I remember the schematics I found in the living room. CRAD13. How did I miss that detail earlier? Isn’t that, essentially…’Cradle?’
“Well I pissed myself once,” Audry says. “Maybe it’d be best if I didn’t let it happen again. I’m gonna put one of these diapers on. You should probably wear one too.”
“Wait,” I say. I don’t have any idea about what’s going on here, but I’m getting some very bad vibes.
She rolls her eyes. “You think it’s a poison diaper or something?”
“N-no. I just…”
“What’s that?” she asks, pointing to the notebook tucked under my arm.
“I found it downstairs. It’s like a journal or something.”
“What does it say? Anything helpful?”
I laugh. “You think I read the whole thing already? I read, like, a single page. And that didn’t tell me anything. Just that some guy was hired to live here or something.”
She shrugs. “Well, why don’t you, like, look it over or something. I’m going to put this diaper on.”
There’s a sudden, and loud, BEEP, that echoes through the house, though it’s hard to say where it originated. Audry and I glance at each other, both of us sharing the same concerned look.
“There’s no way that was a good noise, right?” she asks.
I shrug. “I’m betting on…no.”
“What do we do?”
I hold out a finger to her, hoping to momentarily silence her as I listen. I think I hear something? Clicks. Thumps.
And then we both hear what sounds like a door opening, its hinges making a slight creaking noise.
“Shit,” I mutter softly. “We’re…not alone?”
“Impossible,” she says. “This place was abandoned. The dust. The overgrown driveway. No power. N-nobody’s here.”
But there’s certainly something moving around here. We can hear it further down the hallway. Footsteps. They’re coming towards us.
“Hide,” I say to her, but she’s already diving underneath the crib, trying to submerge herself in the dark of the corner. There’s only a, maybe, foot and a half gap between the floor and the bottom of the crib, but it’s just enough for her to worm herself into.
That was probably the best hiding spot in the room, so I’m left scrambling for a plan B as the footsteps get closer.
Light. There’s suddenly light in the hallway. Is the power back on?
I run to the nursery’s door, hiding behind it. I’ll be exposed immediately if whoever is here steps into the room and closes the door, but I can’t think of any better options at the moment.
Step. Step. Step. There’s a creek in the floorboards under the person’s foot. And there’s another noise too–one that I can’t quite make sense of, a sort-of whirring sound. Kind of mechanical in nature.
The new light from the hallway illuminates more of the nursery, but not much of it. Audry still remains hidden in the corner, beneath the crib. I can’t see her, but I wonder if she can see me. I try to motion with my hand for her to remain still and quiet. Maybe she sees that, maybe she doesn’t–though I’m sure she doesn’t need a reminder from me to do just that.
The footsteps get closer until they’ve reached the doorway. They cast a humanoid-shaped shadow in the room in the center of the beam of light from the hallway. I swallow, wondering if they suspect that there are intruders in the house–or that those intruders are in this room.
And then, a voice–feminine but strangely detached and robotic: “Do not be alarmed, little one. I am here to assist you with your diapers.” The tone reminds me of one of those text-to-speech apps, where a computerized voice reads back whatever you typed in. My friends had a lot of fun with those sorts of things when we were kids, making them say stupid things about farts and boobies. Now, hearing the voice echo into this room while we hide, it’s strangely terrifying.
They turn and walk into the room, the whirring sound more pronounced as their body gets closer to me.
“I see,” the robotic voice says. “Are we playing the game of ‘hide and seek?’ I regret to inform you, little one, that I am very good at this game. In fact–yes–I detect your heat signature underneath the crib. The game is over now. Please come out so that we can proceed with your diaper change.”
An audible gasp is heard from under the crib. Audry’s been spotted, and I have no doubt she’s scared. Hell, I’m scared for her, just as I’m scared that this thing will easily find me next. I try to think a step or two ahead. What do I do if I’m spotted? Run, I think. I’m just going to run. I’ll bowl whoever this is over on my way out of the room if I have to.
“Please, little one,” the voice says. “It is time for you to come out now.”
“D-don’t hurt me,” Audry says.
“There is no reason for you to be scared, little one. All you need to do is come out from your hiding place, and I will take good care of you.”
“I…I’m not coming out,” Audry says.
I swallow again, nervous about how this will escalate the situation.
“Little one, I do have the means of forcibly extracting you from your location, if the need arises. It is in your best interest to just come out on your own accord.”
There we go. I imagine this thing looking like The Terminator–some sort of metal-skeleton with an apron on. I prepare to flee, assuring myself that I’m not leaving Audry behind, but that I’d just be leaving the room in search of another option. Maybe, now that the power seems to be on, I can find a working phone that I can use to call for help. Hell, maybe I’ll go back downstairs, into that closet I opened earlier, and take out the mop I saw in there and swing it around like a weapon. I imagine myself knocking the robotic head off whatever’s in the room with us now. That’d be pretty badass.
The figure moves forward again, getting closer to the crib. I can see it now, and it’s not quite what I expected it to be.
It (she?) looks like a woman. She’s got skin and blonde curly hair. She wears a blue dress, with a little white apron tied around the front of it (I was right about that part, I guess). I can’t see her face yet. But…is it–is she–human? Because there’s something stiff and uncanny about her movements. Too precise. Too mechanical.
If I had encountered this a few months ago–before I had ever come to The Cradle, where I started to see and experience the strangest things imaginable–I would be assuring myself that I was just imagining things. This, I’d say, was a real person and I was just misreading the situation.
But I know better. I know to expect the unexpected now. I trust my instincts, no matter how strange they are. This is a robot.
Has Audry come to the same conclusion? I hear some shuffling coming from under the crib. “I’m coming out,” she says. “Just, uh, give me a second here…”
Slowly but surely, Audry wriggles herself out from under the crib. I don’t remember it being so hard for her to get under there in the first place, but I guess she was being powered by adrenaline when she dove for cover. She glances in my direction briefly, but thankfully her eyes don’t linger there too long. I have no doubt that this ‘mommy-boy’ would spot me in a moment if she just turned her head–especially with her apparent use of thermal vision–but she doesn’t seem aware of my presence just yet, only Audry’s. I think I can use this to my advantage.
Any second now, I’m going to bolt and find a way to help Audry. Any moment…
But, I’m also just a little too curious to see what’s going to happen.
The woman bends over a little–another sequence of clicking and whirring noises emanating from its body–as it extends a hand to Aubry to help her to her feet. She hesitantly accepts it, her face bright pink as she stands up and the light hits her face.
“Dear,” the woman says, “you are not just without a diaper–but you are completely naked. This is unacceptable.”
Aubry runs a hand through her hair. “Well, uh…”
“Never you worry,” the woman says, her voice still mechanically cold. “I am designed to assist in a situation exactly like this.”
Aubry says: “I…I don’t need assistance, really. I just…well…maybe some privacy? And I could use some clothes, I guess…if you have some you could lend me?”
“I will take care of all of your needs, child. Come now.”
From my vantage point, I see that Audry is willingly following the strange woman to the changing table. No wait, that’s not what’s happening–the strange robo-woman is pulling Audry towards the table, her hand is locked around Audry’s wrist.
“N-no, stop!” Audry protests. “What are you doing?”
I feel myself shuddering a little–my body on edge as I debate about when, how, or if I want to take action here.
“I can assure you that this will go much more smoothly if you just cooperate with me, little girl.”
“I…I’m not a…”
It’s hard to say what happens next. One moment, I see Audry trying to pull away from the robo-woman, but in the next, Audry seems to be pulled even closer. A moment later, and it looks like Audry is climbing atop the table. Or… Or is it that the robo-woman is literally hoisting Audry up onto the table herself?
It’s a little worrying to see how strong the woman is–how little effort she seems to put into manhandling Audry. Even once Audry is atop the table, the woman uses her hands to push her body into a flat prone position on her back.
“There,” the woman says. “Now this will only take a few moments. It would be more ideal if we did not have to secure you to the table, but alas, you seem to be a squirmy little child.”
“Wh-what are you talking about?” Audry says, helplessly attempting to kick her legs and shake her arms free from the woman’s grip.
But the response comes from a series of clanking noises coming, not from the woman herself this time, from the changing table. Metallic bands have suddenly sprung from the table’s surface, wrapping around Audry’s ankles and wrists, pinning her to the padded surface. I can see by the wiggling in her toes and the spasms in her fingers that she’s still trying to resist and escape, but that she’s unable to break free.
“Silly child,” the robo-woman says. “I did tell you that this would be easier if you cooperate with me, yes?”
“Let me go!” Audry cries, though her request seems to go mostly ignored.
The overhead light in the nursery is on now, and the new illumination reveals a plethora of details I hadn’t noticed in the darkness. Namely, the strange panels that seem to be on almost every wall. Some large, some small–just square and rectangular metal panels that contrast with the cutesy pastel colors of the wallpaper. Some have buttons. Some are just sheets of metal. Some have little screens on them, and I see some of them are booting up now, displaying little threads of letters and numbers that I can’t read from where I am.
The changing table, too, had additional features or components that I either didn’t see earlier, or are only now revealing themselves. Compartments opening, and shelves automatically extending. Little robotic hands drawing baby wipes from packages and unfurling a thick diaper. Little hands mounted on a series of mechanical, many-jointed, arms, slowly reveal themselves from within not only the changing table, but the walls too–from some of the metal panels that open like doors.
And the robo-woman, she just stands there, doing very little herself as the hands do the entirety of the work of gliding the wipes across Audry’s skin–being sure to thoroughly clean her pissy legs before moving to her vaginal area. Audry’s noises are getting confusing and hard to read–panicked and alarmed, but also, just maybe, with a hint of pleasure? Especially as one of the hands presses a wipe into her labia, it’s not clear to me if Audry hates or loves this moment.
I remember that I’m still hiding, watching all of this unfold instead of doing anything. I debate with myself for a moment how likely it is I can make it out of this room undetected.
“Don’t you worry, little boy,” the robo-woman says as she watches mechanical hands sliding the diaper. “I am aware that you also require a diaper, and I will be getting to you next.”
Well then. That makes the decision to get out of this room a little easier. Even more so when I begin to see panels in the wall around where I’m standing opening and new mechanical arms and hands appear in an effort to–I presume–try and snatch me.
“I’ll be back for you, Audry,” I say, leaping out from behind the door.
The robo-woman turns her head, looking over her shoulder at me–her head turning a little more than a human head should be able to. I am seeing her face for the first time. Pretty, I suppose, in a ‘mid-20th Century housewife’ sort of way, but with an unignorable artificiality to it. She looks more like a mannequin than she does a real human, and when combined with her mechanical movements and the whirring sounds she makes, the grand sum is something beyond disturbing.
“W-wait,” Audry cries out to me. “You’re leaving me? Where are you going?”
“I’ll be back, I swear! I just gotta…” Who am I kidding? I’m not about to announce my plan out loud. I barely even know what my plan is.
The last thing I see before I turn to book it is a new robotic hand hovering above Audry’s face, holding a pacifier. It extends itself towards her mouth, plugging it with the paci.
I sure do hope that thing’s been disinfected somewhat recently…
I pivot on my heel and I’m running out the door. Back down the stairs.
There’s lights on down here too. The whole house suddenly seems to be alive now, with lights and appliances clicking, beeping, and going about whatever normal business they have now. The house, once far too quiet, now seems far too alive.
In the kitchen, more hands emerge from the walls and from spaces between cabinet doors, going through the motions of taking out plates and bowls, food and ingredients, and beginning to construct meals from them.
There’s no way that food is good anymore, right?
I jog into the living room, seeing that the power is on here too. My first instinct is to try the front door. I’m not even sure what I’d do once I leave. I’m not going to run away and leave Audry behind, despite what she might think. But at least there’s a shortage of mechanical hands outside.
…Right?
But when I try the door, I find that it’s locked. Or, not locked–seeing as how I can manually flip the lock back and forth myself. The door is sealed by some other means that I don’t have control over.
I guess I’m stuck in here now whether I like it or not.
I begin my search for a telephone, glancing around the living room for one. And while I don’t spot one right away, I do notice that the TV is on. It seems to be showing grainy camera footage of someone sitting on the floor, their back to the camera. It’s a fixed angle, suggesting that someone isn’t standing there while holding a camera, it’s on a tripod and mounted somewhere. And given the angle of the footage, it seems that it’s mounted up high. Like from the ceiling or high on the wall. And… When I get a little closer to the TV, I see that the person sitting there is wearing a diaper. A onesie. They’ve got a bonnet on their head. They’re staring ahead at TV. The TV is showing cartoons.
That TV looks familiar…
It’s the TV that I’m watching right now. I spin around, looking up at the ceiling behind me, spotting a camera mounted in the corner that I hadn’t noticed earlier. I wonder how many other cameras are here in the house. I’m guessing that’s what’s on the videotapes on the shelf? More footage of someone being treated like a baby?
I think of the mechanical hands again, and I look around the room to see if I see them in here, but I don’t. No weird panels or spaces where creepy robot arms can emerge from, as best as I can tell. The locked door is still a little foreboding, but otherwise this room seems to offer a reprieve from the madness elsewhere in this house.
I realize I’m still holding the notebook in my hands, my fingers grasping it so tightly that I’ve bent the thing in half. There’s a good chance that this is a bad time to do some reading, but I realize that I’m holding evidence of someone else’s experiences in this strange place. Maybe, in these notes, there’s an answer to how we get out of here or what we should be doing? I quickly flip through the pages but I have no idea what I’m expecting to jump out at me. I pick a page somewhere in the middle and hastily skim through it to see if its of any help.
===
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
I’m just about at my breaking point here, I think. I don’t know how to get out of this place, and I can’t tell if anyone from the company is even getting my messages anymore, because they’re not responding to me.
I guess I’m just stuck here. Forced to be a baby everyday. I don’t even bother trying to fight with MAMA now, since that’s never been a battle that I’ve been able to win. Everyday, it’s the same routine–she puts me in diapers and dresses me like a baby. I can’t even remember the last time I used a toilet. Even as I write this now, my diaper is sopping wet and drooping between my legs. At any moment now, one of the sensors in this house is going to pick up on that and MAMA is going to come fetch me and drag me back upstairs to the nursery so that she can change me.
Rinse and repeat. Ad nauseum.
And for what? The salary on the contract was pretty nice looking when I first signed on for this gig, but I’m starting to wonder if I’ll ever be able to get out of this place to enjoy it. I thought I was only supposed to be here for a month, but we’re well past two now.
And you want to know the must fucked up part of this? There are times when I just try to look past all my frustration and roll with the situation, you know, and I find myself…LIKING the way that damn robot lady treats me.
I swear, I’m being brainwashed here.
Ah, well, would you look at that…I just heard some of the sensors chiming. And I hear MAMA coming now…
===
Well, that wasn’t especially helpful, but it was kind of intriguing.
MAMA, huh? Is that the robo-woman’s name, or is that just what he calls her?
I flip forward more pages, trying to find an entry near the end of the notebook. I’m hoping that if this ‘Tommy’ ever got out of here, he’ll explain how that happened in one of his last entries.
I look around again, making sure that I remain safe in this room. The coast at least seems to be clear. No hands protruding from walls and no robot-women here. There is the camera in the corner, though, and I’m noticing now that a small red light on it is lit up. Does that just mean that it’s recording? Or is there someone, somewhere, who is watching this?
On the TV, a second person is in frame now–a woman. I’m pretty sure that’s robo-woman herself. ‘MAMA’ as she was referred to as in the journal, though I don’t know if that’s an official name, or just what Tommy chose to call her.
“Tommy,” MAMA says on the TV set. “I will need you to come with me to the nursery. It is time to change your diaper.”
“I…I don’t need to be changed,” the man says.
“My sensors indicate otherwise,” MAMA states. “You have had a sizable bowel movement in your diaper, and now require a proper cleaning.”
“F-fine…” Tommy finally says.
I turn my attention back to the notebook again, glancing at the page I have it opened to. The handwriting is a little sloppier here, a little more haphazard. Were they writing in a rush?
C’mon, give me something good…
===
Wednesday, November 30, 2005
I’m done.
I’m getting out of here.
No more poopy diapers. No more getting force fed by a robot with a spoon.
Thought about taking this notebook with me and showing it to people as proof of what I’ve had to endure, but nobody’s going to believe any of this shit. So instead I’m going to leave it here in the house. Hide it. Hope that, if some other unlucky loser ever enters this place, they find it.
Hey, you. Yes, I’m talking to YOU–the idiot who might be reading this because you found yourself trapped inside of this house like I did. Don’t believe anything the company tells you, okay? This isn’t some easy-peasy housesitting operation. You’re a test subject. And this sure as hell isn’t just some house.
This is CRAD13–some sort of autonomous house designed to care for babies without the need of actual adults. Who the hell thought that was a good idea, you know?
Guess they either can’t or won’t test it on actual babies, so they’re testing it on adults. But they sure as hell didn’t tell me–or you, maybe–that when they hired us to be here, you know?
You’re only company here, if you haven’t figured it out by now, is MAMA. I don’t remember exactly what it stands for, but I found some documents and I think it was spelled out there. Something like: Maternal Affection Machinated Apparatus. Whatever that means. You can’t trust her (though I hesitate to even gender that thing). If you wanna escape from this place, you’ve got to avoid her. You’re not stronger than her, I’ll tell you that right now.
You wanna get out of here? I think I got it figured out. And if there aren’t any entries after this one, then you can bet that I got my ass out of this place.
Basement. Behind the water heater. Loose panel. There’s a tunnel there. If my measurements are right, I think it goes to the garage.
I’m making a break for it. You should do the same. The sooner the better, if you want to avoid the shame of shitting yourself all day every day.
===
‘The shame’ he says.
I laugh at that. Dude, what if I told you of a place where everyone loves the fact that they get to waddle around and mess their diapers all day?
I miss the early days of being in The Cradle. No wacky milk heists or transdimensional galavanting. Just good ol’ baby shenanigans.
At this point? I think there’s a part of me that would take that. If the next world we go to has The Cradle, or something similar to it, I might just say: “Yeah, I think I’ll stick around here for a while. This is my home now.”
No, I doubt I’d actually do that. I need to get home. My home. But the idea is certainly nice.
Okay, okay, okay. So what now?
Well, we got to get out of here. And…
I run over to the door and try to open it again. It doesn’t budge, even after I flip the lock back and forth a few times.
Guess I gotta go for the basement, as per the notebook.
But I’m not going anywhere without Audry.
Last I saw her, she was buckled down to a changing table against her will and about to be diapered. A similar fate awaits me if I let it.
Clop. Clop. Clop.
I can hear heavy footsteps coming downstairs. It’s probably MAMA, finished with Audry and looking for me now.
A moment later, my suspicions are confirmed: “Come to me, little boy. It is time for you to be diapered.”
Do I hide? Run? Fight?
I look around the room for anything that I could use as a weapon. VHS cases, newspapers, and books probably aren’t going to cut it.
She’s getting closer. “Little boy? Come here to me. I promise that I will make everything better for you.”
Fuck it. I’m running. But as I run through the living room, I feel something wrapping around my ankle, immediately tripping me. I fall forward onto my face. My pride is hurt more than my body, though my body doesn’t feel great either. I look to see what tripped me, and see that there is, in fact, a mechanical hand grasping me. I guess I’m not as safe in here as I thought I was.
I hear her footsteps getting closer. Then, she’s so close that I can hear the mechanical whirring of her joints.
“There you are, little boy. Did you fall down and go boom? It is okay. MAMA is here to take very good care of you.”
***
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Cliff only ever leaves his apartment at night–not until it's completely dark outside. I assume it’s for his job, though I have no idea what kind of work he does. Only once or twice have I seen him come home again, as it was in the very early morning hours before daybreak, and I’m rarely up that early myself. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Cliff in the daylight before. My pet theory is, obviously, that Cliff is a vampire.
Jenny has this small dog with wiry black fur and that barks way too much. I honestly can’t figure out why Jenny has a dog at all, seeing as how she dislikes it so much. Three or four times a day, I can hear her yelling at the dog to shut up. Whenever she takes the dog outside to do its business, she seems annoyed by the whole process. She’ll complain aloud that the dog is taking too long to ‘go.’ In the summer, she’ll complain that “it’s too hot out here for this.” But then, in the winter–and while she isn’t wearing any sort of jacket or hat–she’ll complain that “it’s way too cold out here for this.” If someone else is also outside, she’ll at least make an effort to pick up, and dispose of, her dog’s business. But if she thinks nobody’s watching, she just leaves it in the grass and drags the dog back inside. She’s not really fooling anyone, though, because I think she’s the only resident with a dog that walks it in that general area.
Helen might have been born with a cellphone attached to the side of her face and a cigarette wedged between her fingers. I have never seen the woman without either in her hands. I imagine that she’s always telling someone a story. “You’ll never believe what so-and-so did last night…” Or, “You have got to hear this…” It’s sometimes amusing to think of how connected Helen seems to be in her social circle, considering how she only ever seems to be hovering around her apartment, phone in one hand, cigarette in the other.
No, I don’t actually know Cliff, Jenny, or Helen. I’ve never talked to them, or any of the other folks I spot hanging around my apartment complex day after day. They’re just colorful background characters in my own boring life story.
On a recent phone call with my sister, she asked if I had made any friends since moving out to Palm Lake. I said: “Sort of,” but didn’t bother to elaborate that my perceived ‘friends’ were just my neighbors that I watched all day from the comfort of my balcony.
I lucked out, as far as the position of my apartment goes. I’m on the fourth floor–the highest for this building–with a balcony that looks over the complex’s swimming pool, the grassy courtyard, and the balconies of the building on the other side of the pool. It’s from here where I spend most of my days, watching everyone else live their lives.
I sometimes wonder if any of my neighbors have taken note of me in the same way I’ve taken note of them. “Oh, there’s Mr. Creepy again, sitting on his balcony and just staring down at everyone. The dude never works or goes out–he just sits up there on his cheap plastic chair, drinks beer, and watches.”
If that’s what they say, they wouldn’t be entirely wrong. I do spend a lot of time on that cheap plastic chair on my balcony. And I do drink a lot of beer–though I’m honestly trying to cut back a little since noticing that I’ve put on a few extra pounds. And they’d be right to assume that I don’t have a job, because, well, I don’t. Haven’t had one in a while, actually. A few years ago, I helped develop an online platform for inventory management–horribly boring stuff. Some big retail conglomerate liked it so much they bought it from my team and I, making us all stupidly wealthy overnight. The kicker there? I heard that just a few years later, that conglomerate doesn’t even use our platform anymore. Meanwhile, I’m still living a pretty comfortable life.
My other teammates, they went and leveled up their lifestyles. Big, fancy cars. Big, fancy mansions. Trips around the world. Nice clothes. Expensive watches. Et cetera. But I never really needed things like that before, and that didn’t change after my windfall. I’m still driving the same beater car I’ve had for the last ten years. I have a pretty uninteresting mid-tier apartment with a pool I share with a hundred other residents. The rest of my money just sits in various accounts and investments, slowly growing larger in the most uninteresting ways. I’m hoping that someday I’ll figure out what I want to do with it all.
That’s always kind of been my problem, I guess. I don’t have a lot of drive. “No gumption,” my father always said. I don’t think I’m ‘lazy,’ per se–it just doesn’t take much for me to feel comfortable. I probably would’ve been happy working a menial 9-to-5 office job my whole life, blending in with all the other forgotten white-collar masses who were destined to never get ahead.
But here I am, with more money than I know what to do with, no job, and little desire to do anything except sit on the balcony of my apartment and watch the rest of the world do its thing.
===
Okay, full disclosure–I’m a little creepy. I’m not trying to be, but I’m just a curious person by nature. I see something, or someone, that interests me, and I like to delve into it. I want to explore it–learn everything I can about it. That’s how I became a Star Wars trivia obsessive. It’s how I stumbled into programming, which would eventually lead to the development and sale of Hangers-11.
And it’s why I bought a pair of binoculars, so that I can occasionally get better glimpses into the lives of my neighbors.
I try to be subtle about when I use them–reserving them mostly for night when I can keep my lights off and not be noticed as I sit on the balcony. If I have any reputation at all around here, it’s that I spend too much time watching everyone else from up high. I probably don’t also need to be known as ‘the creep with the binoculars’ on top of that.
But you see a lot when nobody thinks you’re looking. Even with their blinds open and the curtains pulled aside, people often seem to feel safe and free in their own homes–like they can do whatever they want, as they’re free from judgment.
Vampire Cliff watches a lot of pornography in his third-story apartment. And, given that I have a pretty good angle on his TV with my binoculars in hand, I’ll say that he watches some pretty extreme stuff. Sometimes he likes watching girls getting smacked around. But then, sometimes, he likes watching the girls doing the smacking.
Granny Smith, an older woman who lives a few apartments over from Cliff on the other side of the swimming pool, cooks a lot of food. She’s always tending to something on the stove, or putting something into–or taking something out from–the oven. It’s always a lot of food, too. Big pots. Big sheet pans. And it’s weird because I never see anyone else in her home eating the food. Where does all this food go? It seems like too much for one elderly woman, but what do I know?
And then there’s Dolly, who lives on the fourth floor of the building on the other side of the courtyard. Much like everyone else in our complex, she seems to have little sense of privacy while she’s in her own home. There are never any blinds or curtains obstructing her view outside, nor my view into her home. She struts around confidently, likely thinking that nobody can see what she’s doing. Sure, her balcony looks across the property to other properties–but there’s enough distance that you’re not going to see much. Either she’s banking on that, or she likes the little thrill of being exposed, because she acts like she’s got all the privacy she could ever need.
I call her ‘Dolly.’ Short for ‘babydoll.’ Because, well, that’s how she dresses. That’s how she acts.
The first time my binoculars zoomed into her apartment, I had no idea what I was looking at. There she was–this beautiful 20-something year old woman with peachy skin, thick blondish hair that bounced with her every step, and her petite frame–waddling around in these underpants that just seemed way too big. Like, they were thick. Bulky.
The only thing that I could think of that would be that thick was…a diaper. And as ridiculous and impossible as that initially seemed, the longer I gazed at her prancing about in her thick undergarments, the more sure I was that this was exactly what I was seeing.
Dolly likes her diapers. It’s rare that I see her without them on. Sometimes she’s wearing more than just a diaper, but the diaper is always there. Sometimes she wears these cute little dresses that don’t cover up the bulky padding. Other times, she crams her diaper into a small, tight pair of shorts. Sometimes she wears one of those onesies–those little bodysuits that snap at the bottom. Sometimes she has a pacifier in her mouth. I’ve seen her drinking from a baby bottle a few times. Jars of baby food. On a few occasions, I’ve watched her sitting on the floor, cuddling with a large teddy bear.
She’s weird, no doubt about it, but it’s an endearing sort of weird. And I’m weird too, for that matter–watching everyone’s private lives with my binoculars.
I’ve done some looking around online, learning that there’s a sizable community for the ‘adult baby’ types. I’m not entirely surprised by this–maybe I’ve seen references to this before in my life, but always dismissed it because it didn’t seem pertinent to me. It would probably be an interesting rabbit hole to fall down, but I realize that I’m not interested in the community as a whole–it’s Dolly herself that fascinates me.
As best as I can tell, she lives by herself. She has a job she goes to during the day. On most evenings, when she gets home, she sheds all of her clothes and walks, nude, to wherever it is she keeps her ‘baby things,’ and proceeds to change into a diaper and whatever else she’s going to wear. She makes dinner like this. Talks on the phone like this. Reads a book or watches TV like this.
I don’t always know when she uses her diapers, but I know they get used. Sometimes, in the middle of doing something else, I’ll watch as she suddenly pauses–her hands feeling the front, or back, of her diaper for a few moments. I never see her get up and go to the bathroom. Sometimes, she lies down on her living room floor and proceeds to change out of one diaper and into another.
I was tempted, once, to dig through the trash in the complex’s dumpsters in the dead of night, curious what I might be able to learn about her from her refuse. I didn’t go through with this, of course, but it served as an indication of how desperate I’ve been to learn more about her.
===
Tonight, I’m sitting on the balcony, in the dark. I’d like to think I’m invisible up here, but I have no idea. As best as I can tell, nobody ever looks up here and watches me while I’m watching them.
I have a bottle of beer in one hand, and my binoculars in the other. Across the way, over in Dolly’s apartment, the lights are also off. She’s probably not home yet, and so I’m left daydreaming once more about what it is she does during the day. Using the binoculars, I peer into her dimly lit home, doing my usual scan for details that might fill in some of the blanks as to who Dolly really is. Alas, there isn’t anything to see tonight–at least not that I haven’t seen before.
It’s about 6:30 PM. This is around the time she gets home. I wonder if she gets off at work around 6:00, and then has about a half-hour commute.
Soon, it’s 6:45, and the lights are still off and there’s been no activity.
“Where are you, baby?” I ask aloud, though mostly to myself.
Suddenly, there’s a flash of light in her apartment–it’s the front door opening, letting in light from the hallway. The light is on in the living room and the door closes. She walks in the kitchen, turning the light on there too.
I increase the zoom on the binoculars. She’s wearing a salmon colored skirt over her tan stockings and a very soft looking white sweater. It’s a cute outfit, and one that compliments her fair skin color.
She stands in the center of the living room, her body perfectly framed within the rectangular sliding glass panels that would lead out to her balcony. It’s times like this when I feel like she has to know she has an audience. As she pulls her sweater up her body and over her head to remove it, it feels like a special performance just for me. The sweater is cast aside, out of view, and her pristine white bra is revealed. It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve seen this show before, it’s one I can’t ever get enough of.
She reaches behind herself, her fingers fumbling at her lower back as she unzips the skirt. Even though she can’t hear me, I softly say: “Do you need some help with that?” She ignores my question, shimmying her body out from the skirt and letting it drop to the ground. Next, the tan stockings are pulled down her legs. I’ve seen her do this before–she has a very slow and methodical approach to lowering the stockings just a little bit at a time. My theory is that they’re just fragile, and she does it like this to ensure she doesn’t cause a run or stretch in them.
There’s something about the daintyness of the stockings that I like–how the thin fabric is like a second layer of skin for those slender legs of hers. And with that layer removed, her pastel pink panties are revealed, like a secret and forbidden fruit.
Whereas the skirt is just left crumpled on the floor around her ankles, the removed stockings are tossed aside to wherever the sweater is. Her hands are behind her back again, unfastening her bra. With its tension released, she lets the straps slide down her arms until the bra lands on the floor in front of her. Her hands cup her breasts for a moment before she lets them fall to her sides again, like she’s giving me a turn to look for myself. And I do.
I’ve seen them plenty of times, though it's a view I never get sick of. Her tits are round little dollops–perfectly sized for a diaper-wearing baby like herself. She turns towards the window, giving me an even better view of them.
Sometimes, I swear, she knows I’m here watching her. This is all a show she puts on for me, and me alone.
Her panties are sliding down her legs now. Zooming in. Her hairless pussy practically glows in the warm lighting of her apartment. She squats down a little, just enough so that she can grab her panties and skirt off the floor. She walks to the side of the room, where my view is inhibited by the wall.
My eyes scan to the right, and I see the bathroom light turn on. There is, unfortunately, a curtain here, and I can’t see what’s going in there. Just as quickly as it’s turned on, though, it turns off. My eyes scan further to the right, to the windows of her bedroom. While she doesn’t have anything up over those windows, I still can’t see into that room very well–the angle just isn’t right. Still, I can see that she’s in there. I see the light turn on, and I watch her shadow bounce around the room as she does whatever it is she needs to. I suspect I know what she’s doing–it’s the same thing she always does when she comes home after work.
“That’s it,” I say. “Get your diaper. Like a good girl.”
She lingers in the bedroom for a while. All I can do is imagine what’s occurring right now.
This is usually about the time when I reflect on what I’m doing and start asking myself if I’m happy with my life.
Is this what I thought I’d be doing with my adulthood? No job, no friends, no life–just watching my diapered neighbor with a pair of binoculars?
I came to Palm Lake because I liked its proximity to everything else. Smack dab in the middle between two decently-sized cities, there’s never a shortage of things to do around here. In just an hour or three, I could be on a plane. I could be skiing. I could be hiking or swimming. I could catch a football game or some basketball. I could be seeing amazing performances at a theater or catching a great concert.
I don’t do any of those things.
I don’t have to do anything, and so, usually, I don’t.
No gumption. Right, Dad?
Being a creep–staring at my neighbors–that’s all I really do anymore.
In a way, I blame Dolly for my current lifestyle. If she was a little more boring, maybe I would’ve given up my voyeuristic tendencies by now. But no–she’s got to be this cutie patootie in a fucking diaper–getting me all wrapped up in her charming mystery.
“Fuck you, Dolly,” I whisper, praying that the wind doesn’t carry my words across the courtyard to her apartment.
Dolly reemerges in the living room a few minutes later. Tonight, she’s only wearing a diaper and nothing else. Personally, while I like the babyish clothes too, I think this is the best look for her. It’s strangely…pure.
She’s in the kitchen now, her diapered ass facing towards me as she prepares food on the counter and the stove. It’s not a cold night, but it’s gotten a bit cooler since the sun went down. I hope she’s comfortable in just a diaper.
There it is. The pause. She was dicing something with a knife, but abruptly set it down as she stepped back from the counter a little. Slight squat. Her hands are tucked between her thighs, feeling the front and bottom of the diaper.
“Whatcha doing, princess?” I ask.
No reply, of course, but maybe she doesn’t need to say anything. She moves her head just enough that I can see the relief in her expression. There’s this little shudder of pleasure that seems to move through her body as she briefly aims her face up to the ceiling. I swear, I can hear her making a little grunting noise, even if I know that it's impossible and my brain is just filling in the blanks.
When she’s finished with whatever she’s doing in her diaper, it’s like she just springs back into reality again. She’s back to chopping things on the counter. She’s checking the stove. She’s taking things out from the fridge. She’s getting a bowl from the cabinet. She’s doing it all with a big, content smile on her face–the kind of smile that says: “I accomplished something and I’m very proud of myself.”
Every time I see her hovering around her apartment in a thick diaper, I find myself a little more in love with both Dolly herself and her strange little diaper-kink. I’m spending more and more time fantasizing about what it might be like to be in her apartment. Does her diaper crinkle when she walks around? Does she make little giggling noises and speak in baby talk to herself? Does her diaper smell? If it does…what does it smell like? How far away from her can I be and still smell her diaper?
I’m not going to get answers to any of these questions, and that’s something I’ve had to make peace with. I mean, sure, I could go over to her apartment and just, like, talk to her. But how would that even go? “Uhm, yes, hello. So, I like to watch you from that building all the way over yonder with my binoculars. I see you wear diapers a lot. Care to talk about that with me?”
She’d probably mace my eyes before I even finished.
The way I see it, one of two things are going to eventually happen. Either I realize that this fascination with a complete stranger isn’t healthy for me and I retire my binoculars altogether, or I eventually get caught peeping on the wrong people and end up getting kicked out of this building.
I’d rather the first option, if I got to choose. But I’m not ready for that just yet. For now, I zoom in on her padded tush again, scrutinizing over whether or not I see a defined brownish lump in the back of her diapers.
This is also when I open the front of my pants, and grab my cock as I peer through the binoculars.
===
An opportunity presents itself, and my heart flutters wildly as I debate on whether or not I’m going to take advantage of it.
Tonight, through my binoculars, I see her in the kitchen, wearing a pair of yoga pants and an oversized sweatshirt. She’s wrangling a few bags of garbage in her hands, likely preparing herself for a trip down to her building’s dumpster.
My fingers drum on the railing of my balcony as I watch her. I bite my bottom lip.
“Do I dare?” I ask aloud, perhaps to some unseen deity who might be willing to offer me a sign.
If I really wanted to, I think, I could run downstairs myself. I could go outside, and jog over to the dumpster at her building. I might be able to get there just as she arrives to throw her garbage out.
And then what?
I haven’t worked that part out yet. Wow her with my charm? That might work if I had charm, though I’ve never really been the charismatic type.
Comment on her trash? “Wow, looks like you’re throwing away a lot of adult diapers, there.” Yeah, because she’d love that.
But I almost don’t even care what I’d say or do. I could go down there right now and see her face to face. Introduce myself. Make contact. Do something. Because something is more than the nothing I do up here on my balcony, beyond just watching her through binoculars.
Next thing I know, I’m running down the stairs of my building towards the first floor. I’d take the elevator, but it’s so freaking slow that, by the time I’ve made it to the bottom floor, she’d already have been outside, thrown her trash away, and then returned to her apartment. I’m trying not to think too much, because I think my plan would fall apart under the tiniest bit of scrutiny–what little plan that there is.
I’m going out there, where she is, and I’m making contact. Right now, that’s all I know.
I kick open the door on the first floor of the stairwell and jog out into the parking lot, making a beeline towards her building. The further I run, the further I realize her building is from mine. If my heart wasn’t pounding so hard this might be a more sobering moment–a wakeup call that I’m being a bit too creepy–but those thoughts dissipate from my head as quickly as they surface.
I see her building’s dumpsters ahead of me, but I don’t see her. Did I miss her? No, of course I didn’t miss her–I was running like a maniac. But she’s not rushing–she has all the time in the world. She’s just not here yet. I take advantage of this, propping myself up against a tree and allowing myself to catch my breath in the hopes that I’ve gotten hold of myself again by the time she arrives.
But this feels like a mistake. The second I stop moving, I start thinking. What am I going to say? How do I actually introduce myself to her? How do I get my foot in the door in a way that ensures we might be able to talk again in the future?
I have no idea.
I see a door on the side of her building open, and my breathing ceases for a moment as I watch to see who it is. The first thing to come through the door are two or three large trash bags, bulging from being overstuffed. I think: You should probably take your garbage out more often, but it seems wrong to be judgmental of the woman I’ve been watching like this.
It’s her. While the binoculars have given me incredible access into her life, she’s a sight to behold without the aid of lenses. A gentle breeze blows through her hair, and she almost seems to glow in the street lamps.
But my indecisiveness about what I might say has altered my plan. I’ve ducked for cover in a small grove of trees and shrubbery. I’m relatively sure that I’m concealed, though it’d probably look pretty bad if she glanced in this direction and noticed any part of me.
I watch as she brings her bags closer to the dumpster. They must be heavy, given the way she grunts and strains as maneuvers them. She places them all down, taking the first with both hands and heaving it as hard as she can up into the air, its arch taking it right into the open mouth of the dumpster. A little impressive, actually–the baby’s got some strength.
She handles the next bag the same as the first, grunting as she puts some power into launching it into the dumpster, where it lands with a splatting noise.
It’s the next bag where it looks like she’s struggling. It’s a heavier one, and she winds herself up a few times before abandoning her throw at the last moment–clearly second-guessing her strength. I’m so tempted to run out there and offer assistance, but I’m sure it’s not a good look for a stranger to emerge from the darkness of the trees right now.
“Fuck,” she mutters, winding back with the bag in both hands one more time as she prepares to throw it. This time, she does launch it, and while it's an impressive attempt, the bag is simply too heavy. It hits the rim of the dumpster instead of going into it, and the force of the impact causes the bag to explode.
She says the same thing I’m thinking: “Goddammit!”
The contents of the bag scatter all over the pavement.
“No!” she whines, followed by an exasperated: “You’ve got to be kidding me right now.”
Even in the minimal light of the parking lot, I see the white bundles that have been spilled all over the pavement–somewhere between a softball and football in size–and I immediately know what I’m looking at. Diapers. All of the dirty diapers she was about to throw into the dumpster are now spread across the ground.
It’s at this moment, while her back is turned to me, that I emerge from the trees and approach where she’s standing. I don’t know why this seems like the time to do this, but it just feels right. I quickly walk towards her and her current dilemma, and without saying anything, I bend down and pick up one of the diapers in my hand, ready to toss it into the dumpster for her. Of course, before I do that, I take a moment to gently squeeze the sinful little parcel, admiring the squish of the padding and its heft.
It’s at this point she hears me, and she spins around. I hadn’t considered just how alarming this scene must be–a complete stranger, manhandling her filthy diapers.
I feel I need to say something before she does: “Oh, hey. I saw your, uh, garbage bag break, so I ran over here to help you.”
Her cheeks blush a deep crimson and she immediately shakes her head. “No.”
I guess I just assumed she’d be grateful for my arrival, and so her blunt refusal catches me off guard. “But…”
“Please just let me handle this, okay?” she asks. “I… I don’t want anyone else handling my garbage.”
It is a fair request and one that comes from a good place. She knows that some ‘random’ passerby shouldn’t be touching the garments she’s used in place of a toilet, and that it’s best she keeps anyone else away.
Me being me, though, I act naive. I throw the diaper in my hands into the dumpster before reaching for the next one. “Oh, it’s no trouble, miss. Things like this happen, you know? I’m happy to help you clean up.”
“Please, I think I’d much rather if…” She stops abruptly, her head craning to the left.
I hear it too–the sound of footsteps echoing across the parking lot. Someone else is approaching the dumpsters.
“Let’s be quick,” I say, plucking up two or three more diapers from the ground in quick succession and tossing them into the large metal tub.
I can tell that she’s torn about this interaction, but that she also knows I’m right. Her best chance to avoid further embarrassment is if we work together to clean up this mess as fast as we can. We both scramble around, grabbing all the diapers we can and heaving them up into the dumpster. I slide my phone out of my pocket and use the light on it to scan for other diapers, though it seems as if we have them all.
“There,” I say. “I think we got them.”
And just in time, as it’s at about this moment that an older woman walks into view, wordlessly walking past us and throwing her own garbage bag into the dumpster before trotting back in the direction she had come from.
“Thank you,” ‘Dolly’ says to me at last, her back turned towards me so I can’t see her face.
“Oh, it was no trouble at all.”
“I can explain…”
“Explain?” I ask. “You don’t have to explain anything.”
She laughs. “Oh please. You’re really going to pretend that you didn’t know what you were picking up on my behalf?”
“Well, uh…” I want to say something about how it doesn’t really matter what she had dropped, as I would’ve picked it up for her.
But before I can find the right phrasing, she continues: “You probably think I’m a freak, huh? Needing to carry a big bag of diapers to the dumpster?”
I play dumb: “I guess I just assumed you have a baby…”
She laughs again, this time louder than the first. “You don’t need to be polite. You saw how big those diapers were.”
“A grandparent, perhaps?” I ask.
She finally turns towards me, and while she is blushing brightly, I can see that she’s also smiling. Seeing her face this close for the first time, I’m noticing all the fine details that the binoculars have never revealed to me about her face. Those subtle dimples. Her long eyelashes. The perfect shape of her nose. I try to remain centered, but I’m worried that my own blushing cheeks might give me away.
“That was very nice of you,” she says. “That’s never happened to me before, and it could’ve been a lot worse.”
I shrug. “Oh, no big deal.”
“Do you live in this building?”
“Oh, I actually live, uhm…” My voice trails off, and I wonder if I should reveal which building I’m actually from. I decide to just do it. Pointing in the general direction of my building, I say: “Over there, actually. I was just out for a walk when I saw your little…accident.”
“Well that was pretty good timing,” she says. “I didn’t even see you until you just kinda materialized out of thin air.”
I’m not sure what I want to do next. It feels like the conversation is winding down, and this isn’t where I want it to end. But what do I say? Ask her to get a drink or some coffee with me? Maybe not now, but later? But then, well, this might be the most awkward time to ask someone out, and I’m sure she’d feel the same way too.
I start to speak, not really sure where I’m going with this thought yet: “So, uh, look…”
“Do you want a cup of coffee?” she asks.
I try not to look as surprised as I feel. “Oh, like, right now?”
“If you have somewhere else to be, maybe we can do it another time. I was just thinking–”
“Yes,” I say, too impatient to let her finish that thought. “That sounds great.”
“Come on,” she says, turning to walk back to her own building, waving a hand for me to follow her. “Follow me.”
We walk across the parking lot together and into the building. We make a little small talk along the way, and we make our introductions. Her name isn’t Dolly, of course, but Katie, though that name seems to suit her just as well as Dolly does. Her personality seems to match perfectly with what I had imagined, or hoped, for it to be like–kind, cheery, and the slightest bit bubbly. There are some things that you just can’t know when looking through a pair of binoculars, like what her girlish giggle sounds like, and I’m honored to have the chance to hear it.
Her apartment building is eerily familiar to my own, with similar aesthetics and layout. But the subtle differences go a long way to making this place feel like an alternate reality of mine–there are more fliers on the bulletin boards in the lobby, and the rugs are a different color. I follow her into the elevator and we take it up to the top floor. It is, of course, a slow ride, but being in a more confined space with her gives me the unexpected opportunity to smell her. It’s a subtle smell–one that I don’t even attribute to her initially–but when I realize what it is, I’m certain that she’s the source: the unmistakable powder-fresh scent of a baby or a nursery.
Moments later, I’m following her into her apartment, and she closes the door behind us. I’ve seen plenty of her apartment before, albeit from the perspective of my binoculars and from a distance away, and so while there’s a familiarity, it’s quite uncanny to see the place from within it, looking across it from the opposite side for once. Through the sliding glass door that leads to the canopy, I can see the lights of my own apartment, out beyond the darkness that separates our buildings.
Katie hustles to the kitchen, where she immediately starts to wash her hands, waving me towards her so that I can do the same.
“Look, I don’t normally do things like this,” she says. “Like, inviting men I don’t know into my place? But I guess I just felt like I needed the opportunity to explain what happened down there.”
“Explain?” I ask. “You don’t owe me an explanation.” I’m just being polite, though–I desperately want to hear her talk about her diapers.
“You picked up my dirty diapers for me,” she says, her face immediately turning beet-red at having said these words. “I guess I’m terrified that you would’ve walked away from here thinking I’m some sort of freak who has all these diapers and…”
“I didn’t think you were a freak,” I say, turning off the faucet and taking the hand towel from beside the sink to dry my hands. “Your garbage? Your life? That’s your business.”
She smiles at this, nodding her head. She looks relieved that I said this.
Honestly, though, I’m feeling sick to my stomach. Maybe I’m saying the right things she needs to hear, but I’m certainly not practicing what I preach. The only reason I’m here right now is because I violated her privacy, repeatedly, by watching her from the balcony of my apartment. I almost wish I hadn’t ever done any of that now. Maybe, in a different world, a situation like what occurred at the dumpsters would have been more organic, and we could’ve made a more genuine connection.
“I appreciate you saying that,” she says. “I…I was going to attempt to explain the diapers to you, but…” Her voice trails off again.
“You don’t owe me any of your secrets,” I say, the knot in my stomach getting tighter. “You don’t have to tell me anything that you don’t want to.”
She smiles at me, still blushing, though not quite as intensely as before. “It’s a nice night out, isn’t it? Do you want to sit out on my balcony?”
“That sounds lovely,” I say, nodding my head.
“Perfect. Why don’t you go have a seat out there and I’ll finish getting some coffee together.”
Stepping out onto her balcony, my eyes are fixed on the lights of my own apartment. It’s too far away to see them, but I know my binoculars are over there, sitting atop the small table next to the chair on my own balcony–right where I left them when I hoofed it down the stairs in an effort to meet Katie.
The guilt is consuming me. There’s nothing honest about my being here. This whole scene is a farce, orchestrated by a creep. She doesn’t deserve this. She’s a nice young woman who is just living her best life in her small slice of privacy. I don’t belong here, and I feel as if my presence is a blight on her sanctuary. I really should tell her the truth, but I worry that doing so won’t just ruin this little rapport we have now, but it’ll ruin her little adult baby lifestyle. She’ll feel less safe in her own home. The things that brought her comfort before might not work as well after.
It would probably be best if I just finish this coffee, politely excuse myself, and then go home and put an end to this.
Maybe I’ll even get rid of my binoculars tomorrow.
***
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Fifty-Four: Convergence/More of Maxine’s Story
I occasionally think about this time where my mother, likely on a day where I was being especially annoying, sighed, threw her arms up in the air, and proclaimed: “I thank the heavens everyday that you weren’t twins, Alfie. If there were two of you? I’d probably jump out a window.”
I wonder how many other people from my life would share that sentiment?
Here’s to hoping none of those people, my mother included, are at Harper’s Dinner Bell right now, as Maxine rushes across the diner to grab the other-Alfie by the wrist and pull him over to our table.
“Who are you and what are you doing here?” she asks, pushing him down into the seat next to me.
Other-Alfie and I stare at each other for a few moments, not saying anything. We take each other in. We study each other. I think he’s a little scruffier looking than me, with some stubble on his cheeks and chin and shaggy hair–but it’s possible that I’m looking just as unkempt at the moment and just haven’t yet had the chance to look in a mirror.
It would be weird, I think, to run into someone who just looks a lot like me. It’s very, very, weird to be sitting next to someone who is you. It fucks with your head. No matter how many strange things I’ve seen on my journey so far, nothing has prepared me for the existence-questioning I’m going through right now as I stare myself in the eyes.
“You probably think you’re the real Alfie, don’t you?” I ask.
“Well, I am real,” Other-Alfie says. “But I was just about to ask you the same thing.”
Maxine groans from the other side of the table, her question ignored as the two of us ponder our place in the multiverse.
He starts to ask: “How’d you–”
But it comes at the same time that I start to ask: “How did you–”
We both laugh.
But maybe I don’t need anyone to explain things to me. I’ve seen the ‘multiverse’–still for lack of a better word–for myself and I can easily speculate that there’s an infinite number of versions of worlds I could potentially come to. Within those infinite worlds, there are many, many, other instances where an Alfie like me endures the same string events that I do, and finds himself–you know–cumming his way across worlds.
And if I’m coming to this realization right now, it probably means that Other-Alfie is coming to the same one himself. Or, maybe, he’s already come to it.
I nod at him, signalling that I get what’s going on.
He nods back.
We both look back at Maxine again. She’s Maxine, but she’s neither of ‘our’ Maxines. She’s this world’s version of Maxine, which neither of us belong to.
“Okay,” she says to us. “I’m just going to say it: This is really fucking creepy.”
“I haven’t run into any other Alfies yet,” I say. “In all the places I’ve gone, that world’s Alfie is always somewhere else.”
“Same,” Other-Alfie says.
“So what makes this place special?” I ask. “That there’s multiple of us here?”
“It’s like a convergence,” Other-Alfie says.
I nod. “Ooh, that’s good–I like that term. Is that what it’s called?”
He laughs. “Oh, no, I just made that up. I thought it sounded cool.”
“You’re right,” I say. “Sounds awesome.”
“Oh my god,” Maxine sighs.
Our food arrives soon after, and Celia does a doubletake upon seeing someone who looks exactly like me sitting next to me now.
She laughs. “Did…you just multiply while I was getting your food?”
“Yes,” myself and Other-Alfie say at the exact same time, both of us thinking we’re funny for this joke.
Celia narrows her eyes. “Okay, well…do you want a menu to look at?” she asks Other-Alfie. “Something to drink?”
“Oh, good idea,” Other-Alfie says. “I’m starving.”
“Should I bring, like, a pile of menus?” Celia asks. “Just in case more of you show up?” She’s joking, but Other-Alfie and I share a skeptical glance, both of us wanting to be the one to say that this might actually be a good idea.
“Just one more,” Maxine says to Celia before either of us get the chance to say anything. With a nod, Celia walks away again.
“Maxine was telling me a story,” I say to Other-Alfie. “It was about how she had met yet another version of me, and I guess he told her a lot of…stuff.”
“When did this happen?” Other-Alife asks Maxine. “When did you see this other version of me? Or, uh…us?”
“A few weeks ago,” she says.
“And, is he here now?” he asks.
Maxine blushes a little. “No. He…left.”
“Left?” I ask. “Where did he go?”
“Well I didn’t get to that part in the story yet…” she mutters.
At the same exact time, Other-Alfie’s eyes and my own get large and we let out little gasps. We both ask: “Did you sleep with him?”
Maxine’s blushing intensifies. “Well…yes.”
Other-Alfie turns to me. “You’ve probably been wondering the same thing I have,” he says.
“Right,” I nod. “What happens to us after we cum.”
“We cease to exist in that world anymore,” he says, thinking aloud. “How about that? We just…vanish, is that right? Not really the answer I was expecting.”
“It makes sense,” I say. “In the sense that it makes as little sense as anything else.”
We both laugh again as Celia swings by to drop off another menu, giving both of us Alfies a skeptical eye. She’s seen twins before, no doubt, but she’s never seen two people look, and act, more alike in her life before, I’m sure of it.
What would my Celia think of this?
“That’s pretty much it,” Maxine says. “Alfie…er, the one who came to visit me, knew he’d, uh, leave after we had sex. He just wasn’t sure what would happen to his body. It was an experiment of sorts. One of the many things I was supposed to tell you.”
“Me?” asks Other-Alfie.
“No…you,” she says, pointing at me.
“He knew I was coming,” I say. I almost meant it as a question, but I was so sure of the answer that it tapered off into a statement. “How?”
“That was in the story I was trying to tell you,” she sighs. “Before he–” Her finger waggles at Other-Alfie. “–came in.”
“Actually, uh, bad news about that,” Other-Alfie says. I look at his face and see that he’s looking out the window. At first I don’t see anything myself, but then I see what he’s staring at–a figure walking along the street, getting closer and closer to the diner. They’re a little too far away to identify, though I think we can already guess who it is.
“Are you kidding me right now?” I mutter.
“What is it?” asks Maxine, her vantage point maybe not as great from her side of the booth.
“Another one,” Other-Alfie says. “Another one of…us, I think.”
Is it so bad that among the first things that I think of upon realizing that there’s multiple versions of me in the same place at the same time is that I feel like I’ve lost any sense of my own identity? I am not a special snowflake. I am not the Alfie–the one and only that I’ve been my entire life. Now, I’m one of a few. One of many, maybe. One of an infinite number, if I really stop to think about it. There are days where I struggle with standing out amongst everyone else in the world, and now I’m worrying that I might not even stand out amongst a crowd of other versions of me.
“We’re all converging here because it’s a familiar place in an alien world,” I say. “It’d probably get pretty weird if more versions of us keep spilling inside the diner.”
Other-Alfie nods. “I’ll go out and stop him.”
“Good idea,” I say. “And maybe keep an eye out for others?”
“Yeah,” he says.
“Do you want me to bring you out some food?” I ask. I hear Maxine sigh, and so I look to her, remembering that she’s probably the one that has to foot this bill, since my wallet is conveniently in another dimension. “If…that’s okay with Maxine.”
“Uh, yeah, whatever,” she says.
“Yeah, good idea,” Other-Alfie says. “You know what I like.”
We both laugh at this before he gets up from our table and trots out the door, leaving Maxine and I alone again. She immediately lets out an exhausted sigh.
“Too much of me?” I ask.
“Probably. Ever since you–or, I guess, another version of you–came into my life a few weeks ago, my life has just been so fucking weird. I should be in college right now. I should be making out with my girlfriend.”
“Girlfriend?” I ask, eyebrows raised. “Y-you have a girlfriend in college?”
She shrugs. “I haven’t used that word with her yet. But if I ever get back home again, I’d like to.”
“Who is she?” I ask.
“Her name is Ash,” she says. Maybe seeing the deflated look on my face, she adds: “Just because I’m seeing someone doesn’t mean that your Maxine is seeing someone.”
“No, that’s true,” I say. “But my Maxine certainly has the freedom to see someone else if she wants to. Me and her…we’re not together at the moment. But, maybe when all this is said and done…”
“You know, that seems to be a theme,” she says. “Me and the Alfie of this world aren’t together anymore either. And the other Alfie who visited me a few weeks ago…he wasn’t with his Maxine any more either. And…” She gestures out the window, towards wherever Other-Alfie and the new Alfie might be at this moment, though I don’t see them. “...I bet if I was to ask him, he would say that he and his Maxine are no longer together either.”
I tilt my head but remain silent, waiting to hear her summarize her point, as I suspect she’s about to do.
“I’m just saying,” she says. “Maybe you and I aren’t fated to be together in any world.”
“Ouch.”
“Maybe that’s a good thing to know,” she says, shrugging. “Maybe it means you don’t have to waste any of your time trying to ‘win me back’ someday.”
I ask: “What happened? Between you and your Alfie? The one is supposedly back home in New Jersey right now, unaware of any of this?”
She shrugs again. “Our little fling was fine while it lasted, but it ran its course. I wanted different things. And that’s okay.”
Celia is back at the table again, two plates of food balanced on one arm and a menu in her other. She blinks her eyes a few times. “There was someone sitting next to you before, right? Someone who looked exactly like you?”
I wonder, for a moment, how much it would fuck with her head if I denied that there had been such a person. Instead, I just say: “Oh…he had to step out. But leave the menu. We’ll probably order something to go.”
She does so after dispensing our food, and then she’s off again with a scornful look on her face. In this brief pause in the action, I take stock of myself, and realize that the diaper I’m sitting on is a little damp and warm. I wonder when that might have occurred.
Also, there’s been something I’ve been wanting to say since Maxine started her story: “Noodles.”
She looks at me, a confused look on her face and her head tilted. “Hm?”
“Uh…noodles,” I repeat. “It was the answer to the question you asked the other Alfie in your story. About Pillow Pete’s weakness? You were going to ask me, remember?”
She laughs, blushing a little. “Y-yes, that’s right. That’s three for three in worlds where you and I have made that weird little in-joke.”
“So, uh, maybe now that it’s just us again,” I then say to Maxine, “you’ll want to finish that little story of yours?”
“Right, yeah, I should. And I hope there aren’t any interruptions this time…”
I consider making a joke about how three more Alfies are walking through the diner’s door right now, but it seems in poor taste–especially when she’s already looking a little annoyed. “Go on.”
===
More of Maxine’s Story, as told by Maxine
You–the version of you who popped into my life a few weeks ago–told me that in the course of your travels through all those, uh, dimensions, had developed a few theories about how things work. You speculated that you might have just been lucky with the specific worlds that you ended up in, combined with the fact that your journey into the multiverse seemed to start earlier, months earlier, than most other versions of yourself did–thus giving you more time and experience in navigating. Because of this, you believed that you were the best version of Alfie. You literally called yourself ‘Alfie Prime.’ I told you that this was a stupid name, though you didn’t seem dissuaded by my opinion.
Anyway, you described the ‘multiverse’ you were travelling through as an onion with millions of layers. And, like, every time you…blew your load, you were descending deeper into the onion. See–and forgive my uncertainty about telling this part of the story, I’m not as well versed in, like, comic book science–you had learned in your travels that each ‘layer’ of the onion was another world that this ‘Mother’ you’re dealing with had touched in some way.
You theorized that if you were to somehow–I don’t know–cum enough, you’d eventually make your way to the middle of the figurative onion. And at the center were all the answers: Who mother was; what mother wanted; and the knowledge of what you had to do to stop her.
I thought that was the answer, then, to my question about what you were doing in my world–this was just another stop on his interdimensional tour as you made your way to the middle. But you surprised me again by saying that you came here on purpose.
One of the things you had learned along the way–something that all the versions of you will learn eventually, when you’ve jumped from world to world enough–is that there are ways to control which world you travel to next. And so, instead of jumping deeper in the onion–like he would usually want to–he jumped, uh, to the…side?
Look, again, I’m not going to pretend I understand all of this myself. I’m relaying to you what I’ve been told.
Anyway, you come here, to my world. It’s one that you weren’t supposed to have ever come to, given the path you’re taking through the onion. But, you know that another version of you would eventually come here. And so you decide that you’re going to stack the odds in your favor. You think that if you can pass along all the essential information to another version of yourself, you’ll have an ally who can quickly join you when it comes time to get to the center of the onion.
You think about sticking around and talking to the other version of you who eventually shows up yourself, but you don’t think you want to wait around that long–you’ve got it in your head that you need to keep moving, and you don’t want to lose your momentum as you head towards the center of the onion. And so you decide the next best thing would be if you could ask someone to be waiting for the new version of you that will eventually be arriving. Someone that you–any version of you–would trust. Someone that any version of you would want to see.
And, well, you think of me.
There are things that you don’t tell me. I don’t know how you got across the country. I don't know where you got the clothes on your back or the diapers that you carry around with you. And I definitely don’t know where you got the envelope full of cash that you handed to me in my dorm room–the cash that you hope will convince me to go along with your convoluted story and fly across the country so that I can meet another version of you.
Still, I don’t know if I can buy that any of this is true or not, you know? I think I would be even crazier if I did just accept all of it as truth right away. I tell you that I need to think about it first, before I agree to anything. You claimed to be fine with this, though I got the feeling it was making you a little antsy.
I snuck you into the showers and got you cleaned up a little. Then I took you down to the campus dining hall so we could have some dinner–though you insisted on taking your bag with us. “Just in case of another accident,” you said.
It was really weird, because it was like hanging out with the Alfie I knew, and yet…it wasn’t him. Maybe our worlds’ timelines were just different enough that your experiences with your Maxine, and my experiences with my Alfie weren’t all the same–we each made references to events and stories that the other didn’t recognize. But the core of who you are was the same. The same sense of humor. The same interests. The same mannerisms.
And I won’t lie, it was kind of nice having you around again. I missed you.
Time flies when you’re having fun, I guess. We ate dinner. We walked around campus a little, and we just talked. Not about world-traversing shenanigans, thankfully–just about ourselves. I told you about my college experience so far. You told me about The Cradle and some of the friends you had made there.
At the risk of bringing up something awkward, I remembered something you had said earlier, back in my dorm room–about how in other worlds, I had been a very good ‘mommy’ to you. I asked about that, curious to know more.
“I don’t find you in every world,” you said. “In most of them, you’re in college on the other side of the country from where I am. Of the instances that I’ve met another version of you, there are some where you’re hostile or untrusting of me for varying reasons. There was a world where Alfie was the host of Mother, and was causing all sorts of chaos. And so there, obviously, you wanted nothing to do with me. But then, there were others where you and I managed to reconnect and form an alliance after I explained who I was and where I had come from.”
“Like this world?” I asked. “Like me?”
“Yes,” you said. “Very much like this. And, in some of those instances were ones in which you were willing to, uh, take care of me.”
“Like…how?” I asked, even though I had a good idea what you meant.
“Changing my diapers, mostly,” you said, your cheeks getting red. “Though once, you bottle-fed me. Twice you spanked me.”
“Wow.”
Once again, your admissions gave a little credence to the idea that you were who you said you were–a world-jumping copy of the boy I knew. Because the Alfie I knew probably wouldn’t be so forthcoming about details like that. But…maybe he would if he knew that eventually he’d be moving on from this world, and he’d never talk to this version of me again.
We walked a little further when I started detecting little hints of something smelling bad. It didn’t even register with me what it could be. Instead, I was thinking that it might be something like, you know, a sewage leak or a nearby dumpster. It wasn’t until I happened to glance at your face, and saw your reddened cheeks, that I was reminded of what you were wearing.
“Did you…” I struggled to get the words out, they seemed so ridiculous, but I felt like I had to–like it was the only way for me to fully wrap my head around what was happening. “Did you poop yourself? Is your diaper…messy?”
“Guilty as charged,” you said, offering this ‘aw shucks’ shrug.
“Wh-what are we going to do about that? I can’t have you come back to my dorm room like this. If June’s there, she’ll freak the hell out.”
“That’s what this thing is for,” you said, reaching over your shoulder and patting your backpack. “I call this my ‘diaper bag.’”
“So…what? You’re just going to…”
“I’m going to do what I’ve done countless times before, in many different worlds,” you say. “I’m going to find a quiet place to change myself, and then I’m going to take care of business. You…wouldn’t happen to know of anywhere I can go, do you?”
“Actually…”
My girlfriend–well…my close friend who I make out a lot with–had recently discovered this quiet little grove by the library, a shaded corner of a field that nobody else had good reason to go to. We’d been there a few times, spreading out a blanket and lying down together under the guise of ‘studying’ or ‘reading,’–though we’d usually just end up rolling around and jamming our tongues down each other’s throats. We’d gotten into some pretty hot and heavy situations over there, and we had yet to be caught or spotted–as best as we could tell. If there was any place I could take Mr. Stinky-Bottoms to discreetly change his diaper, this was probably it.
Of course, the problem was that my secret grove was on the other side of campus, meaning that it was going to be a long walk to get over there–a long walk in the company of someone whose stench was getting worse and worse. There was a quick, straightforward, way to the grove, but it involved walking through more crowded areas, and the last thing I wanted was for someone to smell you and and later–long after you’ve blasted off to whatever world you thought you were going to next–continue to associate me with a boy who pooped his pants. So, instead, we were going to have to take the long way.
Needless to say, you were quite ripe by the time we reached our destination. Those last hundred yards or so were the worst, with your pace being slowed to a toddleresque waddle as the stink of your diaper seemed to constantly waft up around you.
Half-joking, I said: “So, is this the part where I change your diaper for you?”
You laughed and shook your head. “I’m not going to ask you to do that. I think I’m already asking a lot of you, with what’s to come.”
“Okay,” I said. “But let’s say that I wanted to change your diaper? Would you stop me?”
You laughed. “You don’t mean that.”
“I didn’t say I did or didn’t mean it. I was just asking a question.”
“I-if you really wanted to change me,” you said… “I’d never turn down the help.”
I don’t know what the hell came over me. Maybe I was thinking about how–one way or another–you probably weren’t going to stick around. Like, either what you were saying was true and you were going to teleport somewhere else, or you were going to just walk off campus into the horizon and I’d never see you again anyway. I was wondering if I’d ever regret it, years from now, when I thought about the time I had the chance to help change a grown man’s diaper but didn’t take it. Either way, I was thinking about it.
Not that you were waiting for me to commit to this or not. You methodically took your shoes off and set them aside, followed by your pants, leaving you with nothing on below your waist but a droopy, brown-stained diaper that sagged dramatically between your thighs. I could actually see the bulge in the back of your diaper that held your mess. From your bag, you took out a towel and spread it out over the grass. While you did this, I looked around to make sure the coast was clear. Of course it was, but it just seemed surreal that someone could be here, changing their dirty diaper out in the open like this, and that a whole campus of students and faculty could be oblivious to it.
Also from your bag, you pulled out a package of baby wipes, setting them next to the towel. Then you eased yourself down onto your back, taking great care in not putting too much weight on your ass. After this, you began to pull up the tapes on the front of your diaper, either oblivious to the fact that I was watching or just not caring.
“Do you need me to, like, look away?” I asked.
You laughed and shrugged as you slowly opened your diaper to reveal your manhood as well as the thick swatch of brown that consumed your bottom, inner-thighs and the inside of the diaper.
“Here’s the thing,” you said. “I like the idea of you watching or helping me change. But the reality is that it also, uhm, excites me. And if it excites me too much…boom.”
“Boom,” I repeated, not entirely sure what that meant.
“Boom…like, if I orgasm, I’m gone. Off to another world, and leaving this one behind. And, y’know, I still have no idea what happens to me after I leave. Do I leave behind a body, but my mind is gone? Or does my body go too, and I just leave behind a dirty diaper? Or…”
“Or?” Such a strange conversation to have while a grown man attempts to clean himself in such a state.
“Or…maybe this world, and everything in it, ceases to exist.”
I swallowed nervously. “I don’t really care for that option.”
“I don’t think that’s what happens,” you said with a playful chuckle. “But I also just don’t know for sure.”
You were erect now, that was rather obvious. We were both blushing at the sight of this, and I wondered which of us would bring it up first. After a few beats passed and it still went unmentioned, though, I figured that was the game we were playing: just pretending it wasn’t there.
I had little doubt that you could take care of cleaning up this mess on your own. It was probably something you had done countless times before. Still, looking down at you while you fumbled with wipes and stretching your arm to reach between your legs, it felt kind of rude to just stand there and watch.
“What can I do to help?” I asked.
“You don’t have to do anything,” you said.
Like I said, maybe it was curiosity or just FOMO, but I had myself convinced I’d regret it later if I didn’t offer a hand. So I dropped down to my knees and…well, I helped take care of you.
“Having met a few versions of you now,” you said to me, as I carefully guided a baby wipe along your skin, “I’ve come to learn a few things about you.”
I laughed. “Am I the same in every world?”
“No, not really. Nobody is, actually. You might be surprised by how even the smallest change in someone’s life can alter their personality. Still, there’s…themes, I guess. Similarities that always seem true of a Maxine, for example.”
“Is that so? And what have you learned about me then, huh?”
“You’re always curious–or at least more tolerant than others–of diapers.
I almost took that as an insult–maybe because it hit so close to the truth, that I was finding myself enjoying this moment more than I thought I would. “Really?”
You nodded. “Maybe it’s not the diapers themselves, per se, but just that you’re a pretty adventurous person, by nature. You embrace weirder things like this more than others. I think that, too, is why I came here to see you and ask for your help. I knew it’d be easier to convince you to help me than anyone else.”
“The money,” I said, laughing. “That certainly helps too.”
I thought, maybe, this would be the part where you told me where that money came from, or your clothes, or your bag of baby supplies, or you’d tell me about how you managed to get across the country. But, no. I guessed those stories would stay with you. I could’ve asked, but I kind of liked the mystery. I kind of liked…who this version of Alfie had become, the version hardened and wisened by experiences I couldn’t begin to imagine.
You walked me through the process of changing your diaper. I wiped you clean as you lifted your legs–giving me access to all the, uh, harder to access areas. I bundled up your dirty diaper and all the wipes, and wrapped it up in a plastic bag from your ‘diaper bag.’ You guided me through the process, then, of helping you to put on a new diaper–complete with shaking some baby powder on your still-erect dick.
“Couldn’t have done without you,” you said when it was all said and done, and I was helping you back up to your feet again so you could put your pants on. A lie, but it was still nice to hear you say it, still.
We sat in the grass for a while, you and I, and I listened as you explained what you needed from me. Bits and pieces you had made mention of previously, but now you spelled it all out for me. Well, as best as you could, and as best as I could understand it.
You needed me to come here to California, to meet the other version of you whenever he arrived. You didn’t know the exact date of when that would be, but you had a good idea of when it might be–a window of a few days, which it turns out you were right about. Then, once he arrived, I’d fill him in on the things Alfie Prime told me and I’d help send him on his way–towards the middle of the, uh, onion, where he’d meet up with you. Maybe, along the way, Alfie Prime would be rallying more versions of you for this cause. And when you all met at the center, you’d be united in the goal of finding out how to rid every world of Mother.
===
“And, so…ta-da,” Maxine says, throwing her arms up in the air. “I guess I did the thing I was supposed to do.”
The only words that come to mind are: “What. The. Fuck?”
“Yeah…it’s a lot.”
“Jumping…to the side?” I ask.
“I guess.”
“The center of the onion?” I ask.
“That’s what you…uh, what he said,” she nods.
“Alfie Prime?”
“That’s what he called himself,” she says.
Maybe I’m just a little annoyed because I didn’t think of Alfie Prime myself. Or, maybe all versions of me eventually come up with that name, once we jump around these worlds long enough like he, apparently, has. But what about the name ‘Alphie?’ Like…Aflie plus ‘alpha?’
Maybe that’s just harder to verbalize to someone.
I laugh, realizing that this, of all possible things, is what I’m concerning myself with right now.
I look back up at Maxine again. “So, uh…what am I supposed to do?”
“Get to the middle of the onion,” she says, shrugging like the words make just as much sense to her as they do to me.
“And…how do I do that?”
“That I can actually help you with,” she says. “But, uhm…”
Her eyes wander back towards the window, and mine follow. I see him again out in the parking lot–the other Alfie who briefly joined us at the table. He’s talking to the other Alfie who we watched walking down the street towards the diner. This one’s wearing a large baggy shirt, and either short-shorts or no pants at all.
And it’s not just those two. There’s another in their huddle now. Their back is to me, but I don’t need to see their face to know it’s yet another Alfie–this one in a large yellow rain poncho.
“What the fuck is happening here?” Maxine asks.
I shrug, knowing as much as she does. Still, I might at least have a word to describe it: “Convergence.”
“And…what do we do about that?” she asks.
“Finish lunch, order a pizza for the other, uh…Alfies, and then… Well, that’s all I got.”
“Better plan than any I have,” she says.
And we quietly go back to eating our food. I do my best to avoid looking out the window, afraid of how many more Alfies will be standing in the parking lot next time I do.
I think about my Mom’s threat: “I thank the heavens everyday that you weren’t twins, Alfie. If there were two of you? I’d probably jump out a window.”
I’m a little curious to see how she’d react if she were here right now.
Fifty-Five: Too Many Alfies (And Audry)
Upon leaving the diner, I usher all the Alfie’s collected in the parking lot to the picnic table in the back of the restaurant–the one that Not-Celia pointed out to me back before she revealed herself to be some sort of evil imposter. That was a different world, and a different Celia, but the table seems to be a common element across worlds, as it’s in this one too.
Roll call.
There’s me–I’ve decided to call myself Alfie #1, on account of the fact that I’m the first of the Alfies currently present to arrive, so far as anyone knows.
Then we’ve got Alfie #2, the second to arrive, and the one who briefly joined Maxine and I in the diner. He’s a little scruffier than me and is currently wearing a pair of baggy brown pants, some boots, and a red and black plaid button-up. He’s not thrilled at the fact that he’s ‘#2’ and not ‘#1,’ but he seems happy enough that he’s not ‘#3.’
Alfie #3 is currently wearing only an oversized t-shirt–as evidenced by how we were all caught a glimpse of his ‘little Alfies’ between his legs when he sat down. He seems a little more paranoid than I’ve ever been. A little too suspicious and on-edge. I wonder what was different about his upbringing to make him this way. Maybe it wasn’t even his upbringing–he might have had a similar disposition as me up until he ventured into the mult-verse. Perhaps he’s encountered a Not-Celia of his own once or twice, and it’s caused him not to trust anything he sees now.
Alfie #4–AKA Rain Poncho Alfie–asks if anybody’s got a cigarette. Nobody knows what to make of that, as we’re all non-smokers ourselves.
The pizza set down in the center of the table is gone in less than a minute, with a flurry of hungry Aflie’s pulling away pieces and scarfing them down. Maxine makes a joke about how she hopes there aren’t going to be any more Alfies joining us–but I think we all have a feeling that more are likely on their way.
“I think something’s gone wrong,” I say to this council of Alfies. “Have any of you ever been in a world where you’ve come in contact with so many of us?”
“I’ve never come in contact with another one of me at all,” Alfie #3 says. “Even in worlds where I figure he’s got to be around somewhere.”
“Same,” says Alfie #4. “It’s like the universe does its best to prevent us from meeting other versions of ourselves.”
“Except for this one,” I say, thinking aloud. “I don’t know what that means, though.”
Maxine and I haven’t shared Alfie Prime’s little story with the group yet. I’m not sure if its just because it hasn’t come up yet, or if it’s because we’re hesitant to get into all those strange details when our own current situation seems plenty weird by itself.
“Does anyone have a diaper?” Alfie #2 asks. “I’m, uh, wetting my pants over here…”
“For the love of…” Maxine sighs and shakes her head. “Yes, I have more in the car. I’m going to assume that all of you need one?”
One by one, everyone at the table nods their heads, including myself.
“You too?” she asks me, sighing.
I shrug. “I mean…baby’s gonna baby.”
Damn, that’s good. Gonna put that on a shirt some day.
“I have enough for all of you,” she says. “But I won’t have many after that. And I don’t have a change of clothes, so if you’ve wet your pants–” She stares at Alfie #2. “–you’re out of luck for getting dry ones.”
“W-well…we’re probably going to need more,” Alfie #3 says nervously.
“I mean…do you?” I ask.
Alfie #2 knows what I mean, and he nods his head. “Yeah, you’re right. We can, uh, always move on, you know? To the next world.”
What he’s saying, without saying it, is that any of us can jerk off at any time and be done with this world.
“I just kinda want to take a break for a while,” Alfie #3 says. “Do you know how hard it was to find just this shirt? How far I had to fucking walk to get to this diner? A-and…what if the next world sucks, you know? I’m kind of sick of this.”
We have to keep moving,” Alfie #4 says. “Because we all know that there’s nothing for us here. This isn’t our world, and the ones that each of us came from–whichever ones those are–are in some sort of peril, and we want to get back there. I, for one, want to see my Maxine again. I want to see my Tommy. My Eric.”
“Eric?” Alfie #2 asks. “I don’t know if I have any important ‘Erics’ in my life. Who’s that?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Same question.”
“Eric?” asks Alfie #4. “Like…our brother?”
“Brother?” I say, shaking my head. “No, I don’t have a brother named Eric. I have a sister named…”
“Sam,” Alfie #2 says. “Me too.”
“W-wait,” Alfie #3 says. “I have a sibling named Sam too–but he’s my brother.”
Once, a very long time ago, my mother had mentioned that if Sam had been born a boy, they might have named him either Samuel or Eric. Funny, I guess. I wonder what flapping butterfly wings caused my sibling to be born a boy instead of a girl–and what would cause some iterations of my parents to name him either Sam or Eric.
“Do you think…” Alfie #2 says, “...that there’s a world where I–or, we–were born as a girl?”
“Alfina?” I say.
Maxine groans with disgust at that.
“Audry,” Alfie #3 says. “I…I think Mom told me once that if I had been born a girl, that would’ve been my name.”
“It’s better than freakin’ Alfie,” I mutter.
“Look,” Maxine says, changing the subject. “We can’t all sit around here, pissing ourselves and putting diapers on right next to a diner parking lot. We’ve got to get out of here.”
“Where?” I ask. “There’s no Cradle here, in this world, right?”
Maxine nods. “Right. But…” She points a finger at me. “There’s the place I found you. Where I picked you up.”
“That clearing in the woods, yeah,” I say.
“Hey, that’s where I just came from,” whines Alfie #3.
“Well, we’re going back there, okay?” Maxine says. “It’s far removed from other people. It gives us a place to talk about…everything. And from there, we can figure out what comes next.”
It’s really nice to have Maxine here for this–even if it’s not the Maxine I know and love from my own world. She’s arguably more sane than the rest of us, and has a few resources that we don’t–like a vehicle, money, and diapers.
“Alright,” Alfie #4 says. “So we pile in the car and then…”
Maxine groans again. “Y’all are going to pee all over the seats, aren’t you?”
Nobody answers this, though there’s a lot of blushing on the faces around the table.
“It’s fucking rental,” she says. “All of you can–I dunno–jerk off into the great beyond, but I’ll still be stuck here, trying to explain to some pissed off rental company clerk why all the seats are soaked and smell like pee.”
Alfie #3 suggests going back into the diner and asking for some plastic bags that we can use to line the seats with, but nobody wants to be the one to have to ask for those. Alfie #2 points to a dumpster, with broken down cardboard boxes sticking out of it, and asks if those would work. None of us think it’s a good idea, but we also don’t have any better ideas of our own. And so we grab a few pieces of cardboard and Maxine and I bring them to the white rental SUV and we use them to line the top of the seats.
Soon enough, four Alfies and a Maxine are piled into the vehicle, with Maxine in the driver’s seat, myself in the passenger seat, and the other three Alfies in the back. We’ve only just pulled out of the parking lot and onto the road when there’s a piddling sound coming from the back.
“Is that what I think it is?” Maxine asks, frustration already surfacing in her tone.
“I, uh…wet a little,” Alfie #3 says. The sound we heard was his urine reverberating off the cardboard slab he’s sitting on. “I-it wasn’t much though…”
Maxine glances at me, eyes narrowed and scorn on her face–as if this is all somehow my fault. And, sure, I guess–in some strange way–it kind of is. Or at least it’s another version of me’s fault.
A mile down the road, the thick seas of trees already surrounding the road on either side of us, and apropos of nothing, Alfie #2 says: “I was in a world where Mother had been elected Queen Supreme of Earth.”
Alfie #3 scoffs at this. “I was in a world where Elvis was not only still alive, but he had a bionic arm with a microphone built into it that he sang into.”
Alfie #4 sighs before muttering his own weird story: “I…was kept as a prisoner in a post-apocalyptic version of The Cradle.”
“Hey,” I say, turning around. “Pisstopia, yeah? I was there too.”
“I…I don’t remember them calling it that.”
“Maybe it was just similar,” I say, shrugging. “What a trip that was. Befriended some cheerleaders who tried to save me when their base was overrun.”
Maxine shoots me a look, like: “What the fuck?”
“Oh, uh, no,” Alfie #3 says. “No cheerleaders. Just angry women who thought I was a spy. Th-they tried spanking a confession out of me.”
“Shit,” Alfie #2 says, chuckling. “I like the sound of that. I kinda want to go to that world.”
“No no!” Alfie #3 says, practically crying out the words. “You think it’d be good, but it’s not! It was…brutal.”
Is Alfie #3 a wimp, or has he just experienced some things that really changed him? Maybe we’ve all been changed a little by our…’paths through the onion’ as Alfie Prime apparently put it.
The other Alfies are still talking, comparing stories and experiences, but I tune out a little and just stare out the window, watching the trees fly past us as I think about what might be happening in my own world right now.
===
It’s Maxine’s annoyed sigh that snaps me out of my half-sleeping stare out the passenger side window.
“Huh?” I say, turning towards her. It would seem her frustration got the attention of everyone in the back seat too, as they’re all leaning forward and looking out the windshield.
We all see it at the same time–there’s a figure in the woods ahead. Dashing behind trees and thick patches of shrubs and weeds. It’s the skin tone that gives them away–their white skin obvious in all this brown and green.
“It’s another of us,” I say. “Naked.”
“We were all naked when we came here,” Alfie #4 says, giving me a suspicious glance. “Some of us had more luck than others at finding clothes, though.”
“Look, we’ve got to stop,” I say to Maxine.
“And put him where? We’re out of seats.”
“The cargo area behind our seats,” Alfie #2 says, gesturing over his shoulder with his thumb.
“That’s where my stuff is,” Maxine says.
But the car is already slowing. Of course she’s going to stop–she wouldn’t just drive past another of me. I take a quick look into the back seats again, figuring we could probably squeeze another person into it if we had to.
“Uhm…it might not be one of you,” Maxine says.
My eyes shoot back to the windshield, and I see a flash of flesh among the trees again, very close to where the car is crawling to a stop this time. I saw…a bare breast, one that was certainly bigger than mine–or any of the other Alfies for that matter. I don’t want to assume anything, but I don’t think this naked person is a man.
“Uh, stay here,” I say to everyone else. “I’ll go out and say hi.”
“I’m just as entitled to talk to them as you are,” Alfie #4 says.
“We don’t want to overwhelm whoever it is,” Maxine says, coming to my defense. “And, uh, he called it first, so…”
If there’s more of an argument to be had, I’m not paying attention to it. I open the door and slide out from the SUV, closing the door behind me. I look up the length of the road in either direction, looking out for other vehicles. There’s nothing coming.
“Uh, hey,” I say into the trees where I last saw movement. “Alfie?”
There’s no verbal response to this, though I hear the sound of feet shifting on the ground, dry leaves and little sticks breaking and crumbling.
So, if it’s not a ‘he’ then…
I try again: “Uhm…Audry?”
There’s a confused “Huh?” from the other side of the green.
“So…I’m Alfie and…” But I have no idea how to finish that sentence. Do I mention that the car I arrived in is chock full of other versions of Alfie?
“H-how did you know my name,” their voice says. It’s a feminine voice, as best as I can tell.
“Lucky guess? Come on, you’ve probably seen some pretty weird things by now. This can't be that weird.”
“Nobody’s ever known my name before,” she says.
“You want to see weird?” I ask, gesturing behind me to the car with my hand, not that she can see that. “I’ll show you weird.”
“What’d you say your name was?” she asks.
“Alfie.”
She laughs. “Funny. My mom used to tell me that if I had been born a girl, I’d have been an ‘Alfred.’ I usually blew her off, assuming she was just bullshitting me. But…”
Behind me, I hear the electronic whir of one of the windows being rolled down a little so that the others can eavesdrop.
“So, uh, you’re me,” I say, trying to move this conversation along as best as I can. “Like…you’re a version of me. Or, I’m a version of you, if you’d rather. I’m guessing you’re from a world where I had been born a girl.”
“Y-yes,” she says. “I was born a girl. Didn’t have much say in that.”
“Okay, so…behind is a car full of, uh, other versions of me. And you too, I suppose. But they’re all, like, Alfies, you know?”
“How did that happen?” she asks.
“Great question. We’re still trying to work that out. But it’d probably be best if you came with us.”
“I’m naked.”
“Well, sure, we were all naked when we got here, but…” It occurs to me that there isn’t much I can say to make her comfortable with getting into a car of strangers–regardless of who they are–and especially while naked. “Uh, hey, do you by any chance know Maxine from where you came from?”
“Maxine?” she asks. “Y-yeah, I know a Maxine.”
“Well, you’re in luck, because we’ve got this world’s Maxine with us too. Why don’t I grab her and she can help you figure out the, uh, stuff about getting less naked.”
I jog around the car and over to Maxine’s window, ready to tap on it, but she’s already got it sliding down into the door.
“Did we hear that right?” she asks. “That’s a woman behind those trees?”
“Me, if I was a woman, believe it or not.”
She smirks and offers a playful shrug. “This might be the best version of you yet.”
Disregarding her comment, I say: “For obvious reasons–” I look into the backseat, where the three other Alfies put on their most innocent faces. “–she’s not very eager to get into the car while she’s naked.”
“Ah, right,” Maxine says. “She needs some clothes?”
“And probably a diaper,” Alfie #2 says from the back.
“Yes, thank you,” Maxine sighs, rolling her eyes but not looking back at him. To me: “I might be able to lend her some of my own clothes. Let me see what I can do.”
I hang back at the car as Maxine gets out and goes to the rear door, opens it, and rifles through some stuff to find what she’s looking for before wading through the forest herself.
“Hey,” Maxine says. “I’m Maxine and I just want to help.”
Audry says something, but I can’t hear it from where I am. Maybe it’s for the best, giving the girls some privacy.
“You saw her?” asks Alfie #4.
“Not really,” I say. “Didn’t get to see her face.”
“She’s got, like…?” Alfie #2 holds hands out in front of his chest to signify breasts–those the distance he’s putting between his chest and his hands suggests some pretty enormous tits.
“You think she’s hot?” Alfie #4 says. “I always kinda thought I’d look hot as a girl.”
“Alright, alright,” I say. “Everybody needs to calm down a little. We can’t be creepy, okay? That’s especially true for you, #4.”
“Me? The fuck did I do?”
“You just give me creepy vibes or something,” I say. To everyone: “Now, look, just because she’s the one who represents us on the world she comes from, doesn’t make her the ‘female’ version of Alfie, alright?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Alfie #2 asks. “She gets special treatment because she’s a girl? The rest of us are ‘just more Alfies’?”
“Yeah,” Alfie #4 says. “That’s kinda what it sounds like you’re saying. And who made you head-Alfie anyway?”
“I’m not…” But I let my words trail off, knowing it’s not worth the argument. I’m more interested in what’s happening between Maxine and Audry right now.
I move back around the car again to get a better view. Both women are concealed by trees and bushes now. They’re talking to each other, but too softly for me to make out any of the words. I see occasional flashes of skin and colors from Maxine’s clothing through the leaves and branches.
Maybe I should mind my own business, but I can’t help myself: “Everything okay back there?”
The shortness in her tone is one I recognize from my own Maxine, and the message is received. I reach for the passenger side door again, but change my mind and open the backseat door instead
“Scooch over, everyone.”
Alife #4, sitting closest to the door I’ve opened, scoffs and twists his face at me. “What the hell?”
“I’m going to sit back here with you,” I say.
Alfie #2 sighs too. “What? Why?”
“We’re going to give Audry the passenger seat, alright?”
“Yeah, I think that’s smart,” Alfie #3 says, already sliding over in his seat–and pushing Alfie #2 against the other door in doing so–so that there’s room for #4 to slide over.
Begrudgingly, Alfie #4 finally slides over, giving me just enough room to climb in and shut the door behind me. It’s definitely not the most comfortable any of us have ever been, but I feel like I’ve been in more uncomfortable places before.
“So there’s more coming,” Alfie #2 says.
“More…what?” Alfie #3 asks.
“More of us,” I say, thinking the same thing. “In that clearing over where The Cradle should be where I woke up–where all of us probably woke up. More Alfies keep appearing there. They wake up, they’re alone, and they do the most logical thing–wander down this road until they can either find help or find clothing.”
“Or they just…jerk off again,” Alfie #4 says. “I did that once or twice, you know? Woke up in a place that I either didn’t like the vibe of, or where it felt like it’d be too much work to explore and I just decided to roll the dice right away on a better world.”
I think about Maxine’s story, where she relayed the things that Alfie Prime had told her–specifically the concept of ‘the onion’ and how the center might just hold all the answers. I wondered why none of us had thought to immediately masturbate every time we woke up in a new world, allowing us to race ahead to the center. Well, probably because most of us–except myself, Alfie Prime, and whoever else Prime has spoken to about it since leaving this world–don’t know that there’s a center we’re racing towards. Without that information, we’re just blindly fumbling forward–pooping our pants as we think about this next world might be ‘the one’ that gives us all the answers we need to get back home.
Speaking of…
“Okay…” sighs Alfie #2. “Who did that?”
Nobody needs to ask about what he’s referring to, because we can all smell it–the toxic cloud of a dirty diaper. I’m rather sure it’s not my own, though the scent does seem strangely familiar. It’s almost creepy–smelling yourself, in a way, because another version of you has messed his diapers.
“Well, uh, that’d be my work,” Alfie #4 says. “But I’m not going to feel bad about it. It could’ve happened to any one of us. And none of us are strangers to dirty diapers.”
“Hell of a first impression to make on our new friend,” Alfie #2 says.
“She’s just as likely to load her diaper,” #4 fires back. “Let’s not pretend she’s precious just because she’s got tits.”
I try to steer the conversation back to where we were a minute ago: “So, uh, why is it that there are all of us in this one world. None of you have ever seen that before, have you?”
Everyone either says that they haven’t, or shakes their head.
“Is there something special about this world?” Alfie #3 asks.
“Or did an another Alfie fuck something else up?” Alfie #2 says.
Alfie Prime had said something about jumping ‘sideways’ didn’t he? A special way to jump from world to world that allowed him, maybe, more control over the world he went to? I’m thinking it has something to do with that, but I decide against sharing this with the group. It wasn’t my story to tell, and if Maxine wants to tell it again, it’d probably be better coming from her than from me.
The conversation stalls when the back door of the SUV opens and Maxine sets some things down in the cargo space. It’s hard to miss that all four of us Alfies are now sitting in the back seat, of course.
“What’s all this?” she asks. I turn my head a little to face her, and catch her nose wrinkling with disgust. She’s not nearly as acclimated to dirty diapers yet as we all are.
“Alfie…er, Audry can sit up front,” I say.
“Oh wow,” she murmurs half-sarcastically. “You boys are so polite.” She closes the door and calls out to Audry: “You can sit up in the front seat. Everybody else is crammed into the back now. But I’m going to warn you right now–it smells like someone had an accident in there.”
Audry says something in response to this, but I can’t make out what the words are. Whatever it is, it causes Maxine to laugh.
It’s now, as Audry walks past my door’s window, that we all get our first real glimpse of the female version of us. I can’t speak for everyone–or maybe I can, since we all might think the same–but right away I see the semblance. Those are my cheekbones. My nose. Her hair is the same color as mine, just longer. Her lips are a little smaller, but I certainly recognize the dimples. She turns her head, looking through the window at us. One of the Alfies gasps a little at the better view of her face. She pulls open the passenger door and slides into the front seat. I can’t see the full ensemble she’s wearing from this angle, but I think I’ve seen that red t-shirt before in another world–it’s one of Maxine’s. As she settles into her seat, the crinkling of yet another diaper can be heard.
For a few moments, nobody says anything at all. There’s a strange tension in the car as Maxine begins to drive again, and I can’t quite identify with where it’s coming from. Are we all just nervous to confront a version of ourselves that’s so radically different? Or is it really just a matter of us Alfies being strangely timid around a new woman in our lives?
“So, this is all pretty weird, right?” Audry finally asks. Her comment earns an immediate guffaw from Maxine, and a chorus of muffled laughs and confused grunts from us in the back.
“You’ve, uh, never met another one of you then?” asks Alfie #3. “Or…another one of us?”
But his question causes me to reflect a little myself, even though he wasn’t talking to me. Before this world, I hadn’t considered the idea of there being other Alfies. And if I had thought of this idea, what would have I imagined? More like me, right? More men. More Alfies. Audry probably never realized that she was unique for being a woman instead of a man because she probably never considered the possibility that she wasn’t the only one on this journey in the first place.
“No,” she says. “Have you?”
“None of us have,” Alfie #4 says, speaking for all of us. “This world is different.”
“And I’m, like, the only…woman.” I think it’s a question at first, but I realize it’s a statement. She continues her thought, turning her head a little to address us in the back: “And you all are men? Uh, Alfies?”
“And they’re not the only ones,” Maxine says before any of us can respond ourselves. This world has its own Alfie who lives in New Jersey and is blissfully unaware of any of this.”
“I’m from New Jersey,” Audry says.
“Obviously,” Alfie #2 mutters under her breath.
“And, uhm…” Maxine starts to talk again, but trails off almost immediately. I can guess what she wants to mention–Alfie Prime’s appearance in this world a few weeks before our arrival–but I’m not sure why she’s hesitant to make mention of it. I’m tempted to jump in and mention it myself, but decide it might be better to trust Maxine’s instincts. Maybe she’s thinking of something that I’m not.
“Do you have a brother or a sister?” Alfie #3 asks.
Audry says: “Yes, a brother.”
“Sam?” I ask, mostly just trying to be a little cheeky.
“Y-yes,” she says, a little surprised that I either knew that already or that I had guessed correctly.
Alfie #2 glances at us in the back with a wary look on his face–like he needs some sort of pre-approval for whatever it is he’s going to ask. Of course, we have no idea what’s on his mind and nobody says anything. Looking up towards Audry again, he just asks his question: “So…for us, when we want to move on to our next world, we, uhm…stroke ourselves, you know?” I can already hear Maxine groaning from secondhand embarrassment. He continues: “So, for you, when you move onto the next world…”
“Same thing,” Audry says. “Well…different equipment. But the same general idea, yes.”
In the backseat, we all quietly confer with each other, nodding heads and grunting in approval, as if this somehow proved something we weren’t sure of earlier.
===
I think it comes as a relief to all of us when we make it to the clearing without either finding another naked Alfie/Audry on the side of the road, as well as not having any additional stinky diapers to contend with. Alfie #4’s has been more than enough to deal with for those last few miles.
Of course, no sooner than the car is parked, we notice something else in the green grass–another flash of bare skin.
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” mutters Maxine.
Alfie #5 is here waiting for us, looking like he just started to wake and acclimate to this new world a few minutes before our arrival. A vehicle of other Alfies, Maxine, and Audry, might be quite a shock to him–I know it would be for me, if I were in his shoes right now. If he was wearing shoes.
“#4?” Maxine says. “Come with me to the back of the car. I’m going to get you a new diaper. If anyone else needs a change, you might as well follow me. Alfie, uh, #1? Maybe you should go and introduce yourself to the new member of the collective.”
I kind of like Maxine’s efforts to keep control here. I never really considered her–my Maxine, at least–to be a leader, though it suits her well. I wonder if this world’s Maxine is just different like that, or if the events she’s endured over the last few weeks have just shaped her into this new role.
I get out of the SUV and approach the new Alfie. “Uh, hey! Welcome to yet another world. I probably don’t need to introduce myself, huh?”
“Well,” the fresh and naked Alfie #5 says, scratching his head as his cheeks blush, “this is certainly something new. Can’t say I’ve ever met another one of me before.”
“Yeah,” I say, shrugging. “I don’t think it’s supposed to work like this. But here we are.”
The other Alfies are unloading themselves from the SUV now. Alfie #5’s eyes grow larger. “There’s…multiple of you?”
I nod. “And Maxine. Surely you know her, right?”
“Yes,” he says, nodding. “I, uh… I miss her.”
I laugh and nod as well. “We all did, I think. Well…she’s here. And, uh…” I turn around and point my hand in Audry’s direction. “That’s Audry.”
“Who’s that?” he asks.
“That’s you. And me. It’s…us, from a world where we were born a girl.”
“Oh.” I watch as he stares at Audry for a few moments, taking in this surreal sight before finally glancing back in my direction. “How did you know I would be here?”
“We didn’t,” I say. “Or, well…this is where we all woke up. But we didn’t realize you’d be here when we came back. Maybe we should’ve though.”
“And, uh…why?”
I sighed, rolling my eyes–not so much at his question, but at the big unanswerable questions he’s alluding to. “Look…we’re all trying to figure it out for ourselves.”
===
Maxine has given Alfie #5 a diaper, and I’m able to get a new one to replace the soggy one that I’ve been wearing for a little while now. But the bad news is that these were the last diapers. After this, there’s nothing clean to change into. Inevtibally–someone, perhaps everyone–is going to be stuck in a dirty diaper for a little longer than anyone would like. Maxine’s considered going back to town to get more, but I wouldn’t be surprised if most of us were thinking the same thing at this point: If we needed a diaper change, and there isn’t another diaper, maybe we just move on to the next world.
It’s hard to get Maxine to myself. Everyone knows her, and has obviously unrequited feelings for her, so she’s almost always humoring someone. But I manage to pull her away from the group.
“So you didn’t tell everyone about Alfie Prime yet.”
“I know,” she says. “Maybe I should…”
“But?”
“But, while he knew when and where you’d show up, he only foresaw you coming–not the rest of the Alfies. …and Audry. So, I guess I’m just hesitant to involve them with his plan, because I don’t think he knew they were coming. What if he doesn’t want their help–just the help of the one Alfie he knew of?”
I shrug. “I guess?”
“Look, if you see him again when you, uh, cum your way to the next world, just tell him about what happened here, will you?”
“Sure,” I say. “And, uh, one more thing…”
“Uh huh?”
“Earlier, back at the diner, you mentioned something about knowing how I could get to the middle of ‘the onion.’”
“Right,” she says, sighing as her cheeks glow pink.
“Okay, so? How does one do the thing that Alfie Prime does? How does one have more control over the next place they go to?”
“I don’t know all the details,” she says. “But he gave me a little information, that he wanted me to pass along.”
“Hit me with it.”
“So…there’s different kinds of orgasms,” she says. “I mean…maybe not to you and I. Maybe to us, all orgasms are just…orgasms. But in the greater scheme of things, different kinds of orgasms have different kinds of…energies.”
“Uh, sure,” I shrug. I don’t fully understand, but I get the sense that she doesn’t either.
“Jerking yourself off? Or having someone else jerk you off? That’s one kind of energy, right?”
“Okay?”
“But there’s another when you have an orgasm during sex.”
“So, you’re saying…”
“When you leave this world, you’re going to have to fuck your way out of here,” she says with a surprising bluntness.
***
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Fifty-Two: Neutralized
I watch as the sun sets outside the windows of Celia’s bedroom. Then it’s dark. Then the sun comes back up again, slowly rising into the air before making its descent again. It’s how I know I’ve been here, tied to this bed, for almost a full day now.
I’m intermittently visited by Celia. Well, Not-Celia, as I call her. She looks and sounds as I would expect Celia to, though I don’t think that it’s actually her. She’s possessed, perhaps. Taken over. Assimilated or replicated. I don’t know. One would think that all my years spent with comic books, video games, and science fiction movies would have me better prepared for a situation like this.
As it turns out, reality is so much goddamn weirder.
Not-Celia tips a baby bottle into my mouth on occasion to feed me, her other hand helping to support my head as she holds it up towards the bottle. I don’t know what it is. It’s milk-like, but the taste is unlike anything I’m familiar with. Creamy with some sort of artificial flavor. Some kind of, like, baby formula, maybe? Once, while the pacifier-gag is out of my mouth, and before she can cram a bottle’s nipple between my lips, I ask if I’m going to get any actual food. She laughs and says that this is my food.
I helplessly use my diapers, as I expected I would. I wet them. I mess them. And periodically, Not-Celia comes into the bedroom to check and see if I need a change or not. Almost every time she checks, she finds that I need a fresh diaper.
Time crawls by when you have nothing to do. It’s just me and my thoughts–and I’m just about sick of myself. Time drags in a way that I’ve never felt it drag before.
I can sleep, though. It’s an uncomfortable sleep, but it’s kind of like a ‘fast-forward’ button, so I try to do as much of that as I can.
===
Twice now, Not-Celia has checked my diaper, found it to be dirty, only to leave the room without changing me.
I could really use a change right now. The front of my diaper is heavy with wetness, while the back and bottom are packed with a thick sludge that continues to permeate an eye-watering stench throughout the room. I know she knows I’m dirty. I bet she can smell me from elsewhere in the house.
If I spend much more time in this state, the diaper rash is going to be a bitch.
When she enters the room again, groping at the filthy padding with her hand, I emit a frustrated series of groans through the pacifier, hoping to convey that I’d really like her to do something about this.
“Aw,” she coos at me, her voice far more condescending than Real-Celia’s could ever be. “What’s wrong, little poopy pants? Does the little baby need a changing?”
I nod my head frantically.
She says, flippantly: “Mm, see, just as there’s something I could do for you, there’s something that you could do for me. Maybe we could trade? I’ll give you what you want if you give me what I want? A little quid pro quo?”
I moan again, hoping she can translate my primal noises into the message I’d like to transmit: “Yes, whatever you want.”
“See, what I want is to know–what Mother would like to know–is how it is that you’re able to do your little hops from one world to another. Not only does Mother say that this isn’t allowed, but you shouldn’t even be able to do this. So how about it? You tell me how you’re pulling off that naughty little trick, and I’ll make sure you get nice and clean. You’ll be smelling fresh as a daisy in no time at all.”
There’s a part of me that wants to squeal with delight. Not-Celia, and Mother herself for that matter, they don’t know how I’m jumping between worlds. That’s information I have that they aren’t privy too. That’s, potentially, power.
Calm down, I remind myself. I’m still tied up. I’m still in one of the grossest diapers I’ve ever worn. I might have an ounce of power, but in this state, I barely have the means to wield it. I need to be smart.
Not-Celia reaches behind my head and unfastens the ribbon, allowing her to the pacifier from my mouth. She hovers over me, smiling down with her hands on her hips now.
“Well, little boy? Care to do a little trade? Have something you’d like to tell me?”
“H-how do you know that I’m even, uhm…travelling between worlds?” I ask. It’s still a silly thing to even think in my head, let alone say aloud.
“Mother has seen traces of you in places you shouldn’t be,” she says, folding her arms in front of her. “She’s very cross about this.”
I decide it would be best if I was very careful and deliberate with everything I say from this point forward. What’s the best way for me to approach this? How would Not-Celia, or Mother, know if my answer was truthful or not? If I were asked to prove it, and I did–thus getting zapped off to some other place–how would they react? Can they pursue me?
Her hand presses into the bottom of my diaper again, squishing my filthy load against my skin and forcing a pathetic little groan from out of my mouth.
“All you have to do is tell me how you’re doing it,” she says. “And then I can get rid of this icky, stinky diaper.”
“Will you untie me?” I ask.
She scoffs. “Why? So that you can get into more trouble?”
“I can’t stay like this forever,” I say.
“Don’t be so sure about that.”
“I want to be untied,” I say. “And changed. And I want real food.”
She laughs and shakes her head. “So you think you can make demands now, baby?”
“I’m the one who has what you want, aren’t I?”
“You overestimate your power, little boy,” she says. “While Mother does want to know how you’re pulling off your little tricks, that’s secondary to keeping you secure so that you can’t cause any more trouble.”
“Wh-what if I pulled off one of my, uh, little tricks right now, huh?” I need to rein it in a little–I feel like I’m not as in control of myself as I told myself I needed to be.
She laughs. “If it were that easy, you would’ve done it already.”
She’s got me there, though I won’t say as much.
“Fine,” she says. “You want to be a stubborn little baby about it? I’ll just change your diaper later. What do you say? Should I come back in, like, an hour?”
“W-wait,” I say. “Hold on just a second.” I don’t know what it is I’m willing to offer to make her stay–certainly not the truth–but I at least want to take another shot at talking her into changing my diaper.
But she’s not paying attention to me. She’s walking out the door, and closing it behind her.
And I remain tied up on the bed. Squishy and stinky.
===
I don’t know how much time has actually passed, but it feels like it’s been about an hour when the bedroom door opens and Not-Celia walks in again, a smug grin on her face.
“Well then,” she says. “It seems even stinkier now than it did the last time I was in here. Why, Little Bunny Poo-Poo, did you somehow manage to mess yourself a second time?”
I gotta give it to her, whoever she really is–’Little Bunny Poo-Poo’ is pretty good.
I shake my head. While I’m a little wetter than the last time she’s seen me, I don’t think I could mess again even if I wanted to–the back of the diaper is simply at capacity now. It’s probably just that her nose is re-acclimating to the stench of the room again. Or maybe my diaper’s contents are just fermenting over time, concocting new and terrifying scents the longer I sit here like this.
She reaches between my legs again, feeling the bottom of the diaper. I’d be willing to bet that there’s already a hand print squished into the diaper from the last time she did this. Still, she jostles the contents a little, letting out a cruel and girlish giggle.
“Gosh, it feels disgusting in there,” she says. “Like soup. That can’t possibly be comfortable.”
While I’d rather not give her the satisfaction of being right, I can’t help but shake my head again to confirm her suspicion.
“Poor baby,” she coos. “Poor, poor baby. What ever am I to do with you?”
“You could change me,” I say. I’ve been hesitant to say anything, afraid that I’ll just get the pacifier tied around my face again. But she’ll probably just do whatever she wants to anyways–I figure I might as well say what I can, while I can.
“Hmm, yes, I could,” she says, stroking her chin. “But I hope you didn’t forget the little transaction required for that to happen. You tell me what I want to know, and then you get your dirty little bottom cleaned.”
“How would you know that I’m telling you the truth?” I ask. It’s a question I’ve been pondering in the span of time between the last time she hovered above me and now.
She doesn’t respond to this, she just squints her eyes at me.
I continue, despite not knowing whether or not it's in my best interest: “I’m assuming that you don’t want me to actually show you how I do it, because that would mean that I’m outta here, you know? And then you’d have to, like, chase me down again? Or whatever it is that you and Mother are doing. So all I can do is tell you about it instead. And you’re just going to have to take my word for it.”
She continues to stare down at me, that smirk of hers slowly morphing into a disappointed frown. I doubt she’ll ever come out and say that I’m right, but she doesn’t need to–I feel like I’ve won this round. Sort of–I’m still trapped in a very soiled diaper.
“It’s safe to assume that you need your appendages for your little trick to work,” Not-Celia sneers. “Seeing as you’re still here now.”
She’s kinda right.
“So,” she says. “What is it, then? Some series of little hand movements, like you’re casting a spell or something? How’d you learn that?”
I think carefully–or as carefully as I’m capable of thinking–and answer only the latter question: “I figured it out on my own.”
“No way,” she says.
“Why don’t you believe me?”
“Because Mother doesn’t believe in happenstance. Someone showed you what to do. Who was it? Where did it happen?”
The amusing truth is that I could credit Mother herself for showing me what to do. It was a combination of her milk and her stimulating me that allowed me to reach the white space where I met Harriet. And, after learning that lesson, I used it to traverse deeper into the…multiverse–a word that still doesn’t feel right, with all its hokey comic book connotations, despite feeling like the most accurate.
“Alright,” I say. “You got me. It’s a combination of hand signals and spoken words. But as long as I’m restricted, I can’t do it.”
“What is it that you say during the ritual?” she asks.
Considering that the ‘ritual’ is just good, old fashioned, masturbation, her question is a little amusing to me. “I can’t, uh, do it now. It’s just something that comes out of me when I’m doing the gestures, you know? Like, it’s this whole thing. A trance-like state.”
Her eyes widen and she nods a little. Somehow, she seems to be buying this.
“Verbal and somatic,” she says softly to herself, like she’s making a mental note of it.
“Yeah, pretty much,” I say, unsure of what she means when she says that.
“So as long as I keep you tied up…”
“Right,” I say. “So long as I don’t have a full range of motion, I can’t do it.” I worry that I’m giving away too much information, though I’m also just making this shit up as I go.
Though, I suppose I do need my hands to perform the ritual of, you know, jerking off. Somewhere, deep in the recesses of my mind, I tell myself that there’s work arounds for this–that I can somehow find a way to pleasure myself without access to my hands. I don’t know what that way is, but I’m choosing to believe myself for now.
Not-Celia ponders this for a few more moments before nodding her head, seeming to accept this for now. “You probably think you’re owed a diaper change now, hmm?”
“Y-yes,” I say. “If you don’t mind.”
“Oh, I mind. But a deal is a deal.”
She stands at the foot of the bed and leans over me, her hands reaching to the diaper so that her fingers can peel up the tapes on the diaper. It occurs to me, as the tapes are released and the front of the filthy diaper is peeled back and laid between my open thighs, that while she seems to know the steps needed to change a diaper, she might not have ever done it before. It’s hard to say what instills this feeling in me beyond just experience–having now watched as a number of different people, from a number of different worlds, change my diaper.
“Who are you really?” I ask as she produces a rectangular plastic tub of baby wipes. Which, apparently, along with a stack of disposable diapers, she already has on hand.
“That’s not the business of little babies like you,” she says.
“I know Celia,” I say. “Or…another version of her. And I know that you’re not her.”
She scoffs.
Another thought comes to me, and I say: “Just as Mother is not Harriet Tuller, despite looking like her.”
Not-Celia’s face is unreadable as she slides a moist wipe over my skin in an effort to begin the work of cleaning up. She offers no response.
“Give me something,” I say. “Are you a ghost? An alien parasite? What’s your deal?”
“If you keep jabbering like this, baby, I’m going to put the pacifier back in your mouth. Do you want that?”
“No,” I say. “I just want to know who I’m talking to.”
“If I was to tell you the truth, you wouldn’t even be able to understand it.”
I’m reminded of a conversation I had a long time ago with Harriet in the white place. I had asked her a question about how she got there, and she had said something about needing to explain very big things before she could explain the little things. She had pointed up to the sky–or where a sky would’ve been if there were one–and mentioned how small we were, and how little we knew about everything.
This conversation feels a little like that one.
But I’ve learned more since then. I’ve traversed multiple dimensions. I’ve consumed a lot of magical milk. I feel like, maybe, I actually could begin to parse the mysteries of the cosmos.
“I think I’d understand more than you think,” I say.
She laughs, wiping away at my stinky bottom. “Typical child, thinking you know everything.”
And that’s the last thing she says to me for a while. She goes about diligently wiping me clean, discarding the old diaper, and sliding a new one under me before fastening it around me. Again, she seems to understand how it’s done, but there’s an unsteadiness in her motions telling me it’s her first time actually doing it. It’s been a while since this process felt this humiliating to me–there’s something strange and humbling about seeing a familiar face, and not knowing who is behind those eyes as they clean you after one of your worst moments.
It’s not until she’s done and has left the room again that I realize the opportunity I’ve missed.
Maybe I don't need my own hands to get myself off. If I could somehow get Not-Celia to jerk me off instead, I’d have a ticket out of this place.
===
More time passes. The sun goes up and down a few times, but I’ve lost track of how often it's happened. It doesn’t seem like it should be that hard of a thing to count, but when I have nothing else to entertain me except for my own brain, it gets ridiculously easy to second-guess myself.
Has it been three days? No, four. Wait, it was definitely three. No…it was three yesterday. It was three two days ago. So it’s got to be five, right? No, three. No…
Not-Celia continues the routine of feeding me and changing me, though she seems to have little to say. My attempts at communicating with her are met with dismissive sighs or the pacifier being planted in my mouth again.
I beg her to untie me. My body can’t bear another second of being tied in this position. I need movement. I need to stretch. She’s skeptical, perhaps understandably so, but I am relentless in my bugging her about it.
“Tie me up in a different position if you have to. Or, untie me and let me roam around for a little under your supervision. Do whatever it is you need to do. Just let me move.”
My biggest fear is that Not-Celia isn’t human enough; that she has no empathy for someone like me. Maybe she sees me as a toy, or an object. My discomfort and pain could be nothing to her.
But then, when I’m on the verge of crying for the umpteenth time as she changes a wet diaper, she relents.
“I’ll untie you,” she says. “But you’ll remain in my sight at all times. And if you act up, or if I even think you’re about to act up, there’ll be consequences.”
“That’s fair,” I say.
“I’ll continue to tie you up at night, though.”
“Okay.”
“And when I have to leave.”
“Yes, that’s fine.”
And so, after a thick diaper is wrapped around me, Not-Celia methodically walks to each corner of the bed, unfastening the ropes that she’s used to keep me in place. With the release of each limb comes a simultaneous wave of relief and a new ache in my stiff muscles. Still, it feels more good than bad.
“Is that better?” she asks. I honestly can’t tell if she actually cares or if she’s being sarcastic.
“That’s good,” I say.
I’m not allowed to leave the room, but that’s fine. It feels good to walk around the short distance that I can. It feels good to just stand and stretch. She stations herself at the door, seated in a chair while she watches me like a vigilant gargoyle.
Much like the rest of the house, this bedroom–now that I have the chance to get a more thorough look at it–seems gutted and broken down. Shelves are empty and there are bare spots on the walls where it's obvious that pictures and posters used to hang. It’s as if the space has been scrubbed of anything with a semblance of Celia’s personality.
And so where is the true Celia of this world, if Not-Celia is not it? And what of her father–who even if he wasn’t living here often, was liable to show up eventually? I doubt these are questions Not-Celia would be willing to answer, and so I don’t even bother bringing them up.
“Can I have a book or something?” I ask. I point to the TV in the corner of Celia’s room: “This place have cable?”
“You’re annoying,” she says. “Can’t you just sit there and be quiet?”
“That’s all I have been doing.”
She scoffs. “You whine like an actual child. You belong in diapers.”
“So…what’s next?” I ask.
“Hm?”
“You’ve got me where you want me. You’re stopping me from going anywhere else. What now? Do you send me back to Mother?”
She seems to carefully consider this question for a moment before shrugging and saying, simply: “No.”
“No? No…what?”
“I won’t be sending you anywhere. Nobody is coming to retrieve you.”
“Ever?”
“Right.”
“So…” I can’t help but laugh. “Seriously, that’s it? This is the rest of my life? Trapped in a house here with you? In diapers? Getting tied up?”
I’d like to think that by pointing out this absurdity to Not-Celia, she’d second-guess this plan herself, but she only offers the most apathetic shrug.
“That’s insane,” I say. “You realize that, right?”
“It’s how Mother wants it–for you to be neutralized.”
“Neturalized? You make it sound like you’re going to kill me.”
“If you’d rather that, it makes no difference to me.”
“Woah, woah. This conversation is going in the wrong direction.”
“My only purpose,” Not-Celia says, “is to make sure that you stay put. By whatever means necessary.”
“What about you?” I ask.
“What about me?”
“Don’t you have a life? A greater purpose? Wants and needs? If you’re expected to, like, spend the rest of your life babysitting me, what kind of life is that?”
Unfazed, she just shakes her head and smirks. “Sorry to disappoint you, Baby. But I’m your entire future, and you’re mine. And that’s fine by me.”
===
It seems unwise to assume too much, though I wonder if there’s a few things that can be extrapolated from my conversations with Not-Celia. Like, for instance, that while I have the means to traverse the multiverse (still a silly thing to reference), does Mother not? Hence, why she isn’t coming to collect me herself? She’s at least aware of the fact that I can jump between worlds, though I’m unsure yet of how that is.
Not-Celia, too, is also unable to travel like I do. Which could mean…what, that she’s always been here?
And, since it came up, I've been thinking about death. Can I die here? What happens to my physical body, wherever it is? Or…is this my physical body? Or…is this…
I never get too far into that train of thought. It just hurts my head.
They want me to stay here. Or, more specifically, they just don’t want me to keep jumping to new worlds. And why would that be? It could just be a control thing–a frustration about how I can do something that she can’t. Maybe Mother’s afraid of what I’ll find out there–like the answer to how one goes about overthrowing her? If I’m allowed to continue, there’s a chance that I could one day be a threat to her.
Regardless, Not-Celia seems to think that I’m here forever; that this is the last stop on the Alfie Worlds Tour. I should probably take this more seriously, but it hasn’t really bothered me yet. Maybe I’m being cocky, but I just can’t help but think that, eventually, I’ll find a way out of this place. I’d hate to be wrong about that, but the hope keeps me strong.
Sooner or later, I choose to believe, I’ll get Not-Celia’s hand around my cock, and she’ll unknowingly send me right out of this place.
===
I’m sitting on the edge of the bed, flipping through pages of a cooking magazine from about eight years ago–fantasizing about what this chicken cacciatore I’m looking at might taste like–when I feel a sudden, urgent pressure in my bowels. This wouldn’t be the first time that what’s about to transpire next has happened in front of Not-Celia in the days that I’ve been her captive, though it never seems to get easier.
I slide off the edge of the bed into a squatting position as my arms wrap around my abdomen. At the same time that I let a long moan out from my mouth, there’s a splattery explosion–albeit muffled–coming from the other end of me that’s currently diapered. The back of my padding instantly droops and changes color as I dump the soft contents of my bowels into it. Whatever it is that she feeds me in her bottles causes every movement to be like this.
I helplessly moan again as my body braces itself for round two. The diaper gets heavier, and the pungent smell–both sweet and rotten–further fills the room.
And Not-Celia, who has just been watching me from her chair by the door this entire time, smiles and watches the whole thing happen.
“Poor, poor little boy,” she coos as I feel the last bit of it slip past my anus. “Did you have another accident?”
This–me needing a diaper change–is the only thing that she ever seems excited by. Nothing else seems to matter to her, but she’s always ready to condescend me as soon as my diaper gets heavier.
When I don’t respond to her, she says: “Aw, I see. Too bashful to even respond to me now?”
I have an idea that I’ve been meaning to try out–one of the many things I think about when I’m tied to the bed, or left to just stare into the abyss in this stripped down room while she watches me from her chair.
“I…I poopied my diapy, Mommy,” I say–putting my all into this performance. I want to sound cloying and pathetic. I want to sound like I’m lost in the moment and that I believe I’m the baby I’ve been made to act like.
She giggles, and leaves the chair so that she can strut a little closer to me. “Well that’s new,” she says. “Mommy, huh?”
Maybe this won’t amount to anything, but I want to see where this goes. If the only thing she ever seems to enjoy is teasing me and treating me like a baby, then I’m going to lean into it and see where it goes.
“Mommy…uhm…baby stinky.”
Maybe, under the influence of the milk at The Cradle, I’ve acted this way before and meant it. My memories of those moments, when the pull of the milk is at its strongest, are hazy and vague now.
She giggles again. “Mmhmm, yes you are, little boy. You made big stinkies in your diaper, haven’t you?”
“Yeth,” I say, my word slurred by my thumb, which I’ve slid into my mouth.
As silly as I feel, it’s surprisingly easy to get into this role. It does seem well-suited for me. But I’ve considered this possibility, and I’ve decided that this is a good thing. I want to slip into my role. I want to roll over, in a sense, and show Not-Celia my figurative belly. I want to disarm her, and entice her to play with me even more.
“Aw, just look at you,” she coos. “You’re so adorable when you’re a filthy little mess.”
“Mommy. Me need changies.”
There’s a new softness in her face. A slight pinkening of her cheeks. “I know,” she says softly. “I know, dear. Come up on the bed for me.”
I stand up and turn to climb onto the bed, only for her hand to smack my bottom a few times, sending its creamy contents splatting and smushing into new areas of my diaper. It’s humiliating, though that’s not all it is. By letting myself ‘be’ small, I’m easily sliding into a different headspace. For the first time since my arrival on this world, the feeling of a dirty diaper–and Not-Celia’s hand on my bottom–is also arousing. I feel my cock growing in the front of my diaper, pushing its way through the moist, dense, padding.
No sooner than I flop down on the mattress, on my back, Not-Celia seems to notice this as well–her eyes growing large and curious as she spots the new bulge in my diaper.
“Why, baby–what is this?”
“Uhm…”
“I’ve never seen this before,” she coos. “Is this lump right here for meeee?” She reaches forward, gently stroking the bulge with the back of her hand. Just her touch–the slightest amount of pressure on my member–sends an excited pulse through my body.
Yes, pleeease! Please touch me. Keep going.
“Ah-ah-ah,” she tuts, waving a finger at me. “One thing at a time.”
She starts every diaper change by tying me to the bed again if I’m not already secured in place. Her justification for this being that she doesn’t want me to ‘work my magic’ while her hands are busy cleaning my swampy diaper. It’s smart thinking, even if it only indirectly prevents me from making my escape from this world.
Not-Celia seems to get better at changing my diaper every time she changes me. She’s practically a professional now, swiftly moving through the process without any hesitations. The tapes are peeled away, one at a time, and the diaper is opened between my legs. Though I cannot see what she does, I have a good idea as to what she’ll find: a sea of brown that coats the inside of the diaper, as well as my thighs and bottom, and my manhood as it stands at attention–a stoic flagpole rising from the humiliating abyss.
“Goodness,” she says, giggling again. “Someone sure is happy to have filled their pampers up for me, hm?”
My thumb back in my mouth again, I moan with affirmation.
“What ever shall I do with this,” she teases, playfully poking my stiff member with her fingers so that it wobbles to and fro. Quite amused with this, she lets out another girlish squeal.
I just don’t understand Not-Celia. If my infantilization brings her such delight, can’t something else? Why is she so comfortable with dedicating the rest of her life to preventing me from ever doing anything again? Who is she in relation to Mother? How did she get here? How long has she been Not-Celia–assuming there was a time when this world really did have a Celia?
Well.
If a day comes where I can ask those questions of her, I doubt she’ll give me the answers.
So when I leave this world–whether it’s now or later–I’ll be leaving without answers. Just another mystery of the very large cosmos that Harriet once tried to warn me of.
I think I can make peace with that.
“Hmm,” Not-Celia muses, her eyes hungrily staring at my cock. “I bet you’d love it if I played with this, hmm?”
“Mm…Mommy…” It’s easy, in this moment, to forget that I’m setting a trap for Not-Celia. I’m reminded of my joy of diapers, of the pleasure that comes from being babied and talked down to. This feels good–the best I’ve felt in a while. There’s even a small part of me that wants to stop her as her hand grips my cock–willing to sacrifice the potential for an orgasm for a few more days of blissful baby-space.
“I probably shouldn’t be rewarding you like this,” she says. “But I have to admit, I do love the look on your face when I’m touching you. You like this, baby boy? Do you like when I touch your naughty bits while you’re still all messy and stinky?”
I groan, my body automatically thrusting myself further into her hand.
This seems too good to be true. Too easy.
But it’s happening. She’s really stroking my cock right now. She’s into it–enjoying herself. She’s watching my face intently, studying me like I was at text book.
“Dirty little boy is going to make another big mess soon, isn’t he?”
“Mm…”
I realize, perhaps a moment or two too late–right around the time when I feel myself tensing up for an orgasmic release–that I might have misplayed my hand a little here. After this, will Not-Celia, and by association Mother, now know my secret for jumping between worlds?
Not much I can do about it now.
“Oh my, look at you,” she coos. “Is someone going to make their little squirties already?”
I try to mumble something: “S-see…you…”
She giggles. “What’s that, sweetheart?”
“See you later…sucker.”
And the world around me seems to crumble away as I climax.
Fifty-Three: Maxine’s Story
First, there’s this grogginess–a momentarily unshakable haze as my mind tries to take the few context clues that I have and make sense of things once more. My instincts are devoted to finding answers to the most simple of questions: Where am I? How did I get here? Am I in danger?
Then, my consciousness switches on, and I’m better able to reasonably assess my current situation.
I’m lying in the grass, my head resting against the trunk of a fallen tree that’s just about the right height to emulate a pillow.
I remind myself that this has happened before–waking up in a vulnerable state in a place that I don’t know, without any clue of what awaits me here–and that this probably won’t even be the last time it happens.
Which is all summarized by my muttering of: “Well, let’s see what kind of shit I’ve stepped into this time.”
I’m used to waking up naked. I don’t like it, but I’ve come to accept that this is the way ‘it’ works. Either clothes can’t traverse these worlds like I can, or perhaps there’s some cosmic force that goes out of its way to remove my clothes while I’m en route just because it likes fucking with me.
Except…
I am wearing clothes this time. Not much–a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. My t-shirt. The Life Aquatic shirt. There are also sandals on my feet–a welcome change of pace from having to tromp around with bare feet for a while after waking.
And, I find as I spread my legs apart and bring them together again, there’s a telltale squishing between my thighs that suggests that I’m already diapered. A clean diaper, by the feel of it. I was not wearing a clean diaper when I left the last place I was in, which only makes this more curious.
“Wakey wakey, baby,” a voice says. I can’t really tell where the voice is coming from, though there’s something familiar about the tone. It’s a voice I know well, but one I haven’t heard in a while.
It might be…
I prop myself up into a sitting position and spin my head around–both to view my surroundings and to look for the person who just spoke to me. At first, all I see is the lush grass of a small field surrounded on most of its sides by forest, with a little trail or road that borders the last side. While the place itself is one I’m not familiar with, I feel like I know the bigger forest that this is a part of–the California wilderness, where The Cradle is. Or should be.
Another world. A new set of mysteries about how and why this place is different from the one I’ve come from.
I see her, at last, standing near me, but a little behind where I’m situated. I slowly, unsteadily rise to my feet, brushing blades of grass and dirt from my pants. At first I refuse to believe it’s who I think it is, and I stare at her intently, as if trying to find a way to prove it’s an illusion. Black pants, a ratty metal band shirt and a stretched out cardigan pulled over it.
“Alfie,” Maxine says, smiling at me. “It’s good to see you.”
===
We’re seated on the fallen tree now like it's a bench. She sits next to me and lightly caresses my back as I rub the last remnants of sleep from my eyes.
“You’re really…you?” I ask.
She laughs. “I hope so.”
“But you’re not…”
“No,” she says. “Not your Maxine. But a Maxine.”
“We’re in California?”
“Yes.”
“You knew I’d be here?”
“Yes.”
“H-how? I mean…”
“We don’t have to get into all that right now, do we?” she asks. Her hair is a little longer than I remember it being, and it might even be a slightly darker shade now. Her tired eyes make her look older than she is.
Tears well in my eyes and I towards her to embrace her. She reciprocates. I’m sobbing now. It doesn’t matter if she’s ‘my’ Maxine or some other version–it’s still her. She feels familiar in my arms. She even smells familiar–the same sweet-scented body spray or lip gloss she’s used since I first met her.
I pause for a moment, considering Not-Celia. What if this Maxine isn’t real either?
No, I say to myself. I know Maxine. I’m willing to trust my instincts. I’d know my ‘her’ on any world.
“Max…how?”
She laughs. “I bet the story of how you’ve gotten to this very moment is pretty long and crazy, huh?”
I nod. “An understatement.”
“Yeah, well… I’ve got a story like that too.”
===
We walk down the road a little ways together, towards the car that Maxine says she’s parked about a half mile away. Her pace is a little faster than mine, mostly on account of my diaper-induced waddle, though she quickly adapts and does a better job of matching my speed.
I want to hold her hand–I feel like I could really benefit from the feeling of her hand in mine right now. But for as familiar as she seems, I need to remind myself that she’s a stranger.
She shoots down most of my questions, each time stating that it’d be better if we just didn’t worry about those things for now. If I want answers, they’ll come later when she can tell me everything.
“What about me?” I finally ask. “Like…the me who lives here? At least tell me that.”
“You’re fine,” she says. “Uh…he is fine.”
“You mean that? Safe and secure? Healthy? Living his best life?”
“He’s alright,” she says. “I promise.” There’s a hint of something in her tone. Frustration? Indifference? I don’t feel that it’s aimed towards me. Perhaps this world’s Alfie is a pain in the ass too.
I briefly wonder why she didn’t just drive her car all the way up to the field, though the condition of the old road, and its deep potholes, answer that concern for me. Eventually, though, I spot a newer-model white SUV stopped and abandoned in the center of the road. I suppose it’s safe to say that there’s no other traffic on this road that would be impeded by its presence there.
“Is that yours?” I ask. Probably a silly question, but I’ve never seen the car before. It looks expensive–the kind of thing my Maxine would never be caught in.
She nods, waving for me to follow her towards it. “Come on.”
“Where are we going?”
“Are you hungry?”
Food is the last thing on my mind, but the thought of it does make my stomach gurgle a little. “Yeah, sure, I could eat.”
“I know a place,” she says.
I can take a pretty good guess as to where we’ll be going, and it conjures memories of meeting Not-Celia in the parking lot. I do my best to let that fear go for now, I’d rather be happy right now. Being greeted by Sam in this world is such a nice alternative to being captured or imprisoned.
“You got to give me something,” I say to her while she drives down the narrow dirt road. “I wake up in god-knows-where and you’re here waiting for me? Like…I think I deserve an explanation.”
“Right now, on the other side of the country,” she says, “Alfie–the one I’ve always known–is working. He’s oblivious to the fact that I’m here. He doesn’t know I’m in California, and he definitely doesn’t know that you are in the car with me right now. In fact, there’s a lot he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know about The Cradle. Or Mother. Or milk. He’s never experienced those things, and he’ll never have to. Blissfully ignorant, I’d say–his natural state.”
“Ouch,” I say softly, taking it personally, despite the fact that she’s talking about someone else.
“Hit close to home, does it?”
I shrug, my cheeks blushing. To get back on topic: “And yet you know about them. Milk and Mother and all that. You know about these things but the Alfie here doesn’t?”
She shrugs. “I bet you think that’s pretty weird, huh?”
“To say the least.”
“Yes, well, despite the fact that the Alfie I know is oblivious to all this you’ve still managed to pull me in and involve me,” she says.
“Me?” I ask. “I…I didn’t do anything to you…”
“Not you,” she says, sighing. “God, isn’t this ‘mulitple realities’ thing fucking exhausting?”
I nod. “A little.”
“Believe it or not,” she says, “you’re not even the second Alfie I’ve ever talked to.”
“That sounds like the start of an interesting story.”
“Maybe,” she says. “But hold that thought for a second..”
I scoff. “Oh, come on. Seriously? You’re going to keep doing this? Pausing right before you start to tell me what’s going on?”
She chuckles a little. “You’re just like him, you know?”
“Alfie?” I ask. It’s really, really strange, referring to someone else with the same name–someone else who is, essentially, me.
She nods. “All of you Alfies are the same.”
“Well, I should hope so. But, uh, you’re just like my Maxine too.”
That would explain the near-instant rapport we seem to have with each other. In a way, we kind of have known each other for quite a while.
“Look, I know you’re not going to like me asking you this,” she says. “But before we get to town I just thought I should check and, you know, make sure your, uh…diaper is okay.”
I swallow hard, my cheeks warming considerably as I stare out the passenger side window to avoid eye-contact with her.
“It’s…good.” Then, something occurs to me: “Did…you dress me?”
She nonchalantly shrugs as she stares out the windshield.
“You found me? Naked? And you put clothes on me? You put a diaper on me?”
“I was kind of hoping we didn’t have to talk about that,” she says.
“But you…”
“Oh, come on, Alfie. It’s not like it’s anything I haven’t seen before. Besides, isn’t it better that you woke up with a little bit of dignity.”
“Well…thank you. But…”
“But?”
“Well, you know where I was going to be. And you knew when I was going to be there. And you knew that I was going to be naked. And you knew that, uh…I’m Alfie, but not your Alfie.”
“I’ve changed your diaper before,” she says, shooting me a playful smirk. “Or so I’ve heard.”
“Uh…” My face gets warmer.
“That never happened to me, of course,” she says. “I put you into a diaper, just a little bit ago. It was kind of fun, in a weird way. Maybe I’m missing out on whatever fun the other versions of myself are having.”
“You seem, uh, awfully comfortable with the idea of the multiverse.”
She laughs and shakes her head. “Well, sure. Now I am. You should’ve seen my face when it was first explained to me, though.”
I’m laughing too, now–imagining how ‘my’ Maxine would react if I tried to explain these recent events to her. She’d probably zone out and roll her eyes and make a playful jab about how I read too many comic books.
I say: “I wish I was here to have seen that.”
“You were,” she says. “In a way.”
===
This Harper’s Bell is no different than the Harper’s Bell I was just at where I met Not-Celia. Identical, as best as I can tell. This, too, may be a world without a Cradle.
“I hope this place is good,” Maxine says, pulling into the Harper’s Dinner Bell parking lot. “It’s, like, the only place to eat around here.”
I want to laugh, and I want to scream. Get me the hell away from this place. Alas, I calm myself as best I can and try to play it off like everything’s cool. Food does sound good, and I’m just going to cross my fingers that the Celia here isn’t also some sort of agent of Mother.
Of course, Celia is here and she’s also our server. Moments after we take a seat in a booth–perhaps, even, the same one that Nikki and I sat in when we first came to town–she sidles up to our table, a big customer-service grin on her face.
“Hey,” she says. “I’m Celia, I’ll be taking care of you today. From out of town, are ya?”
“Is it that obvious?” Maxine asks.
“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. “Not really, no.”
I have the slightest pang of deja vu. In another world, I had almost the same exact conversation with her once. The thought of this makes me queasy–a reminder that I’m fucking with things that are so far beyond me.
“So,” she says, not missing a beat. “While you’re looking at the menus, how about I get you something to drink?”
A few minutes later, and we’re slurping on fountain sodas and waiting for our food to arrive. Maxine shakes her head incredulously. “Seriously, tacos? Who’d order tacos from a place like this?”
“Uh, so…” I don’t mean to change the subject, but every moment that passes without me getting answers is like a headache whose intensity gets turned up a notch on some figurative dial. “You’ve got a story to tell me?”
“Here?” she asks.
“I don’t care where it happens. Here is as fine as any other place.”
She shrugs. “Yeah, alright. Well…I feel like I need to preface this by saying that all of this might sound completely insane.”
I really do laugh this time–an abrupt squawk that causes my cheeks to redden when I realize how loud I am. “S-sorry. It’s just that, uh… Look, I’ve seen a lot of weird shit. You just tell me the story, no matter how weird you think it’s going to get.”
“Fine,” she says. “You asked for it.”
I excitedly nod, eager to hear what she’s got in store for me.
“Everything was, you know, completely normal,” she says–her version of ‘Once upon a time.’ “Well, as normal as my life ever is. I have a girlfriend at college. …uhm, had a girlfriend? Things are complicated on that front right now, but that’s for neither her nor there.”
“A girlfriend,” I say. “What about, like, you and me?”
She shakes her head. “We broke up when I went to school. “
“Why?”
She sighs. “Look, this story is convoluted enough as it is. You and me are a whole other story. Maybe we can talk about that later or something.”
“Yeah, fair enough. Go on.”
===
Maxine’s Story, as told by Maxine
You came and visited me on campus one afternoon, a few weeks ago. Now, I don’t want to make you feel bad or anything–maybe you’re different from the Alfie I know, in this regard–but I was really surprised to see you. Not just because it was a random, unannounced visit, but because this wasn’t the sort of thing you ever did.
I just so happened to see you before you saw me. You were standing there on one of the sidewalks, a bookbag slung over your shoulder. I watched you for a minute as you wandered around aimlessly. I guess it made sense–you’ve never been to campus before, and you probably didn’t know where to find me. It was just luck–fate, if you want to play that game–that I happened to spot you. Who knows how long you were blundering around before I approached you.
You were happy to see me. Like, way happier than I would’ve expected. You didn’t take our breakup very well, you know, and I just assumed you still resented me. But there you were, practically blubbering like a baby when I touched your shoulder.
You said that it was really good to see me. I believed you meant that, but I couldn’t understand why you needed to see me that bad at all. It hadn’t been that long since I had seen you last, and–like I said–given the way that last conversation went, I assumed you wouldn’t want anything else to do with me.
You looked different. Your hair was a little longer, a little shaggier. You had some stubble on your face. It didn’t really seem purposeful, I guess, it just looked kind of patchy–more like you just hadn’t thought about shaving in a while as opposed to trying something new. You looked crazed and desperate to me. And, yeah, I was concerned. Not just for you, but for me too. Like, should I be worried about a crazed version of my ex showing up at my school out of nowhere?
The best plan of action, I decide, is to get you away from other people. Clearly you want to talk to me anyway, and I don’t need my peers seeing me trying to comfort some loon, right?
And I’m sorry if that offends you. When I say ‘you’ I don’t mean you. You get me?
I was supposed to be in class, but I said ‘fuck it’ and dragged you back to my dorm. Thank goodness June, my roommate, wasn’t there, because I didn’t want to have to feel guilty about asking her to give me some space.
By the time we get to my dorm, you’ve calmed down a bit. Instead, you just seem a little embarrassed about everything–making a scene and showing up unexpectedly. You apologized profusely, and I assured you that I forgave you. Honestly, I don’t know that I actually had at that point–I was kind of pissed at you, but I wasn’t going to say anything.
And speaking of ‘pissed,’ well… That was one of the first things I noticed after we were in my room: you smelled kinda bad. You smelled like pee. Mind you, I don’t think I thought of ‘pee’ in the moment–that’s more of a hindsight thing. At that moment, you just smelled…dirty.
I told you so. You seemed a little embarrassed about it, but not entirely troubled, which I thought was strange. And your pants weren’t wet–I specifically remember checking that, trying to figure out if you had actually pissed yourself or not. As best as I could tell I hadn’t.
Of course, knowing what I know now, it’s safe to say that you were wet. You know what I mean?
I made you sit down–on June’s chair, not mine–and I told you to explain yourself. Almost immediately, you jump into this rambling tirade about magical milk and California and your brother in law and I just had to shut you down.
I thought you were crazy. I thought you had, like, legit lost your mind. I was going to call your mom or your dad and tell them to come collect you, hoping that they’d see you need some sort of psychologist’s help.
But then you said: “I want you to call me.”
“Call you?” I asked. “Call you what?”
“No, no. I want you to call me on the phone. You have your cell phone, right? Give my number a call right now.”
I didn’t get what your game was. Was this some sort of trick or stunt? Or was I going to call your phone and activate some sort of…bomb. Alfie, I’m telling you–that’s how worried I was about you: At that moment, I seriously believed that you were capable of planting a bomb somewhere.
I don’t know how, but you convinced me to give your phone a call. Maybe I just agreed to do it because I thought I could somehow prove that you were being crazy and I needed to take further action.
So, I found your contact in my phone–I had actually changed the name from ‘Alfie’ to ‘Dumbass’ at some point since we had last spoke–and I called you.
Maybe you can guess what happened next?
I stared at you–the you that was sitting across the room from me in June’s chair–waiting to see one of your pockets light up or to hear something in your backpack vibrating. Instead, someone answered the phone.
It was you.
“Maxine,” you said. “Is everything okay?” And that was the freakiest fucking thing, because it sounded just like you, right? But I’m looking at you at that moment, and you’re not talking.
The ‘you’ on the phone sounded startled. Understandable, I guess, since you probably weren’t expecting a random call from me.
“Alfie,” I said. “Where are you right now?”
“Uh…home?” you said. You laughed, like I asked the most ridiculous question. “Why?”
“I just…” I thought that maybe I was talking to a recording. AI? Can AI even do that? I asked: “What time is it right now?”
You told me the exact time. The exact date. And then you laughed again and said something stupid like: “What, did you lose your watch and needed a hand? There’s easier ways of getting the date and time, Max.”
I wanted to mention that I was currently looking at someone who looked and sounded exactly like him, who was in the same room as me, but I didn’t. I don’t know why–maybe it just seemed smarter to withhold that information, just in case I could use it to catch the version of you I was talking to in a lie.
“You’ve been home all day?” I asked the person I was talking to on the phone.
You laughed again. “Pretty much. Maxine, you’re starting to concern me a little. Is everything okay?”
I couldn’t truly believe that I was talking to Alfie on the phone while seeing a different version of Alfie right in front of me–I just couldn’t wrap my head around it. This was a trick, or a stunt, or some kind of, I don’t know…tomfoolery.
Trying to catch the Alfie on the phone off guard, I asked him a question that I thought that only you–the true you–would know the answer to: “What is Pillow Pete’s one weakness?”
On the other line, you chuckled softly. “Are you serious right now, Maxine?”
“Alfie, just answer the question.”
“Maxine, you made it pretty clear that you didn’t want to talk to me, and I haven’t heard from you in a while. And now you’re calling me out of the blue and you’re acting all weird, and…”
“Please, Alfie. Just answer the damn question for me, okay?”
Even if he was a little hesitant to do so, he said…
Well, he told me the answer. I’m not going to tell you what he said, because I’ll want to see if you know the answer too when I’m done with this story. But he gave me the answer and it was correct.
I didn’t know what else to say, so I said I had to go and that maybe we’d talk another time. I ended the call before he could respond.
Sitting in June’s chair in my dorm room, you had a smug smile on your face, like you had just proven some point, even if I had no idea what point that was.
“What’s going on here, Alfie? I want the answer. And I want it right now.”
You told me that it was a very long story, and I said that I didn’t care. I wanted to hear all of it.
And so you told it to me. You started from the very beginning–when Anders had gone missing in California, and how you and Nikki went to go retrieve him. And you told me about The Cradle. And milk. And Mother. You told me about coming home and how you and I decided that we would just be friends with benefits before you went back to California. You told me about some festival. About how you stopped some literal clowns from stealing the supposedly ‘magic’ milk. You told me about how Mother might’ve, like, zonked you out or something and you were transported to some other world where, uh, you were with…like…Mother, but she isn’t Mother… Honestly, from this point on, the story gets kind of hard to follow.
Needless to say, you told me a lot of things. Stuff that was pretty hard to believe, though it was all stuff that you seemed to believe yourself.
I asked you the same question I asked whoever it was that I talked to on the phone: “What is Pillow Pete’s one weakness?” It was an in-joke you and I had for a little while, something that we had kind of both stopped referencing even before we broke up. But I thought it was just the kind of thing that you–the real you–would remember and know the answer to. And even if you had coached someone else to serve as an imposter on the phone–like this was some fucked up practical joke–it’s not likely you would’ve thought to tell them about.
You–the you in my dorm room–gave me the right answer.
“It’s me,” you said. “Not the ‘me’ you know, but it’s…me. And I need your help.”
I honestly wasn’t sure if I believed you, or if I was just humoring you. If nothing else, I was curious.
“First things first,” I said. “You’re stinking up my dorm room. June’s going to kill me if I don’t do something about that.”
Your face got beat red. “I…need to change.”
“Do you have a change of clothes with you?” I asked.
You laughed a little and shook your head. “I don’t mean my clothes…”
I realized, then, that you meant…a diaper.
I don’t know why, but that was like the thing that made me start to believe that all the nonsense you just spouted might have been true. Like, of all the things to like about, who would choose a dependency on diapers? Who would sit here in my dorm room in a wet-ass diaper, stinking up the place with it?
I asked if you needed to go use the dorm’s bathroom. You said you’d rather not attend to your little issue there, and that seemed understandable. So, I told you that you were welcome to use my room. I don’t think you liked that much either, though it was probably the best option.
“Do you want me to leave the room?” I asked.
You said that I didn’t have to. Fine. I assured you that I’d give you some space and I’d just, like, look away or something. I went so far as to offer you my bed if it was a useful place for you to change, though you said you were fine taking care of business right there on the floor, in the space in the center of the room between my bed and June’s.
Now…I know I said that I’d look away and give you privacy–but I peeked pretty early on and saw that you were so wrapped up in your process that you weren’t paying much attention to me. So, yeah, I’m not ashamed to admit that I watched. All it took was one glance and I knew that I wouldn’t be able to look away even if I wanted to. You were so methodical, the way that you flattened yourself onto your back, pants discarded and set aside. You peeled away the tapes of your diaper and unfolded the thing, letting the front of it flop down between your open thighs. Your pubic hair was gone–that area pristine and clean shaven. I’ve seen your junk plenty of times before, Alfie, and there’s always been hair there. Not that it matters, I guess–just saying.
The inside of the diaper was stained yellow, and all I could think about was how heavy that must’ve felt on you. And the smell–I was definitely thinking about that too, the scent of your pee seemed to get a lot stronger with your diaper open.
From your bag, you pulled out another diaper and a slim plastic package of baby wipes. Only more recently have I wondered where and when you got those, as I know you didn’t have them when you first arrived. You went about cleaning yourself with efficiency and speed, using three or four wipes to completely wipe down your front, bottom, and back sides that had been in contact with the wet diaper. The dirty diaper pulled out from under you, and the wipes tucked into the center of it, you bundled the whole thing up into a tight little package before pulling a plastic shopping bag from your backpack and depositing your bundle into it. The bag was tied shut and set aside. You unfolded the diaper and laid it out between your legs before pulling it under your body. All that was left to do at that point was fold it over yourself and tape it up, which you did in just a few swift movements.
It was only when you were finished, and sitting up again–your crinkly diaper making noise underneath you–that you saw that I had been watching you.
You blushed, of course, doing that thing you do where you run your hand through your hair when you want to pretend you’re cooler than you feel. “Were you watching the whole time?”
I nodded.
“It’s probably better I didn’t know,” you said, laughing.
“Why’s that? Too embarrassing?”
“Ah, well, sure…some of that. But you and me–in different worlds–we’ve had some, uh, crazy times together. I look at you and I can’t help but think about them.”
“So…I’ve changed your diaper for you before?” I ask.
You nodded, face getting even more crimson. “Oh yes. There are worlds in which you’ve been an exceptional Mommy.”
For the first time since showing up at my university, something you said had bothered me. Maybe it wasn’t the words, but the insinuation–the suggestion–that you’d prefer that I was a little more like another version of me you had encountered in your travels.
“Really, though,” I said. “Why are you here?”
And he said…
===
“Hold that thought,” I say to Maxine, holding my hand out to her from across the table in our diner booth. As entranced as I am in this story, and as badly as I want to hear more, the diner’s entrance has opened and someone awfully familiar looking has entered.
I swing my hand at Maxine as I stare at the door, trying to get her attention and draw her eyes to the same thing I’m looking at. I finally do, finger tips grazing her chest. “What the–” But then her eyes follow in the direction I’m pointing, and she sees him too.
It’s me.
It’s Alfie.
Yet another one. This one wearing a pair of baggy brown pants, some boots, and a plaid button-up. Not quite my aesthetic, but it’s probably not quite his either. I wonder where he got it from.
If this isn’t the version of me that’s native to this world, and I don’t think it is, then that means there are at least three of us here now. Not counting the version of me from Maxine’s story–who, judging by the look of surprise on Maxine’s face right now, it probably isn’t.
I never thought I’d have to say such a thing before, but here we are: “I think there’s a few too many Alfies in this world.”
***
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Fifty: PISSTOPIA
“What…the hell…are you…doing?”
Skylar’s words come out segmented as her arms wrap around me from behind, attempting to grapple me as I struggle and continue to rub myself inside of the front of my diaper.
This should probably kill the mood, but… I don’t know, maybe it’s actually working for me?
Skylar tries to pull at my arm in an effort to get my hand out of my diaper, but surprising even myself with how much resistance I offer.
“The fuck is your problem,” she spits, dragging my body towards the center of the room.
“I…well…” I don’t know how I’d ever begin to explain to this woman I’ve just met that I need to reach an orgasm so that my soul is blasted off to another dimension.
I don’t know how I’d explain that to anyone.
She wrestles me down to the ground, pulling me down with more force than I think each of us are expecting. The wooden chair I had been tied to previously is knocked over and my back hits the cement floor with a sudden thud. Quickly rolling over my side so to pin me onto the ground, Skylar looks down at my face.
“What the hell, man? What was that all about?”
“Uh…”
“Did you really get that worked up over everyone touching you earlier?” she asks. “Are men always like this, and I just forgot?”
I don’t think the pain hurt me too bad, that I feel an ache radiating through my lower back. My hands, free from my diaper and pinned at my sides, unconsciously squirm like they’re trying to worm their way back to where they just were.
“Sorry,” I say. “I’m really not trying to cause any trouble here…”
“Yeah, obviously. You just want to jack off in front of me, is that it?”
“I’m not trying to be crude or anything.”
“Is that the amnesia?” she asks. “Did you forget how to act like a fucking human?”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I sigh. “I won’t do that again, okay?”
“Seriously, tell me what the hell that was about?”
“I got carried away,” I say, sighing. It’s not the truth, but it’s the best answer I can come up with that doesn’t make me sound like either a maniac or a pervert. Or, a perverted maniac.
She laughs, though I can’t tell if it’s because she actually finds this funny, or if it’s one of those ominous “I’m laughing because I’m about to destroy you” laughs.
“How long has it been since you’ve seen a woman, anyways?” she asks.
“Uh…” Probably not as long as she thinks it’s been. I just came from a world where giant women tried to baby me. And before that, a world where my only company was a woman. And before that…well, there were plenty of women in my life back at home. Some might even say ‘too many,’ though I don’t think such a thing is possible. But seeing as how these cheerleaders are acting like they almost never see men anymore, I wonder if that means there’s factions of men somewhere that haven’t had any interaction with the womenfolk for quite a while. Seems dangerous, honestly–I’ve seen how men get when they’ve become desperate.
Still, in the interest of providing a universe-specific response, I say: “I’m sure it’s been a while. Though I don’t really remember.”
“Hm,” she grunts. “That’s fair.”
“Has it, uh, been a while for you?” I ask. “Like, since you’ve been with a guy?” The conversation feels a little strange while our limbs are tangled up on the floor and I’m being pinned down, but this is hardly the strangest thing that’s happened to me today.
“Virgin,” she mutters. “I didn’t get any before The Blow Out, and it’s not like there’s been a dating scene since.”
At the risk of sounding like her therapist, I ask: “How do you feel about that?”
She snorts–a sound reminiscent of one Nikki would make. “It’s fine, I guess. Besides, you know I’m not defined by my sexual history, right?”
“Y-you’re the one who brought up being a virgin…”
Skylar sighs, and I feel a sudden release of tension around us as she relaxes her hold on me. “Look, I’m sorry about throwing you on the ground. But…just don’t, like, start touching yourself in front of me again, alright? It’s fucking creepy.”
I nod. “Sorry.” Maybe my intentions were less perverse than she thinks, but I don’t think I’d ever be able to explain that to her effectively.
I do need to get myself off at some point, but I’ll have to find another time for that. Preferably one where I’m all alone.
“Can we just not tell the others about this?” I ask.
“You promise to behave yourself around other girls?” she responds.
“Y-yeah,” I say, my cheeks blushing. I’m being shown a lot of grace for a moment that seems more creepy everytime I think about it.
“We shouldn’t have gotten you all worked up like that,” she says, rolling away from me.
She springs up to her feet and reaches her hand down towards me. I take it and let her pull me to my feet again.
“You should eat,” Skylar says, pointing at the food.
“I know beggars shouldn’t be choosers, but I guess it’s just not what I was hoping for.”
She scoffs. “Buddy, you know where you are, right? There ain’t no fine dining around here. No fast food. No Tex-Mex. All that shit’s gone, unless you go to the midwest, where I’m sure you can buy some with labor.”
“Is that what it’s like there?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Dunno. But I’ve heard stories. Look, this is what we have. We make our own bread. We make soups, broths, and stews from what we can forage and grow. The water’s from a well. It’s not the best food you’ll ever eat, but it’s not the worst. If you had been found twenty miles west of here, you’d have been picked up by the Paci Clan. I hear they eat bugs.”
My stomach turns at the thought. “Well, when you put it that way…”
“Just eat,” she says, going back to the bed and sitting down on the edge of it.
I pick up the knocked-over chair from the ground and bring it to the small desk before sitting down at it. I pick up the chunk of bread and tear a piece off and dip it into the orange broth before taking a cautious bite from it. It’s…not terrible. The bread is mostly flavorless, besides a slight wheatiness. The broth is interesting. A little spicy, but a little sweet.
“What’s this jail all about?” I ask, trying to win back some respect by just being normal.
“Don’t know,” she says. “We found this place a few years ago and it seemed like a good place to make into a home.”
“The jail?”
“The whole area. It’s, like, a compound. Cabins and other buildings. A fence–or what used to be a fence, I guess.”
I think I already knew this, but this goes to further confirm that we’re in what’s left of this world’s version of The Cradle. It doesn’t explain why there was ever a prison here, though. Did things go horribly off the rails at some point? Or…is this what could happen at my own world’s version of The Cradle? I need to know more. Maybe I shouldn’t be so hasty to depart.
“Do you think I’d ever be allowed to leave this cell?” I ask. “You know, like walk around and stretch out a little?” I dab another piece of bread into the broth and cram it into my mouth.
“It’d be up to Chloe, I think,” Skylar says. “But…”
“But?”
“I think she’s been hesitant to tell everyone that you’re here–only her most trusted friends. She might not want you to be seen by everyone else.”
“Why? What’s the problem with everyone seeing me?”
“You saw the way Brittany was looking at you, right?” she says. “Some girls are going to want to get their hands on a guy. Some girls have had bad experiences with guys from other factions–they might think you’re one of them and want revenge. And, well, I think Chloe would just like to know who the hell you are before we say anything to anyone else.”
“Y-yeah, fair enough,” I say, my mouth full with another bite. I’m hungrier than I thought I’d be, it seems. I have no idea how time works for me anymore. Has any amount of time elapsed since I left the bigs and littles? Since Harriet?
A few minutes pass in silence. I finish the food on the tray and stand up, thinking maybe I’ll go lie down on the bed for a little bit. All this interdimensional movement can be a little tiring. But no sooner than I’m on my feet, I feel my bladder giving out and a warm stream shooting off into my padding. I guess, subconsciously, I had known of a faint signal alerting me that I needed to pee, but it seemed pretty ignorable. I have no idea what’s going on with my body now. Am I still riddled with Mother’s milk? Is it because of the incontinent post-apocalypse that I find myself in? Or…is it just habit that I use my diaper now?
The answer doesn’t matter, because I’m still pissing myself. The diaper grows heavy and squishy as it sags between my thighs. It feels…good. I hate that wetting my diaper feels so good. Or, rather, I hate that it’s probably so obvious that I like pissing myself. What I wouldn’t give to be alone right now…
Skylar laughs and shakes her head. “Whatcha got going on there, Alfie?”
“Uhm…just an accident…”
She chuckles to herself. “Want me to take care of that for you?”
“Does anyone change their own diaper around here?” I ask.
“I mean, sure, they can,” she says. “But we’re, you know, a sisterhood. We do these things for each other.”
“I’m not your sister…”
She laughs. “You’re either a prisoner or a guest. Either way, we’d probably still insist on taking care of that for you.”
“Well, if you insist. But you just put me in this one, so if you want to wait a while before changing me again…”
“What, do you like being in a wet diaper?” Skylar asks, an eyebrow raised.
“Uh…”
“You wouldn’t be the only one.”
“Really? You…like that too?”
She laughs and shakes her head. “Oh, god no. I’d kill to be able to dependably make it to a toilet again. I just mean that there’s factions out there that have totally embraced diapers and acting like babies. Maybe you belong to one of those groups. The Mothered? The Infants? Any of those names mean anything to you?”
“No,” I say. Though I’m very curious to know everything there is to know about them. Is there a wiki somewhere for all this?
“Why don’t you just lie down?” she asks. “I’ll change you. Maybe you can take a nap after?”
“Sure,” I say, though I let out a little laugh.
“What?” she says. “What’s so funny?”
“A few minutes ago, you were wrestling with me on the ground. Now you’re making sure that I get enough sleep. It’s just…interesting.”
“I doubt you remember what your life was like before The Blow Out,” she says. “But I wonder if you had an older sibling or not?”
“I have an older sister,” I say. She’s a very, very long ways from me, but I keep that part to myself.
“I had a younger brother,” she says. “That’s the way those relationships work, isn’t it? One second you’re fighting, and the next you’re working together.”
She had a younger brother. I’m curious about that, but I’m not sure if it's a box I–or she–wants to open. Instead, I just nod. “Yeah, I can relate to that.” Sam is often my best friend. And there have been times when she’s been my greatest enemy.
“Come over here,” she says, patting the bed.
I waddle towards her, deciding that I wouldn’t mind a change and a nap. I lie down on the bed on my back. It’s not the most comfortable thing in the world, though maybe not the most uncomfortable surface I’ve ever slept on before.
She wastes no time in ripping up the first of the tapes from the front of my diaper, before following with the others. She looks down at me with a cheeky grin on her face as she does. “And don’t you worry, I won’t be getting you all riled up like before, alright?”
Gee thanks. But I keep my thoughts to myself. I’m just happy that this doesn’t have to be a big deal.
She’s quick and methodical with her changing, so efficient that I barely get the chance to enjoy the process. True to her word, she doesn’t let her hands linger around my manhood any longer than she needs to. Following our earlier grappling, I didn’t think I was going to get all hot and bothered again anyways, but she still ensures there’s not another awkward situation with a stiff cock.
I’m the tiniest bit disappointed, I guess. It wouldn’t have been so bad if she stroked me off and sent me on my way to the next place. Oh well.
“Take a nap,” she says. “Get some rest.”
“You’ll be here later?” I ask. I’m not sure what I’m actually asking here–if she’ll be the one I’ll be seeing later, or if I’ll just be alone.
“If not me, someone else,” she says, shrugging.
She drags the chair closer to the cell door and takes a seat. She’s just going to sit there? No book to read? No phone or tablet? Sounds boring, but what do I know? Maybe the apocalypse is a good thing if it causes people to put down their distractions and think for themselves again.
I attempt to do some thinking of my own–reflecting on what’s happened to me, and considering what could come next–but there’s something about being in a horizontal position and in a fresh, thick diaper that seems to make my eyelids pretty heavy.
===
The cheerleaders have me pinned down again. There’s more of them now. Four or five–it’s hard to tell because I feel almost lost in the tangle of their limbs. My diaper is being opened again. They’re talking to each other, laughing too, but I can’t make out the words. Are they talking too softly, or are there just too many voices to keep track of? I want to ask if it’s time to be changed again, but I don’t think it is. I don’t smell anything stinky in here, and I definitely don’t feel wet.
But then I feel their hands on my cock and my balls again. There are hands spreading my legs apart. Hands sliding under my ass and playing with my back door. Hands stroking me. Groping me. Someone spits down into the orgy of hands that are rubbing at me.
Fuuuuck…
“Alfie,” a voice says.
“Mm,” I moan. “Just…keep going.”
“Alfie!”
It’s the shaking of my shoulder that wakes me, but it’s the sound of shouting coming through my cell’s little window that actually stirs me.
A shame, really–I was having a very nice dream.
“...the hell is going on?” I ask.
Skylar is at the side of my cot, her hand on my shoulder and still shaking me. I see that Marci is at the cell door, left hanging open now.
“Come on, we have to go,” Skylar says.
“Go?” I ask. “Where?”
“We’ve got to get out of here,” she says.
“Remind me why we can’t just leave him?” Marci asks. “He’s not one of us.”
“Yeah,” Skylar says. “But he’s not one of them either. With his amnesia, he won’t last any amount of time on his own.”
“I guess I’m just not sure why that’s our problem,”Marci says with a sigh.
“Because it’s the right thing to do,” Skylar says.
“Fine, fine,” Marci sighs. “Come on, come on. Everybody’s leaving.”
“So, uhm, what’s going on?” I say, sitting up on the cot now. My diaper crinkles loudly beneath me and I’m reminded that I’m still not wearing anything else.
“The truce was broken,” Marci says. “It’s the Paci Clan. They’re coming to raid us. They want our supplies.”
“They want our diapers,” Skylar says.
This world is so fucking weird.
“And so…y’all are just going to run away?” I ask.
“We’re potentially outnumbered,” Skylar says. “We’re fighters, but we’re not stupid.”
“Where are you going to go?” I ask.
“Jesus Christ,” Marci mutters at the door. “Can’t you play Sherlock later? We’ve got to go.”
“We have allies in the south,” Skylar says. “We’ll regroup there and figure out what’s next.”
This all feels too big for me. Factions at war, struggles to survive, the sudden need to abandon the only comforts you have. This isn’t my home. This isn’t my fight. And I’m just an orgasm away from leaving it all behind.
“What if, uh…you just left me behind?” I ask Skylar.
Skylar tilts her head. “You wouldn’t be safe. Just come with me–we’ll take care of you.”
She cares about me, I think. I’m her adopted little brother–the proxy for the one she used to have before things went south. It’s honestly kind of touching, though it also makes me realize that I might just break her heart in a moment.
“We really don’t have time for this,” Marci says.
There’s more yelling outside. A woman screams: “Go, go, go, go!”
“Come on,” Sklyar says to me.
Seeing as how we probably don’t have the time for me to explain much of anything, I have to weigh my options. Maybe, for now, it’s just easier to follow Skylar and Marci. I can lose them later, then go off on my own way and, well, work on the ol’ escape plan. If I try to shake the girls now, I run the risk of Skylar chasing after me. For the sake of her own safety, that seems like an unwise path to take.
“Let’s go,” I say, rolling off the cot.
“Finally coming to your senses, huh?” says Marci. “I’m headed outside. Brittany should be there already. Meet us there.” With that, she jogs down the hallway away from us, her skirt riding up to show that thick diaper waggling back and forth with every step.
The things I notice…
“I grabbed some clothes for you,” Skylar says.
“Not a cheerleading outfit, I hope.”
She snorts. “For what it’s worth, I bet that’d be cute. But no–these were in storage. I think it was stuff left behind by whoever used to live here. I don’t know what would or wouldn’t fit you, so…just maybe just quickly go through it and find something that fits?” She points to a cardboard box filled with pieces of loose clothing.
I quickly rifle through it, finding useless-to-me things like skirts and single socks. But then I spot a plaid button down shirt that looks a little familiar to me. Where have I seen this shirt before?
I think I remember Tommy wearing a shirt like that once. That’s fucking weird.
I dig a little more, pulling out a faded blue t-shirt with The Life Aquatic film’s logo on it. That’s weird. I used to have a shirt like that. I mean, I guess I do own a shirt like that, back where I’m from. In fact, I’m pretty sure that I had that shirt packed in my bag when I came to California.
Is it possible…
How crazy would it be if this was actually my shirt? Well, not mine–but the version of me who comes from this world. He was here. This is his shirt. My shirt.
Does this imply that, up to some point, this world and my world had a very similar timeline? In this world, I still bought this shirt, much to Nikki’s objections, while at this record store on the boardwalk? That I still came to California–not once, but twice, bringing this shirt with me the second time? And if that’s true, does that suggest that what’s happening here really is the probable outcome for my own world?
Is this the future, compared to the time in my world?
“Did you find something?” Skylar asks, some urgency in her tone.
“Uh, one sec…”
It only seems right to take back my own shirt, and I put it on. Fits just like it always did. Smells a little musty, though god knows where this thing has been sitting for, apparently, years.
I flip through the contents of the box, hoping to find something else of mine, but I don’t see anything. I’d like to think that it means that I escaped this place with my belongings at some point, but who knows. Maybe I’m dead. Or in some weird ‘faction’ like the, uh, Paci Gang or whatever. My luck, I’m probably in the worst faction there anyone can be part of, the one all the other factions make fun of–something like ‘The Bongo Butts’ or the ‘Diapered Cucumber Sniffers.’
Does this mean that the ones sniffing the cucumbers are diapered? Or that the cucumbers, themselves, are diapered?
I retrieve a pair of cargo shorts from the box. They look a little big for me, but I think I can make them work. Besides, it’s best to have something that can accommodate this thick diaper.
I’m about to stand up and get dressed when something else in the box catches my eye–a very familiar shade of light green.
“No…” I say softly.
I pull another t-shirt out of the box. Lake Bucky Bike Race, 2014, read the faded black letters on the shirt. This could be the strangest coincidence, but I think I’ve seen enough to know that it’s probably not.
This is Nikki’s shirt. This is her comfort shirt–the one she wears whenever she wants to be comfortable, usually to bed.
Maybe she left it here that first time she and I came to The Cradle to get Anders.
Yeah, but she was wearing it when we went back home to New Jersey–before I went to California again on my own.
Nikki came to The Cradle again.
She was looking for me.
Does that mean, back in my world, Nikki has–or will, in the future–come looking for me?
“Come on, Alfie,” Skylar says.
“I…uh…hold on…”
The weight of the last few months suddenly feels crushing. The realization that I never knew shit about who Mother was or what was happening at The Cradle. The realization that we were all fucking with forces beyond our comprehension. The realization that I may have put Nikki in danger because I couldn’t get enough milk.
I have to find a way to go back. I need to help free Harriet. I need to make sure that Nikki isn’t in danger. I need to…stop whatever diapered hellscape this is from happening, if such a thing is even possible.
I get to my feet and slip into the shorts and put a shirt on over my head.
“Shoes?” I ask.
Skylar shrugs. “There’s none in the box. But maybe there’s some extras over at the–”
A voice calls down the hallway: “I swear, we’re going to fucking leave without you if you don’t hurry up!”
Skylar grabs my shirt and pulls. “Let's go. We can worry about shoes later.”
She’s running. I’m running. Past the other, vacant cells. Down the hall. When the hallway veers to the side, we turn with it. Ahead is the open door and bright daylight. We charge into it, and I can’t even begin to imagine what I’ll see when we’re there.
===
I see chaos.
And I also see the Cradle. It’s not exactly The Cradle that I know and love, but it’s still very familiar. As we stumble forward, I see that the cabins and buildings are a little more run down now than I remember them, but they’re still in all the places I remember them being. The prison, I realize, is where the dining hall used to be.
There are women–running everywhere. I see cheerleaders, here and there, directing the running women with their hands, showing them where to go as they yell out commands about where to meet with the others.
I think I just assumed that everyone in this little club wore cheerleading outfits, but I’m wondering now if only the leadership team gets that uniform.
“Ow,” I mutter, my bare feet smacking down on old gravel pathways and uneven turf. I do my best to dodge the debris that I can–of which there is some–as I’d rather avoid the need for a tetanus shot if I can help it. Could you even get a tetanus shot here? No–if you get tetanus they probably just throw you in a pit or something.
Something large and yellow catches my attention, flapping in the wind above my head. I steer my face towards it, seeing that it’s a tattered flag. The yellow color, I imagine, was once more vibrant and aggressive, though it’s been muted by years exposed to the sun and the elements. The flag’s only other detail is a word scrawled across it in bold black letters. It appears to be written by hand, in a chaotic–almost furious–script.
It reads, simply: ‘PISSTOPIA.’
Is that what we call this place, or is it a defiant ‘fuck you’ to the state of the current world? So many questions, and–given that someone is tugging at my arm again–so little time for answers.
“Shoes,” I say to Skylar again, seeing that she’s the one towing me alongside her.
“We’ll get them when we can,” she says.
The shouting intensifies, and new voices are being added to the mix. Masculine voices. Angry voices. The Paci Clan?
How mad can you be when your identity is based around a tool used to soothe a crabby baby?
Somewhere behind us there’s a very loud ‘bang’ that seems to echo around us forever after. Gunshot? Explosion? A building failing down? I’m tempted to turn around and look, but I’ve decided that the less I know about this place, the better. I don’t want to be invested. I just want to go, and never come back.
There’s a mound of ashen dirt on our left where a garden used to be. Up ahead there’s a shell of a building that, once upon a time, was where big babies waddled to when they needed their diapers changed.
“Are you okay?” Skylar asks.
It almost annoys me that she cares enough about me to ask. This isn’t my world, and it’s not where I belong, and I want to get out of here–but once I do leave, I doubt that means this world ceases to exist. It continues to be. Skylar, and her Brats continue to deal with the same hardships. I’m the one with the easy escape plan that they don’t have, and it just doesn’t seem fair.
But what else would I do? I’m not their savior, and I’m not going to fix an entire world. This was their battle before I got here, and it’ll continue to be theirs after I go. I hate that, but it’s true.
“I’m okay,” I say. “But, look…”
She glances at me as we run forward. “What?”
“I need you to do something for me.”
There’s a worried expression on her face. “Please don’t tell me you’re going to do something stupid.”
“There’s something that I have to do. And I need you to keep running. You can’t run after me, alright?”
She shakes her head. “Just like I said–you’re going to do something stupid. I thought you couldn’t remember anything. How is it that you know you have something to do?”
“I know this,” I say. “Just…please keep going. Don’t stop on my account, okay?”
“Alfie…” She looks mad. Or she just looks tired–it’s really hard to read expressions when you’re running like this.
“I’ll be okay,” I say. “And so will you.” No, I don’t know that, but it seems like the kind of thing you’re supposed to say. It’d make a good, heart-warming scene in a movie.
“If I ever see you again…” she says, shaking her head. “I’m gonna smack you alongside the head.”
“And I look forward to that,” I say.
And with that, I break away from grip on my arm and run off to the side as she continues to run straight ahead. I dodge a few other running women–including a confused Chloe–as I dodge behind cabins and trees. Somewhere in the distance, I hear more yelling. I see smoke. I sprint–as much of a sprint as my unathletic legs can muster, at least–in a new direction. The remains of the fence that surrounded The Cradle are ahead, with large swaths of it fallen down completely or broken. I pick an area that looks like I can leap over and hurdle it. My feet are killing me, and I’m terrified of the trek through the woods beyond the fence. I have to be cautious of sticks, rocks, and whatever post-apocalyptic debris might be hidden beneath the leaves. My pace slows, though I keep moving at a steady-enough clip. From one tree to another.
The noise behind me subsides. Nobody knows I’m here. Nobody, as best as I can tell, is pursuing me. I finally stop to take a breath, resting against a large tree on a wooded incline. Out here, in the middle of the forest, it’s almost like you’d never know that the rest of the world has gone to hell. It’s probably no different than the forest of my own world. The same trees and chirping birds. The same pristine, unspoiled nature. It’s the closest I’ve felt to home in a while.
I let myself slide down the tree into a sitting position, my plump diaper squishing beneath me.
Well. There’s only one way out of here.
I’m thinking that the last thing in the world I want right now, while I’m sweating and my heart is pounding like a jackhammer, is to start jerking off.
But I gotta.
Think of sexy things. Think of sexy things. Think of sexy things.
I imagine myself on my back, legs spread and held high in the air by Freya as she changes my diaper. I think of Maxine, groping the front of my diaper as she teases me for being such a pathetic little baby. I think of the way it felt the very first time my mouth latched onto Mother’s breast and I tasted her milk–and how it felt like my entire world was coming apart at the scenes.
I’d say it’s weird–leaning against a tree in the middle of the forest, rubbing the front of my diaper. But this isn’t even the weirdest thing that happened to me today.
But it’s not working. None of this is really, like, getting me in the mood that I need to be in.
What else? What else sparks excitement?
I think of thick diapers. Wet diapers. Mucky, stinky diapers. I think of crowds of people standing around me, watching as I squat and push a load into the back of my padding.
Almost, but not quite.
I sigh, giving my hand a break for a moment. Maybe I’ll come back to this later. Though, I have no idea what ‘later’ even looks like here. Is it me, still sitting by a tree in the middle of the woods at midnight? Is it me getting further lost in the tall trees? Walking until I find some other settlement that’s probably too dangerous for me?
But then, something–someone–does come to mind. And, after I take a deep and cleansing breath while thinking of her, I feel myself stiffening.
“Fuck,” I say aloud. I can never, ever, tell her about this. She’d punch me. Pummel me.
“I’m real sorry about this,” I say, hoping that its intended recipient never hears the words.
I ease my hand inside my diaper and begin to stroke my erection.
I can’t say for certain why it’s my thoughts of Nikki that are getting me stirred up right now, but I make a pact with myself that it’s something we’ll think about later–when all of this is said and done.
“Mm,” I moan softly. “Nikki, get me out of here…”
Fifty-One: Transcendental Friendship
“Did ya lose yer clothes or something?” the man asks, his eyes narrowing as he peers out the window of his car.
I’m almost oblivious to the fact that, to him, I just look like a crazy naked guy on the side of this unpaved backroad that cuts through the forest. Instead, I’m fixated on how normal this almost seems. He’s a normal sized man in a normal looking car. An actual California license plate on the thing too.
An hour or so ago–it’s hard to be sure–I woke up alongside this road. And so once I found the strength to stand up and move around again, I decided to do the only thing that I could–walk. I don’t know where I’m going, but I figure this road has to eventually go somewhere.
When I saw the car–a white Lincoln that’s probably seen better days–coming down the road, I briefly considered diving into the trees and taking cover. For one, it was nice to wake up in a new place and not be a prisoner–be it by a giant woman or a post-apocalyptic diapered cheerleader. For all I knew, the driver of the car was just going to end up locking me up and slapping a diaper on me. Maybe, I thought, I’d have better luck avoiding this car and finding my way to a place where I can get some clothes and get a lay of the land on my own.
What prevented me from doing that was the unknown. How long until I made it to a place with clothes? Food? What if this world–if it wasn’t my own–had, like, dinosaurs in it? Or…forest ninjas? The car seemed like my best bet. So I waited at the side of the road, my hands covering up my midsection the best I could, as the car slowed down and rolled up next to me, the window slowly rolling down.
The man is older, old enough to be someone’s grandpa, I suppose. Balding, with the last strands of his gray hair pulled over the expanse of nothing on top of his head. Stubble on his leathered face. Big lensed bifocals. He also looks more annoyed at the sight of me than concerned.
I don’t know how to explain my current predicament to a stranger, but I take a stab at it. “It was a, uh, prank. Some hazing, you know? Me and my buds…we got a little carried away.”
The left side of his brow slowly raises. “And where’re yer friends now, boy?”
“Don’t know,” I say. “Back in town?” I’m hoping that there is a town in this world.
“Harper’s Bell?” he asks.
It’s a huge relief to hear him say that name–it’s not much, but it’s a faint semblance of the normalcy that I crave right now.
“Yeah,” I say. Still, I’m skeptical of what weird twist this world has in store for me–assuming it’s not the world I’ve originally come from. “It’s not, like, blown up or anything, is it?”
Both of the man’s eyes narrow again. “Is that some kinda joke or something?”
“Uh, yeah. Sorry…ignore that.”
“You want a ride back to town?” he asks. “Or you gonna wait out here ‘til yer pals get back?”
“Well…”
“It ain’t gonna be light out fer much longer,” he says, glancing at, I assume, the time on his car’s dashboard. “Ya might be better off goin’ to town.”
“If you’re offering,” I say.
“You ain’t got any clothes at all?” he asks.
“Nope.”
He sighs, again sounding more aggravated by having stopped than anything else. “Well, shit. Ya can’t go to town lookin’ like that. Yer gonna offend the ladies.”
“Not much I can do about that,” I say.
“Hold on. Mays be I got somethin’ in the trunk you can wear.”
“You don’t have to…”
But he’s already got the car in park and he’s opening the driver side door and slowly hoisting himself out of his seat. He’s not an especially big guy, though there’s something solid about his frame. He reminds me of my grandfather, my dad’s dad–the kind of guy who didn’t know the meaning of resting. The kind of guy who insisted on working and laboring like he was still 30-something and not in his 70s.
The man has the trunk popped open and he flings it open when he gets to it. He rifles around for a little bit and pulls out a bundle of blue fabric and tosses it at me.
“Here,” he says. “It ain’t much, but it’ll keep you decent.”
I unfurl the bundle, revealing a pair of faded and stained denim overalls.
“They ain’t pretty,” the man says with a shrug. “I keep ‘em around in case I get stuck in the mud and make a mess of myself or somethin’.”
I’m mildly amused by his choice of words, just because ‘making a mess of myself’ means something very different where I come from–assuming that it’s not here.
“Well, thanks,” I say. I quickly step into the overalls, one leg at a time, and hoist them up over my body before fastening the shoulder straps to keep everything in place. They’re a little bug, but they could be a lot worse. And, like the man said, if nothing else, they’re keeping me decent.
“I ain’t got shoes or anything like that though,” he says.
“It’s alright,” I say.
“Ya prolly got clothes back in town?”
“Sure.” I probably don’t, but that doesn’t seem worth explaining.
“Well get in. I’ll take ya back.”
===
Bill Hammond’s got some kids, he says, but they’ve all moved away.
“They don’t want nothin’ to do with this place,” he says as the car lurches along the old backroad. “Can’t say I blame ‘em or nothin’. Time was, I was happy my pop gave me this place–felt like I was doin’ my job to continue the family’s legacy, ya know?”
“Sure,” I say.
He shrugs. “But if the kids don’t wanna live out here in the middle of nowhere, and don’t wanna be farmers, I can’t make ‘em. I’m disappointed–but I ain’t gonna force ‘em.”
“So you live out here alone?” I ask.
“Aye. Well, not alone. Got the wife and the dog, of course. Some animals in the barn. I’ll give it a few more years but then I’m prolly done with it all. Maybe I’ll sell all the land, y’know? Maybe sooner than later so I can enjoy some of the money before I keel over.”
Admittedly, I’ve only been half-paying attention to him, but there’s a few nuggets in the words I’ve heard that feel like puzzle pieces.
Hammond. I’ve heard that name before, haven’t I? Hammond. Hammond. Who is that?
Obviously it’s nobody that I know, since I’m not from around here and I don’t know any of the locals. So it’d have to be a name that I’ve heard–a name that’s been referenced around me. But what local person would be referenced in a context that would’ve mattered to me.
My eyes widen, realizing where I know it from.
The Hammond Farm. The place that would later become The Cradle. Is the farm he’s talking about–the one he hasn’t even seriously considered selling yet–the same as the plot of land I’ve come to see as home over the last few months?
“I gotta ask ya, boy, what in the world transpired that caused you to be out in the middle of goddamned nowhere without any britches on?”
“Uh, well, that’s a long story,” I say. And it is.
His shoulders bounce with a little shrug. “Kids doin’ stupid shit. Some things never change.
“Can I ask you something?” I don’t mean to cause such an abrupt change of direction for this conversation, but it’s hard for me to humor any other small talk at the moment.
“Yeah,” he says. “Shoot.”
“You ever hear of anything called The Cradle? Not, like, an actual, uh…cradle. I mean, like a place that they call ‘The Cradle.’ It’s like a camp, I guess?”
He glances at me with his eyebrows all uneven like he’s trying to understand me while I speak in an entirely different language. “Huh?”
“Mirabelle?” I ask. “That name mean anything to you?”
“I don’t know anything about any of that,” he says, his chest shaking with a rumbling laugh. “What are you on ‘bout, boy?”
“Ah…nothing,” I say, shrugging. “Just some stuff I heard about in town, I guess.”
“You live in town?” he asks, as if picking out detail to process and throwing the rest of what I said out. “Who’s yer parents? I prolly know ‘em.”
“I don’t live in town,” I say. “Just visiting, actually.”
“So you don’t even live ‘round here and yer pals are just leavin’ ya in the woods without yer pants?”
When he puts it that way, my fictional friends do sound pretty shitty.
“Like I said, it’s a long story.”
“Who’re yer friends?” he asks. “Maybe someone I know?”
Damn, man. He’s asking too many questions. I think he means well, but he’s unknowingly backing me into a corner where I’m going to run out of ways that I can lie to him.
I take one more shot at changing the subject. Plan B might just be opening the passenger side door and rolling out of the moving car and then running through the woods. “They’re just a bunch of idiots. Whatever. Hey, do you know the girl at the diner? Celia?”
At this, the friendly smile on his face–which has been there since he first tossed me his overalls–grows a little wider. “Celia? Yeah, I know ‘er. Nice gal.”
That’s really all I needed to hear. I just needed to know that something in this world was familiar.
“Actually,” I say. “You think you could drop me off at the diner?”
He laughs. “You gonna go and bother Celia, are ya?”
“Uh…”
“There ain’t much of a dress code at the diner,” he chuckles, “but ya might need more than jus’ overalls.”
Shit, I say, forgetting about my current attire, or lack there of.
“Ya sure I should drop you off there?” he asks.
I nod. Clothes or no clothes, and regardless of whether or not this Celia is ‘my’ Celia, this is all I have. I’ll take my chances. “Yes, please.”
===
Harper’s Bell looks nearly identical to how I remember it. The same well-worn expanse of slowly cracking roads and buildings in need of upgrades. Even Harper’s Dinner Bell looks exactly like I’d expect it to. Though, maybe slightly shabbier? But it’s been a while since I’ve been in town in my own world, so I can’t be too sure.
“You want these overalls back, I assume,” I say to Bill Hammond as I climb out of his Lincoln in the parking lot.
He considers this for a moment and shakes his head. “I got more. And you need ‘em more than I do. You sure yer good, kid?”
“I’m alright,” I say. “Thanks for the ride.”
I don’t think he believes me, but with a little shrug and one more flash of his friendly grin, he puts the car into drive again and his car rumbles down the street and out of sight. It’s not until he’s gone that I realize how stupid I am. No phone. No wallet. No shoes. Barely any clothes.
No diaper. Does that matter? Knowing my luck, it probably will.
I don’t have to look too hard to find Celia, she’s around the side of the diner, leaning against the wall and drawing in a long drag from her vape with one hand as she scrolls on her phone with the other. She’s got a pink t-shirt on and a pair of light-blue jeans that are rather tight, a white apron tied around her waist. She looks up at me as I slowly, carefully, amble closer–watching every step for broken glass or pointy rocks. Her eyes linger on me, but it’s not recognition in her eyes; instead she looks baffled by me. I can just about read her mind: “Who is this clod with the big overalls, no shirt, and no shoes?”
“Hey,” I say.
She narrows her eyes and tilts her head. “Hey.” It’s almost a question.
“Uh, Celia…”
Her head tilts even further. “Do I know you?”
“Well, yeah…” I stop myself, well aware of how insane I’ll sound if I try to rattle off how I know her in a different world. “N-no, I don’t think so.”
She scoffs. “Well? Do I know you or don’t I?”
“You don’t,” I say. “I don’t think.”
“You don’t look familiar,” she says. “You’re not from around here.”
“That’s for sure.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
I sigh, wondering if we’re getting off on the wrong foot. But, then again, what in the world am I supposed to say? This Celia is a complete stranger to me. Is there any feasible way that I can get her to help me?
Maybe I can’t. It was probably a mistake to try and approach her in the first place.
“So…can I help you or something?” she asks when I don’t say anything for a few beats.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” I sigh.
“What’s your deal?” she asks. Without giving me a chance to respond, she stacks a few more questions on for good measure: “Where are your shoes? Your shirt? How do you even know my name?”
I search my mind for something–anything–that I can say that might help establish a connection between us. I blurt out: “Darla.”
“What?”
“Darla,” I say again. “Your father is dating a woman named Darla, right? From out of town? He stays with her pretty often, and it’s why you’re usually alone at your place.”
For a moment, she doesn’t react to this at all. She just stares at me, taking me in with cold and calculating eyes. I’m already regretting having said any of that–I probably come off as a terrifying stalker more than anything.
“How do you know that?” she finally says.
“You told me once.” Shit, that was the wrong answer.
“But you don’t know me,” she says.
I sigh and shrug. “I…I don’t know.”
I expect her to tell me to fuck off, but instead she smirks, laughing to herself a little as she shakes her head. She seems…strangely amused.
“I-I’m not going to hurt you,” I say, putting my open palms up in front of me. “I just…”
Something in her expression seems to soften as she looks at me. It’s a similar softness as I had seen on her face when I was in her home–in a different time, in a different world–when she was offering to change my diaper. I think it’s pity or sympathy. I don’t know what she sees right now–a crazy guy in stained overalls in need?
“Do you need something to eat?” she asks.
The abrupt change in tone of this conversation almost gives me whiplash, though at least it seems to be turning in the right direction.
I hadn’t thought of eating since…I was in whatever PISSTOPIA was, but now that she’s mentioned it, I feel a little grumble in my stomach.
I shrug–the universal symbol for ‘I’m too proud to say that I need something, but hopefully you’ll understand this and help me out a little.’
She sighs, pointing down the diner’s wall to where the corner turns. “There’s a picnic bench back there. It’s for the staff on their breaks, but I think I’m the only one who ever uses it. Why don’t you go over there and sit down. I have to go back to work, but I should be able to grab some food for you in a little bit.”
“Y-you don’t have to…”
“I don’t know what your deal is,” she says. “But I think we’ve got more to talk about. Do you have anywhere else to be?”
I shake my head.
“Okay. Picnic bench, then. I’ll see you in a while.”
“Thank you,” I say, before we head in our different directions–me back to the table, and her back into the diner through a side-entrance.
===
The old, worn bench–just as unloved looking as the rest of Harper’s Bell–sits nestled between two tall pine trees on the edge of the parking lot. The fact that the bench and the ground around it are littered with fallen brown needles and pinecones suggests that what Celia said was right and that this isn’t an oft-used area for taking breaks. I take some comfort in that as I brush some needles away from the bench and sit down–feeling hidden from the rest of the world back here.
Not only is this place the closest thing to ‘home’ I’ve felt in a while, but I find the freedom from giant women and angry post-apocalyptic clans to be rather refreshing. So close, but so far away. This is Celia, but it’s also not–not as I know her, anyway. But she looks like the Celia I know. She sounds like her. The smell of the smoke she exhaled after vaping even smells like the kind the Celia I knew used.
It makes me wonder what else about this world is like the one I know. What is this world’s Nikki doing? And Maxine. And Mirabelle–if there’s no such thing as The Cradle. And Anders. Sam. Is my dad still shacking up with Julie-fucking-Ross?
What about…me? Am I here?
I somehow feel it before I feel it–the sound of liquid dripping into a puddle, coming from directly below me. It’s at this moment I realize that the crotch of my overalls–well, Bill Hammond’s overalls–have suddenly become warm and wet. A trail of wetness runs down the insides of the overalls thighs, past the knees, down the ankles, and now a tiny trickle of pee is puddling in the pine needles on the ground.
And there you go, ladies and gents–your boy still needs diapers.
It’s a weird feeling, pissing myself without a diaper. The warmth is in the wrong place. The dampness is all wrong–feeling more like a sloppy wetness. And in the bagginess of the overalls, sans underpants, it just feels like I’m sitting in a wet sack or something. There is absolutely nothing even slightly erotic or ‘naughty’ feeling about this. I feel gross–which is a funny thing to feel when I don’t think I’ve felt that way in months, despite the number of dirty diapers I’ve been trapped in.
It’s a whole new challenge, isn’t it? How do I get diapers when I don’t have any money?
I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths, hoping that I can somehow collect myself. I have no idea if it’s working or not, but trying is at least a pleasant distraction from freaking out.
A rusted door on the back of the diner, near a dumpster, opens and Celia emerges, carrying a plate. She walks over to the picnic table, brushes some more debris from the top of it, and places the plate down in front of me. Looks like a club sandwich and some fries.
“I hope this is alright,” she says. “I realized that I didn’t ask what you might want.”
“Beggars can’t be choosers,” I say. “And this is perfect.” Honestly, I’m just glad that it’s not the tacos.
She reaches into her apron and slaps a few napkins down on the table too. “How about something to drink?”
“Y-you really don’t have to–”
“You can’t eat a meal without something to drink,” she says. “Water? Soda?”
“A Coke actually sounds perfect,” I say. Something sugary and caffeinated really does sound like the best thing I could ask for.
“Okay,” she says with a nod. “I’ll be back in a minute. Anything else?”
“You’re already doing too much,” I say.
She doesn’t respond to that directly, beyond a little shrug. “Alright, be right back.”
She’s gone again.
The sandwich and the salty fries are fantastic, not only hitting the spot, but giving me a nostalgic rush for when I’ve eaten at Harper’s Dinner Bell before. I’m reminded of when Nikki and I came here for the very first time, when we arrived in town in search of The Cradle so that we could cover Anders. Goddamn, that was a different time. Before diapers. Before Mother. Before Tommy, Celia, and Freya became a part of my world.
Celia returns again and sets a clear plastic cup of soda down on the table. “Everything good?”
“Anything at all would’ve been good,” I say, my mouth full of half-chewed french fries. “This is excellent.”
“Good,” she says, nodding a little. She lingers near the picnic table for a moment, looking like she wants to say something else.
After swallowing, I don’t take another bite, instead, giving her my attention. “Hm?”
“You seem to know my name,” she says. “But you’ve got me at a disadvantage when I don’t know who you are.”
“Alfie,” I say.
“Alfie,” she repeats. “ I don’t know if I’ve ever met one of them before.”
No, not on this world.
“I’m a little biased,” I say, “but I’d like to think we’re pretty cool.”
Of course, as I shift in my seat a little and are reminded of the wetness in my overalls, I suddenly feel a lot less cool.
She doesn’t say anything. She just watches me carefully; studying my every move like I was a zoo animal in a cage and she’d never seen anything like me before.
“Do you remember me?” I ask, a hopeful twang in my voice–as if I fully believe that the power of friendship somehow transcends dimensional barriers or something like that.
“No,” she says bluntly, instantly shooting down my hopes. “But, I dunno, you talk to me like you know me.”
“Uh…”
“You seemed pretty confident about ‘Darla,’” she says.
“I really don’t know what to say.”
“Give me something.”
“We, uh, met in another life, maybe.”
She clicks her tongue as she tries to process that response. However it is she feels about it, she keeps it to herself.
“What else do you think you know about me?” she asks.
I laugh. “Honestly? Not a lot. You’re kind. You, uh, have gardens in front of your house. They’re kind of your project now, but you originally started them with your dad.” But beyond that, I don’t know what I can say that’ll make sense to her. Describing the inside of her house would probably just make me sound like a home invader–not someone who was invited inside of her home in another world like this one.
“Alright,” she says, tapping her fingers against her thigh. “Let’s start somewhere else. “Where are the rest of your clothes? And your shoes?”
“I don’t have any.”
She pinches the top of her nose with her thumb and forefinger and closes her eyes. Is she agitated? Just thinking? She asks: “Do you live in town?”
“No.”
“Are you homeless?”
“Technically, I guess,” I say, scratching my head.
She sighs. “Are you in trouble, Archie?”
“Alfie,” I correct. It’s surreal, hearing her say the wrong name like she doesn’t know me at all. “And…kind of.”
“You need a hand, yeah?”
I nod my head.
“I’ve got to get back inside. I probably have customers waiting for me. When my shift ends in about two hours, are you going to be here?”
“I can be,” I say. Also true is that I have nowhere else to go.
“Okay,” she says. And just like that, she goes through the door and back into the diner again.
I can’t get a good read on her. I feel like she should be more skeptical of me. More suspicious. Less trusting. But she sounds like she wants to help me, for whatever reason. I won’t pretend that I understand her motives, but I also need her help so badly that I’m hesitant to question them too much.
Perhaps the power of friendship really does transcend dimensional borders, and she can sense a strong connection between us from another place and time.
===
I spend almost every second of my time waiting for Celia thinking about what I’ll say to her later. I could lie to her, fabricating some convoluted story about my origins and how I got here. But I don’t even know where I’d start with that. It’s probably a testament to my upbringing that I don’t know how to spool together a string of lies about who I am, where I’ve come from, and how I’ve come to learn strange details about Celia’s life without her knowing who I am.
I decide to just tell her the truth. As absolutely as insane an idea as that sounds, I think it’s the only way to go. I need an ally, and I’d rather earn Celia’s trust through the absurd truth than lying.
Worst case scenario, am I really in a worse spot than where I started? I’ll just…fondle myself and jet off to the next world, I guess.
When Celia emerges from the diner’s backdoor again, she looks tired. Her apron is gone now, and she’s got a purse slung over one shoulder and a cardigan hanging off the other. She glances at me, sitting at the picnic table, and almost looks like she forgot about me for a moment there. The expression on her face says: “Ah shit, you again.”
“Hey,” I say. “How was work?”
She grunts, seemingly unhappy with the question. I suppose I can understand that–she doesn’t think we have any rapport yet. I don’t deserve the opportunity to ask things like that. She doesn’t know me like I think I know her.
“Look,” I say, “we can do this tomorrow if you want. Like, if you just want to go home and shower and relax or whatever, we can meet up and talk later instead.”
“Why don’t you come with me?” she asks.
I’m surprised by this. “You want me to go back to your house with you?”
“You’re not going to kill me or anything, are you?”
“Uh, no,” I say. I resist the urge to add: “But isn’t that what a killer would say?”
“And you don’t have anywhere else to go, do you?” she asks.
I shake my head.
“And you don’t have any other possessions? No clothes? Things?”
“No,” I say.
“Come on,” she says, beckoning me towards her with a hand.
It’s only as I stand that I remember what I had done in the overalls earlier. While that accident might have dried a little, the second accident–occuring maybe an hour an ago–certainly hasn’t. There, in the crotch of my overalls, is a giant wet splotch, spreading down my thighs with little streams and rivers of wetness running down the length of the legs.
Celia stares at me for a few moments, not saying anything at all. Her expression isn’t at all what I’m expecting. She’s not disgusted or disturbed by what she’s seeing–instead, she looks curious. Intrigued, even.
“What happened there?” she finally asks, pointing towards my midsection.
“That’s actually part of the very long story I need to tell you.”
“You had an accident?” she asks.
“J-just a little one…”
“You couldn’t have pissed on a tree? Asked to use the restroom?”
“Maybe if we could just talk about everything, I could explain that…”
“Do you need a diaper?” she asks. “Is that it?” She says it dismissively, like it’s just a joke.
I laugh nervously. “I mean…”
“Really?”
“I, uh, usually wear them,” I say, adding: “Where I come from.” It feels shameful and humiliating to have to admit as much to a stranger.
“Come on,” she sighs, again beckoning for me to follow her with her hand.
“Are you sure?” I ask.
She laughs. “I wouldn’t have invited you if I didn’t mean it.”
===
We don’t talk much on the walk to her house. There’s a lot I’d like to say to her, but I opt to follow her lead, and she seems content with silence.
My feet are a little sore, but I’d take the smooth sidewalk of Harper’s Bell over the rough backroads that cut through the forest.
The closer to her house we get, the stranger this situation feels. She really ought to be more suspicious of me, shouldn’t she? Who invites a random pissy-pants stranger over to their house after a whole ten minutes, if that, of conversation?
Am I, somehow, the one who is suspicious of her now? I mean the thought mostly as a joke, though I’m still on edge.
For the most part, I find the walk to her house to be a pretty familiar route. I’ve walked this way with Celia before, in a different world. There’s a few minor differences to the buildings around us–no signs about their being no public restrooms or changing stations, for one–though the path itself is the same.
It’s a Harper’s Bell without the influence of The Cradle. No strange people in diapers passing through on the daily. No influx of cash to local businesses from visitors en route to the old farm. Now, it’s just a small isolated town, drawing even closer towards its inevitable abandonment. It’s sad, in a way.
I almost don’t recognize Celia’s little cottage when we get there. While there are some patches of dug-up earth in front of the house–places where gardens would be back at the version of the yard I’d know–there’s nothing but dried soil and remnants of dead plants now. It’s been a long time since anyone’s cared about growing something here.
She opens the front door, beckoning for me to follow. Beyond the door, I just see darkness. I don’t know why, but I have a bad feeling about this; it’s deep down in the pit of my stomach–an instinct to turn and run.
“Come on,” she says.
I approach the door, despite the bad vibes. Maybe it’s because I have nowhere else to go, or maybe it’s because I could always trust my Celia.
“Good boy,” she says as I cross the threshold.
Her voice sounds different. Her hand is suddenly wrapped tightly around my wrist. Instinctively, I try to run, but she stands her ground and holds me in place. She seems almost impossibly strong–my attempt to flee doesn’t so much as cause her to lean.
Something’s not right. Something’s not right. Something’s not right.
My eyes adjusting to the darkness inside the house, I see that things are not as I expect them to be. This isn’t the quaint little place I remember. There are no warm-colored rugs and furniture. The paintings of people and flowers have been pulled down from the walls. Some of the shelves are empty of the knick knacks and plants that used to habitat them, while other shelves are gone altogether. This place seems abandoned. Deserted.
“Celia… What is this?”
“I’m not Celia,” she says, closing the door.
Her face has changed. Not like she’s morphing into someone else so much as the expression on her face–her entire temperament–is unlike any I’ve seen from my Celia before. She looks amused and satisfied. Devilish and sinister.
I make another feeble attempt to escape her grasp, but she’s simply too strong and effortlessly holds me in place.
“What’s going on here?” I say–my voice a childish whine.
“Poor baby,” Not-Celia coos sarcastically. “Your mother has been worried sick about you.”
“My m-mother?” I stammer. But then I realize what she means. Not my mother–she means Mother. She of the psychedelic milk and who is suspiciously absent from this world.
“Mother doesn’t like that you’re able to run amok,” Not-Celia says. “No little boy should be allowed to run between worlds like you do.”
“And who are you, then?” I ask.
“I’m here to make sure that you don’t get to run any further,” she says. “You’re going to stay right here where I can keep an eye on you for Mother.”
===
Another world, another instance of finding myself held prisoner in a diaper. I really thought this world was going to be different, but I guess I was a fool to think that.
I’m tied to what I assume was once this world’s Celia’s bed. Each of my limbs is tied separately to one of the bed’s corresponding posts.
I have been liberated from my wet overalls.
I am, once more, wearing a diaper.
The diaper is already wet.
There’s a pacifier in my mouth, held in place by a piece of ribbon that is wrapped around my head to keep it in place.
I’d laugh, if I could. No matter where I go, this just seems to be my fate. You’d think I’d be used to it by now–but here I am, already thinking about how maybe it’ll be different next time.
Assuming, of course, there gets to be a ‘next time.’
***
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Forty-Eight: Little
“I was traded,” Wobble says. “I only came to live here two years ago. Before that, I used to live in the city. I thought life was pretty good there, and I thought I had a decent relationship with my big. But then they just…traded me away. Like I was a toy they had gotten sick of.”
“Peggy wanted a boy,” Tinkles somberly says to him. “She always said that before you arrived.”
Stinker sighs, rolling her eyes again. “Peggy and Lenore are my first bigs. They caught me a few years ago.”
Caught. This has implications. Perhaps littles can, if they’re lucky, have a life outside of serving the bigs? And just how does one get caught? I’m imagining a cartoonish snare trap, but since I can’t ask any questions myself, I can only rely on what they choose to share with me.
“I was born here,” Tinkles says. “It’s all I’ve ever known.”
“She likes it here,” Stinker says.
“I-it’s not like that,” Tinkles says. “I just…”
“This is her whole world,” Wobble says. “I get that.”
“What about you, uh–Smooshy, was it?” Stinker asks.
I nod my head, unable to respond otherwise.
She asks: “You always been a ‘Smooshy?’”
I shake my head.
She asks: “So you weren’t always someone’s little?”
I shake my head.
She asks: “Is…this your first time being someone’s little?”
I mean… If being a ‘little’ means being made to wear a diaper, act like a baby, and get doted on by people acting like the adults, I don’t suppose that’s all the different from The Cradle. But that seemed like a more consensual agreement than whatever is happening here. Though…the milk, and whatever mind-altering properties it has has me questioning that now too.
But, for the sake of her question, being made into some giant woman’s pet baby is certainly a first. I nod my head.
“Shit,” Stinker says. “I’m sorry to hear that. I mean, it’s impressive that you lasted this long without getting captured. Did you live around here? Were you in one of the communities?”
I shrug, vaguely pointing to my face and plugged-mouth with my mitts to remind her that I can’t really answer all those questions right now.
“Right,” she sighs. “Maybe we can talk about that later.”
“Are you scared?” Tinkles asks.
I shrug, for lack of another way to respond. I’m not, like, terrified. But this place is strange and alien to me. The four of us look like what I’d consider to be an ‘average’ adult size back in the Earth that I know and love. But here, where everything else is bigger, it fucks with your head. The ceiling is too tall and the room seems too big in general.
“Peggy isn’t bad,” Stinker says. “I mean, I don’t like her. But she’s mostly harmless. Just kind of careless sometimes.”
Wobble sighs. “Lenore, though…”
“I don’t think Lenore actually likes littles,” Stinker says. “She tolerates them on behalf of Peggy.”
“Th-that’s not true,” Tinkles says. “She likes littles. She’s just a little more, uhm…”
“Uptight,” Wobbles says, finishing that thought for her. “Bitchy. Moody. Not especially kind.”
“You must be tired and overwhelmed right now,” Wobble says, putting a mitted hand on my back. “Do you need to lie down? There’s some blankets over there.”
“I’m a good cuddler,” Tinkles says. “Sometimes we have cuddle parties.”
I have no idea what I need right now. I can barely think straight. Do I need a nap? Lunch? A bottle of milk? Do I need…a cuddle?
No, what I need is to cum. As ridiculous as that sounds, it might be my only chance at getting the hell out of this weird place.
But then what? Someplace even stranger? And this prompts the question: How does this get me any closer to my end goal of getting back to my own world–preferably while freeing Harriet as well? Because if I keep cumming–if future orgasms work to take me into new, uh, realms or dimensions or whatever, am I just going to get myself further and further away from where I want to be?
Or, are the answers I seek here, in this weird world of bigs and littles? But how would I know? And how would I find them while trapped in some crazy couples’ basement?
My head is spinning. Maybe I do need to lie down for a little bit. I nod and follow Wobble’s finger to where the blankets are stacked. I waddle towards them and grab one or two. It’d be nice to have a bed or something, but at this point, I’d be fine with just throwing the blankets on the ground and curling up on top of them for a bit.
No sooner than I spread a blanket out on the padded floor, though, I feel a presence behind me. It’s Tinkles.
“Would it be weird if I took a nap with you?” she asks.
I shrug, again unsure of how else to respond.
“I…well, I just want you to know that you’re not alone here,” she says. “Sometimes it helps comfort me when I have a friend I can cuddle with. So if you think it’d help you too, then…”
I nod. Sure, it’s a little odd, I guess, to cuddle with a stranger I’ve just met. But so is a world with giant women who make us wear diapers. So is traversing the multiverse with orgasm. So is magical milk that turns people into diaper-wetting babies. And you know what? I think having a warm body cuddling against me in these very surreal times sounds quite nice.
So I nod my head and lower myself onto the blanket, as does she. I lower myself onto my side, expecting her to lie in front of me to be my ‘little spoon,’ except she lies down behind me instead. I’m the little spoon. But that’s fine. That’s…actually pretty nice.
She doesn’t say anything. Her hands aren’t groping me or anything like that. She’s just lying behind me, her body pressed against mine. It’s warm. It’s comfortable.
I try to think, juggling all the scattered thoughts I have about the weirdness I’ve encountered so far, and what sorts of weirdness will probably be yet to come. But I feel myself shutting down sooner than I expect. I’m reminded, briefly, that I didn’t feel things like exhaustion–or a need to pee, for that matter–when I was in the white space with Harriet. I’m feeling those things now. I’m exhausted. And, well, I have to pee.
If I’ve learned anything from my time in diapers, it’s that there’s never a reason to just hold it. Sooner or later, you’re going to end up with a soggy bottom anyway.
I let it all out, feeling the diaper growing warmer and heavier between my legs as the wet spot expands to encompass more and more of the padding.
That feels good. Everything about this moment feels good. I let those good vibes carry me off to sleep–a welcome reprieve from the madness of whatever reality I’m experiencing.
===
I’m airborne.
I open my eyes and I see my feet dangling below me. The blanket I was laying on is getting further and further away from me.
But there are hands under my arms. I’m being lifted up. Oh right, the giant women. I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to being hoisted up by Peggy.
“That’s a pretty wet diaper you got on there, Smooshy,” Peggy says to me. Her breath is as bad as I remember it being earlier. Less onion-y, though; more generically ‘bad’ now.
There’s another odor in the air, though–one that, hopefully, isn’t related to Peggy’s breath. It’s the unmistakable stench of a messy diaper. Mine? I don’t think so, though I wouldn’t be completely surprised if it was.
“I see how it is,” Lenore mutters to Peggy from behind. “You’re going to take the wet one, and I get to change the stinky one?”
“Oops,” Peggy giggles, adding a nonchalant shrug.
Lenore grumbles and picks Tinkles up from the ground. She holds the diapered girl out away from her like Tinkles is a bomb set to explode. “Let’s get this dreadful thing off of you.”
The women carry Tinkles and I from whatever playroom we’d been kept in and we’re taken to another room. Despite being just woken from a nap, I feel a little more aware of my surroundings than the last time I was carried around the house. I see the large changing tables–one of which I was probably laying on when I got my first diaper here–and I see that this is a nursery of sorts. Two changing tables. Shelves holding lots of diapers, wipes, powders, and ointments. There’s a happy little woodland scene painted on the walls. If my sister and Anders were to ever have a kid–and what a terrifying thought that is–this is how I’d imagine Sam would want to decorate the room.
Tinkles and I are each flopped down on our own changing tables and the women get right to work on us. I’m not surprised at their speed and efficiency, as I’m sure they’ve changed plenty of diapers.
I make the mistake, just once, of turning my head and glancing at Tinkles as her diaper is unfastened and pulled open, revealing the brown mess within. I see her glancing at me too, her cheeks bright pink. I turn away, not wanting to embarrass her anymore than I might have already.
“Nobody has called about him,” Lenore says, pointing at me.
“You expecting that?” Peggy asks.
“If one of the neighbors had lost one of theirs, I could see them reaching out to everyone else in the area and checking to see if we’d found him, couldn’t you?”
Peggy’s eyes get large. “You mean, like we got a wild one?”
“Perhaps,” Lenore says, her nasally tone masking if she’s more amused or annoyed by this. “Though he seems awfully docile to be wild.”
“He’s a good wittle Smooshy, ain’t he?” Peggy coos at me, her giant fingers attempting to tickle my belly. It does little besides making me squirm.
“Is that pacifier necessary?” Lenore asks.
“He was quite chatty before…”
“Take it out, I say. If he gets to be annoying, we can always put it back in. But if you leave it in now, I’m concerned he’s just going to be resentful. And a resentful little is not a compliant little.”
Peggy sighs. “Yeah, yeah, you’re prolly right about that. But doesn’t he just look so cute and pathetic with his mouth all stopped up like that?”
“Peggy…”
“I’ll take it out. Sheesh.”
Still, she doesn’t take the pacifier out immediately. First, she tends to my bottom. The wet diaper is peeled away, and her big hands run a baby wipe–bigger than one I’ve ever seen before, I might add–over my diaper area. She’s not even especially gentle about it this time around; it’s just a low-effort set of moves, like she’s not all that interested in cleaning me up. I think I’ve seen an attitude like hers before–there’s plenty like her in the workforce. They’re the people who do just enough to get by. The bare minimum. I probably know it so well because that also describes me.
A new diaper is unfolded and slid beneath me, again my legs being hoisted into the air to lift my bottom up. Bingo bango–I’m wearing a clean diaper again.
Meanwhile, Lenore is still working on cleaning up Tinkles, and it looks to be a laborious affair. Lenore glances at Peggy, a frown on her face, and scoffs. She says: “Next time, you get the dirty one.”
“We’ll see,” Peggy says cloyingly, before her hands reach around my head and unfasten the strap that holds the pacifier in my mouth.
I feel a surge of relief as she pulls the bulb from my mouth. My jaw, exhausted from being forced open for so long, flexes up and down a few times as I acclimate myself to having use of it again. I know better than to say anything, though–I have a feeling that she’d be happy to jam that thing back into my cakehole again, given the slightest excuse.
“I’m bringing him back to play with the others,” Peggy says, picking me up.
This, too, seems to irritate Lenore, as she pauses what she’s doing to narrow her eyes at Peggy. I can only guess why this would annoy Lenore. Maybe Lenore thinks that Peggy should be spending more time with her ‘toys’ rather than leaving them in a room by themselves while she goes and fucks off elsewhere.
I mean, that’s certainly what I’m thinking.
I’m carried back to the other room–the one with the padded floors where the other ‘littles’ are–and I’m eased down onto the ground in a sitting position.
“There you go, Smooshy,” Peggy says. “Good as new. I’ll be back to check on you later.” And with that, she turns and leaves the room, leaving me alone with the others.
“Smooshy,” says Wobble with a nod. “I see you’re allowed to talk now.”
I open my mouth, unsure of what it is I want to say. How soon do I want to get into the story of my dimension-hopping orgasms? Do I want to talk about milk? Do I want to ask a thousand questions about this place?
I settle for simply saying: “Hey.”
“TInkles?” asks Stinker.
“Still getting changed,” I say.
“So,” Wobble says, a big smile on his face. “Now that you can talk, I’ve got a very important question for you.”
“Okay? Shoot.”
He says: “Cake or pie?”
===
I don’t know how to respond to that, and I need to consider the question for a moment. Is he being serious? Is this somehow a hotly debated topic among the littles? Is there a wrong answer–one that gets me shunned from this tiny community in Lenore and Peggy’s basement.
“There’s your answer,” Stinker says to Wobble. “Clearly he doesn’t know.”
“W-wait,” I say. “I mean…I like cake a lot, but…” I look at both of their faces, seeing a mix of amusement and curiosity. “You’re not actually asking me about cake or pie, are you?”
“If you don’t know, you don’t know,” Wobble says. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Well, hold on,” Stinker says. “Don’t be so dismissive just yet.”
“No,” he says. “We can’t trust him yet. We can talk about this some other time, okay?”
Stinker seems annoyed by this response, but also doesn’t look like she’s going to press the matter. Myself, I’m debating whether or not I want to poke this bear.
“I'm not from around here,” I say.
“Where are you from, then?” Wobble says.
I can’t help but laugh. “Honestly, I don’t know where I am now.”
This raises Stinker’s eyebrows. “And yet you know that you’re not from around here?”
“California?” I ask. “Does, uh, Harper’s Bell sound familiar?”
“Well, yeah,” Stinker says. “That’s the closest town to here.”
“The Cradle,” I say. “Have you ever heard of that?”
Stinker shrugs before glancing at Wobble who also shrugs.
“Like…is that a place?” he asks. “Or do you mean an actual cradle?”
“It’s a place,” I say. “A community? A, uh, cult? Mother? Milk? Mirabelle? Does any of that mean anything to you?”
They look at each other and shake their heads. I’m not surprised by that response. The Cradle might exist and they just don’t know about it. But I suspect there’s just nothing like it here. In a world where there’s already a natural imbalance between ‘bigs’ and ‘littles,’ there’s probably not a need for a community that embraces diapers and baby clothes.
“What about, uh…” But my voice trails off as I hear approaching footsteps. It’s Lenore, entering the room with a freshly changed Tinkles. She sets the girl down on the padded floor, scanning the rest of us with a skeptical eye.
“On your best behavior?” Lenore asks.
Wobble nods his head. Stinker says nothing at all.
Lenore’s glare shifts to me. She stares down at me, her eyes narrowed.
I nod too. “Yes, ma’am.”
Lenore scoffs. “Peggy’s right–you do talk too much. Careful with that mouth of yours, child, or you’ll be wearing that pacifier again.” As quickly as she stormed into the room, Lenore pivots and exits–her footsteps getting quieter as they recede.
“What’s the deal with these ladies?” I ask. “Can they just not hear us? Or are we, like, so beneath them that they can’t bother to acknowledge us?”
Tinkles tilts her head. “Have you…never met a big before?”
“Where are you from?” Wobble asks for a second time.
I sigh, still unsure if I should be lying or telling a story that there’s no way they’d ever believe.
“Look, I don’t know what happened to me,” I say–not a complete lie, “but I’m having trouble remembering, uh, everything right now. Maybe I hit my head or something when I ended up here.”
“Amnesia,” Tinkles gasps, holding her hands up to her mouth.
“We can help you remember things,” Wobble says. “What do you remember?”
“I’m from the east coast,” I say. “New Jersey.”
This seems to get everyone’s attention. They’re all staring at me. They look–I don’t know–in awe of me?
“So…” says Wobble. “When I asked if you liked cake or pie…?”
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” I respond. Nikki and I have a little joke we make sometimes about cake and pie. I don’t even remember where it came from, but once in a while, one of us will ask the other if we like cake or pie. And the other will say… “Donuts?”
Wobble laughs, laughing as he sighs with relief. “Yeah, exactly. See…I knew you knew!”
“Knew?” I ask. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“New Jersey,” Stinker says. “The Littles’ Rebellion?”
“It’s the code,” Tinkles says. “It’s how we know you support the rebellion.”
“You do remember the rebellion, right?” Wobble says.
I’m more confused than I’ve ever been. Rebellion? New Jersey? Donuts?
“Nikki?” I say aloud. I mean to say it more to myself than anyone else–I’m just thinking out loud as I try to make sense of all this.
“Yes, exactly,” Wobble says. “Nik’s Rebellion.”
I laugh, “Nick?”
“N-I-K,” he says, spelling it out. “The leader of the rebellion in New Jersey. Her and her littles have been fighting back against the bigs. The stories are spreading around the world–inspiring other littles to stand up for themselves.”
The odds seem slim, but I’d love for this to mean that Nikki–the Nikki that I know, love, and have lived with for a long time–is the face of a rebellious group of littles working to overthrow the ‘bigs’ of this world. Because that is the sort of thing she’d do in a situation like this, isn’t it? If anyone ever tried to make Nikki put a diaper on, she would fucking revolt.
And if that is ‘my’ Nikki, I wonder if that means there’s another version of me in this place. Am I in NJ too, as part of Nik’s Rebellion? Am I a big, poking fun at helpless littles in diapers?
No, of course not. I’m definitely a little. Wearing a diaper is probably my fate across all universes.
Perhaps this is my body in this world. Maybe I’m just temporarily using the body of this universe’s Alfie while I’m here? Strange that I’d be in California, I guess, but what the hell do I know?
And, now that I think about it, why do littles have to wear diapers and act like babies for the bigs? How did that culture come about? And do bigs rule the planet? Do littles have any representation at all? What does a community of littles look like, free of bigs? What identity do bigs have for themselves when they don’t have a little to torment?
Was there ever an Elvis here? Was he famous? Was he a big or a little? Are there little celebrities? Are there bigs who champion for littles’ rights?
But maybe any one of the littles in this room with me would have countless questions about the world that I live in, given the chance to travel there for themselves. Which is to say, that I’ll probably never know everything there is to know about this place.
“Are you part of the rebellion?” I ask.
“We support the rebellion,” Wobble says. “Quietly.”
“This is our home,” Stinker says. “This is all we have. We may not always like being the bigs’ playthings, but…”
“I understand,” I say. And maybe I don’t fully comprehend the full situation, I think I get the jist of it.
===
“Is he not the cutest little Smooshy who has ever smooshed before?” Peggy asks, her giant fingers squeezing my cheeks and shaking them. When she releases her grip, my cheek radiates a warm pain as I open my jaw a few times in an effort to stretch out my face’s skin again.
“You like this one, do you?” Lenore asks. She seems to be only half-paying attention to Peggy and I, her face aimed at the TV–one that’d likely be too big for any house in the world that I come from.
I’m seated on Peggy’s lap as she sits in an armchair near Lenore’s in what I presume is their upstairs living room. I’m wearing only my diaper, and I’m straddling Peggy’s legs as I face her chest. Her legs occasionally bob up and down, jostling my body around. She seems to find this pretty entertaining. Of course, the jostling is also doing a number on my digestive system–shaking my bowels so much that I can feel them suddenly begging for release. What the hell is even in my bowels right now?
“He’s adorable,” Peggy coos, sticking her face in mine and planting a sloppy kiss on my head with her big lips. Strings of saliva drip down my cheeks. “So precious. Do you know how hard it is to get a little this cute?”
“He belongs to someone, I’m sure,” Lenore says with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Or rather, he belonged to someone. He’s ours now.”
I feel another ominous rumble in my guts as Peggy’s thighs shake again. My face must signal the new panic I’m feeling, because I watch as Peggy’s eyes light up as she stares down at me.
“Uh oh. What’s that look for, little fella? Are you thinking you gotta use your diaper?”
Lenore sighs. “If he’s going to make a mess, could you at least take him somewhere else? I don’t want his stench to ruin my relaxing evening.”
“Oh, come on,” whines Peggy. “It won’t be that bad.”
“No thank you,” Lenore says. “You made me change Tinkles’s nasty little diaper earlier, and I’ve had just about enough of stinky bottoms for the day. This one is all yours. Get him out of here and then clean him up yourself.”
Peggy sighs, lifting me up and cradling me in her arms. “Come on, Smooshy. Let’s go take a walk outside.”
With her breasts smashed against my face, she carries me out of my room. I hear doors opening and closing, though I have no sense of where we’re going. It’s not until I feel a brisk wind rush past my skin that I realize we’re outside.
“There we go, Smooshy,” Peggy says. “Feel free to do your dirty little business whenever you’re ready. I promise I’ll take good care of you after you do.”
“Do I have to?” I ask.
She chuckles and shakes her head as her arms sway from side to side to rock me. “You silly little thing. Such a chatty fella.”
I swear, it’s like they can’t actually understand the words littles say. A little can understand them, but they just can’t comprehend any of the words that come out of our mouth.
I put the theory to the test, clearing my throat first and then saying, a little more loudly: “You’re ugly and your breath stinks.” I feel kind of guilty for even saying this–I don’t think I’ve ever called a woman ugly to her face before, and I don’t think I ever want to do it again. Still, surely this will get a rise out of her.
But she just laughs and shakes her head. “Maybe I ought to get that pacifier for you again, hm? You blabbering little baby.”
My test is inconclusive–I still can’t be certain if she’s just not paying attention to what I’m saying, or if the sound of my voice means nothing to her. But I do know that it’d probably be best to keep my mouth shut for a while, lest I want a paci-gag shoved into my mouth again.
She continues to rock my body back and forth in her arms at a slow and steady pace. And it’s…kind of nice. It’s easy to kind of lose myself in this moment, just closing my eyes and making peace with the gentle swaying and the warmth of her body.
It’s the one thing that was missing from The Cradle, I realize. There, they can treat you like a baby all day–and the milk certainly helps to make you feel like you’re that baby–but you never get the feeling that you are as small as you wish you were. No matter what you feel, you’re still in an adult-sized body.
That seems to matter less here. No, I’m not the proportional size of an infant here either, but I’m certainly smaller than my caretakers. I can be picked up, manhandled, and tossed around with ease. She can cradle me in her arms like I’m a small child, and…I needed that. More than I ever would’ve thought, apparently.
“That’s a good little Smooshy,” she coos at me. “Get nice and comfortable.”
I see now what babies like about this. Fuck everything else. Who cares about The Cradle. Who cares about littles and bigs? Who cares about Harriet? Just give me this forever. Let me be this diapered sack of bones forever and ever–just lying here in these big arms and getting endlessly swung back and forth.
There’s another little cramp in my abdomen, reminding me of the still-growing pressure in my bowels. There’s a small part of me that would still prefer to have this happen somewhere else, but there’s a much larger part of me that doesn’t care at all.
You’re a baby now. Completely. Just let it all out and let someone else deal with it. The sooner you empty yourself into this diaper, the sooner you can get back to focusing on completely shutting your mind off while in her arms.
I honestly can’t say whether or not I purposefully allow myself to mess my diaper, or if my body makes that decision for me. All I know is that I’m suddenly grunting and shifting a little in Peggy’s arms as she rocks me, and I feel the back of my diaper suddenly expanding as a new warm mass squeezes into my padding.
Peggy seems to sense what’s going on almost immediately. “Are you…” She laughs. “You are! You’re doing a big ol’ poopsy woopsy for me, aren’t you?”
I offer no response as I let out another pathetic whimper as I helplessly push another round into my diaper. Normally, doing this sort of thing in front of someone else would make me feel pretty humiliated, but I find myself not caring much about that at the moment. This just feels right–like it’s exactly what I’m supposed to be doing.
“Aww,” she coos, balancing me on one arm as her big fingers of the other press into my belly and rub it. “You should see that scrunchy little face you make while you’re doing your poopies for me! Lenore was stupid for not wanting to see this. You’re just the cutest little thing in the whole world!”
With a final little “Unh!” I force the last of my load out from myself. The swampy diaper feels so much better than it probably should–the way it sticks to my skin and mushes around as Peggy continues to rock me.
“And, oof,” she says, “a stinky little thing, huh? That was quite the load. Maybe I deserved that after what I left Lenore with earlier…”
My eyes are closed, and I’m already finding it easy to sink into this blissful state of nothingness. I am floating. I am a baby. I have no thoughts. No concerns. Nothing else matters.
I feel one of her hands on my diaper, though I can barely be bothered to see what arrangement her arms are in to make this possible. All I know is that I like the feeling of her large fingers poking and prodding at the dense padding as she feels the size of the big mess I made.
“Goodness,” she coos. “You’re gonna put me to work with that mess.”
I let out a little moan as her hand continues to grope my diaper. I’m not even aware of the fact that I’m becoming erect until I feel some of her fingers rubbing at the new lump on the front of my diaper.
“I knew I was going to like you the most,” I hear her say–though her voice sounds like it’s coming from somewhere far, far away from the blissful realm I’m currently inhabiting. “We’re going to have so much fun together.”
There’s this very small part of me that knows that this isn’t right and that I don’t belong here. But there’s another, louder, part of myself that proclaims: I don’t care! This is how it’s going to be now. I’m baby.
“The other littles don’t like it when I play with them like this,” she says softly. “But you don’t seem to mind at all, do you? You seem to love it.”
I moan again, lost in this abyss of being rocked, getting rubbed, my thoughts dissipating, and the air around us starting to stink like my diaper. Those big fingers are doing some very good things to me right now, and I feel my head rolling back as streams of drool leak out from the corner of my mouth. My restrained hands helplessly reach up and bat at her chest
“Go on,” Peggy coos. “Show me what a good little you are. Show me how much you like your filthy little messes.”
There’s that old familiar feeling: a numbness that washes over me as I realize I’m on the verge of cumming into my diaper.
And I realize, a few moments too late, that once I cum, I probably won’t be here anymore. I won’t have the chance to talk to the other littles again. I won’t have the chance to learn anything else about this crazy place.
I know that I need to go, but I wasn’t ready for that yet.
“W-wait…” I say.
But I’m already cumming.
Forty-Nine: Post-Apocalyptic Consent
I realize a few things as I slowly come to and open my eyes. For one, I’m sitting on a chair. But I can’t move my arms or legs. I slowly tilt my head down to see why that is, and find the answer pretty quickly. My legs are bound with rope, and it seems another rope wrapped around my abdomen is what is keeping my arms bound behind the back of the chair.
The walls on either side of me are dirty and a little ramshackle in their construction. Cinder blocks and cement, I guess–though I’ve never claimed to be any sort of expert on building materials. It’s the wall in front of me that concerns me more–metal bars that run from the ceiling to the floor. They’re painted black, but that paint has chipped in places and I spot rust and corrosion in the bars. There’s a door on the right side of the bars, which I imagine is locked from the other side.
I’m tied up?
In…jail?
Well, this is definitely worse than being rocked in a giant woman’s arms while I mess my diaper. How do I go back to that? And for that matter, how do I get back to Harriet?
How do I get back to The Cradle, and home? Is such a thing even possible now?
I don’t see anyone else here in this place with me, though I can’t see behind myself.
“Hello?” I say. Miraculously, my mouth hasn’t been gagged or otherwise restricted.
There’s no response.
I slowly look up at the flickering fluorescent lights, recessed in the cement ceiling and giving off a buzzing sound. Beyond the bars, I see a long hallway, and possibly some other cells on either side of it, but that’s about all I can make out.
“Hello?” I say again. “Anyone?”
Again, there’s no answer. No sound at all, really, save for the consistent buzzing sound of the lights.
Well fuck. I’d like to call a mulligan, I think. If I had access to my hands, I’d jerk myself off right here, right now, and just let fate take me to the next universe–hopefully one where I’m not just automatically in jail for some reason.
“Hellooooo. Anyone? Look, I don’t know what’s going on here, but I can assure you that I’m probably not someone you need to have in jail.”
Or am I? If my mind is inhabiting the body of the version of me who lives in this world, perhaps there’s a good reason I’m bound and in a cell of some sort.
Also, I’m suddenly realizing that I’m naked again. This makes the tight, bristly ropes against my bare skin feel very uncomfortable. Why is it that I can’t wake up in a world where I have some dignity?
At the very least, I don’t see any diapers lying around. Of course, given my luck, I’m probably in, like, Baby Jail, and I’m awaiting trial to be sentenced to a lifetime of suckling from bottles, pissing myself, and crawling around on all fours.
No, it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, I suppose. But I could do without the pre-trial bondage.
From somewhere else, I hear a new sound entering the fray–a gentle clip-clap. Footsteps, I think, echoing across the hard ground. They slowly get louder, and I realize that they’re heading towards me. I swallow hard, nervous to see who or what I’m going to have to deal with now. Clip-clap. Clip-clap. Clip-clap.
A figure turns a corner at the end of the hallway I’m facing and they’re walking straight towards me now. And, well, of all the people I could’ve imagined walking towards me, I don’t think I would’ve ever imagined what I’m seeing now.
She’s a cheerleader. An honest-to-god blue-and-white-skirt-and-top, hair-in-pigtails-with-big-bows, thigh-high-socks-with-pristine-white-shoes cheerleader. Her tan skin and buoyant, curly brown hair couldn’t look more at odds with the shabbyness of this prison.
“Have a nice little nap?” she asks as she reaches the other side of the bars of the cell that I’m kept inside of.
“Uh…” How do I even respond to that question, let alone any of this?
“Sorry if the ropes are a little tight,” she says. “Marci gets a little carried away when she’s on rope duty.”
“Uh, do I have to be tied up? I mean…I’m already in a cell, aren’t I?”
“Better safe than sorry,” the cheerleader responds. “We’ve made mistakes before, and we don’t intend to make them again.”
“We?” I ask.
She proudly points to the stylized word in large letters that adorns the front of her cheerleading uniform top: THE BRATS. “Don’t you know that you’re in Brats territory?”
I’d shrug if I could. “I don’t know what that means.”
She laughs loudly, kicking her head back as she does. “Bullshit. Everybody knows who we are and that we run this area. What’s your name? Who are you with?”
“Alfie,” I say. “And, I…really don’t know how to answer that other question…”
“See, Betsy didn’t think you needed to be tied up,” the cheerleader says. “She thought you’d be harmless and we didn’t need to take any precautions. I’m happy I stuck to my guns, though, because you’re trouble.”
“I’m really not.”
“You’re a liar,” she spits, a fierce finger poking through the bars towards me. “Tell me what faction you’re in.”
“I’m not really from around here,” I say. “So, uh, seriously–I don’t know what you mean when you talk about factions.”
“Where are you from then, huh? Because last I heard, there weren’t any territories left that weren’t under faction control.”
“Uhm…New Jersey?” I say, hoping that that means something to her.
She narrows her eyes at me. “Is that some sort of fucking joke?”
“I’ve been accused of terrible timing with jokes in the past,” I say. “And I can sense this would be a bad time to be making one. So, uh, I’m not trying to joke around, no.”
“You want to be a smartass, huh?” she asks, rearing back with her hands on her hips now. “Cool. Fine by me. We’ll see if you think you’re still funny when I bring Chloe down here to talk to you.”
Is that supposed to sound threatening? There’s nothing especially terrifying about the name ‘Chloe.’ Still, there was some extra emphasis put on the name–even if I don’t think of Chloe as a threat, someone else certainly does.
“I’m more than happy to explain myself to anyone you bring here,” I say. “I’m not a threat, I promise. I’m just a guy who’s in the wrong place at, apparently, the wrong time.”
She scoffs and shakes her head. “Yeah, we’ll have to see what Chloe thinks about this. See you later, loser.”
And with that, the cheerleader pivots and begins walking away from me, back down the hallway again. Clip-clap. Clip-clap. I notice two things as this happens, however. The first is that I see the name ‘Skylar’ is printed across the back of the cheerleader’s top–presumably her name.
The second is that I see the back of her skirt is rising up a little–just enough to reveal what she’s wearing underneath it. And wouldn’t you fucking know it?
It’s a goddamn puffy, white disposable diaper.
===
Chloe doesn’t look any more threatening than her name sounds. She’s short, thin, and looks like a stiff wind could carry her across a few counties. She is also dressed like a cheerleader, in a uniform similar to Skyar’s, which doesn’t exactly instill terror in me. But credit where credit is due, she’s got a mean look on her face, and her scowl concerns me.
Skylar opens the cell door from the other side and lets Chloe in. All I can think about is whether or not Chloe, too, is wearing a diaper. There might be a slight bulge in her skirt, but I could also be completely wrong about that.
“I hear you’re being difficult,” Chloe says. Even her voice is soft and flowery.
“I-I’m really not trying to be,” I say. “I’m trying to explain that…”
Slap!
Quicker than anything, her open hand flashes between us, smacking me alongside the face. It stings like hell. I can’t remember the last time someone slapped me like this. Julie Ross, maybe, back when we broke up? But even then, I don’t think Julie meant to hurt me so much as just shame me. Chloe wants to cause pain–and I can’t help but imagine a pink hand-shaped mark on the side of my face now.
“What faction do you belong to?” Chloe asks, in the same tenor one might use to ask about what was for dinner. Seeing now what violence she was capable of, that tone seemed a little terrifying.
“I’m not part of a faction,” I say. “I’m not from around here.”
Slap!
That really smarts.
“He told me he was from New Jersey,” Skylar says.
“Heh,” laughs Chloe to herself. She asks me: “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“You do know what New Jersey is, right?” I say.
She scoffs. “I know what New Jersey used to be.”
I tilt my head a little. “What do you mean? It’s still there…right?”
Now Chloe narrows her eyes at me and just stares at me for a few moments. “Is this some sort of bit?”
I think about the excuse that seemed to work pretty well while I was in Lenore and Peggy’s basement, and wonder if it might win me a little of Chloe’s patience here: “Uh…I think I’ve got some sort of…amnesia.”
Chloe looks back at Skylar: “You said you found him like this? Naked?”
Skylar nods. “Marci, myself, and Tiffany did, uh huh.”
Chloe asks: “And he wasn’t even wearing a diaper?”
I sigh a little, feeling like I already see what’s coming. It really is my destiny, across all universes, to end up in diapers.
Skylar shakes her head. “No. He was unconscious. Face down in a field. We thought he might be a School Boy, so we tied him up down here.”
“I don’t think he’s a School Boy,” Chloe says, turning back to me. She runs the back of her hand over my bare shoulder. “No gold stars.”
School Boy? Gold stars? Brats? No New Jersey?
“Well he’s definitely not a Stinky,” Skylar says. “Too clean for that. Mothered?”
“Maybe,” Chloe says. “But this far south? They’d never travel so far away from their precious robots.”
“R-robots?” I say.
Chloe laughs again, squinting at me. “You really don’t know about that?”
I shake my head.
“Big Girls? The Mothered? The Paci Gang?”
“I can assure you that I don’t know what any of that means,” I say.
Skylar says: “What about The Blow Out?”
“Is that a…faction?” I ask.
Chloe sighs, looking sympathetic towards me now. “Go ahead and untie him, Sky. But we’ll keep him in the cell for now. Stay here with him, and I’ll send Brittany and Marci down here with some diapers and clothes for him.”
I don’t really want to interject–the last thing I want to do is squander the little bit of goodwill I seem to have now–but I add: “M-maybe something to eat? And drink?”
Chloe nods. “I’ll see what I can do.”
===
Skylar works on the knots that keep me bound to the chair until I finally feel the tension surrounding me release. I can move my limbs again.
“Is that better?” Skylar asks me.
“Much,” I say, slowly standing up. Now that I can move around, I turn around to see what the rest of my space looks like. There’s a barred window mounted high on the wall. A barebones cot in the corner. A small wooden writing desk.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” she says.
“Like?”
“Like trying to escape. I promise you that you can’t run faster than me. And you’re definitely not stronger than me.”
“I don’t doubt that,” I say, shaking my head.
It’s only now that I remember that I’m completely naked; as I look down to see my soft manhood dangling between my legs. Instinctively, my hands rush down to cover myself up as I feel my cheeks redden.
Skylar laughs. “I wouldn’t mind seeing some more of that. I don’t get to see too many of those.”
“I think I’ll just, uh, keep that to myself right now,” I say, sitting back down in the chair. It seems a little easier to conceal myself in this position.
“You really don’t remember anything?” she asks.
“Uh, no. Whatever is going on here, it’s all new to me.”
She laughs. “What’s the last thing you remember? Maybe I can catch you up.”
I have no idea how to answer that. I get the feeling that there’s a point in which this universe wildly diverged from the one that I’m from, and I don’t know when in the timeline that might have happened.
I just have to laugh. These are some wild concepts that I’m allowing myself to so readily embrace. Someone else, faced with the same circumstances, might go insane from trying to wrap their head around this. Perhaps it’s the milk that’s opened my mind. Or, maybe, it’s all those years of reading comic books–where things like this happen all the time. And Nikki wanted to make fun of my comic reading.
“Something funny?” Skylar asks.
I shrug. “I…I don’t even know where to begin.”
“You know about The Blow Out, right?”
“Was that, like, a movie or something?” I ask.
She shakes her head, sighing a little. “You really don’t know, do you?”
“Nope.”
“Folks call it ‘The Blow Out,’” she says. “Nobody–at least nobody that I’ve ever talked to before–knows who or what caused it. But something happened a few years ago and it caused everybody on Earth to, uh…” Her voice trails off and her cheeks redden a little.
“Hm?”
“Sorry. I should be used to it by now, but I guess it’s still kind of embarrassing. So, uh, this thing happened, right? And it made everyone…incontinent. Like, every single person in the world.”
“Incontinent?” I ask, leaning forward a little.
“Like, you know, we can’t control it when we have to piss or…”
“N-no, I know what it means,” I say. “But that happened to everyone?”
She laughs, shaking her head again. “I can’t believe none of this rings a bell to you.”
“Like I said, I don’t really remember anything.”
“Right, well,” she continues. “Everything fell apart after that. Maybe it was because of the incontinence itself, or maybe that was just the last straw in a world that was already pushed to the breaking point. Uh, that’s what Emily says, at least. But people went crazy. Governments crumbled. A lot of the country’s population consolidated in the midwest to form new colonies. But the coastal regions are still mostly held by factions.”
“Like…The Brats?” I ask, looking at her cheerleading uniform.
She smiles and nods. “That’s right!”
This is even more comic-booky than I initially thought.
“Does, uh, ‘The Cradle’ mean anything to you?” I ask.
“Like, the place?”
My eyes open wide and my heart rate quickens. “You know of it?”
She shrugs. “I guess. It’s kind of an urban legend around here. You know about that but you don’t know about The Blow Out?”
“I, uh, it’s just a faint memory,” I say, shrugging my shoulders. “But what do you know about it?”
“It’s where we are now,” Skylar says, shrugging. “Or, well, it used to be called that, I guess. A long time ago. Some creepy cult used to live here or something. Some of the girls used to tell this story about how the leader of the cult turned all of her followers into, like, babies and that she was the one responsible for The Blow Out. But people make up all kinds of shit, you know? Stupid stories like that were just made to scare everyone else.”
It’s a lot to process at once. For one, I suppose it continues to confirm that when I cum my way from one universe to another–as insane as that sounds–I’m arriving in the corresponding location of where I was before. Perhaps that’s a good thing to keep in mind.
But…this isn’t The Cradle that I know. This is a jail cell, and it’s not the only one in this building. At what point did The Cradle ever need a prison? When did they start locking up people? And why?
I need to remind myself not to get too caught up in details like these, though. This isn’t my world. This isn’t my Cradle.
Still, maybe there’s some warnings to take heed of. While Skylar seems dismissive of the story about a cult leader who turns followers into babies, all stories have to start from somewhere. It’d be quite the coincidence if someone just fabricated a story about a cult leader babifying her followers here, in a place called The Cradle. It makes me wonder–is the inevitable path of Mother in any world she inhabits? That, given enough time, she’ll eventually render the entire world incontinent?
Why? And to what ends? And…
“You still with me?” Skylar asks, waving a hand in front of my face. I’m realizing that I spaced out for a moment.
“Oh, uh…yeah,” I say.
“You’re kinda weird,” Skylar says.
“I’m sure I’m even weirder than you think I am.”
===
Two new cheerleaders walk down the hallway towards the cell where I’m still sitting, and where Skylar leans against the wall.
“Hey,” says the first. She’s got short, dark hair, freckles, and big doe eyes. She’s got a small stack of folded, plump, disposable diapers and what might be a package of wipes in her hands. “I didn’t bring any clothes. All we have are, uh, uniforms, and I didn’t think he’d want that.”
She’s probably right.
“Yo,” Skylar replies to acknowledge her, stepping forward and pushing the cell’s door open from the inside. Apparently the door isn’t locked? Had I known this, I wonder if I would’ve made an attempt at escaping.
The other cheerleader–with a more olive complexion, big gaudy glasses, and big auburn hoops of hair–carries a tray of food past me and places it on the desk.
I haven’t yet considered the age of these girls, but it’s something I’m thinking about now. Definitely not of high school age. College-age, maybe. Maybe a little older? They still have a youthful glow to them, but there’s a dash of maturity in those eyes as well. Of course, who the hell knows what toll doomsday takes on a body. They could be 18, or they could be 40, for all I know.
Even if I was fully clothed and in a more ‘normal’ situation, by my standards, I still think I’d have a hard time handling myself around a group of attractive women like this–let alone women in cheerleading outfits. There’s something about the cheerleader–a symbol of a popularity class that I could only ever dream of being a part of in high school–that makes me feel self-conscious and more timid. It helps, a little, to know that they’re all wearing diapers–but that doesn’t mean much when I have a feeling that they’ll be putting me in a diaper too, soon enough.
“No food until you’re wearing a diaper,” the girl who carried in the food says. The back of her uniform reads ‘Brittany.’ Which, I think, makes the other Marci?
If this, in fact, the post-apocalyptic world after Mother has had her way with humanity, I have to say that I’m impressed with their uniforms–they’re clean, perfectly sized, and the customized details of the cheerleaders name and the ‘The Brats’ logo is pretty well executed. I can’t help but wonder who handles that sort of thing after the fall of civilization as we know it.
Oh, the things I think about at the end of the world.
“Yeah, sure,” I say. I’m not going to fight these women over a diaper. I’m coming to expect that this is just the way it is in all universes.
“Over here,” Skylar says, waving me towards the bed with her hand. “I can take care of that.”
I’m assuming they’re putting me in a diaper because they assume I need one, like apparently everyone else who lives on the planet. But I’m not completely sure why they have to be the ones to put it on me. Can’t I just do it myself? Is this typical protocol for a prisoner, or whatever it is that I’m considered to be?
“Oh, uh…” I look around at the girls’ smirking faces as they watch me. “Maybe you could all just…look away for a second while I get up?”
The girls all snickered and giggled amongst each other.
Marci says: “I don’t see the point in being modest about it. We’re gonna see it all when Skylar puts the diaper on you anyway.”
“I never seen a dick before,” Brittany says, blushing a little. “I mean, like, in person.”
“You’re not missing much,” Skylar says. “Overrated.”
“You would think that,” Marci says with a wry grin on her face. “We know what you and Betsy do in your cabin at night.”
I don’t get much time to imagine what that might mean, though, as Brittany and Marci are on either side of me, each taking one of my arms and pulling. They manage to not only pull my hands away from my crotch, but they pull my body up from the chair and into a standing position. Once more, my manhood flops down, dangling in front of me pathetically.
“There you go,” Marci says, pointing at my crotch. “That’s a dick.”
“That’s it?” Brittany asks, her nose wrinkling a little in disappointment.
“H-hey,” I say, my face feeling pretty warm all of a sudden. “I’m a, uh, grower–not a shower.”
Marci giggles as she pulls me closer to the bed. “Sure, buddy. Whatever you say.”
“We caught that guy from the Paci Gang trying to steal our supplies, remember that?” Skylar says. “He, uhm…” She doesn’t finish that thought, but holds her hands out in front of her, putting a good twelve inches between her hands. The other girls giggle and act astonished. Personally, I’m not buying that anyone’s shlong is that big–unless this universe just so happens to also have very well-endowed men in addition to being a post-apocalyptic diapered hellscape.
Brittany gives me a little shove towards the bed, and I’m caught by Skylar, who then helps ease me onto my back. The cot doesn’t have any sheets or blankets on it, it’s just a thin mattress pad atop the wires and springs of the cot.
There are hands all over me. I can’t keep track of whose hands are where. Hands hold down my shoulders. Hands spread my legs open. Hands unfurl a diaper and spread it out between my thighs. I look up briefly, and the sight of their three pretty faces peering down on me is like some sort of hot dream my teenage-self would’ve had ten years ago.
“I wanna touch it,” Brittany says.
“You can’t just go touching whatever you want,” Skylar says. “You should ask first.”
It’s nice to know, I guess, that consent is still important in the post-apocalypse.
“Excuse me, stranger,” Brittany says to me. “What do you think? Can I touch your, uh, dongle?”
My dongle?
I clear my throat, unsure of what to say to that. “Uh, well… I mean, I guess…”
Brittany wastes no time, her hand darting between my legs and grasping at my manhood. I don’t want this to be sexy or arousing–I’m embarrassed and out of my element enough as it is. Still, my body betrays what I want and I feel myself starting to grow elect as her soft, slender fingers shake my cock to life.
“Ooh,” Marci coos. “Would you look at this? Somebody is happy to get some attention, hm?”
“You know,” Skylar says. “Maybe he was right. It’s already a little bigger than I expected it to be.”
My sense of self-worth thanks her, a little, for that.
“It’s…not like I was expecting it to be,” Brittany says.
Marci giggles. “Really? Like…what were you expecting it to be like?”
“I don’t know,” Brittany replies with a shrug. “Maybe it’d feel…scaly?”
The other girls laugh at this. Hell, I’d laugh too if I wasn’t paralyzed with humiliation from being held down and fondled by them.
I wonder if this is actually a blessing in disguise. Maybe, if they play around with my cock a little longer, they’ll manage to get me off and–bam!–I’m whisked away to the next world where, for whatever reason, I’m made to wear a diaper.
“So…this is what you do with it, huh?” Brittany asks, her fingers wrapping around my shaft and giving it a little tugging motion.
Hoo boy.
Skylar bats her hand away, wrapping her own hand around my cock now. “I mean, sure, that’d probably work. But this is how I used to do it.” Hand cupped around me, she strokes upwards, almost clearing the shaft completely before using her palm to rub at the head before letting her hand slide back down the shaft. “You have to be, like, real flexible with your wrist.”
Marci scoffs. “See, I wasn’t giving boys handjobs. They can do that themselves. There’s other places I’d want to stick that thing.”
“Slut-ty,” says Skylar with a giggle.
“Are you gonna show us what you mean by that?” Brittany says.
“What, you think I’m going to put this stranger’s dick in my mouth?” Marci scoffs.
“Alright, alright,” Skylar says. “Let’s not get our captive too excited. I gotta put this diaper on him and he still needs to eat.”
“Will that diaper even fit right while he’s all hard like that?” Brittany asks.
“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” Sklyar says, shrugging.
I’m surprised with how disappointed I am that they’re not going to finish what they started. Not only am I not getting the chance to blow this joint and travel somewhere else, but now I’m just erect and worked up.
There’s a matter-of-factness about the application of the diaper. There’s nothing ‘fun’ or ‘naughty’ about it. Even at The Cradle, where diapers are changed hundreds of times a day, there’s still a feeling of it being this special thing. But here, it’s just business as usual. There’s nothing special about a diaper change when everyone, with apparently no exceptions, needs them. As Skylar finishes wrapping the diaper around me, the other girls have already loosened their grip on me and are talking amongst themselves.
Up until now, I haven’t taken much note of the smell in whatever kind of cell this is supposed to be–I guess there’s a faint and inoffensive trace of dampness, but nothing beyond that. There’s a new smell filling my nostrils now, however. It’s the undeniable odor of a soiled diaper.
And I’m not the only one to smell it. I watch as Skylar wrinkles her nose, giving me a skeptical look. “You couldn’t possibly have already…”
“It wasn’t me,” I say softly.
“Was that you, Britt?” Marci asks.
Brittany sighs. “Yeah…” She doesn’t look embarrassed as much as she looks inconvenienced. Like her flip flop broke, or she spilled mustard on her pants.
“Phew,” Skylar says, waving her nose in front of her face. “Marci, why don’t you go give her a hand with that. I’ll finish up Mr. Stiffy here and make sure he eats. Just make sure someone comes down later to take over guard duty, yeah?”
“Yeah, sounds good,” Marci says, shrugging. “C’mon, stinky.”
“Shut up,” Brittany responds, playfully pushing the other girl. “You’re one to talk. We all got a whiff of what you cooked up this morning during breakfast.”
The two continue to poke fun at each other as they leave the cell and walk down the hallway, leaving me alone with Skylar again.
“There you go,” she says, pulling the last tab into place on the front of the padding. “I’m surprised you didn’t piss all over the chair while you were tied up.”
“Yeah, me too,” I say.
“You hungry?” she asks.
I nod.
“Well, have at it. There’s some food on the desk there for you. Water too.”
“Thanks,” I say, sitting up in the cot before swinging my legs off the side of it.
I see that the cell door has been left slightly ajar. Nobody has been walking around with keys. Maybe that door just doesn’t lock, and that’s why I’ve either needed to be tied up or guarded.
A shame, because if I was left to my own devices, I’d have a hand crammed down the front of my bulging padding as I worked on traversing the, uh, diaperverse again. It doesn’t feel especially appropriate to do that while Skylar sits in here with me. It doesn’t help that I feel a little edged at the moment–my cock still at attention as I waddle towards the tray of food.
What would Skylar do if she saw me groping my diaper? Stop me? Yell at me? Join in? I don’t think I’m bold enough to find out.
The food on the tray is nothing to behold. A chunk of bread. Some sort of orange broth with unknown chunks floating in it. An apple.
I haven’t seen very much of this world…but I don’t think I want to be in it any longer than I have to. There was a lesson to learn here–that if left unchecked, this is what Mother is capable of–and now that knowledge is stowed away.
You know what? I find myself caring a little less about how bold I usually are or aren’t. I gotta get out of here.
With my back still turned to her, I slide my hand down the front of my diaper and grasp my shaft. And I slide my hand down. Up. Down. Up. This is either the stupidest or smartest decision I’ve ever made.
“Hey…” I hear Skylar say behind me, some curious skepticism in her tone. “Wh-what are you doing?”
“Uh…nothing.”
Up. Down. Up. Down. I don’t know if it’s because I’m still just that worked up from the cheerleaders putting their hands all over me, or if the thrill of needing to get myself off while Skylar remains in the room is working for me.
“Y-you’re…touching yourself,” she says.
“Uhm…”
“Stop that!”
“Just, uh…one second…”
Given how strange the last few months have been, I think calling something ‘crazy’ has lost all meaning. Still, this feels crazy. Among the craziest things I’ve ever done. It’s wrong. It’s kinda gross.
But if this works, then I’m out of here and it doesn’t even matter. And if it doesn’t work…I’m already in jail anyway, right?
I hear Skylar behind me, shuffling towards me–her own diaper crinkling under her skirt.
I rub myself even harder and faster, praying that I can somehow summon an orgasm before it’s too late.
***
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If you need to catch up with the story so far, here's a link to the Table of Contents.
Act V: Beyond the Milk
[Note from QH: And now, we return the story to Alfie’s POV...]
Forty-Six: The Creation of Pants
It’s an amazing sleep. One of those sleeps you just don’t get very often as an adult. The kind where it feels like you’re asleep forever, and wake up feeling well rested and completely content, only to have this sudden panic that it’s noon, and you probably should’ve gotten up hours ago for work, or school, or whatever. But then you realize that it’s a Saturday morning and so you can instantaneously relinquish all of that stress, burrow yourself deep under the blankets again, and completely zone out.
“I don’t really sleep,” a voice says to me. It seems as if it may be in the distance, though I suspect it’s much closer. Too, it’s a familiar voice, though I can’t quite place it yet. “I mean, there are times when I just need to, I dunno, veg out a little? It’s more like meditation, I guess. And it’s funny, because I’ve never meditated before in my life. But when you have all the time in the world, you can kind of figure out those things, you know?”
“What?” I ask.
I open my eyes for a moment, but the light blinds me and I quickly close them again. It might not even be that bright–I suspect any amount of light would’ve done that to me.
“Sorry, I’m rambling,” the voice says. It’s a feminine tone. Friendly sounding.
Freya, maybe? Marta? The voice doesn’t exactly sound like either of theirs, but my senses still feel like they’re booting up again.
“How long was I out?” I ask.
“Uhm…”
“Probably a while, huh? Went through a few packs of diapers on me? Go ahead and get it out of your system–tease me about being such a big baby.”
“Wh-where do you think you are right now?” the voice asks.
I open my eyes again, though I can only manage to keep them open by squinting. It’s not that it’s bright, per se, it’s that everything is…white.
Oh, come on.
I sigh. “Harriet?”
She laughs. “Hello, Alfie. It looks like you’re finally coming around?”
“How long have I been here?”
“I’m not sure,” she says. “There’s not really ‘time’ here. So, I guess…a while? You just sort of appeared, as you usually do. Though you’ve never shown up unconscious before.”
I can open my eyes a little wider and see that I’m in that damn white place again. That weird ethereal nowhere that I always seem to drift to after having an orgasm while deep under the effects of the milk.
Did…I cum? It’s such a ridiculous question to have to ask, but that’s the only way I’ve ever gotten to this place previously.
I try to remember where I was before waking up, but those memories seem distant and hazy. I search the mental archives for the most recent memories I have.
The clown girl. The stolen milk. Driving the truck back to The Cradle and feeling simultaneously frightened and empowered.
I was at Daycare. I remember that now. I suppose it’s not that hard to believe that there’d be an experience at the Daycare that would send me here again.
But…
“You said I’ve been here a while?” I ask.
Harriet nods. “Yes. It surprised me too. I kept waiting for you to, uhm, disappear again. But you’re still here.”
I don’t know what that means, but it seems disconcerting. I slowly rise to my feet, stretching my limbs as far as I can.
“Is this what it was like when you first came here?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” she says. “Maybe.”
As my eyes begin to focus more, it’s hard to look at her and not see Mother. They look the same. Something tells me that they are the same–though, again, I don’t know what that means.
There are minor differences, I think. Subtle things like body language. Mother’s posture seems much more perfect. There’s a reverence about her–she carries herself like she knows she’s the most powerful woman on the planet. But this Harriet just seems so…normal. Everyday. Her shoulders are a little slumped. There’s no confident smile on her face. She looks tired and weary.
The same body, but with a different soul, if such a thing were possible.
Mother. I remember now–I had seen Mother. We were talking. I had things I wanted to say to her. I might have even said the name Harriet to her. What else had I said?
Mother had asked me something: “Do you like being a baby, Alfie?”
I don’t know how I responded, but I doubted that I said “Nah.”
Neither of us say anything for a while. I stare down at my feet, noting how I don’t seem to be standing on anything at all. It gives the illusion that I’m falling, or at least floating, but because it feels like I’m standing on something the experience doesn’t seem to be as nauseating as I’m sure that it could be.
I don’t really feel any sort of physical ailment at all. No headaches. No abdominal discomfort. Mentally? Well, sure, I’m a mess. Anxiety and confusion course through me.
Ah shit. I realize I’m naked. Harriet isn’t, she’s wearing a simple dark-colored robe of some sort. It’s not the most flattering thing, but it keeps her bits covered up. My instinct is to try and hide my shame, but…what’s the point? For all I know, this is just a dream.
Still, I’m curious. “How come you have clothes and I don’t?”
She laughs. “You can have anything you want, here. It took me some time to realize that, of course.”
I sigh, a little frustrated with that answer. “You realize I don’t know what you mean by that, right?”
“If you think of something hard enough–if you think of something in just the right way–you can…create it. Summon it? I’m not entirely sure. It’s hard to explain, and it took me a long time to figure out that I could do it. I didn’t have anyone here to tell me that I could do that, like you do now. Remember that one time you were here, and there was grass and trees and sky and…”
“Yeah,” I say. “Where is all of that now?”
“That’s the hard part,” she shrugs. “You can create anything you want here. But you have to keep your mind on it for it to stay here. If your thoughts stray, it ceases to remain. It gets even harder when you want to do multiple things at once. Like, say, creating a grassy field while talking to someone–I have to be able to maintain focus on the earth beneath our feet while maintaining a conversation.”
“I’ve never been that good at rubbing my belly and patting my head,” I say.
“Right. Well…I’ve had time to practice. The meditation helps. Also, sometimes, it’s easier to just…not need things. It’s boring around here when it’s just white like this, but it also frees up so much of my mind.”
Perhaps that explains the simple clothes she’s wearing–it’s just less taxing on her psyche.
Less taxing on her psyche. What kind of goofy comic book am I in right now?
“Aren’t you lonely?” I ask. “Why don’t you just, you know, think of some people to interact with?”
“It doesn’t work with people,” she says. “I’ve tried. It has to be things. Places. Ideas, even. Like, for example, imagining a beach at sunset.”
And with that, I find that my feet are suddenly half-buried in warm sand. I look to my left and to my right, finding that the beach extends in both directions as far as I can see. The sun is in my eyes. I use my hand to shield my face, and see–and hear–the waves of the vast, flat ocean lapping at the shore. It’s not quite perfect–the lack of clouds, seagulls, and other people do cause it to feel a little artificial–but it’s no less amazing because of it. The sun feels warm on my skin. It feels good.
“Can I do this?” I ask.
“Dunno,” she says.
“What about buildings?”
“Look behind you.”
I do, seeing a row of buildings perched on the beach’s edge. They’re all mostly similar to each other, with some subtle differences in, perhaps, color and the number of windows they have. It’s impressive nonetheless.
“Can you go into them?” I ask.
“It’s tricky,” she says, “but not impossible.”
“But no people,” I say, talking more to myself than to her. “Sounds…lonely.”
“A little.”
I turn around, and I watch her sigh with relief as the houses vanish and a little extra space in her mind is returned to her.
“What about doors?” I ask.
“Doors?”
“Can you make a door that leads you out of this place?”
She laughs. “Do you think I’d be here if I could do that?”
I sigh. There’s a part of me that still thinks that, at any moment, the ‘world’ around me is just going to fade away and I’m going to find myself back in a crib at Daycare again. But lots of moments have passed, and I’m still here. This isn’t like the other times.
===
Mother said to me: “Do you like being a baby, Alfie?”
I cooed: “Mm.” Because, yeah, I really have enjoyed my time at The Cradle and all that it entailed. Even the diapers. Sometimes, especially the diapers.
And I now remember what she said then: “I sure hope so. Because after this, that’s all you’ll ever be.”
And, well, that certainly implies some permanence, doesn’t it? Maybe not the permanence I would’ve expected, but I think I’d be a fool if that didn’t relate to my current predicament.
A fool. That’s exactly what I’ve been. I see magic–actual magic, as best as I can tell–and I allowed it to feel normal. There she was, a woman who can make enough breastmilk to feed a community. A woman who can make breast milk that reduces people to slobbering, pants-filling babies. And I don’t think I, or anyone else, ever stopped to say: “What else can she do?”
Everyone at The Cradle is a fool, playing with things they don’t actually understand.
Look at me. I got careless. And now I’m…I don’t know. Blinked off the face of the Earth? Stranded in nothingness?
===
Harriet isn’t too far away from me, but she’s given me some space. I didn’t ask for this, but I respect her knowing that I needed it.
Maybe she needs it too.
With every moment that passes by, it seems less likely that I’m going to just blink away and reappear somewhere else. This is how things are now. For how long, I couldn’t say. Harriet, too, would probably like to know how long we’re going to be here.
I have questions for her. She has questions for me. Eventually, we’ll get around to asking them. But what’s the rush?
Actually, maybe I’ve got to get a few questions out of my system: “Do you ever get tired?”
“No,” she says.
“Do you sleep?”
“Not really. I don’t get hungry. I don’t get thirsty. I don’t have to go to the bathroom. These aren’t, like, physical bodies. They seem like they are. But…I don’t know.” She shrugs, a frustrated glare on her face. “They’re just not.”
I’ve been standing since I first stood up–when I first found myself in this place. I’m not tired. I’m bored, but not tired.
I’m still naked. Maybe that’s part of the reason she’s looking away from me. My flaccid manhood dangles in front of me helplessly. There was a time, what feels like ages ago now, when this would absolutely destroy me with humiliation. It’s still unpleasant, for sure, but maybe the time spent in The Cradle has helped. All the people who’ve seen my dong during a diaper change. All the people who’ve just seen me in a diaper. All the people who’ve seen, or smelled, me use a diaper.
After a while, it gets a little difficult to feel as ashamed as I used to.
Harriet can conjure things with her mind. She’s made herself clothes. Can I do that?
I think about pants. That doesn’t seem to do anything, though–except make me feel strange for thinking about pants so intently. Harriet had said that I need to think about things I want to ‘conjure’ in a very specific way. But if she doesn’t even know what that means, how the hell am I supposed to know?
I think about pants…differently. I imagine myself wearing pants. I imagine pants forming around my legs, like a second skin that slowly weave their way into existence. For a moment, I feel something–the slightest rush of air against my bare legs–but no pants are created.
Maybe I should just ask Harriet to create pants for me.
No, no–she figured this out for herself, and I can do the same thing. There was probably a time when she was here, all by herself, and she was naked for god-knows how long and she had to slowly learn how this place works. I’m already at an advantage here in that I have her to guide me.
For now, I’ll just be naked, I guess.
“If you were to guess,” I say, “how long do you think it’s been since I came here?”
She shrugs. “I…I have no concept of time anymore. A day? Two days?”
“But not, like, a month?”
“No, I don’t think so,” she says. “But who actually knows?”
“Do you think time here correlates to time…in the, uh, real world?” I ask. It’s such a weird question, but that’s just the way it’s going to be in ‘here’ for the foreseeable future, isn’t it?
She shrugs.
“I just wonder, like, when it is in the real world, you know? Is it the same day I got, like, zonked out? The day after? Or have three years passed and now everyone assumes I’m dead?”
Harriet lifts her eyebrows. “I don’t think it’s the latter. Well, I hope it’s not.
Pants. I’m thinking about pants again. I’m focusing on pants. I’m trying to find new and creative ways of exploring the very concept of pants in my consciousness.
Pants.
Pants.
Paaaaants.
I close my eyes tightly and take a deep breath, holding it as I attempt to reach deep within myself and make contact with another level of my psyche. Harriet had mentioned meditation earlier as what she needed to summon things into being here. And like her, I’ve never meditated once in my life.
Well, that’s not entirely true. I pretended to meditate once, back when I was with Julie-fucking-Ross. God, that seems like an eternity ago. Back before she started dating my father. Back before I really despised her. At the time, Julie was going through this semi-spiritualized journey of sorts. I think she had, like, read a book or something about inner-peace and new-age whosie-whatsits, and decided that she was going to make some big changes in her life based on that. Me, still trying to be a good boyfriend at the time, gave a mild shrug of approval and even offered to try meditation with her.
Candles were lit and she put some soothing music on–something with a lot of harps being plucked, as I recall. She sat on the ground with her legs crossed and her hands stretched out at her sides. I asked her why she was poised like that, thinking that maybe this was somehow proven to be the best position for meditation–like it allowed for better spirit-flow or something silly like that.
She said: “This is just how people do it, Alfie.”
And I guess that was indicative of how Julie went about all things in life, doing the things that everyone else did without considering the reasons why.
I didn’t cross my legs. I didn’t hold my hands out to my sides. I didn’t close my eyes and stare off into space, occasionally chanting some monosyllable ‘ohm.’ I just sat there on the floor, watching her and taking note of how silly the whole thing was. I waited and watched, wondering how long this charade would go on for. But Julie–well, she’s always been tenacious. She stayed like this for way longer than I thought she would. It was at least an hour, maybe even close to two. And, like, I truly did not believe–and I still don’t to this day–that she was actually ‘meditating.’ She liked to make little scenes like this. She probably wanted me to watch her. When we were done, she wanted me to talk about it after the fact with my family and my mutual friends. She wanted me to say things like: “Yeah, I didn’t really get it, but she was totally meditating! It was incredible, the way she was able to disconnect from the world like that.” It was exhausting, really, to always be inadvertently made into her hype-man.
And I stared and stared at her. And the time just kind of melted away. And soon I wasn’t really looking at her–I was just kind of looking at nothing. I was thinking about nothing. I was just…there. And…
Well…shit.
It occurs to me, only now, that maybe I actually was meditating. While staring at my ex-girlfriend, as she tried to prove how connected she was to some other plane of existence, maybe I actually had achieved the very thing she was looking for.
And maybe she did actually meditate, I don’t know. I didn’t think that I had. But…I was wrong.
So maybe I can do it again?
How did I do that? Sit. Stare. Focus. No, don’t focus too much. Just…let it all go. Don’t think about nothing–just allow myself to be nothing.
I realize that I’m still holding my breath. How long have I been holding my breath for? Minutes? Shouldn’t I be dead right now? Maybe I don’t have to breathe here. Just like how I don’t need to drink, or eat, or sleep.
I’m focusing again–but not focusing too much. My eyes are closed and I let myself just…be. I let the rest of the world around me fade away. Which is pretty easy to do when there is no world around me. No sounds or lights or other distractions. It’s just me and this endless expanse of nothing. And Harriet too, but it’s easy enough to not even have to think about her either.
Pants.
I’m thinking about only pants. Or maybe it’s not so much pants themselves, but the concept of wearing pants. Of some sort of garment that’s wrapped around my body.
I think it’s working. I feel something. Warmth. The feeling of soft material brushing against my manhood.
I’m wearing something! I feel it slowly materializing my midsection.
I’m so excited that I open my eyes and look down.
Pants?
No. It’s not pants. It’s a diaper. I’m wearing a fucking diaper. Of all the things that my mind can conjure in a place like this, I end up in a diaper again.
Somewhere behind me, I can hear Harriet giggling at me.
===
Time passes. I couldn’t say how much or how little. There are no clocks, and there’s no sun or moon. For that matter, there aren’t even biological clocks like hunger, needing to urinate, or just getting tired. Still, I have a vague sense of time passing. My body still recognizes the cadence of an hour–but the problem is that it’s easy to lose track of just how many ‘hours’ scoot past me. It’s been a day, I think, since I woke up here. Maybe a day and a half?
I don’t talk to Harriet as much as I probably should. For the most part, she keeps a little distance, though she’s always happy to chat when I want to. I think she thinks she’s doing me a favor by not being in my face all the time, and she’s probably not wrong about that. This ‘place’ is like nothing I’ve ever experienced before, and it takes a while to acclimate to its nothingness. Once upon a time, she went through a similar period of acclimating, and she had to do it by herself.
My diaper comes and goes, as my focus on it waivers. Slowly but surely, I come to learn how to dedicate a small part of my consciousness to maintaining the diaper’s existence while the rest of my mind wanders elsewhere. Here, with seemingly infinite time and no other distractions, I find that I’m a quick learner. Soon enough, I’m wearing a shirt too. Briefly, I’m able to make myself some actual pants, but it seems to be a much harder thing to maintain. I stick to diapers, as embarrassing as they are, just because it’s something I have little trouble with.
I have a theory as to why that is: For the last few weeks, thanks to the milk, my entire world has revolved around diapers. Even here–detatched from what I know as reality–the milk continues to have a hold on me. It’s easier than it should be to just think like a baby.
“What’s the most elaborate thing you’ve created here?” I ask Harriet at some point.
“I recreated my childhood home,” she says. “Well, as much of it as I could recall. I tried living in it for a while.”
“That’s kind of neat.”
“No,” she says, shaking her head. “It was terrible. It was lonely and sad. For one, there were so many details that I couldn’t get right. Like, I’d know that there was a red couch in the living room, right? But it’s hard to recall what that couch exactly looked like–so anything that I placed there just didn’t feel right. No matter what, it felt fake.”
“Hm.”
“It’s, like…the uncanny valley,” she says. “Isn’t that a thing?”
“Uh, yeah, it’s a thing.”
“Like, everything looks so close to being real, but not close enough and so it looks even weirder. It’s one thing to make a house, you know? But you can’t make it feel lived in. Mail on the counter. Dirt being tracked in through the front door. A cereal bowl on the dining room counter. Magnets on the fridge.”
“So…you’re saying that I shouldn’t try to recreate my childhood home.”
She shrugs. “Well I’m certainly not going to do it again.”
“You once told me that this place is like a prison,” I say. “I didn’t really get that before, but I think I get it now.”
“I think of this place as, like, where my mind gets dumped while someone else is using my body.”
“Someone else…” I repeat to myself. “Like…who? What?”
She shrugs. “The hell if I know. An alien? A wizard?”
“Do you think that, since I’m here too, there’s someone else in my body?”
She shrugs again. “I…I don’t know.”
“We’ve got to get out of here.”
She clicks her tongue and shakes her head. “Like I said before–if I knew how to do that, I wouldn’t be here right now.”
“We’re going to figure that out,” I say.
She scoffs.
“No, I’m serious,” I say. “There’s two of us now. I mean, you figured out so much on your own, right? With no assistance from anyone else? Now imagine what the two of us can do together.”
She laughs–it almost sounds like one of Nikki’s signature snorts. “Zero plus zero is still zero.”
I think I get what she means. “We don’t know if we don’t try. And…well, what else do we have to do around here?”
The expression on her face says more to me than her words ever could. She looks tired and a little checked out. She looks like she’s abandoned much of whatever hope she originally had a long time ago. She’s spent an unknowable amount of time in this bleak nothingness, trying and failing to escape from it–or, at the very least, creating distractions for herself. Her more optimistic days are behind her.
Okay then.
===
More time passes, as it does. The hell if I know how long it's been.
I’ve made myself a bench that I’m sitting on. I continue to wear only a diaper. Sometimes I think about trying to make other clothes, but I’ve given up caring. It’s easier to just stick with this for now.
But I’ve done some experimenting, and found that I can change the, well, state of the diaper. I can’t actually pee or mess in it–but I can create a diaper that looks and feels like it has been. Right now, my diaper is heavy with pee and tinged yellow. When I stand, it hangs between my legs. When I sit, it squishes around me.
It’s comforting, in a very strange way. It reminds me of those early days at The Cradle, when diapers and milk seemed so exciting and magical. I felt like I was part of something big and special.
Harriet sits down next to me, giggling a little as she does. Of course, I can’t help but blush at the fact that she knows I’m choosing to sit here in a swampy adult diaper.
“I-I’m not laughing at you,” she says.
I roll my eyes. “Oh yeah? That’s exactly what someone who is laughing at me would probably say.”
“It’s the bench, actually.”
“What about it?”
“It might not seem like much to you, but–this is kind of wild. For the first time, in a very long time, I’m sitting on something that I didn’t have to make myself. You have no idea how wild that is, Alfie.”
“I didn’t really think about that.”
“This is, like, the happiest I’ve been in a very long time. And it’s just a bench!” She starts laughing again.
“Ah, well…so happy I could make you laugh, then.”
“I…I’m sorry about before,” she says. “I shouldn’t have been so pessimistic.”
“I get it,” I say. “I really do. You’ve been here for god-knows how long and you still have no answers about why you’re here or for how much longer you’ll be here. That’s got to be draining.”
“It is,” she says. “But it’s nice to have company. And it’s good that you have hope. It’s a little inspiring, honestly. I needed that.”
“Happy to help,” I say, shrugging.
She’s laughing again, but this time she’s looking down at my lap. “Okay…now I’m laughing at you.”
“You have no idea how weird this is,” I say, staring at her face as she snickers behind her hand.
“I could say the same thing. The first time I’ve spent time with anyone in a long time, and it’s a guy in a pissy diaper.”
I sigh. “It’s hard to look at you and not think of, uh, Mother.”
“Mother,” she repeats. “She’s nothing like me, is she?”
“No, not really. I mean, obviously you look alike. But she’s…”
“She’s what?”
I’m not sure what to say here. Truthfully, I barely know Mother at all and the words I would use to describe her to someone else–words like ‘powerful’ and ‘confident’–would probably not sound good if I mentioned them to this Harriet.
“She’s just different. Her body language, and, like, how she talks.”
“What would she do if she saw you were in a pissy diaper?” she asks.
I laugh. “I…uh…”
“Would she change you? Like a baby?”
“N-no… She’d probably pass that job off to someone else.”
Harriet laughs. “That’s wild.”
“She’s a, uh, influential woman, you know? She wields power.”
“I don’t think I could get someone to bring me a bottle of water if I asked,” she says, her eyes still fixed on my diaper. “Let alone get someone else to clean up the mess I helped make. I’ve never really had power like that before.”
“Well, for what it’s worth–the you in the ‘real’ world is thriving in her little colony of adult babies.”
She laughs and shakes her head. “I-is it bad that…I want to touch it?”
“My…diaper?”
“J-just a little,” she says. “I know that’s weird, but… Well, again, I’m just fascinated by the presence of things I haven’t had to make myself.”
“I mean, no, I don’t mind…” I feel like half of the world’s population has touched my diapers over the last few weeks, what’s one more? “But, you’re not, like, grossed out by it?”
She laughs. “It’s not real pee, right? Maybe, when you really think about it, it’s not even a real diaper.”
“Uh, knock yourself out,” I say. “Touch it if you want to.”
This stupid place. Can’t sleep. Can’t eat. Can’t pee. Probably can’t even get an erection.
I feel her hand lightly press into the diaper. It feels like it should, with the thick padding being pressed against my skin–the feeling of squishy dampness that I know all too well. It sounds like it should, the way it crinkles as it flexes.
And…
“Okay,” I say, politely brushing her hand away from my diaper. “That’s, uh, enough of that…”
“What’s wrong?” she asks, a concerned look on her face. “Did I do something I shouldn’t have? I just wanted to…”
“No, no, you’re good,” I say, sighing. “It’s just…”
There’s an erection forming in my diaper, and I fold my hands over the front of the padding in an effort to conceal it.
Her cheeks redden a little, as she now seems to understand. “Oh…”
“I gues…that can happen around here, huh?” I ask. “If I’d been here for as long as you’ve had, all alone, I’d have probably touched myself so much that my, uh, penis would’ve fallen off by now.”
She laughs, her cheeks getting even redder.
But that’s got me thinking. Previously, I was able to get to this place through having an orgasm while under the influence of milk. What would happen if I had an orgasm here? Would it send me home? Send me somewhere else?
Without even taking a moment to consider how insane it’s going to sound, I turn to Harriet and open my mouth: “I think I want to try something. All I need to do is cum.”
She laughs, narrowing her eyes at me. “Are you asking me for help?”
Forty-Seven: Big
It seems only right that I explain myself. I tell Harriet all about my milk-induced orgasmic planar traversals–a phrase that would probably be a fantastic name for my story once all this weirdness is behind me and I have the time to write my story, assuming that day ever comes. I then explain my current theory: that, maybe, if I’m able to reach climax in this place, I’d be sent…elsewhere. Maybe back to the real world? Or maybe somewhere even weirder.
Harriet takes it all in, nodding her head as I yammer on about it. Even when I feel like I’m just kind of rambling, she seems interested. Never once does she smirk, shake her head, or laugh at me like I’m some kind of dolt.
“It’s not a bad idea,” she finally says.
“R-really?”
“I did, at one point, wonder to myself if this was just a very elaborate ploy to get me to jerk you off…”
“Oh, hm…” I hadn’t even considered that.
She shrugs. “But I’d have just done that if you asked me–no convoluted story necessary.”
“Is that so?”
She laughs. “Your presence is such a pleasant change from the monotony that I’ve been trapped in, Alfie. You have no idea how fucking bored I was. You can have anything you want.”
It takes me a moment or two to snap out of my dumbfounded stupor. I could do all the nasty things I want with Mother? Well, she’s not Mother. But: I could do all the nasty things I want with a good looking woman? Hell, even: I could do all the nasty things I want with another human, here in the privacy of some sort of weird pocket dimension?
“Noted,” I say.
“Perhaps, firstly,” Harriet says, “it’s important to know where we are. Like, is this really a place? Or are we just somewhere deep inside of this, uh, ‘Mother’s’ consciousness while she uses our bodies?”
I shrug. “I mean, what’s the difference? Either my plan works or it doesn’t.”
“Okay,” she says, laughing. “See, it’s good that you’re here. I have a tendency to overthink things. I need someone who’s more of a, uh…”
“Non-thinker?”
“I would’ve probably chosen a much nicer word.”
I’m not offended, but I have too many jumbled thoughts to dwell on this for too long. “Let me ask you something, here.”
“Okay?”
“Have you, uh, touched yourself here?” I ask. “Like in this place? Can you do that here? Does it work?”
There’s a bashful look on her face and a little extra pink in her cheeks as she glances away from me. “Yes. It works. And when you spend a lot of time alone…you do a lot of…that.”
“Okay, that’s good. So I can get off.” I say it like I’m a scientist, making note of an important detail, when really I’m just talking about masturbation.
“Yes,” she says. “I think you’ll be fine.”
“So, look, we’re essentially speedrunning the whole intimacy thing here,” I say. “But…”
“Speedrunning?”
“Like, uh, videogames?” I say.
She shakes her head. “I was never really into them.”
I don’t really want to have to overexplain my bad joke so I start over again: “Normally, when I like someone and want to, like, be with them, it’s like pins and needles, you know? A lot of vague suggesting and not a lot of me using my words. I think that’s why I usually go for girls that are a little more…self-assured, you know? Girls who know what they want and are a little more forward than I am.”
“What are you getting at?” she asks.
I laugh and wag a finger at her. “See, this is exactly what I’m talking about.”
“Just spit it out.”
“I have to cum,” I say, my face blushing. “I mean…I think it’s something worth trying. And I could do it myself, but I’ll feel all awkward about it if you’re watching me. Or…even if you’re not watching me–like if you even know that’s what I’m doing. So I think it’d be better…”
“For god’s sake, Alfie. Just say that you want me to get you off. I already said that I would.”
“Yeah,” I say. “That.”
===
“Diaper or no diaper?” she asks.
That question gets my face good and red–not just because she’s asking me if I want to get off in a diaper in the first place, but because I think I might actually prefer being in a diaper. I think I could admit as much to her–why the hell not?–but I feel like, maybe, I don’t need to be that greedy. Or, I just want to hold onto one little slice of dignity.
And suddenly, I’m not wearing a diaper, and I’m completely naked again.
It’s a funny thing, how quickly it seems I’ve become accustomed to the vast nothingness of this place. Both Harriet and I create things to fill that space now–tables, chairs, floors, walls. Sometimes trees and grass and picturesque horizons. It’s hard to know who is creating what at times–it’s like one of us builds something with our mind, and the other expands on it. Not only is it getting easier for me to do, but I think it’s a little less taxing on Harriet to have to do everything herself. We make our immediate surroundings together, and everything beyond that is just…white.
We’re sitting on a bed. It’s nothing special, beyond the fact that it’s got incredibly soft sheets–softer than anything I think I’ve actually felt before. In a way, it’s frustrating, because I know that some day I’ll want to buy sheets like this, and I’ll never find any that feel like how I remember these feeling. Or, if I do, they’ll be absurdly expensive.
I’m naked, and so is she. I didn’t ask for that, but I’m not mad about it. She looks fantastic, and that’s definitely helping to get me worked up.
“It’s been a while,” she says, her hand on the top of my thigh now. It’s so close to my manhood that it feels like a tease–but I think she’s just as nervous about making that move as I am. “Even before, uh, all this, I wasn’t exactly drowning in romance.”
“Who would even want that?” I sigh.
“I’m not…promiscuous, is what I’m saying.”
I shrug. “Okay.”
“I’m just saying. I haven’t been with a guy–or a girl–for a long time.”
“Look, really,” I say. “It’s not a big deal. And you don’t have to do anything you don’t–”
“I want to,” she says. “I’m just nervous, alright? I’m worried that I won’t be any good.”
I laugh. “See, I believe you now when you say you haven’t been with a guy in a while. LIke, you do remember what men are like, right? We’re easy. If you just sat there and blew on my dick from, like, a foot away, I’d still get all riled up.”
She’s laughing too. “Is that what you think a blow job is?”
And now we’re laughing very hard together–the silly pun combined with the absurdity of our current situation is goddamn hilarious.
“I like you,” I finally say, wiping tears out of my eyes. “I wish I knew you, uh, out there.”
“I’m more likable here, trust me,” she says. “I was a nobody out there. This place is the most interesting thing that’s ever happened to me.”
“You’re not alone there,” I say.
Maybe she’s finally ready, or maybe she just wants to change the subject, but her hand leaves my thigh and her fingers grasp my shaft. I let out a soft gasp as her grip tightens.
“You tell me what feels good, okay?” she says.
I laugh again. “Everything feels good. That’s the problem sometimes, I think. That’s why I get myself into so much trouble.”
“Alright,” she says, her voice just a whisper now. “That’s enough talking. Let me do this.”
I want to close my eyes, but I can’t look away. I watch as her slender hand glides down my shaft, pauses, and then slowly slides up towards the head. Yes, it feels good. Of course it feels good. The first few swipes of her hand are like little experiments–testing to see what the resistance is like and how my reaction changes depending on where in the shaft her hand is and how much pressure she uses. Soon, her speed increases and her grip tightens. She seems more confident with what she’s doing. Between my groaning and the slow, pleasured rolling of my head, I think she’s getting a lot of really good feedback to work with.
The world around us is changing, I think. The walls are getting shorter, then longer, while changing colors. There’s a window sometimes, and sometimes there isn’t. When there is a window, there is sometimes a sun that shines through it, and sometimes it’s moonlight that illuminates our space. I hear water on the ground–the gentle babbling of a stream, maybe. I don’t know which of us is doing that. Maybe it’s me–maybe my mind is all over the place while she pleasures me and this is what happens.
I feel a shudder roll through my spine.
“You like this?” she says.
“Yes.”
“You like being…a baby?” she asks.
Oh, come on. She’s doing this for my benefit, I think–asking a question that she knows is going to set me off. And it’s working.
“Y-yes. I…I’m a baby…”
“I know,” she says. “I can tell. A big baby.”
“Fuck…”
There’s a blissful numbness spreading through my body, a loss of bodily awareness that sometimes comes (pun, likely, intended) from a good orgasm.
“Yeah?” she asks, as if she had translated my groans and moans into something profound. “Are you going to…”
“Y-yes…”
“Do it,” she says.
“Fuck…”
“I-if this works,” she says. “If you, uhm…get transported, or whatever…”
“F-fuck,” I mutter, only half-listening to her as my body tenses.
“Please find help, okay?” she whispers into my ear. “Get us the fuck out of here.”
“Fuuuu–”
===
“Well now,” a voice says. It’s…loud. Not like they are yelling, but more like they are talking into a microphone linked to a large PA system. Or a megaphone. Their voice just seems…big. “What do you make of this?” The voice is feminine, I think. It’s cold. A little nasally.
A different voice responds: “Some is going to be in trou-ble.” Their voice is also feminine, though playful and a little more song-like, but it’s just as big and loud as the first.
I don’t know where I am, but I’m definitely somewhere–and that somewhere is not the white nothingness where Harriet and I just were a moment ago.
I’m laying face down on the ground.
The ground. Yes, there is a ground here. I’m lying on dirt and grass. And I’m naked, though this seems slightly less important. I’m somewhere. My theory, I think, worked. Cumming my way through the multiverse, baby.
“I don’t think it’s one of ours,” the nasally voice says. “Look at him–he’s naked.”
“Aye,” the playful one says. “But maybe he took all his clothes off.”
“Seems unlikely,” the first says. “Though, I suppose, not impossible.”
I feel something poking at me, nudging my body. It’s something big. Blunt. Whatever’s poking me seems strong enough to get my whole body to shake when it touches me. I could roll over, but I don’t think I want to see where I am, or who it is that I’m dealing with.
“He’s alive, ain’t he?” the playful one says. So loud.
“Warm,” the other says. “Maybe just unconscious. Why don’t you pick him up? We’ll carry him back home and see if he’s one of ours or not.”
“And what if he’s someone else’s?”
“Finders keepers,” the nasally voice bellows, at which the playful voice cackles with glee.
Yes, I think. I belong to someone else. Maybe I should say that right now, before it's too late.
Just like when I first went to the ‘white place,’ there’s this immediate sense of things being wrong. I mean, obviously it’s not normal there. But it’s like your whole body knows that something is off and that you don’t belong there. I feel that way here too. Wherever I am now, I am certain that this isn’t a place I belong.
I feel something grabbing me–a hand on either side of my body. Maybe? They feel like hands, but they also feel like they’re way too big to be hands. Nobody’s hands are this big.
I feel myself being hoisted off the ground. It seems to come easily for whoever is picking me up, like I’m just a ragdoll. And when I open my eyes, I see that the distance between myself in the ground is growing quickly, and I’m being lifted into the air a little higher than I would’ve expected.
That’s when I see her–the other woman who isn’t picking me up. Long dark hair. A stubby nose. Big glasses. An ugly seafoam green skirt and a bluish top. She’s not an attractive woman. She looks like someone’s mean elementary school teacher–the kind who would slap your hand with a ruler or scold you if you took too long at the water fountain.
And, well, she’s big. Not, like, Nikki-big in that she’s just kind of muscular. I mean…she’s big. A giant, even? It’s hard to say just how big she is, because I don’t have anything around I can compare her to for context, but based on my own size and our proximity to each other she’s got to be, like…twelve feet tall? Twice the size of me, that seems right.
“Not one of ours,” the ugly nasally-voiced giant woman says. “He’s cute though. I think I’d like to keep him anyway.”
“Lemme see,” the other says, and I feel my body being spun around in her giant hands. And there she is. Slightly more attractive, I suppose, though that’s not saying much. She looks younger, with blonde hair pulled into a big ponytail. She’s wearing a blue and white striped shirt and a pair of denim overalls. She’s a slingshot-in-the-back-pocket away from having some major ‘adult woman Dennis the Menace’ vibes. “Ohhhh, yeah! I like him already! Look at his cute little face! We have to keep him.”
Both of them are like cartoon characters come to life. And big.
“What’s yer name?” blonde ponytail girl says to me, her giant face getting closer to my much smaller face.
“A-alfie…”
“I don’t like it,” the nasally woman says. “I don’t even know what that word means.”
“And what would you call him?” the blonde says, her giant hands still holding me good and close to her face. Her breath is like a strong wind, smelling of…onions, maybe? I don’t care for it.
“Smooshy,” she says with a confident nod.
“Aww, I love it!” Blonde exclaims–sending globs of spittle the size of ping pong balls onto my face. More onion stench. “Little Smooshy! I’m Peggy! But you can call me Mommy if you want.”
With that, Peggy presses my body against her chest, her giant arms wrapping around me for a bear hug. She’s too strong. Too big. She’s pressing me into her chest which is, well…proportionally bulbous. It’s the sort of thing that weird men probably have strange fantasies about–and I won’t lie that it’s, conceptually, something I find pretty pleasing. But she’s too strong, and seems to lack a sense of just how much she’s crushing me.
“You must be careful with him,” the nasally woman says. “You do remember what happened to the last one you squeezed so hard, don’t you?”
“Yeah…” Peggy sighs, finally relinquishing most of the strength in her arms. She flops me about with her hands again, and now I’m cradled in her arms like I was a child.
Which makes me wonder: Are these women large? Or am I just small? And…what happened to the last one that got squeezed too hard? Hoo boy.
The world around me gives little context for this, as everything seems more proportional to the women. The trees are especially tall. The road that they found me in is exceptionally wide. A road sign not too far from us–just a speed limit sign like one I’ve seen a billion times before–just seems comically large.
While I don’t think I’ve ever been here before, it doesn’t seem entirely unfamiliar to the point of being alien. We’re on a long dirt road that stretches as far as I can see in either direction, cutting through a dense forest. The speed limit sign–and the suggested speed of 35 MPH–suggests that cars exist here too, and I’m guessing they’re also big. I’m reminded of the California backwoods someone has to traverse to get from Harper’s Bell to The Cradle. This place definitely has that vibe.
“Y-you can understand me?” I ask Peggy.
“They’re so cute when they talk,” Peggy gushes.
“Yes, well, they shouldn’t be talking to us,” the other’s voice booms. “The littles should only be talking to the littles.”
“I don’t mind if he talks to me, Lenore,” Peggy squeals. “I hope he tells me that I’m the best mommy in the whole wide world.”
She hasn’t answered my question. She’s acknowledged that she can hear me, sure, but not that she understood, or cared about, the actual words that came out of my mouth. Still, I’m going to assume that they can understand me, seeing as how I can understand them.
I’m learning things. Peggy and Lenore. Littles. And, does that make them ‘bigs?’
“First thing’s first,” Lenore, as I now know the nasally woman to be, says. “You’re going to want to make sure to put a diaper on that one. Why, he’s liable to wee all over you.”
DIapers? I sigh, annoyed that I somehow seem to be in yet another place that’s all about diapers. This is my fate, I guess–diapered in all dimensions.
“Yes, I know, Lenore,” Peggy says. She focuses her attention down on me again. With another wave of warm onion breath, she says: “You’re not going to wee on me, are you, little Smooshy?”
“N-no, I don’t think so,” I say. “But…”
But seemingly uninterested in what I have to say, Peggy cuts me off, saying: “If you wee on me and ruin my favorite overalls, I’m gonna be real cross with you, you got me? I promise you, Smooshy, you don’t want that.”
No, I’m sure I don’t. What does an angry giant do to a little when punishment is needed? A spanking would probably flatten me into a cartoonish pancake.
Peggy carries me down the road, rocking me back and forth like I was actually a small child who needed it, as Lenore walks alongside us. Honestly, I don’t hate the feeling of being held and rocked, nor the feeling of being small and handled by someone so much larger than me. Is a new kink being unlocked? Or just an expansion of the wild kinks I’ve already been inoculated to over the last few months?
“It may be one of Myrtle’s” Peggy says to Lenore as they walk.
Lenore scoffs. “Doubtful. Myrtle doesn’t feed her littles enough. They’re all scrawny and wiry.”
“Smooshy is kinda thin…”
“He’s not that thin.”
Peggy giggles, poking me in my stomach with her giant fingertip. It doesn’t feel like a poke–it feels more like a jab, causing me to make an “ugh” sound. She says: “He does have a little bit of a tummy, don’t he? Someone’s been feeding him.”
Geez, thanks a lot. I make a mental note to myself to go to the gym when this is all said and done.
===
The forest begins to thin out, and the road comes to a clearing. There’s a house on the hill there, at the end of the driveway that the women are just turning onto. Without the context of the large women who carry me, it almost looks like a regular house–the kind I could just walk up to, step inside, and feel like it’s ‘normal.’ It’s kinda quaint–a simple one-story white building with a mid-century look to it. It has a well manicured lawn with a garden, an attached garage, and some of those bright pink plastic flamingos sticking out of it. But the closer we get, the more undeniable it is that this house, too, is enormous. Hell, those flamingos are hilariously large in comparison to what I’d expect.
“I’m gonna take him downstairs,” Peggy says. “I’ll put him with the others for now.”
“Please put some clothes on him,” Lenore says. “At the very least, a diaper. If I find any stains on the carpet later, it’s your nose I’ll be rubbing in it.”
Peggy scoffs defiantly. “Well duh. You think I’m going to let this little scurry around without a diaper on?”
“Just making sure,” Lenore grunts. I sense, perhaps, that she’s usually the more responsible one, cleaning up after Peggy?
“C’mon, little Smooshy,” Peggy chirps, skipping up the hill ahead of Lenore. “I’m going to make you look so cute and pretty! The other littles are going to be so jealous!”
From behind us, I can hear Lenore sighing. “Peggy, please, don’t rile them all up.”
But Peggy isn’t paying attention. Her skip has turned into a jog, and she recklessly pops through the front door–using her arms and my body to push the large door open, and smacking my head against the door frame. “Oopsies,” she says, barely sounding sincere in her sympathy.
Somewhere else, Harriet is wondering what happened to me. Is my body there? Is she still holding onto my cock? Or is she suddenly sitting in an imaginary bed all alone?
And then, in a different somewhere else, The Cradle is going about its day; big babies waddle around in dirty diapers like they do. What do they think happened to me? What actually happened to me? Does anyone care?
Maxine. Nikki. My editor, Benny. Mom. Dad. Julie Fucking Ross. They’re all still ‘there,’ somewhere, going about their life like nothing has changed. I have to admit, I’m pretty jealous. I wish that were me. I crave normalcy. I crave the ‘everyday.’
But no, instead I’m in some sort of weird diaper-inception.
Only me, right? Just my luck.
“First thing’s first, Smooshy, I gotta put a diaper on you,” Peggy says. Her large body careens through the house so quickly–or perhaps it’s just that the sense of scale is so skewed–that I can’t focus on anything. It’s hard to say what the inside of the house looks like. I can’t pinpoint landmarks I’d want to remember for later, should I try to escape this place.
Is escape even an option?
Perhaps, if I want to get out of here, I’d have to do the same thing I did to leave the ‘white place.’ I’d need to, uh, cum again.
“If you must,” I finally mutter, assuming she either won’t listen or respond to anything I say anyway. And it seems that I’d be correct, because she doesn’t even bat an eyelash at me. Out of curiosity, I try something else and shout: “Hey, big ogre-lady! Can you even hear me?”
She rolls her eyes and looks down at me briefly. “You’re a little yappier than the other littles. What are you so fussy about? Sounds like you’re going to need a pacifier in addition to a diaper.”
So…what does that mean? She can hear me, but can’t understand me? Or she thinks so little of me that she truly doesn’t care what I say?
Thud!
Suddenly, I’m being flopped down onto a padded surface. Mattress? No…changing table. I’ve been on enough of those recently to know one when I’m on it. Thank god for the padding, or else my sore head would probably be bouncing off another hard surface. Peggy seems to lack a more careful touch.
“Smooshy,” she says, “I think I’m gonna put you in a, uhmmmm, blue diaper.”
“Yeah, sure,” I sigh. “Whatever.”
She rolls her eyes again. “You sure do make a lot of sounds, don’t you? Here, before we go any further…”
Her hand disappears from view for a moment, reappearing with a pacifier between her thumb and forefinger, aimed at my mouth. It looks so small between her fingers, but by the time it’s between my lips, I realize it’s actually a little bigger than the pacifier Maxine had once given to me. Holy shit, that was, like, lifetimes ago. Its soft latex bulb fills my mouth, and almost immediately seems to stupify me. There’s a natural instinct to just suckle, but I don’t know if that’s my own instinct, or if the effects of Mother’s milk somehow transcend space and time.
There’s no point in resisting or fighting a woman who is twice my size, and so I just let it happen. I let myself just lie there as her big hands carefully unfurl a blue disposable diaper and lays it between my legs. I’ve felt small plenty of times before while someone’s changed my diaper–that’s just how it goes while you’re treated like a baby. But now, I’m actually small. And she’s big. And she lifts my legs up into the air, raising my bottom off the surface of the changing table, so that she can slide the diaper underneath me. Manhandled like a doll. My cheeks feel like they’re burning.
The diapers might be small in comparison to her hands, but because the bottle of baby powder looks proportional to her size, it looks comically large. Shake shake shake. It’s like a blizzard, entirely centralized around my midsection–though she gets a good amount on my things and belly too. Not that she seems to care about this.
“Maybe I shoulda given you a bath first, huh?” Peggy asks. I imagine it's a rhetorical question, seeing as how I can’t respond–whether I want to or not. She shrugs. “Ah well. Sooner or later, you’re gonna need a good scrubbing, yeah?”
She pulls the front of the diaper through my open legs and folds it over me, pulling the tabs tightly to the front so that she can seal me into it.
“There you go!” she finally says. “Oh, you look just darling in a diaper! Now then, I think you’re missing a few things…”
She plops something else onto the changing table. Pink and, maybe, softball-ish in size. But for the life of me, I can’t figure out what they are. That’s when she picks one up and turns it over, revealing a cavity inside of it. I realize what’s happening at the same time that she fits it over my hand. It’s, like, a mitten. A thumbless mitten. Well, there goes the use of my hands. Worse, the mittens have buckles at the cuffs, which she tightens into place after slipping them over my fingers–preventing me from even prying them off my wrists later.
“I don’t normally do this,” Peggy says, “but because you’re such a chatty thing, I think I’m gonna make sure you don’t make too much noise.”
The pacifier is pulled from my mouth, replaced a moment later with another one of a similar size, though this one is attached to a strap which is then wrapped around my head and fastened in the back. A…pacifier gag?
“There we go!” Peggy exclaims. “This is perfect. I think I can introduce you to the other littles now. You’re not gonna cause me any problems, are ya? You’re not gonna make trouble?”
I shake my head. With my hands bound and my mouth plugged up, what can I even do?
She picks me up again, carrying me with her hands under my arms and holding me out from her as she walks.
She says: “Bad babies, just so you know, get spankies. And I don’t think you want spankies, do you?”
That giant hand on my little ass? No, I probably don’t want that.
Though…
Maybe, in the dark recesses of my mind, there’s a small part of me that kind of wants to feel that once. That little voice that says: “Maybe someday in the future, you’ll be pretty annoyed that you didn’t let a giant woman spank you in the ass.” There’s probably a whole community of people online who obsess about a prospect like this. Entire Subreddits related to fiction and imagery surrounding giant women administering spanking.
And I could be their god.
Alas, that’s probably not what I should be thinking about right now. I need to get out of here. And how do I do that? Well…probably the same way that I got here. I need to…cum again.
Though I’m in quite the pickle now, seeing as how I don’t have access to my hands, I’m in a thick diaper, and I can’t even use my mouth to explain to someone else what I need. I don’t want to just jump to the conclusion that I’m screwed, though I should probably get comfortable with the idea that I’ll be here for a while.
===
This is what a day care looks like on TV shows. The interlocking, colorful foam pads on the floor. Signs showing the alphabet and numbers hanging on the walls, mingling with pictures of animals and cartoon characters. There’s toys and stuffed animals strewn across the floor.
And I’m not alone. There’s three others here–all of them dressed like babies, though none of them actually are. They’re my size–which is to say, not gigantic. There’s a man with dark, shaggy hair, wearing a blue and green onesie. A woman with long reddish hair pulled into pigtails, wearing a yellow dress with a very short bottom that makes little effort to hide her equally yellow-stained diaper. Another woman, of sepia skin and short, dark hair, wore only a diaper and plain baby-blue colored t-shirt. All of them have their hands trapped in similarly disabling mittens as mine–though I’m the only one with a pacifier stuck in my mouth.
“Everyone?” says Peggy, calling for the others’ attention. “This is Smooshy. He’s gonna be living with us now, alright? I don’t want any of you to give him a hard time. And, likewise, Smooshy, you better be on your best behavior. Our littles are well trained and very obedient. Don’t you go messing that up, alright? Like I said before…spankies.”
I nod my head, acknowledging what she’s said.
“I’m gonna go upstairs for a little while. I’ll check on y’all later. Anyone need a changing?”
Peggy’s eyes scan the group, and the girl in the yellow dress raises a padded hand. To this, Peggy narrows her eyes and stares at the girl’s diaper before huffing and approaching her. She lifts the hem of the dress to get a better look at the diaper. With a dismissive sigh, Peggy breezily waves her hand in the air.
“That doesn’t seem that bad,” she says. “I’ll change that later. Toodles!” And with that, she stomps out of the room and up a flight of stairs.
Seeing as how this appeared to be a one-story house from the outside–and because there are no windows in here–I’m guessing we’re in the basement.
“Welcome,” the guy says. “I, uh, don’t know who your previous owners were, but I should warn you ahead of time that Peggy and Lenore aren’t much better.”
“Y-you shouldn’t tell him that,” the girl in the tee says. “That’s a terrible introduction.”
“It’s true, though,” the girl in the yellow dress sighs. “My diaper needed to be changed, like, two hours ago. I’m definitely going to get a rash now.”
“Smooshy, huh?” the guy says to me.
I shrug. It’s not my preferred name, but maybe it’ll have to do while I can’t say what it actually is.
“I’m Wobble,” the guy says.
“I’m Tinkles,” says the girl in the dress.
“Stinker,” the girl in the tee sighs. I’m guessing that these names were chosen for them by the bigs, like my own. And clearly, the bigs have poor taste in names.
“Look, it’s not so bad here,” Tinkles says. “Yeah, the bigs here are kind of a mess. But we have each other. That’s something.”
They seem almost…resigned to their fate. There’s no defiance in their eyes. They’ve accepted that this is the way things are, and seem to have made peace with it some time ago. I wonder if this is the only life they’ve ever known–some sort of infantilized servitude to these ‘bigs.’
If I could talk, I’d have only one question: “What the fuck is this place?”
***
Friends. Enemies. Others. How are you? Doing well? Warm enough? Cool enough? Dry enough? Wet enough?
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Hi! These are the last two chapters in Nikki's Story. Next week, we're headed into a new (and stranger) story arc for Milk! Need to catch up on the story so far? You might find this helpful.
Forty-Four: Nikki’s Story, Part 11
It’s another hour and a half–long enough to make me think that nobody else is going to show up–before the cabin door slowly opens and Kelly enters. Her long blonde hair is pulled into a ponytail behind her head, while her sizable chest seems contained under a hoodie. It’s a little disappointing, though it’s probably for the best that they’re not out in any sort of distracting way.
“I was thinking I’d be first,” Kelly says, taking a seat on one of the cabin’s unused beds.
“I beat you by a bit,” Freya says.
Freya and I have spent the last hour or so just chatting. It’s been nice, honestly. I think she needed it for sure, but I think I needed it too. There few huge revelations that came from our conversations–just musing on our lives before The Cradle. I talked about being a bartender, sharing stories–at her request–of the strange people I encountered there. She talked about her brief life as a high school teacher before finding herself pulled into the ‘cult of milk.’ She had just as many horror stories to share about hormonal teenagers as I did about drunk adults.
“We were talking about who we were before we came here,” Freya says to her. To me, she says: “Kelly used to be an au pair for a rich couple in New York City, if I remember correctly.”
“Don’t remind me,” Kelly says, rolling her eyes. “It made me an expert on changing diapers, for sure. But I'd take one of these big babies over one of those little privileged brats any day.”
I’m curious to know more, of course. I kind of want to know everyone’s story of how they got here. Why here? What makes this place better than everything they left behind?
Every single person contained in The Cradle’s fence has a story. This isn’t new news, but it’s something I don’t always think about when I walk around this place.
“Who else can we expect to be here tonight?” Kelly asks.
“Nita,” Freya says. “Probably Patty.”
“Marta?” Kelly asks.
Freya sighs. “I…I didn’t tell her.”
Kelly seems surprised by this. “Oh. I just… I always assumed you two were inseparable.”
“I like Marta,” Freya says. “A lot. But she’s got bigger stakes than most of us here. She operates the flower shop in town, you know? Mirabelle’s gotten in her head that it’s the start of The Cradle expanding. I really want to trust Marta, but I just worry that she’s…”
“Compromised?” I ask.
“Maybe,” Freya says. “Maybe not even on purpose. I don’t think she’s doing anything shady, but if she was asked to choose between taking Mirabelle’s side and anyone else’s…”
“Yeah,” Kelly says. “Better safe than sorry, for now.”
“You said you invited someone?” Freya asks me.
I nod. “Tommy.”
“R-really?” Kelly asks. “No offense. But…him?”
“You don’t like him?” I ask.
“I mean, he’s fine, I guess. I just… Well, he’s always running around like Mirabelle’s errand boy, isn’t he? If we’re not ready to include Marta yet, then I’d think…”
“We can trust Tommy,” I say. “I trust him.”
Kelly opens her mouth to say something else, but seems to change her mind. I think I can guess what it is–something like: “Can we trust you?”
I’m not mad about it. I’d probably ask the same question.
Nita is the next to arrive. Dark skin, long braided hair. She’s soft spoken but not in a shy sort of way–instead, she seems like one of those types who only speaks when they have to. I’d like to think that’s how I am, though I’m not always sure how others perceive me.
“Cade didn’t want to come,” Nita announces after she’s been introduced to me. “He wants me to pass along the message that he supports us. But he thought it would be best if hung back for now.”
“Cade?” I ask. Everyone else probably knows what she’s talking about, but I don’t.
“My brother,” Nita says.
“Your…brother is here at The Cradle too?”
“Twin brother,” Freya says.
I’m not sure what to make of that–or if I should make anything of it at all, so I stow that information away in the back of my head for now. Everyone’s got a story here–and I have to accept that I probably won’t ever get to hear them all.
“I saw Ingrid on my way here,” Nita says.
Someone groans, though I’m not sure who it is.
“Either she didn’t see me,” Nita says, “or she didn’t care.”
This isn’t the first, or even second, time I’ve heard less-than-nice things said about Ingrid. I ask: “Is she trouble? Someone we have to watch out for?”
“I don’t know,” Freya says. “For all I know, she might actually be on our side. I think it’s just that, uh…”
“She’s not pleasant,” Nita says.
“I hope you’re not talking about me,” says a new voice as the cabin door opens again.
The new woman looks a little older than I think she actually is. It’s her aesthetic, I think–the bandana over her hair and her large, round glasses make me think of a middle-aged art teacher I used to have in elementary school. In actuality, she’s probably closer in age to me.
“Ingrid,” Freya says.
“Oh,” the woman says, clearly trying to stifle a laugh.
“This is Patty,” Kelly says to me. “In case you haven’t met yet.”
“I don’t think so,” I say. “Hi.”
“You’re Alfie’s friend?” Patty asks.
“Yes.”
“I don’t know him especially well, but his cabin is one of the ones I help take care of,” she says.
“And what of his cabin mates?” I ask. “Do they ask about where he is or what happened to him too?”
“I’m not privy to all the chatter,” Patty says, shrugging. “But I get the feeling they’ve bought Mirabelle’s story that he’s getting some special sort of care.”
“I think that’s everyone, isn’t it?” Nita asks.
As if in response, there’s a light knock on the door.
“This might be the last person,” I say. “Come in!”
The door opens and Tommy walks in, his face pink as he nervously glances around the cabin. Surrounded by women–most of whom have likely changed his diapers on many occasions.
And this makes me wonder if these ‘Mommies’ wear diapers too.
Who changes the diaper-changers?
“Wet,” Nita says, pointing at Tommy.
“Wh-what?” Tommy says, looking at her incredulously. “No! I mean…uh…”
“A soggy diaper, for sure,” Kelly adds with a smirk. “Look at that thing drooping under his pants.”
I don’t know that I would’ve detected it myself, but I assume these women know their dirty diapers.
“Before we get started, maybe someone ought to change him?” Freya asks.
“No, no, I don’t need that right now,” Tommy says. “Why don’t we get started and….”
“Don’t be silly,” Kelly says, standing up. “We can do both.”
There’s a diaper in Kelly’s hand now. For a moment, I’m not even sure where it came from–I’m certainly not hoarding diapers in my cabin. But I’m realizing only now that she arrived with a backpack slung over her shoulder. A diaper bag of sorts? Interesting that she knew to bring it with her–though, more than likely, she’s just learned to keep supplies on hand at all times. A ‘Mommy’s’ work is never done.
And so, in the corner of the cabin, Tommy begrudgingly lies down on his back on another of the vacant beds as Kelly pulls his pants off and prepares to change his diaper while the rest of us talk.
“Alright, so, I think that’s everyone we can expect,” Freya says. “Maybe we ought to start talking.”
“Where do we start?” Patty asks.
“Something stinks around here,” I say, taking the lead. “And, uh, I don’t mean Tommy’s diaper.”
“H-hey…” Tommy says.
“You do smell like pee,” Kelly says with a shrug.
I continue: “As most of you probably now, my friend Alfie disappeared from view a few weeks ago. Whisked away to seemingly nowhere, and Mirabelle has been unwilling to give anyone answers. Even you–the very people who are running this place on her and Mother’s behalf.”
“We, those of us who are here from the Maternal Council,” Freya says, “have talked about it privately. Even before you arrived, Nikki. It’s…concerning. Mirabelle and Mother have never hid anything from anyone before.”
“Not that we know of,” Kelly says, peeling up the tapes on Tommy’s diaper in the background.
“Well, right,” Freya sighs. “But slowly, a lot of things are changing around here. The locks on the doors that we aren’t given keys to. There’s a lot less communication than there used to be.”
“I tried to talk to Mirabelle about it,” Nita says. “But she brushed off my concerns. She said that these were just ‘temporary measures’ after the attempted theft of the milk supply.”
“Just to play the devil’s advocate,” Patty says. “What if that is true?”
“Then where’s the transparency on what’s going on with Alfie?” Freya asks. “There’s no excuse for that. Or, if there is, Mirabelle hasn’t said as much to anyone else.”
“Th-there’s something else too,” Tommy says from his horizontal position. We all look in his direction, just as Kelly opens his wet diaper and exposes his flaccid manhood to all the ladies in the cabin. His cheeks turn bright red. Some look away from him, attempting to spare him further humiliation. I should probably do the same, but I find my gaze fixed on his embarrassed state.
“What else?” I ask.
“The milk,” he says. “I-it’s mind control.”
There’s an awkward silence in the room, and I can’t tell what to make of it. Is it that everyone already knows this? Or is that his claim is as ridiculous as it sounds?
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“The milk, uh, makes you, like, susceptible to being told what to do. Y-you have to drink a lot of it before it starts to have that sort of effect on you. But if everyone here is being given milk all the time, well…”
“How do you know this?” I ask.
Freya asks a similar question: “Where did you learn this?”
“I…heard it,” Tommy says, his cheeks getting a little redder.
“Yes, but from where?” Freya asks.
There’s something in Freya’s tone that gives me a little pause. “Wait,” I say to her. “Did you know this already?”
The ‘Mommies’ all glance at each other nervously.
“Sort of,” Nita finally says.
“It’s one of the first things we were told when we joined Mirabelle’s Maternal Council,” Kelly says, now gently stroking at Tommy’s midsection with a moist baby wipe.
“It’s not like anyone says: “This is mind control, use it for nefarious purposes,”” Freya says. “It’s more, like, implied that the ‘babies’ around here become a lot more docile and easier to guide when they’ve been drinking the milk for a while.”
“It was, uh, suggested to me that we don’t tell the residents about this,” Kelly says.
“Yeah,” Nita says. “Same.”
“Me too,” Patty says.
I look at Freya, and she looks at me. We have the same thought at the same time. She let’s me be the one to say it: “So…you were told not to say it. And, because you’ve been drinking the milk too…”
“Shit,” Patty says, laughing as she shakes her head. “I, uh…never really considered that.”
“Me neither,” Kelly says, now pulling Tommy’s wet diaper out from under him, and balling it up.
“What else has been ‘suggested’ you do?” I ask the room.
Freya sighs. “Who knows. I mean…all kinds of little requests, you know? Things that seem simple and innocuous in the moment. Things we might have agreed to anyway. Or…so we’d think.”
“So it’s safe to say we’ve been subtly manipulated from the very start,” Nida says.
“I guess, on some level, I always wondered if that was the case or not. I mean, why would it only work on the babies, but not us?”
Nobody directly responds to this, but judging by the disappointed faces on everyone else, I suspect they’ve all shared a similar thought.
Freya turns to Tommy again, just as Kelly unfurls a fresh diaper, laying if flat between Tommy’s legs while he lifts his ass up from the bed.
“Where did you hear about the milk, uh, affecting people’s susceptibility?” she asks.
“It doesn’t matter,” he says.
Sloane. She might’ve known about it. That might’ve had something to do with why the thieves she was associated with wanted the milk in the first place.
I can see why Freya might want to know how Tommy knew about this–she’s probably confused as to how someone else might’ve been able to talk about it, but she couldn’t. They’re not ready to hear about Sloane yet, I think.
“Well, it does matter,” Freya says.
“Alfie knew,” I say. “I don’t know how he knew, but he did. He, uh, mentioned it to me before he disappeared.” This isn’t true, of course, but it’s not like Alfie’s here to answer any further questions about how he would know such a thing.
Freya nods, seeming to accept this answer. “So that’s why you don’t drink the milk.”
“Right,” I say. “And if any of you are still drinking it…maybe it’s time to give it a rest?”
Nobody in the room verbally acknowledges this. Maybe some have already stopped drinking it. Or have been thinking about it. Or, they’re embarrassed to realize that they’re as addicted to it as they are, and they know it’s going to be hard to pull themselves away from it.
“There’s something else too,” Tommy says. Kelly is taping the new diaper around him now. “I, uh, don’t really know what it means, but it might be worth mentioning.”
All eyes are on him now, whether he likes it or not. His face maintains its redness as Kelly puts the finishing touches on the diapering job.
“So, uh, Alfie had a name he was looking into. Harriet Tullman.”
There’s silence in the cabin still–it seems likely that nobody recognizes it.
He continues: “I did a little research on it. W-well, it wasn’t just me, but…” His voice trails off, and he takes a moment to compose himself as he sits up again–his new fresh diaper crinkling beneath him. “Harriet Tullman has been missing for a few years. She has friends and family who are looking for her. And, well, a few years before that–when she was more active online–she was just this very normal woman. She had a mundane job. A pretty mundane life. I’m sure she was, like, nice and all–but…”
“I’m sorry,” Nita says. “Just who is Harriet?”
“Kelly?” he asks. “Could you hand me my pants?”
She does so, and Tommy reaches into the pocket and draws out his cellphone. It’s wild to me just how weird it is to see someone using a phone here in The Cradle. The reception is so unreliable that most people around here don’t even bother carrying them with them.
He hands the phone back to Kelly. “These are some photos I took of Harriet Tullman’s social media page. Does she look familiar to you?”
Kelly’s eyes immediately grow large as she looks at the phone. She hands the phone to Patty.
“Oh!” Patty exclaims. She hands it to Nita.
Nita laughs and shakes her head, passing the phone to Freya.
Freya just stares down at the phone, says nothing, and passes it to me.
But I don’t know who this woman is. I don’t recognize her, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen her before. There’s nothing even abnormal about this
But…
If everyone else here recognizes her, it must be someone associated with The Cradle. And who is someone I haven’t met yet that might elicit a reaction like this?
I ask: “Mother?”
“That’s her,” Freya says. “Well, sort of.”
“That’s her face, alright,” Kelly says.
Patty says: “But Mother is more, uh…”
“She’s bold,” Freya says, picking up the thread. “Bigger than life. Powerful.”
“So, then, this picture isn’t of her?” I ask.
“It is her,” Tommy says.
“Maybe it’s, like, a twin sister?” Patty asks.
“I don’t think so,” Nita says. “That’s her. I think, at some point, she just…changed.”
Freya laughs, looking over at Tommy again. “Yeah…I don’t know what to do with this information either.”
There’s some more silence as all of us process what’s been shared so far. It’s a lot to take in, and it's apparent that each of the women are trying to grasp what this means for how they see The Cradle.
Nita’s the one who asks the question to move things forward: “So, what do we do?”
“I’ll tell you what I want to do,” I say. “There’s that cabin by the farmhouse. It used to be a storage shed or something, I guess, but it’s gotten a makeover and there’s a lock on the door now. Either Tommy’s in there, or there’s something else inside of it that the rest of us should probably know about. If someone knows where I can get a crowbar or a hammer, I’ll just rip that door down myself.”
“We should be careful about actions like that,” Freya says. “I mean, I like your spirit. But the second we start taking actions like that, we lose control of everything. Suddenly, Mother and Mirabelle start locking us out of more things. We lose the ability to lead. The residents, ultimately, will suffer.”
I’m ready to retort: “But…”
“I want to do the same thing you do,” Kelly says. “But Freya’s right. We shouldn't take action like that until we have a plan in place. We need to make sure everyone is safe–both ourselves and the residents. Once we start busting down doors, there’s no telling how Mirabelle would react.”
“If she can manipulate us with suggestion, through the milk,” Nita says, “is there more that they can do that we don’t know about yet?”
The cabin is silent again. These are fair points, I suppose. I don’t like them, but they’re questions that would probably need answers before we do anything.
“We should stop serving milk,” Patty says.
“And just how do you propose we do that?” Freya asks.
“We, uh, fake it,” Kelly says. “Swap out Mother’s milk with milk we buy at the store?”
“We don’t have access to the reserves anymore,” Freya says. “And Mirabelle is very cautious about who handles the milk that’s distributed to the residents now. But…it’s not impossible.”
“It’s not a bad idea,” Nita says. “Something we should at least think about.”
I sigh and shake my head. “That takes time. Too much time. Time to plan these things out. Time to implement. Time for the effects to be noticeable. And then what? All this time passes, and I’m not closer to freeing Alfie from whatever captivity he’s in.”
Nita nods, but says: “But if we do things your way…”
“I’m going to bust down that door,” I say, making up my mind on the spot, “whether or not you like it. I’ll take the blame for it. If I come face to face with Mirabelle, I’ll tell her that nobody else had anything to do with it. Worst case scenario, what’s she going to do–kick me out? I’m done here anyways. I’ll take Alfie and be on my way. Meanwhile, your little revolution still needs to happen. Take all the time you need to figure things out. I know everyone around here acts like big babies, but you’re all adults. You can ask questions. You can take action. You can warn everyone here that something shady is going on.”
I’m standing, I realize. I don’t know when I stood up. There’s a part of me that wants to storm out of here and slam the door behind me, but that would be kind of silly, seeing as how it's my cabin.
Freya sighs: “Nikki, maybe we can meet halfway or something? I know Alfie’s important to you–he’s important to all of us. But we still need to be careful about how we go about things.”
Oh, she’s probably not wrong. But I still don’t like hearing it.
But I’m out of patience.
I just want Alfie back.
And a fucking toilet.
“We can all agree that something needs to change here,” Patty says. “No, uh, pun intended.”
Someone–I don’t know who–giggles a little.
She continues: “We need to figure out what our end goal is. Is there a Cradle without Mother or her milk? Do we really want to end this little experiment? No, I don’t think so. I think we just…accountability. We want answers. We want the truth. We want to know the truth about Alfie.”
“And we want to know about the long-term effects of milk,” Kelly says.
Nita adds: “And we want to know why there’s not more transparency with the residents here about how the milk can be used to manipulate.”
“Maybe that’s the take away for tonight,” Freya says. “We define what we want, and we start developing plans on how to get there. Maybe we all think about this, individually, and we meet back here in, say, a week? Nikki, a week’s not too long, is it?”
I sigh. There was a moment where I thought this meeting was going to be constructive, but it’s become everything I was worried it would be. Too many people. Too many ideas. To many concessions that need to be made to make everyone happy.
I can’t hold it against them–they all think they’re doing the right thing. And they may very well be. It’s just not how I want to do things.
I lie: “That’s fine.” Seems to be little point in fighting now.
And so, with the decision for everyone to ‘think more’ before reconvening in a week, everyone slowly filters out of the cabin. In the end, it’s Tommy, myself, and Freya. Freya is at the door, about to leave herself.
“That’s not what you wanted to hear tonight, is it?” she asks.
“No,” I say.
“But you understand why everyone is hesitant to take big swings right away, right?”
“I do,” I say. I don’t say it aloud, but I think: “And I disagree with that.”
She laughs. “But we’re not going to stop you from doing your own thing, are we?”
I snort. “No, probably not. Sorry.” I’m not sorry, but it feels like the right thing to say.
“Oh, no apology needed,” she says, running a hand through her hair. “Go. Wreak whatever kind of havoc you need to.”
“I think we needed to start having these discussions,” she says, “with or without you. But they probably wouldn’t have happened if you weren’t here. So, thank you for that.”
I shrug. “You’re welcome, I guess.”
“You’re right–we’re all adults here,” Freya says. She glances at Tommy, still sitting on the bed in his diaper. “Well, most of us.”
He says: “Hey…”
“We’ll figure it out,” she continues, talking to me again.
I ask: “I meant what I said earlier. If I go kicking doors down, I’ll leave the rest of you out of it if I end up having to answer to anyone.”
She shrugs. “I’m not going to tell you to do that. Do whatever makes sense to you. We’ll figure it out from there.”
Freya looks sad. All the other ‘Mommies’ did as they were leaving the cabin, I think. It’s the realization that the community they’ve worked so hard to build has a spot of rot in it, and the more they uncover, the larger the spot turns out to be. I can guess what they’re biggest fear is: That, by the time they’ve uncovered all the rot, there will be nothing good worth saving.
I’d hope, in that case, that they do the right thing and just throw the whole damn thing away.
Still, I feel for her. “I’m sorry, I say. “I…know this place means a lot to you all. I hope everything works out. For your sakes.”
“I appreciate that, Nikki,” she says. She yawns and looks out the door into the dark night. “I should…probably get going.”
“Right. I’m sure we’ll talk again sooner than later,” I say.
She bites her bottom lip nervously and asks: “How soon until you think you’re going to, uh, do whatever it is you’re going to do?”
“Do you want to know?” I ask. Though, truthfully, I don’t yet have a plan of my own in place.
“No, I suppose not,” she says. “I want to be able to act surprised when I hear about it.”
===
It’s just Tommy and I now.
If we were home, I’d make an ill-advised decision about brewing some coffee or chugging something caffeinated from the fridge instead of going to sleep. I don’t have that option here, but maybe I don't actually need it–the way my mind is working right now, I don’t know if I’ll be getting to sleep regardless.
“Maybe I should be on my way too,” Tommy says, grabbing his pants.
“You’re welcome to stay, if you want,” I say.
“Ooh, a sleepover?” I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic or if that’s genuine excitement in his tone.
“Don’t get any ideas–you’ll have to sleep in your own bed.”
“Do you think you can lend me a pillow?”
“Maybe.”
“Do you want me to stay?” he asks.
This is usually the part where I say “No.” I might even make a snarky comment about him even asking me this.
But I’m still in this longing mood. I miss Alfie. I miss home. I miss the security of normalcy. Maybe some company, in the form of one of the only friends I have at The Cradle, isn’t a bad thing.
“Stay,” I say.
He smirks. Maybe he’s just happy he can stay. Maybe it’s because he knows, on some level, he’s managed a great feat by becoming someone I like enough to let stay with me.
“You’re not going to stink up the cabin, are you?” I ask.
“Uh, no,” he says, cheeks reddening a little. “Well…I’ll try not to.”
“I’m not changing your diaper if you do.”
He laughs. “Well, if you need a hand with your own diapers…”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Probably.”
“I took mine off,” I say. “Fuck that thing.”
He’s laughing again, but he also looks a little disappointed. Maybe he thinks I’m cute in one? Oh well.
===
The cabin’s dark now. I’m lying in the bed, staring up into the darkness. Somewhere else in the cabin, I can hear the sound of Tommy lightly snoring while his still-uncovered diaper crinkles a little every time he shifts his body.
I actually kind of like the background noise. It feels good to not be alone. For as much of a loner as I like to think I am–as I probably actually am in most ways–I still have needs.
But here’s a weird thought: I almost miss the diaper. I didn’t think I would. I mean, I still hate the concept of them and having to play along with everyone else here. But I had almost gotten used to wearing them over the last few days, and it’s not until now, when I’m free of them, that I realize I kind of like the bulk and warmth of them in my pants.
I don’t think I miss them enough to go find one and put it on or anything like that. It’s just a stray thought wandering through my mind as I stare into the nothingness.
I gotta get out of here. Back on the east coast, I doubt I’ll ever find myself missing diapers, of all things.
It’s time. I’ve ‘played the game.’ I’ve met with the Maternal Council. I’ve waited. I think it’s finally time to act.
I think I’ll talk to Mirabelle one more time. Ask one more time to see Alfie. No more wasting time.
I don’t care what excuse she makes, or what possible reason she can throw at me. If I don’t see Alfie after that?
Well…yeah. I’m going to–as the other babies here might put it–throw a temper tantrum.
Forty-Five: Nikki’s Story, Part 12
(Note from QH: For anyone sensitive to such things, this chapter makes references to spousal abuse and violence.)
I’m not proud of it, but I’ve thrown a punch once or twice in my life. Perhaps more, but I allow myself to have selective memory when it comes to my low points.
I tell myself that my violence was justified whenever it occurred, but I still regret it. I think I used to be angrier. Scrappier. A little less in control of myself. I’m not sure what happened to change that, but I’ve certainly changed for the better. I’d like to think I’m cooler and more level-headed now. Maybe age mellows you out. Or alcohol and pot. Or working at a place where you see everyone else getting easily riled up, and you learn a thing or two about the kind of person you don’t want to be.
I punched this guy Harris once. Right in the face. It was a sucker punch–he never saw me coming. And, really, that’s my only regret about that incident. I should’ve let him know what was coming and have given him the chance to defend himself. Hell, I wish he threw the first punch. I would’ve liked for him to have really given me a reason to smack him around.
Whatever. He still deserved what he got.
I barely knew the guy. He was the boyfriend of this girl I knew, Amy. I never really thought of Amy as a friend–I think she was just a co-worker that I got along with–but I think she thought of me as a friend. I don’t know, I sometimes feel awkward about things like that. Am I supposed to make more of a ‘friendship’ effort if I’m not feeling the same way the other person is? Regardless, I at least tolerated her. So when she started showing up to work–this shitty little diner that closed only a few months after it opened–with bruises on her arms and face, I started asking questions. She never came out and said that Harris had been hurting her, but the message was there, in between the lines. I asked if she wanted me to do anything. She said no, she did not. And I didn’t like that answer, but it also wasn’t my life. I thought I could let it go.
But then, the stupid-ass has the audacity to show up at the diner one night while we’re cleaning up after a shift, and berate her for not wanting to give him some cash. I kept my distance, trying not to get involved. At one point, I had kind of tuned the entire nagging conversation out altogether. I couldn’t keep ignoring it when I heard her yelp though, after he had tightly wrapped his hand around her arm in an effort to keep her standing next to him. I have no idea the context of the conversation at this point, all I know is that she’s saying “Stop, you’re hurting me,” and he shows no sign of caring or backing down.
I didn’t even think about it–I just walked over to him, wound up, and…smack. Right in the face. It was harder than I meant it to be, though I have little remorse about that. Immediately, he dropped Amy’s arm and stumbled backwards. His nose was bleeding–or maybe it was his lip? Could’ve been both.
All this to say, if it came down to it again, I’m not above punching someone again. If Mirabelle wants to get in my way, and she’s what stands between Alfie and myself, I’m not above punching her.
Thinking about this, as I walk to the dining hall in the morning after our little meeting in my cabin the night before, I feel my fists clenching at my sides–as if I’m already letting that old violent energy build up inside of me before it's even needed.
Calm down. We’re not there yet. And, with luck, I won’t ever have to be. I don’t actually want to get into fisticuffs with Mirabelle. I just feel like I need to be ready for the worst case scenario.
But in a place like this–where seemingly magical milk turns people into diaper-filling babies–maybe the worst case scenario is actually weirder than I think it is. Maybe it’s not a fist-fight with Mirabelle. Maybe droves of stupified adult babies chase after me like it's a zombie movie–trying to tackle me to the ground before dragging me back to the farmhouse, where Mother is planning on forcing me to drink copious amounts of milk so that I might join their cult.
The thought of zombies takes me back to when Alfie and I were first driving to The Cradle. We knew nothing about where Anders was yet, and we made comments to each other about feeling like we were in a horror movie. Zombies, chainsaws, all of that.
I dunno. Sometimes I think I’d prefer that to diapers.
“You coming to the farm today?” someone asks, a body sidling up to mine at the dining hall.
I’ve been so lost in thought that I don’t even remember entering the dining hall, let alone getting in line for some coffee.
“Oh, hey,” I say to Tess, realizing that she’s the one talking to me right now. “I, uh, have something I need to do first.”
“Yeah, of course,” she says. “No pressure. But if you’re able to make it by later, we could still use the help.”
What I want to say, but don’t, is that I can’t even imagine where I’ll be this afternoon. I could be in a car, driving towards the airport with Alfie at my side. I could be knocked out and stashed away in whatever prison cell Alfie’s sitting in. Hell, for all I know, The Cradle could be on fire in the background as I walk away slowly.
“I’ll see what I can do,” I say.
===
I casually stroll towards the farmhouse; resisting the urge to run or march there with any sort of speed. I need to be calm. I need to be in control of myself.
If I’m being honest, I looked around for tools. I walked around the back of the dining hall, hoping someone might have left out something–anything–that I could use to pry open a door or bust a lock. A hammer. Screwdriver. Crowbar. Axe. Machine gun. I walked around a few other buildings and cabins too, scouting for helpful items. No such luck. Maybe all the good stuff has been stashed away or something.
Whatever. I’ll use my bare hands if I have to. I’ll use a big stick. A rock.
I stand near the door to the little building off to the side of the farmhouse again. This used to be a storage shed, I’m told. But it’s certainly more than that now. I hear the air conditioning unit connected to this building whir.
Last time I was here, Mirabelle came right out, because she saw me on the cameras. She’ll likely see me this time too. She might have already seen me.
I wait. And I wonder how long I’d have to wait before I just kick down the door myself, instead of talking to Mirabelle first.
“It’s always a pleasure to see you, Nikki,” a familiar voice says to me.
There she is. Just as I expected–Mirabelle.
I turn and face her. For a moment, I wonder if I should try and smile politely, but I don’t see any reason in trying to be fake at this point. She gets what Alfie would call ‘the stank eye’–the look of frustrated disgust I’m guilty of weaponizing often. She’s wearing a pair of dark green linen overalls that have a baggy fit on her, and a white top underneath the straps. She has some real camp counselor vibes going on.
“I suppose you know why I’m here,” I say.
“Ah, yes, I take it you were hoping to see Alfie today, hm?”
“Just as I was yesterday,” I say. “And the day before. And the day before that.”
She clicks her tongue and shakes her head sympathetically. “I feel for you, I truly do. You want to see your friend so badly. Can I just say, Nikki? I really commend that. I do.” She clutches her hands to her chest. “It’s an inspiration, you know? I wish everyone was as devoted to their friends as you are to yours. I adore that about you.”
I resist the urge to give any positive reaction to this. She sounds sincere. Maybe she is–I suppose someone can genuinely mean the nice things they say while also being underhanded.
I say: “Mirabelle, I’ve grown tired of asking the same question over and over again. I’ve grown tired of you telling me to wait a little longer.”
“I can imagine that would be upsetting, yes,” she says. “But, you see…”
“No,” I say. “Absolutely not. No more excuses. Today’s going to be the day, Mirabelle. You’re going to let me see Alfie, or I’m going to force my way through that door.”
“Now, Nikki, I don’t think that’s very wise. You have to understand that…”
“I’m not sure that I can make this any simpler,” I say. “Are you going to let me see Alfie right now? Yes or no? That’s all I need to hear.”
“Perhaps the actual answer isn’t as black and white as you want it to be,” Mirabelle says. “Surely you can understand this.”
I snort. “I’m going to assume that’s your way of saying ‘no,’ then.”
“And, if that’s how you choose to interpret my words, what do you plan on doing next?”
I shrug and point to the small building that’s behind me now. “I’m going to bust my way through that door.”
She smirks a little. It’s a hard expression to read. It’s not the most sarcastic of smiles–it’s more condescending than anything else. I’m reminded of the way my mother, once upon a time, sneered when I told her that one day I’d leave home and never come back. It’s a look that says: “Sure, go ahead and try that.”
I turn around and face the door, with its big lock. Could I kick this thing down if I wanted to? I have no idea–I’ve never actually busted a door down before. And the last thing I want to do is embarrass myself by trying and failing.
But then, I’m way too stubborn to just walk away. I’m going to try.
I take a step towards the door.
“Nikki,” Mirabelle says. “Come inside with me. We can go into the farmhouse and I can make us something to eat. Something to drink, maybe?”
“No thank you.”
“Would you like to meet Mother? I can get you some time with her today. Maybe you’d like to hear more about Alfie’s situation from her? I can arrange that.”
I pause. That’s a little tempting. No, I can’t imagine it would be all that helpful of a conversation–I’m sure ‘Mother’ would also try to be manipulating me and feeding bullshit like Mirabelle is. But I’d like the chance to look her in the eye and say something about how I’m done with her and this whole little cult of hers. Maybe I’d say something about how I know about ‘Harriet Tuller’ too, even if I don’t actually know what that means.
And I laugh to myself. I bet that’s exactly what Alfie did. That’s probably why he’s in baby jail right now.
“I’m good, thanks,” I say, continuing to walk towards the door.
“Please,” Mirabelle says, her voice on the verge of cracking–it’s the first time I’ve ever heard her voice without that calculated ‘customer service’ tone in it. “Let’s not do anything rash.”
This gives me strength. Hearing the desperation–even trace amounts of it–in her voice makes me feel like she sees me as an actual threat. There’s a part of her that believes I can do what I say–that I can bust down this door and take Alfie.
At the door, I raise my hands over my head and behind my back. Fully wound up, I swing them forward and down, letting the bottom of my fists crash into the door.
Slam!
I don’t know what I expected to happen–because I’m not so delusional as to think that I’m strong enough to knock down a door with a single blow. But my hands hurt now, and the door seems completely indifferent to swing. I can’t even bear to turn around and see what Mirabelle might be doing. I don’t need to see her smirking or laughing at me for thinking I can bust down this door.
No. I can do this.
I’m going to try again, but I’m going to try something different this time. I take a step or two back, and aim my shoulder at the door.
“That’s enough,” Mirabelle says to me. Her voice is mostly calm and level, though I can hear some restraint. I think she wants to be angrier. “Stop this right now.”
That’s a command, isn’t it? I think it might be. The sort of thing she could say to any other diaper-wearer here at The Cradle, and it’d make them stop in their tracks. Their minds–soft and malleable from all that milk–have no idea how suggestible they are.
I wonder, if I’d actually been drinking the milk, if this command would have any sort of effect on me. Maybe not–I still wouldn’t have been drinking it for all that long.
So I just laugh.
I hear her sighing behind me, disappointed that her command didn’t work.
And now I’m charging forward.
I hear her calling out. “N-no, Nikki…”
Slam! It’s louder than the first time, and the impact is a lot harder. I feel pain radiating through my shoulder and down my arm. The door still stands, which doesn’t seem all that surprising, though I did hear a faint cracking noise. I’ve weakened something, somewhere. If I do this again, maybe I can further weaken it.
“N-Nikki, you can’t do this!” Mirabelle says to me. “Stop!”
I snort. “What are you going to do about it?”
“I, well…”
Mirabelle isn’t used to defiance. No, I bet that’s never been an issue here before. People only come here willingly, and they come here already wanting the experience of being treated like a child. They all roll over so readily. Mirabelle and ‘Mother’ have probably had very little need of their milk-based manipulations, given how everyone would be willing to do what was asked of them in the first place.
Except for me. I get to be the exception to the rule.
It’s an honor.
I take another step or two away from the door, readying myself to ram into it again.
“Nikki,” Mirabelle says. “You have to stop this right now! You don’t know what you’re doing.”
“That’s not true,” I say, aiming my shoulder for the same place I rammed it the first time. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”
I charge forward again, and my shoulder collides with the door.
Slam!
This time, there’s an even louder cracking sound coming from the other side of the door. I think it’s the frame. Another blow or two, and I might be able to actually break it and force the door inward.
My shoulder is killing me, but the feeling of accomplishment is bringing me a lot of strength. I take a step back, and then two more, giving myself even more space to build up momentum with my next ram.
“Alfie!” I yell at the door. “Can you hear me? It’s Nikki. I’m coming in.”
“Nikki, wait,” Mirabelle says, her hand suddenly on my shoulder. It’s a soft touch, and when I look over my shoulder, my eyes meet hers. Yes, she looks desperate, but she looks concerned too.
“What?” I spit. “Are you going to open this door for me, or am I going to have to do it myself? Because I think I’m getting pretty close to making my way inside.”
“Y-you don’t understand,” she says.
“No, you’re right. I don’t. I don’t know why it’s so hard to get an honest answer out of you–but I’ll tell you what I think it means. I’m pretty sure it means you’re up to something shifty, you know? Something you’d want to hide from everyone else.”
She sighs. “Just what do you think you’re going to do when you break through that door, Nikki?”
I shrug. “I’m going to get him out of here. I don’t care if I have to carry him out.”
“He’s going to need more than just being carried,” she says.
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
She sighs again. “M-maybe it really is best that you see what’s going on.”
I can’t help but roll my eyes. “You couldn’t have come to that conclusion before I started ramming myself into this door?”
She reaches into her pockets and produces a keychain. “Come on. I want to show you what’s inside of here.
I step aside, giving Mirabelle access to the door. My shoulder throbs, but I can barely concentrate on that. My heart races and my hands feel sweaty as I hear the key sliding into the lock. Here we go. Finally.
She turns the keys. Click. She pushes the door inwards. Cool air rushes out from the building, cooler than anything I’ve felt in the last few days–even the air conditioned dining hall never feels as good as this. But the burst of air carries scents with it too. Baby powder. A faint staleness. And the odor of dirty diapers–a scent I’ve come to know well since my time here at The Cradle.
“Come with me,” Mirabelle says.
And so I step through the doorway.
===
It’s not a very big space. I already kind of figured this, given the observable dimensions from the exterior, and yet it still seems even smaller once I’m inside of it. I feel like I’m in a shed. A nice shed. Maybe more of a closet than anything.
There’s very little in the way of decoration or aesthetics. The floor has a layer of squishy padding on it, like maybe the mats kids play on in preschool. There’s a changing table–large enough for an adult baby, of course–against one wall, and a crib against the other. There’s a small wooden chest filled with stuffed animals and toys. Some shelves on the walls with stacks of diapers and baby supplies neatly organized on them. The lighting here is soft–just enough to see around, but dark enough that it takes my eyes a moment to adjust to it. The air in here is comfortable here too–not too warm, and not too cold. The most ideal room temperature I could ever ask for.
There are cameras mounted on the walls. I count at least four, but I would bet there are even more that I haven’t noticed yet. A way for Mirabelle to keep an eye on this place from the farmhouse, I guess?
The babyish scent of powder, stale pee, and the musk of dirty diapers past intensifies as I step towards the crib. I see a shape in the center of it, a long shape, swaddled in blankets.
“Is…is that him?” I ask, slowly walking forward.
“It is,” Mirabelle says.
I’m not yet really surprised by any of this. Here, in this place where everyone wears diapers and traipses around while dressed like a baby, this doesn’t seem all that different. The one big difference would be the isolation, though. This room is sequestered from everything else. There must be a good reason for that.
I stand at the edge of the crib and peer in. That’s him, Alfie. My heart aches in my chest and my legs tremble a little–I feel overwhelmed, finally seeing him again after all this time–after all this searching and scheming. His eyes are closed and he’s letting out these little snoring noises as he sleeps.
I start to reach into the crib, ready to shake him in the hopes of waking him up.
“Wait,” Mirabelle says, her arm holding mine back just before I touch him.
I roll my eyes. “What?”
“He’s not going to respond like you want him to.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She opens her mouth, but hesitates.
“Just spit it out,” I say.
“He’s not the Alfie that you know.”
I snort. That hasn’t answered my question at all–she’s only giving me more questions to ask. “I’m going to wake him.”
“Y-you don’t understand…” she starts to say.
But my hand is already down in the crib again, gripping his shoulder as I give his body a little shake. At first, there’s no reaction, and so I shake him again, this time a little harder. “Alfie,” I say. “Wake up.”
His eyes flutter a little before finally opening slowly. For a moment, he looks in my direction, but he seems to be looking past me more than at me. He gazes all around him, like the world is a strange and unfamiliar place to him. There’s a glassy look on his face as he blinks and slowly steers his head around to take in his surroundings.
“Alfie. It’s me–Nikki.”
Alfie opens his mouth, but when a sound finally comes out of it, it’s an unintelligible noise. A “bah” or something similar.
“Alfie…”
“He doesn’t understand you,” Mirabelle says. “And he won’t be talking back. Well…not words that you’d comprehend, at least.”
“Is he doped up or something? What’s wrong with him?”
At the base of the crib, Alfie wriggles slowly from side to side, slowly shedding the blanket that he’s cocooned in. He’s wearing a baby-blue onesie, with an undeniably large bulge where his diaper is.
“There’s nothing wrong with him,” Mirabelle says. “He’s just had…uhm…”
I'm already tired of the constant goading. “What? He’s had what?”
“A lot of milk,” Mirabelle says.
I can’t help but laugh. “So has everyone else here.”
“Yes, but… It was more than anyone else here drinks at any given time. It was a lot, and it was a lot at once. And, well…the effects of doing something like that can be very powerful.”
“What kind of effects?” I ask.
“Well…right now, Alfie’s not exactly…Alfie.”
I snort, annoyed that I’m going to need to ask her to elaborate again.
But to my relief, she continues without being asked to: “He doesn’t know who he is. Where he is. What he is. He’s essentially…”
I sigh, realizing what she’s getting at. Not that I need for her to tell me, I can see it for myself inside of this crib. He’s essentially a baby. An actual, oversized, baby. Helpless. Pathetic. And…
I watch as Alfie’s face scrunches up for a moment, a little extra pink blooming in his determined cheeks, just before there’s a soft rippling sound coming from his diaper.
“It’s a good thing we’re here, then,” Mirabelle says. “Sounds like he’s going to be needing a change in a moment.”
A new smell quickly rolls through the small space–the unmistakable stench of a messy diaper. And it’s the weirdest fucking thing–seeing my best friend lying there like that, helplessly filling his diaper without a thought in the world and with no recollection of me in his eyes whatsoever.
There was a second there where I thought I found him. But…he’s still lost. Lost to himself, really.
“Why?” I ask her. “Why did this happen?”
“It is what Mother required.”
“Why?”
“I…I cannot say. Not even I understand everything that she does. But you have to understand, Mother sees beyond the current, like you and I. She sees everything. She knows all. Everything she does is part of a bigger plan, even if it’s one that we don’t fully understand yet.”
I make no effort to stifle my groan. I’ve heard that before, or something like it. My childhood was rife with people saying things like that to explain everything they didn’t like. People can believe whatever they want to, I suppose–but I told myself a long time ago that I wasn’t going to buy into mysterious ‘masterplans.’
“This is why I wasn’t ready for you to see Alfie,” Mirabelle says. “I knew it was going to be hard to explain this to you.”
“So you were going to just…keep leading me on? Making false promises about seeing him the next day? And when the next day came, you’d kick it to the day after that? And so on and so forth forever?”
“We, uhm, weren’t prepared for your tenacity, I suppose. I was thinking that we’d eventually be able to buy ourselves some time with the, er…”
“With the milk,” I say, finishing her thought. “Is that it? You were hoping that I’d drink enough milk that you’d eventually be able to just make me not care about Alfie?”
Mirabelle sighs, but doesn’t say anything for a moment. The only sound to be heard is that of Alfie’s dirty diaper rustling as he wiggles around inside of it.
“You’re not drinking the milk, are you?” Mirabelle says to me.
“No.”
“I wondered if that might happen. But, I remained hopeful that you would.”
“Sorry to disappoint.”
“But do you see why Alfie can’t leave here?” she asks. “He needs care and attention. And he gets that here. Everything he could possibly need. I know that you care for him, Nikki. But are you prepared to bring him back home in this state? Are you prepared for the work needed to take care of him?”
“It’ll wear off,” I say. “...right?”
“It… It’s hard to say,” she says. “It could be a long time. A very long time. So long that it might even be…permanent.”
I snort. “Bullshit. No way. You’re just saying that to scare me.”
“Look at him, Nikki. For now, like it or not…this is who Alfie is. And I don’t know if anything’s going to change that. Not any time soon.”
“No,” I say. “I’ll take him out of here. I’ll carry him back to the easy coast in my arms if I have to. I’ll take him to doctors. I’ll do whatever it takes to get him to snap out of whatever state you put him in. I’ll…”
“You can’t take him, Nikki. He needs to be cared for, and he’ll have that care–that special kind of care–right here.”
“Sorry, he’s not yours to keep,” I say.
“Well, no, he’s not mine,” Mirabelle says. “But he’s Mother’s.”
“She’s welcome to come here and try to stop me from taking Alfie,” I say. “But otherwise, he’s coming with me.”
Mirabelle opens her mouth again, ready to say something else, when the door behind us opens, letting in the bright light of the outdoors. Someone walks into this already cramped space, closing the door behind them. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust again, though I feel like I might already have an idea as to who this new visitor is.
Speak of the devil…
Mirabelle speaks first. “M-Mother! I was just explaining to Nikki that…”
“Perhaps it's time that Nikki and I have had a conversation,” the woman says.
“Yes,” Mirabelle says, nodding her head as she begins to skirt past Mother, bringing her closer to the door. “Should I leave? Let the two of you talk in private?”
“Yes,” Mother says. “But don’t go too far. You’ll need to change the little one’s diaper soon enough.”
===
Time seems to freeze for a moment, and I’m stuck in this indefinite second where I’m just gawking at her. Yes, she does look familiar to me, even if I’ve never met her before–I’m reminded of the photos that were on Tommy’s phone last night. Harriet Tuller.
But this woman might resemble her, but I don’t think that it is her. This woman seems larger than life. Tall and powerful. Confidence that surrounds her like a glowing aura. The semi-transparent black robe she wears lets me see her perfect skin, her round tits, and her flat belly. Her perfect posture. Her sculpted face.
Yes, there’s a reason she’s the leader here. Just looking at her makes a small part of myself feel like I, too, should be worshipping her.
“I’ve been watching you since you’ve arrived,” the woman says. Her voice is calm and understated. It’s almost like she has to restrain herself–as if inflecting any amount of emotion in her tone would be too much for human ears to tolerate, and we’d go insane from it.
I want to say something snarky, but it’s tough to think straight in her presence. I can’t tell if I just need a moment to collect myself or…if it’s something else. Maybe it’s not crazy to think that a woman capable of producing psychedelic milk also has an aura capable of affecting the psyche of those around her.
“I admire you,” Mother says. “Strong. Independent. Brave. But, alas, I don’t know that there’s a place for you in a place like this.”
“Yes, well, I’d agree with that,” I say. “That’s why I’m trying to leave.”
“The Cradle is just the start,” she says to me. “I don’t think you realize that just yet. I think very few do. Eventually, I’ll have so much more than just The Cradle. Maybe, wherever it is you call home, will one day be mine too. And on that day, I’ll still have no use for someone who refuses to obey. It would be so much easier if you allowed yourself to become one of us now, Nikki.”
I snort. “I…I don’t think so.”
“Drink the milk,” she says, reaching to her chest and grasping one of her tits through the mesh robe. I see a blob of white forming at the nipple, dripping out and wetting the robe itself. “I promise that you’ll like it.”
“No,” I say. “I’m not going to.”
She steps towards me. “Just a taste, Nikki. I understand why you’d be so hesitant–being such a strong and stoic woman. But don’t you get tired of it? Don’t you get tired of being the one in charge? The one who has to assert dominance? The one who has to make decisions? The one who has to always keep your composure?”
I say nothing, but I swallow. Yes. That is a lot. Yes, it’s something I do get tired of sometimes. It’s hard to always be stoic. To be a realist. To be proactive. To be pragmatic.
But that’s who I am. And I don’t want to be anyone else, no matter how hard it is.
But…
Maybe there is a small part of me that yearns for the feeling of just…letting someone else take the reigns.
Wait. Do I actually feel that way? Or is she, like, doing something to me?
She says: “Come closer, Nikki. Just once, allow yourself to let go of everything.”
And I take a small step towards her.
I honestly have no idea if I want to take her up on her offer, or if she’s making me think that I am.
“Alfie,” I say, as if calling out to him for help. A silly gesture, I know–but it’s the only thing I can think to do as Mother’s milky breast seems to get closer and closer to my face.
“Nikki,” a voice mutters softly.
Is that… It is. That’s Alfie’s voice. I spin around, seeing the body in that giant crib starting to sit up.
“Alfie!” I’ve snapped out of whatever brief haze I felt myself slipping into.
“Nikki,” he says. “Y-you… You have to…”
I rush to the side of the crib. “What? What is it, Alfie?”
“You have to…drink the milk.”
Suddenly I know, deep in my soul, that this is not Alfie. Not the Alfie I know, at least.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, feeling stuck between Mother and ‘Alfie’ in the crib. Coming to California. All this planning and plotting. Building these relationships. Was it all so that I would just end up here–falling into the same trap that Alfie might have?
I was a fool to have come here.
===
Like I said at the top, next week starts a new story arc here in the pages of Milk!, once more returning the focus of the story to our boy Alfie.
Of course, folks who are subscribed to my Ream Stories page are already pretty deep into this next arc. And you could be too! Check out the link below and subscribe to check out not only new chapters of this story, but the hundreds of other stories I've shared with my readers.
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Once upon a time, Thomas Pritchard did something foolish. And, like most fools, he didn’t intend for everything to go as bad as it did. But with hindsight being 20/20 and all, it was clear to him now where things had gone a bit off the rails.
One morning, he wore a diaper to the office he worked at. He didn’t just wear it–he flaunted it. He wore pants that were too small, so as to make the diaper’s bulge even bigger. He let the back of the diaper poke out from the back of his pants. He took the longest route possible to his desk that morning, giving as many co-workers as he could the chance to see what he was wearing. Then, later in the morning, he stood up from his chair, squatted down next to his desk and grunted as he filled the back of his diaper. The goal was to then walk–waddle, really–over to the CEO’s office, one Gabrielle Heller, and demand that he get his diaper changed. Though, it’s at this part of the story–right around the time he actually messed himself at his desk–that his memories get a little fuzzy. People were panicking and gawking. The lady from HR was there, trying to corral him somewhere else. Maybe there had been some sort of physical altercation, it’s hard to say now–but the aftermath was him standing there in his office, pants around his knees, and his dirty diaper on display to all of his co-workers.
It’s a story that’s probably been told a thousand times by everyone else who was there. Though it’s one that he’s never really told himself. He’s come close a few times–giving small morsels of it to both Alfie and Nikki. But he’s torn on whether or not he’d ever want to tell the whole story. Because the whole story is long and complicated.
He sometimes wonders how far back he’d have to go to have the story make sense to someone. Maybe the story starts when he first meets Clark Ashburn–an intern at the company he worked for, who ended up being the catalyst for the strange turn his life took after. And, well, he did have a lot of resentment for Clark and the attention he got. But that’s not actually the start of the story either.
Maybe the story starts when he was in college, and he had spent the better part of a semester trying to break out of his antisocial shell to woo Jasmine Pickford, whom he was spending hours every week studying with–only to catch her on her hands and knees in his own bed, getting railed from behind by his own roommate.
Or, maybe the story starts in high school, when the friends group he had been a part of for years suddenly decided that they were way more interested in smoking pot, drinking beer, and stealing shit than they were in playing Tekken with him on his PlayStation–causing a rift that was never bridged.
The story might even start even earlier than that, like when he was eight years old and spending the summer with his grandmother–as he had for the summer’s previous to that. Those previous summers had been joyous marathons of being coddled and spoiled, but for this particular summer he was joined by his toddler cousin Melissa, who got all the coddling and spoiling and naught but a cold shoulder from his grandmother.
In a nutshell, the problem had always been that he felt overlooked and ignored. Desirable until someone, or something, better came along–at which point he was just discarded and forgotten about.
Those years and years of feeling rejected had taken their toll on Thomas, culminating in him acting like a fool at his office. Ironic, he sometimes supposes, that he would be remembered and talked about now–but only as the ‘diaper-guy’ who humiliated himself.
If he’s being honest, he sometimes feels a little overlooked at The Cradle too. He isn’t one of the ‘cool’ babies. He sometimes worries that he isn’t given so many tasks and errands to do because they trust him, but because he’s a doormat that can be easily walked all over.
But he’s a lot happier these days anyways. The Cradle isn’t that much different than the rest of the world, when he thinks about it. A little stinkier. A little quieter at night. But it’s still people just being people.
He is the one that’s changed. His little stunt in his old office gave him pause and forced him to do a lot of reflecting. Why was he always so determined to make people like and accept him? Why did it matter if people paid attention to him? Wouldn’t it be better if he was just…himself?
So, yeah. He’s going to call himself ‘Tommy’ now. Not ‘Tom.’ Not ‘Thomas.’ He’s going to dress up like a country boy when he feels like it. He’s going to take ill-advised shots at girls that are probably out of his league. He’s going to let himself be a little corny and goofy. He’s going to continue to embrace diapers–which he likes far more than he ever thought he would.
And The Cradle is an exceptional place to practice being yourself, he’s found.
He’s made friends here. One in particular, Alfie, is a friend in the truest sense–someone who seems to accept him, warts and all. Someone who trusts him. The kind of friend Tommy hasn’t had in a very long time–or maybe ever.
When Alfie seemingly vanished that night, right after driving that truck of milk back to The Cradle, Tommy had convinced himself that nothing nefarious was happening. This was The Cradle, after all–it’s home. It’s the inspiration for him living his best life. It’s the place where he gets to start over after burning his old life to the ground.
And then Nikki showed up, reminding him of how strange things actually were around here. Alfie needs help. And who to better help him than his friend?
Tommy’s been a fool before–maybe he’s even been a fool his entire life. But he thinks this time is going to be different. He’s going to make sure that he doesn’t look back at this part of his life with regret.
He’s going to do whatever he can to make sure Alfie’s okay. And that’s how he knows he’s grown–because he finally recognizes that all his previous disappointments came after only caring about his own needs.
===
Tommy pulls his pickup to the curb in front of Celia’s house. He had stopped by the diner first, but was told that she wasn’t working today. That was good news–it was probably better that he didn’t have to hassle her while working.
Now that he’s got some reception on his phone, he was thinking he could just search for the name ‘Harriet Tuller’ on it. But when he tried in the diner parking lot, he was underwhelmed by the results he was getting–not to mention that his small screen was just making it hard to parse the websites he was looking at, making him think he was missing details. Doing this on a bigger screen seemed necessary. Nikki was right to suggest Celia’s help.
“Tommy,” Celia says when she opens the door. For the first time in as long as he can remember, she doesn’t seem to cringe when she looks at him–the way she usually did when she saw him at the diner. Understandable, he supposes–he probably laid it on a little thick with his flirting. Though, in his defense, flirting is still a relatively new thing for him to be doing; he’s not all that great at it yet.
Instead, there’s a look of concern on her face. He immediately realizes what it might be–she sees him as the bearer of bad news. As if there’s no other reason he’d be at her door right now.
“Alfie?” she asks, when he doesn’t immediately say anything.
“No news there, really,” he says. “But Nikki and I are working on some leads.”
She nods, her face still looking disappointed.
“But there was something I was hoping you could help me out with.”
There, he sees a little spark in her eye. She lifts her head up, already eager to help in any way that she can. “Yes, of course. What do you need?”
Alfie mentioned a name to me a while ago. Maybe he mentioned it to you too? Harriet Tuller?”
Celia considers this for a moment and shrugs. “I don’t know who that is. Should I?”
“That’s what I’d like to know too. I got the feeling that Alfie thought there was something important about that person, but he–you know–went off the radar before I could get any more information from him. Nikki and I have asked around The Cradle to see if anyone else recognized the name, but I know that I haven’t had any luck.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know her either,” she says, disappointment creeping over her face again. “Sorry you drove all the way out here for me to say that.”
“Well, I was thinking that maybe you could help me do some research? Maybe we could look for her online with your laptop?” It occurs to Tommy now that he’s just assuming that Celia owns a computer of some sort. But who doesn’t these days? Besides, this was Nikki’s idea, and she spent some time here at Celia’s place–she’d probably know if Celia didn’t have a computer.
“Come inside,” she says, nodding. “Let’s see what we can do.”
There’s someone else sitting in the living room–a young woman he doesn’t recognize at first, though she’s certainly familiar-looking.
Oh right. Sloane is here. Nikki had mentioned this to him. It seemed like Nikki trusted her to some degree, and so he figured he should probably do the same. Still, he had heard the stories about how she had betrayed The Cradle, and those were hard to set aside. He wondered what she was still doing here.
“Hey,” he said, nodding at her.
“Hey,” Sloane said.
“Look, I’m not a private investigator or anything,” Celia says, retrieving her laptop from another room and carrying it over the coffee table in the living room. “I don’t know the first thing about looking people up online. But I’ll do my best.”
Sloane’s eyes grow bigger. “Looking for someone online? M-maybe I can help.”
Celia chuckles a little. “Is this something you know a thing or two about?”
Sloane shrugs, her cheeks getting a little pink. “Maybe. I’m a little guilty of doing some cyber-stalking in my free time. Checking up on exes and old friends.”
“Sounds creepy,” Tommy says.
“Honestly, it’s more pathetic than creepy,” Sloane says. “I guess I’m always hoping to see people living more miserably than I am. But it rarely works out that way. Usually, I’m the one left feeling miserable.”
“I ran a search for her name,” Celia says, looking at the laptop’s screen. “Harriet Tuller, right? These search results seem like junk.”
“It is,” Sloane says. “That’s your first mistake. All these sites in the results just want to sell you access to information that’s been taken from public records. You want to find someone, you look on social media.”
Sloane motions for Celia to pass the laptop to her, and when she has control of it, she navigates to one of the social media sites. “I have to log you out of your account, okay? I don’t want anyone seeing that your account was looking for this person.”
“That can happen?” Celia asks.
Sloane shrugs. “Better safe than sorry, right? I have an account that I use just for this purpose.”
She logs into the site with her own credentials, pulling up the profile of someone named Addison Langley. There’s a picture there that isn’t of Sloane. A whole profile’s worth of details that are likely fabricated. Tommy, standing behind the couch and watching the computer over the girls’ shoulders, even notes that ‘Addison’ has more friends than he does on his own profile.
“This is…quite elaborate,” Celia says.
Sloane’s cheeks get a little more red. “It’s nothing I’m proud of, okay?”
With her secret identity logged in, she searches for the name ‘Harriet Tullman.’ A list of potential profiles show.
“Shit,” Celia says. “How would we ever know which is the one Alfie talked about?”
“Uhm…I think that answers the question right there, doesn’t it?” Tommy asks, his finger pointing at one of the profiles. Sloan’s eyes immediately grow and she lets out a little gasp.
“Who is that supposed to be?” Celia asks.
Tommy says: “Well…that’s Mother.”
===
Harriet Tuller is 30 years old and supposedly lives in the small town of North Grey, Michigan. She’s an operator at a customer service support hotline for a credit card company. She likes police procedurals on TV, hiking, reading, Elton John, Mexican food, and Disney movies.
Either she doesn’t use social media very often, or she just doesn’t know many people. She has a low follower count, and when scrolling through her timeline, most of it is just out-of-context photographs and short messages. Each has only a smattering of likes and reactions.
A picture of a hot air balloon hovering above a park, taken from the ground.
A picture of some fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies with the caption: “Please don’t make me eat these by myself :)”
A post that reads: “It was good seeing you, Janny. Safe travels back home.” A response, from Janet Layton reads: “Thanks again for having me, Harriet! You’re the best! I’ll let you know how things go with Garbage-Man.”
But it would seem that Harriet hasn’t been active on her profile in a few years now. Six? Seven? This, by itself, wouldn’t be all that concerning to Tommy–he rarely updates his own profiles anymore. A few years could easily slip by without him caring much about it. The concerning part are the messages at the top of the timeline–the messages left for her by other people.
“It’s been a while since I’ve heard from you,” says Mary Tuller, likely of some relation to Harriet. “I miss you.” That post came two years ago.
Last summer, Janet Layton asked: “Does anybody know what happened to Harriet?” The response to that comes from one Mirabelle Hapsbergen, two months later, who says: “Harriet is doing just fine, thank you for asking! She doesn’t get online very much anymore, but wanted me to pass along the message that she’s okay and that she hopes to talk to you soon!”
There is no response from Janet Layton.
“Mirabelle,” says Sloane. But when they click on her profile, they see that it’s restricted to only being able to be seen by friends. “Do I dare try to add her?”
“Is there any way she can trace the profile to you?” Tommy asks.
“I don’t think so,” she says. “But I’m not an expert on these sorts of things.”
“And who is Mirabelle?” Celia asks. “And…Mother?”
Tommy chuckles a little, rightfully assuming it’d be complicated to try and explain everything to Celia. “They’re the ones in charge. More or less.”
“But here they are, looking almost like normal people,” Sloane says. “I can’t get over Mother–er, Harriet’s–profile. She looks…”
“Nerdy,” Tommy says. He thinks of the way he’s seen Mother at The Cradle–this tall and imposing woman who just seems to radiate power from her every pore. And that’s not who he sees in the online profile. Here, Harriet comes off as kind of lonely and unassuming. If he squints his eyes, he supposes he can believe that Harriet and Mother are the same person. But how does someone go from a mundane life of answering phones and baking cookies to overseeing a community of people who regress to babies when they drink milk from her breasts?
What the hell happened there?
“How did Alfie know her name?” Celia asks.
“I don’t know,” Tommy says. “But he’s a writer, right? A reporter? Like, that’s what he does. He investigates.”
“Do you think he knew too much?” Sloane asks. “Maybe that’s why something happened to him. He knows things he isn’t supposed to know.”
“Yes,” Tommy says, shaking a finger at the screen. “I bet you’re exactly right.”
“But how does knowing someone’s name, or about their previous life, matter?” Celia asks. “How is that knowing too much? It’s not like she was a spy or a government official. She was just some chick with a boring job like everybody else.”
“It’s not about who she was,” Sloane says. “It’s about who she is now. She doesn’t want anyone to know that she was once normal–she fears it would undermine the authority and power she has over The Cradle for people to see her as one of them.”
“Maybe,” Tommy says. He feels like they’re close to something. Closer than they–or anyone else–has ever been to learning the truth of The Cradle. They’re just missing a piece or two of the puzzle.
“So what now?” Celia asks him.
“I need to go back and talk to Nikki. I don’t know what the next steps are, but maybe she’ll have some good ideas. Maybe we go and talk to Mirabelle and…”
“That doesn’t seem like a good idea,” Sloane says. “For all we know, that’s what Alfie did, and now he’s been jammed in some secret nursery.”
“Good point,” he says, sighing. It’s still a little hard to accept that The Cradle–a source for so much goodness in the lives of many–has a vein of darkness running through it. It’s even harder to accept when he’s not even sure what the ‘darkness’ is. It’s not like they know of a sinister master plan or anything. There’s secrets–but what are those secrets protecting? “Do you have a printer, Celia? Can I print some of these pictures out?”
“It’s not a very good printer,” Celia says.
Tommy takes out his phone instead, snapping a few pictures of the computer screen with it. “This should do.”
“Whatever it is you’re going to do,” Sloane says, “I want in.”
“Likewise,” Celia adds.
“I’ll talk to Nikki,” he says. “We’ll regroup. We’ll come back to you two and we’ll hash it all out.” He starts to walk towards the door.
“You just got here,” Celia says. “Are you leaving now?”
“Ah, well…”
“I was going to make some dinner. Stick around and join us?”
“Well…” Yeah, maybe that’s not a bad idea. Nikki knows how to take care of herself, and this information can probably wait a few more hours at this point. Not only is Celia being nice to him, but she’s inviting him to stay for dinner–it feels like an offer he shouldn’t refuse. He smiles. “What’s on the menu?”
===
Dinner was good, if not a little awkward. Tommy couldn’t help but feel like a third wheel–not knowing either woman well enough to push the conversation beyond small talk, while they had no issue chattering amongst themselves. It wasn’t like they were trying to be rude–they tried to include him as often as they could–but the whole thing just felt a little stilted and unnatural.
When dinner is finished, Tommy practically begs Celia to let him take care of the dishes, but she turns him down.
“Don’t take it personally,” Sloane says with a smirk. “I think she just has a particular way of doing it, and it makes her anxious to have anyone else handle it.”
“It’s therapeutic,” Celia says, gathering the dishes from the table. “I need mindless chores sometimes. It helps me process things. And, you know, I don’t have that many dishes to wash when I’m here by myself.”
Tommy’s a little curious about what sorts of things Celia has to process, but he knows that’s none of his business. Maybe it’s the same stuff that everyone else in this house is processing: How the hell did we get caught in this weird world of diapers and magical milk?
When Celia is nearer the sink, Tommy leans towards Sloane. In a hushed tone: “Hey, can I ask you something?”
“Sure,” she says, matching his low volume.
“I, uh, might have an extra diaper or two in the glovebox of the truck, but if you have one in the house I could use…”
“I have some,” she says, nodding. “They’re not as good as the ones from The Cradle though–but they do the trick. Are you…wet?”
“Uh, yeah,” he says, running a hand through his hair while his face warms. He’s more than just ‘wet,’ though–he’s soaked. Somewhere during their meal, he wet his already damp diaper pretty heavily.
Celia tries to keep a straight face, but ends up chortling behind her hand just before turning the faucet on.
“She has ears like a hawk,” Sloane says. “FYI.”
Tommy sighs, his cheeks glowing a little.
“It’s not a big deal,” Sloane says. “When I was coming off of the milk, she heard all about my dirty diapers.”
“And saw them,” Celia says from the sink. “And smelled them. And not just Sloane’s. Aflie’s, too. Trust me, it’s nothing I haven’t seen for myself already.”
Sloane shrugs. “See? No big deal. Come with me, I’ll get you a new diaper.”
Tommy follows her out of the kitchen and across the house to the spare bedroom. He feels a little guilty, leaving Celia behind to deal with the cleanup of dinner alone, but she’s already humming a little song to herself, so maybe she really is okay with it.
In the spare room–a barely decorated, but adorably quaint little space, Sloane pulls out a package of adult diapers from under the bed, shoving the whole thing into Tommy’s chest. “Here. You can have them all.”
“I only need one,” he says, laughing a little. “Besides, don’t you need them?”
“I still have occasional accidents,” she says, shrugging. “The milk lasts a little longer than you think it does. I still have another pack, though. I’m finally starting to wear panties again during the day. It’s actually kind of wild to not feel that bulk between your legs.”
“Congratulations on the potty training,” he says, smirking.
“It might happen for you someday,” she says, shrugging. “If you want it to.”
“I don’t know what I want anymore,” he sighs, not realizing until a moment after the words came out of his mouth that he was responding to more than what she just said.
She lifts her eyebrows a little, looking invested and curious. “Having some doubts about things?”
“I really thought The Cradle was the utopia I craved, you know? The place I could go and finally be myself. But I’m starting to wonder if I was wrong about this too.”
“Take this with a grain of salt,” she says, “considering how I didn’t go to The Cradle because I wanted to be a big baby. But there’s a lot of genuinely good people there that can be trusted. If there weren’t, I probably wouldn’t feel as bad for doing what I had.”
“That’s true,” he says, staring down at the open package of diapers he cradled in his arms now. “But what if milk and Mother turns out to be some sort of…I don’t know…scam? That’s the heart of everything. What is The Cradle without its heart?”
Sloane considers this for a moment and then nods. “Yeah, that’s a really good question. And a part of me wonders if every person at The Cradle is going to have to answer that question for themselves some day.”
“I guess,” Tommy says. She might be right, but it’s hard to think about the big picture when he’s so often stuck thinking about his own identity.
Seeming to read his thoughts, Sloane adds: “But I know what that’s like to be questioning who you are, or where you belong.”
He looks up from the diapers. “Yeah?”
She nods. “It’d be nice if I just knew where ‘home’ was for once. It’d be nice if I had a real job. Friends. Family. When I, uh, helped to steal the milk…that was for my family, you know? But I couldn’t even do that right.”
Tommy knew a little of her story, bits and pieces he had put together from what Nikki had mentioned to him after she spent some time here with Celia and Sloane.
She laughs. “God, I’m sorry. Listen to me–making this a pity party about myself…”
“No, it’s okay,” Tommy says. “Honestly, it’s kind of good to hear that I’m not the only one who’s struggling with who I am or where I belong.”
“There’s dozens of us,” she says with a smirk. “Dozens.”
He laughs a little, happy to recognize the pop-culture morsel. It reminds him of a different time in his life, when he owned a TV, listened to podcasts, and knew what movies were playing at the theater. What has he missed? Is there a Toy Story 9 right now?
“Maybe I should, uh…” He looks down at the diapers again.
“Do you want some help?” she asks.
He blushes again. “N-no, I think I can manage on my own.”
“Let me help you,” she says. She seems to mean it in a friendly way, but it comes out sounding a little like a command.
Tommy’s eyes grow big, a slight look of vacancy in them. He drops the pack of diapers onto the ground. He says, simply: “Okay.”
She looks confused for a moment, in seeming disbelief that he’s really just rolling over that fast, suddenly willing to let her change him.
“Shit,” she mutters.
Tommy blinks his eyes a few times, as if suddenly waking up from a brief sleep. “What the hell was that?”
“Tommy…”
“Did you do something to me? It was like you told me to let you change you, and there was this overpowering voice in my head telling me that I had to let you do that.”
“Alfie didn’t tell you…” she says.
“Tell me what?”
“No, of course he wouldn’t have,” she says to herself, thinking aloud. “He disappeared right after he got back to The Cradle, right? After he brought the truck back?”
“More or less.”
She sighs. “That night–just before he took the truck–he was confronting this girl, Casey, who was in the group I was a part of. The one’s stealing the milk?”
“Okay?”
“She made Alfie do things with commands. Like, she told him to stop moving, and he did. She told him to give her his phone and he… Well, he almost did that too, but I think he fought the urge and dropped his phone on the pavement instead.”
Tommy recalls when he and Nikki stood in that very parking lot a few days ago and noticed the broken glass from the screen. They were right to speculate that it was part of Alfie’s phone.
“So what are you saying?” he asks. “That this girl…made Alfie do things that he didn’t want to do? She had some sort of power? That you have that power too?”
“No, no,” she says. “It’s not like that. Casey said that if someone’s consumed enough milk, they were susceptible to being ordered to do things. Anyone could take advantage of that if they knew to.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Tommy says, shaking his head. “So, like, because I’ve drank a lot of milk, you could tell me to do something and…”
“Tommy, touch your nose,” she says.
He does this.
“Tommy, walk in place.”
And he does this too. He looks down at his legs incredulously, horrified by the betrayal of his own body.
“Stop,” she says, putting an end to the marching.
“This…this isn’t good,” he says.
“I know.”
“Y-you didn’t think to tell anyone?”
“I didn’t know who I could talk to,” she says. “You know damn well that there isn’t anyone at The Cradle who’d want to see my face right now.”
“That’s true,” he says, stroking his chin. “But this is…big. This is important for people to know. I need to tell everyone about this.”
“You need to be careful,” Sloane says. “You have to assume that Mother and Mirabelle know this. And if they’re not telling anyone else about it, you have to assume that it’s because they want to exploit it. You start telling people, and the wrong people find out you know something you shouldn’t…?”
“You think that’s what happened to Alfie?” he asks. “He knew too much?”
“That makes sense,” she says, nodding. “They don’t want him around everyone else because they don’t want him to talk about the things he knows.”
“I have to at least tell Nikki,” he says. “I need to go back right now.”
“Hold on, hold on,” she says, putting a hand on his shoulder. “One thing at a time. You smell like pee–you should change into a new diaper first.”
“That’s the last thing I can focus on right now,” he says.
“If you can’t focus on a diaper, you probably can’t focus on driving either. Lie down on the bed, Tommy. I’m going to change your diaper.”
“But…I…” He’s nodding his head. There’s a part of him that wonders if he’s doing this because he really does think it’s a good idea, or if he only thinks so because of the milk’s influence on his mind. “You have to be careful, Sloane. P-please don’t make me do anything I don’t want to do.”
“Right,” she says. “Sorry…you’re right about that. I’ll leave you alone if you want to take care of things yourself.”
“No, wait… Maybe, uh, I could use a hand. If you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind at all,” she says.
Moments later, he’s lying on the guest room’s bed, on a changing mat that Sloane’s rolled out for him. Perhaps that was another thing Celia picked up for Sloane at some point–something to keep the sheets clean during the necessary diaper changes. It’s a little weird to have Sloane–a stranger, and a woman seen as many in The Cradle–standing between his legs and untaping his dirty diaper, but since coming to California he’s had his diaper changed by so many different faces he can’t even remember them all.
Maybe she’s not all that bad, he thinks as she carefully slides a moist baby wipe over his limp manhood. She doesn’t make any jokes or commentary at his expense–she seems to do everything she can to keep him comfortable and feeling safe.
And it’s working.
===
Later, as he drives back towards The Cradle–fresh padding under his bottom now–he thinks about that foolish thing he did, once upon a time. Too, he thinks about all the things in his life that lead up to that moment. All the mistakes, second-guesses, betrayals, and perceived slights that would eventually make him think it was a good idea to poop his pants in front of all his co-workers in the hopes of getting a little attention.
It’s getting harder and harder to recognize the person that he used to be.
“And so who am I now?” he asks aloud, to nobody in particular.
HIs thick diaper crinkles beneath him as he hits a bump in the road, though he barely notices.
But he wonders if he isn’t asking himself the wrong question. The near-constant search for his own identity is exhausting. Just as is the constant search for home and a place where he belongs.
He thinks he might be better served by building the home that he wants to live in, and helping the people that he cares for. And somewhere in that process, he’ll just know who he is now.
He’s going to tell Nikki everything he knows. And then, together, they’re going to figure out what to do next from the list of the things to do.
At the top of that list?
Save Alfie.
And then, save The Cradle from itself.
Forty-Three: Nikki’s Story, Part 10
Sitting around and waiting for Freya in my cabin, as the world around me gets quieter and darker, gives me time to think. It’s not something I want to be doing–I think I’ve done far too much thinking on this little excursion as it is–but I’m having trouble with just shutting off my brain.
I might be a little homesick, I think.
I miss the apartment I share with Alfie. I miss the comfortable contours I’ve worn into my mattress. I miss my favorite travel coffee cup that I use almost every day. I miss the way our TV makes a mildly alarming clicking noise when you first turn it on.
I miss the stupid in-jokes that Alfie and I had. The ones’ so obscured by time that we probably couldn’t even tell you why we originally found them funny. Like when one of us asks the other if they prefer cake or pie, and the answer is ‘donuts.’ We still say it, and we still laugh about it, but the hell if I know where that even came from.
I don’t miss the concept of ‘work’ itself, but I do miss the routine of a normal day. You don’t realize how comforting the banality of life is until you’re thrust into a situation where every single moment feels weird and new.
I want to be thinking about paying bills right now, not about diapers.
I want to use a fucking toilet.
In an alternate universe where Alfie never flew across the country to ‘save’ his brother-in-law, we might be chilling in the apartment right now. Just another night. We’ve got some cans of beer in our hands, and I’m pretending to watch whatever foreign language film Alfie’s got on the TV at the moment–probably something he’s never seen before himself, read a positive review of once, and bought a Blu-Ray for sight-unseen. I’ll go to bed when I’m tired enough, blasting the air conditioning in my room because I like both the white noise of it and the arctic temperature it produces. I’ll probably slide my hand between my thighs before drifting to sleep, and I’ll never actually know if I reached climax or if I fell asleep before that happened.
Instead, I’m just waiting in the dark. Wearing a diaper.
I hear the faint sound of footsteps outside, little grinding noises coming from the gravel pathways.
This is her, I just know it.
Sure enough, there’s a light tapping on the door a moment later.
“Come in.” I turn on the small light on the bedside table to create a little more light in the cabin.
As expected, it’s Freya. She’s wearing an oversized gray sweatshirt–hood pulled up over her hair. It seems a tad too warm for that, but I think it has less to do with keeping her warm and more to do with helping her look inconspicuous as she traversed across The Cradle. Even in the dark, any bit of light on her red hair would give her away.
Which yields the question: Just who is she trying to avoid?
“I hope you don’t mind me coming here,” she says.
“I don’t,” I say.
“After I had dropped off the note, I realized that it probably would’ve been better to give you an option, you know? I could’ve had you meet me somewhere else, so that if you wanted nothing to do with my request, you could’ve just not come.”
“It’s really okay,” I say. “I’m not upset that you’re here.”
“So, do you need a change?” she asks, smirking. It’s a joke, I think.
“N-no.” Though I’m certainly thinking of the last time I saw her, and the things she did with me.
“How long have you been in that diaper?” she asks.
“A while,” I shrug. “But I haven’t, uh…” I laugh a little. “There’s a puddle behind the cabin. Watch your step if you go back there for any reason.”
She laughs. “Noted.”
“I’m going to guess that you didn’t come here just because you wanted to check my diaper.”
“You’re right,” she says. “Though I would’ve. And, well, the offer is still on the table if you do happen to need one before I leave.”
“I’ll take that under consideration,” I say.
“I should probably get to the point,” she says. “Things have been a little strange around here for the last few weeks.”
I say: “Stranger than they usually are.”
She chuckles and nods. “To say the least.” She takes a second to compose herself before starting again: “Alfie being, you know, whisked away like he was–it didn’t sit well with a lot of us.”
“And ‘us’ is…”
“The Maternal Council,” she says.
I still don’t like that name, but I keep that to myself.
Freya continues: “Well, it’s not the entirety of the council. A handful of us. There are some who refuse to question anything that Mother or Mirabelle say or do–and we know better than to let them in on these conversations.”
“Ingrid?” I ask. I know absolutely nothing about whoever that is, but the name is stuck in my mind–someone that Tess had called out earlier for being ‘prickly.’
Freya laughs. “Do you know her?”
“We haven’t met. I’ve only heard of her.”
“Then her reputation precedes her,” she says. “Yes…she’s one of the council members that we leave out of these conversations. She’s the type who’d run to Mirabelle in a heartbeat and tattle on the rest of us who dare question ‘Mother’s divine judgment.’”
“Let’s say she did do that,” I say. “How bad would that be?”
Freya shrugs. “No idea. There’s no precedent for that, you know? We’ve never had an issue that the Maternal Council was divided on before. There’re others, like Ingrid, who have been vocal about the fact that whatever has happened to Alfie is none of our concern.”
“Hrm.” It annoys me to hear that.
“It’s a new world,” she says. “One where a few of us have to be very careful of who we talk to, where we talk, and what we say.”
Kelly had mentioned some of this to me earlier, when she was changing my diaper. Changing my diaper–it’ll never not seem absurd to even think those words.
“And so what now?” I ask. “I mean, it’s good that some of you are talking about the more questionable aspects of this place. But, like, do you have a plan for what you’re going to do about it yet?”
“No,” Freya says, looking down. She looks disappointed.
Maybe my question was a little harsher than I meant for it to be. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it, like…”
“It’s okay,” she says. “I get it–you want your friend back. And we want answers. There’s no doubt that we have to do something. But we’ve only just started to talk about it.”
“I get that.”
“That’s why I wanted to talk to you,” she says. “I think what you want aligns with what we want. Maybe we can all work together.”
It’s a good idea, I’ll give her that. But I’m also not exactly the ‘works well with others’ type.
Well… Maybe there was a time when that was more true, but this excursion to the west coast has me reconsidering that. Tommy. Celia. Sloane. We’ve all been working together so far, and I’m probably better off for it.
“I have some people I’ve been working with too,” I say. “Some on The Cradle and some outside of it.”
“You trust them?” she asks.
“So far,” I say. If Freya asks, I don’t think I’ll be naming names. Nobody here is prepared to hear Sloan’s name being mentioned when talking about allies.
“That’s good to know,” Freya says. She, thankfully, leaves it at that. “So you’d be interested in meeting with us, then?”
“Of course.”
“I was hoping you’d say that,” she says. “We’ll be meeting tomorrow night.”
“Where?” I ask.
“Well, finding places in The Cradle that are safe from curious eyes and ears is tough, but I think I might know a place.”
“Hm?”
“Here?” Freya asks.
“My cabin?”
“It’s in a good area–a little less foot traffic than others, especially at night. Plus, you’re just about as far from Mirabelle and the farmhouse as we can get.”
“So, was this the plan all along?” I ask, cracking a smile. “Give me the advantageous cabin in the hopes that I’d later be okay with hosting a meeting for the rebellion?”
She laughs. “Rebellion–I like that. Well, I wasn’t the one in charge of choosing where you’d stay. But I find it hard to believe that Mirabelle wouldn’t have wanted to keep you closer–so maybe someone else had a hand in that.”
“Here is fine,” I say.
“Perfect. Then you’ll see me–and some other friends tomorrow. It’ll probably be late at night–make sure you get plenty of rest.”
I shrug. I doubt I’ll be sleeping much tonight, and I’ve already committed myself to another day with Tess in the garden tomorrow. I’ll probably be pretty exhausted by this time tomorrow. Oh well.
“Are you sure you don’t need a diaper change before I go?” she asks, her lips smirking again.
I have little desire to use my diaper, but her question almost makes me wish I felt differently. A little pre-bedtime attention between my legs–like the kind she gave me the last time she changed me–doesn’t sound that bad right now.
“Still dry,” I shrug.
“Ah well. Maybe tomorrow night?”
I laugh. “Yeah…we’ll see.”
“Good night, Nikki.”
“Good night, Freya.”
===
The next morning, as I drag my weary body towards the dining hall for some coffee, I spot Tommy charging towards me with a determined look on his face. He practically bowls me over, and I sidestep him to avoid the both of us tumbling over.
“H-hey,” he says, trying to catch his breath. “Sorry, I just…I went to your cabin this morning, but I must’ve just missed you.”
“So you’ve been chasing after me?” I ask. “What’s the emergency?”
“I, uh…” He pauses, wheezing for a moment.
“Just take a second,” I say. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Yesterday, I went to town. Like we said, you know? I went and talked to Celia and Sloane. Harriet Tuller. We…”
“Stop,” I say, looking around us.
I don’t want to be paranoid, but if Freya and her Maternal Council friends are being cautious of everyone, it makes me think that I should be too.
“Wh-what? I thought you wanted to know about…”
“We should talk about this later,” I say. “Somewhere else.”
“Ah, right,” Tommy says, finally grasping what I’m not saying aloud.
“You should come over to my cabin tonight.”
I watch as his cheeks redden a little. “Oh, uh…”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t get too excited. We’re going to talk business. And you won’t be the only guest.”
“Who else is…”
I wave my hand at him to signal that it’s something I won’t be talking about. “Late night tonight. Just come.”
“How late?”
“I don’t know. Just…whenever you can make it over, I guess. The later the better.” I’m hoping I don’t have to spell out that he needs to not be spotted by anyone else.
He nods. “Right. I’ll be there.”
“Good.”
There’s excitement on his face. I mean, I guess he always looks a little excited–he’s just that kind of guy. But more excited than usual, maybe. I wonder if he got some especially important news from his research on Harriet Tuller. Or, maybe, he’s just excited that it feels like people are finally starting to band together and do something for Alfie.
If it’s the latter, I get. I’m excited too.
===
I think, maybe, I’ve lost a little bit of weight since coming to The Cradle. Not much, but enough that my shirt suddenly feels a little bigger. I’m not that surprised, honestly–I’m snacking around less. Drinking a lot less. And even when I eat at The Cradle, I find myself eating less than I usually do, because every bite just reminds me that every bit of food I consume could eventually end up in my diaper.
It’s a weird way to diet–probably not one I’d recommend to anyone else. Too, I know we’re supposed to feel good about losing weight–especially us of the female persuasion–but I was happy with where I was before I came here. I liked my curves. I like when someone I end up in bed with appreciates having a little something extra to hold on to.
I spend my walk to the gardens daydreaming about all the things I’m going to eat when I get home. A cheeseburger. A big ass chimichanga from the place over on the corner by our apartment. The barbecue pork pizza from Razzo’s. A six-pack of cheap beer and a bag of pretzels.
And I’ll happily suck the cock of any man willing to sit by my side and feed me those things so I don’t have to move my arms.
There’s a little pang of discomfort in my abdomen. Despite my best efforts, sooner or later–and probably sooner–my bowels are going to be asking for release again. I’m going to try my hardest to make that a later-me problem, but that might be out of my hands.
“You alright?” Tess asks me an hour or two later in the garden, when I’m dragging a heavy sack of fertilizer off of the wheelbarrow.
“Hrm?”
“You seem…off,” she says with a shrug.
“Oh. Am I not working hard enough, or…?”
“No, no, you’re doing great,” she says, giving me a warm and reassuring smile. “As usual, you’re doing more than everyone else. You just seem a little distant today, that’s all. More so than usual.”
“Ah, well… I’ve got a lot on my mind, I guess.”
And that’s true. Future meetings with the Maternal Council. The future meals I’m going to eat when I’m out of this place. Future diapers that might need to get changed because I’m not able to just use a toilet like I’d want to.
“Anything you want to talk about?” she asks.
I snort–the habitual sort that I do without even thinking about first. “Oh, probably not.”
She laughs. “Fair enough. Well, just so you know, you can talk to me about anything if you want to.”
“Thanks,” I say–a word that never feels like it means much of anything in a context like this. At best, it’s: “I’m acknowledging your offer, but I’m not interested. Here’s the easiest, most polite way of saying as much.”
When I get back to work, I wonder if I should talk to Tess about the Alfie situation. Maybe she’d be another good ally to have in the days to come.
Hell, I wonder if Tess would feel insulted if–later, when everything was said and done and Alfie was headed back to the east coast with me–if she would feel insulted that I didn’t ask her to help.
She doesn’t seem like that kind of person to me. But maybe there are limits to my human understanding. Maybe I’m only really good at analyzing strangers when they’re in a bar.
Tomorrow, perhaps. I’ll see how tonight goes with the Maternal Council ladies and Tommy. If we can get some sort of plan together, Tess is someone I can probably rely on for a hand–but I wouldn’t want to involve her until there’s a plan in place.
And, well, I’m already a little worried about this meeting tonight for that reason. Committees and meetings, in general, have always been the bane of productivity in my opinion. With so many cooks in the kitchen, it’s going to be hard to agree on details. There’s going to be compromises. There’s going to be a need for even more meetings later. The thought of that makes me queasy. We don’t need deliberation–we need action.
I already see myself leaving the meeting tonight, frustrated by the lack of forward momentum, and feeling like I’m better off just doing things myself. Which will be even worse of a thing to do at that point, because I’ll have been in a room with other people who will have already stated their displeasure in doing things however I want to do them.
It’s a mess, I’m realizing. It’s already a mess.
A mess. Just like a dirty diaper. Just like the dirty diaper that I’m currently downwind of.
Or…
Please, don’t let that be me.
That’s how crazy I feel at the moment–that I can momentarily believe that I’m capable of accidentally crapping my diaper like every other big baby around here. Even though I’m not drinking the milk. Like, I don’t know, milk vapors in the air have seeped into my skin or something, and now I’m poisoned by it whether I like it or not.
No, it’s not me. There’s no mushy bulge in my diaper. I sigh with relief, realizing it’s just someone else.
In fact, it would seem to be Tess, who is just a few feet away from me, carrying a shovel. She spots me looking at her, and her cheeks blush a little.
“Guilty,” she says with a little shrug. “I usually don’t think about it too much, but having a new face around is making me a little self-conscious. S-sorry if I don’t smell like a flower right now…”
“Oh, it’s…fine,” I say. “Shit happens.”
She laughs, and I can’t help but snort myself–that was an accidental pun.
Now I’m thinking about poop, of all things, and my bowels are calling out to me again.
I have this thought–and it seems a little silly at first, but it makes a little more sense every second that I dwell on it. If I have to poop at some point anyway–even if it’s in a diaper–why not now? Why not right here, when I won’t be the only one walking around with a swampy diaper?
Maybe it’d be, like, a sign of solidarity? In fact, I’m pretty sure this is what Tess proposed the last time I was working on the garden and on the verge of messing myself–the two of us filling our diapers up together. Well, regardless of whatever I thought the last time this came up, it seems like a good idea now. Experiences like this might be what proves Tess to be a reliable ally when the time comes to blow this place up and take back Alfie.
Or…whatever it is we end up doing about that.
“I, uh…actually…” I want to tell Tess that I’m going to join her in needing a diaper change, but the words are harder to get out than I’d like. Makes sense, really. We as adults don’t often have to say to other adults: “I’m going to poop my pants too.”
“What’s that now?” she asks.
I sigh, figuring I should just actually say it: “I, uh, am going to need a diaper change myself here in a moment too…”
She smirks. “Oh!”
I guess I’m doing this now.
But how do I…
The last time I messed myself, it practically happened on its own because I had waited way too long. Despite having to go, the feeling is nowhere close to being as urgent. In other words: this isn’t going to happen without me making it happen.
With an audience, no less. Tess is trying to pretend like she’s not watching me, and that she’s busying herself with other things, but I keep seeing her curious eyes glancing in my direction.
“Do you…need some privacy?” she asks. She likely remembers the last time, and how I had to run away before doing my dirty deed.
“Oh, no, it’s fine… I just need to, uh…”
Just do it. Just get it over with.
My body goes into a semi-autopilot mode as I let sheer instinct take over.
I squat a little, simultaneously relaxing the muscles in my ass while pushing a little.
Maybe, for just a moment or two, I’m the toddler I was 20-some years ago. Maybe this is the infantile headspace these other babies get into much easier when they drink their precious milk. Because I’m barely thinking about it as I do it–this just seems like the right and natural way to do this.
Here it comes.
It’s happening.
And there’s Tess, taking another little glance at me while she pretends to do something else. Does she like this? Or is it just curiosity–the same feeling that triggers when you pass an accident on the side of the highway and you need to take a look, even though you know it’s not something you really ought to be seeing.
I’m messing myself. This is not like the first time. I’m squatting here, physically pushing the contents of my bowels into this diaper. I’m feeling the diaper expanding under my shorts. Wafts of toxic air–an altogether different sort of putrid odor than the one Tess had made a few minutes ago–are already meeting my nose.
I think I’m done, but there’s more in there. I push a little harder. I let out a pathetic sounding grunt as I do–a girlish squeak that Alfie would probably try to emulate and mock for the next six months if he were here.
Fuck, I don’t care. I wish he were here right now.
“A tough one, huh?” Tess says–her voice seeming a little distant to me as I focus on the deed at hand.
“Uhm…”
“It’s been a while since that’s happened to me,” she says. “Maybe it’s the milk, you know? I never have a problem getting it all out now. Hell, most of the time, I don’t even know it's happening until I’m done. Give it some time–I bet the same will happen to you.”
I realize I’m holding my breath, and I finally release it–just as I finish depositing the last of my load into my diaper. Then, I laugh a little as I finally process what Tess just said to me. No, I don’t think I’ll ever just be walking around, mindlessly pooping myself. Or so I’d like to hope.
“Feel better?” she asks.
I hate that I do. “Yeah.”
“Maybe we should go get these stinky bottoms taken care of, huh?”
I didn’t really think about the ‘changing’ part when I squatted down out of solidarity and friendship. Another diaper change. Another person manhandling my legs and cleaning my own filth off my skin when I could easily be doing it myself. Another humiliating trip to the changing table. And this time, with a friend!
“Yeah,” I say, sighing. “Let’s.”
===
I’m on my back, legs up in the air, and the dirty diaper is pulled open–further filling the cabin with the stench of my mess. Kelly is standing at the end of the changing table opposite my head with a baby wipe in her hand.
I’m thankful that it’s Kelly again, and that someone else from the Maternal Council’s first impression of me isn’t my smelly ass. I’m also thankful that Tess insisted that I get myself changed first. I don’t think I could stand waiting around outside longer in this dirty diaper than I have to, only to come into the cabin and be changed in the remnants of Tess’s own stink.
Selfish, I guess. But I’d argue that she’s used to it, and I’m not.
“Back so soon?” Kelly says with a smirk.
I hate to reuse the same joke so soon, but Kelly wasn’t there the first time I used it: “Shit happens.”
She laughs a little. “So true. But that’s okay. That’s what I’m here for.”
“Sure.”
“I’ll, uh, be seeing you tonight?” she asks.
I nod, though I feel my cheeks warming. All I can imagine is her sitting in my cabin, smiling at me while everyone's talking because she’s thinking about how the two other times she’s seen me, I’ve had this disgusting mess in my diaper.
Logically, I don't think that’s actually going to happen. But that doesn’t mean it’s not a fear of mine.
“Tess?” Kelly asks. “Is she in the loop?”
“Not yet,” I say.
Kelly nods. “Understood. I just want to know what I should or shouldn’t say around her.”
“Nothing for now,” I say. “But, uhm, do you know Tess well?”
She shrugs. “Not especially well. We’re friendly, though. If you’re helping her out on the farm, you probably know her better than I do.”
Fair enough. I don’t even bother asking Kelly’s opinion on whether or not she trusts Tess.
“You seem a little more at ease today than you did last time I was changing your diaper,” she says, changing the subject.
“Hrm.” It’s definitely not because I’m warming up to it. If anything, it’s that I’m just distracted by too many other things right now. Probably for the best.
Though–I dunno–I feel like I kind of get the appeal of being the baby. Just lying here while someone else pampers you–in just about every meaning of that word. I still don’t think that life is for me, but maybe I’m a little less judgmental of anyone else who loves it.
Tommy and Alfie included.
“Almost done,” Kelly says in her chipper tone.
I make the mistake of peering through my legs, catching a glimpse of a glob of brown on the baby wipe she’s currently holding. It makes me sick to my stomach. Humiliating.
I keep my eyes closed for the duration of the change.
===
Most of the day teeters on the edge of ‘normalcy,’ or as normal as a day at The Cradle ever gets. I help Tess in the garden. I eat some food at the dining hall. I take a nice long walk through the grounds as the sun begins to set.
But it’s not actually ‘normal.’ None of it is, nor should it ever be. Alfie’s still missing. This place still has far too many secrets. I refuse to let myself become complacent. I refuse to acknowledge ‘routine’ while I’m here.
I feel sick to my stomach at the thought of how much time I feel like I’ve wasted since I got here. I know it makes sense to ‘play the game’ and try to blend in, or to pretend that I actually want to be in here. I should just be busting down the door to that weird cabin over by the farmhouse right now. If Alfie’s not actually in there, I’ll just bust down every door until I do find him.
The more I think about it, the worse my mood gets. By the time the sun has vanished over the horizon, and The Cradle starts winding down for the day, I’m in a downright awful mood.
When I have to piss again, I pull down my shorts outside, behind my cabin, rip my diaper off completely, and piss on the ground–at right about the same spot I did the last time.
I’ll ‘play the game’ again tomorrow, I decide. I’m taking a break for now.
I wipe myself off with the diaper before standing up and hiking my shorts up. They obviously fit a little looser without the diaper, but they seem to fit even a little looser than they used to before I came to California too.
“Such a rebellious little girl,” a voice from somewhere behind me says in a cheeky tone. “I guess every toddler reaches an age when they think they’re bigger than they really are.”
It’s Freya. My cheeks glow a little, unsure if I’ve just been caught peeing on the ground or not.
“I was born a bitter adult woman,” I say. “Or so I’ve been told.”
Freya laughs, stepping out of the darkness of the trees with a smile on her face. “I believe that.”
“Did you just watch me…”
“Maybe,” she shrugs.
“I hope you enjoyed the show,” I say sarcastically.
“I’ve seen worse.”
I snort. “Are you flirting with me?”
“I’m enjoying adult banter,” she says. “You’d be surprised how little of that there is around here.”
I snort again. “No, I don’t think I’d be surprised at all.”
“I didn’t mean to creep up on you,” she says. “I know I’m probably a little earlier than you expected.”
“It’s fine,” I say. “You’re just that eager to spend time with me?”
Something like that,” she says with a little shrug. “Like I said–adult conversations are sometimes hard to come by here. You remind me of, uh, friends I used to have.”
“They’re not your friends any more?” I’m walking around the cabin to the door, and she follows behind me.
“You sacrifice a lot of yourself when you commit to staying here,” she says. “Friends, family, jobs, hobbies. There’s a lot I walked away from. And I doubt most of those things would still be there if I ever went back.”
She follows me into the cabin, and we both take a seat atop my bed. What I wouldn't give for a couch or a chair.
“You ever think you’ll leave here?” I ask.
“When I first came here, I was certain that I’d see it through to the end, yes.”
I laugh. “You sound less sure of that now.”
“Well… Recent events have me reconsidering whether or not this is the utopia I once believed it was.”
“Someday, Alfie will laugh when he learns he inadvertently ruined utopia.”
“No, no,” she says. “I don’t think it was him.”
“Then what was it?”
“You,” she says with a shrug. “Even the first time I met you–dirty diaper and all–I just knew you were too stubborn, too feisty, to be controlled by this place. I was, like: ‘This girl is going to set this place on fire.’”
I don’t know how I should take that, but I’m choosing to take it as a compliment.
===
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Interlude 7: Maxine Daydreams About What Could Be
“One, two–one, two, three, four…”
Other Mike lays on a thick groove with his bass, and Buck joins in a moment later with a rhythm that seems to lean on the hi hat a bit. Lee hammers out a few chords on their guitar–something kind of springy and jangly. Lee’s a relatively new addition to the band, but they seem to already be fitting in with the rest of the band better than whoever the last guitarist was.
Ash hangs back for a moment, keeping a good three feet from her microphone. She almost looks uninterested–like she doesn’t even realize where she is or what she’s doing. Her mind is somewhere else completely. But then, she seems to hit an invisible switch, and a playful smirk spreads across her face. She takes two long strides towards the microphone and grabs it with both hands, pulling it and the stand it’s on towards her mouth. Her eyes are closed and she takes a deep breath. When she releases it, it comes out in the form of words.
“Yooooouuuuu,” she bellows, “might as well just get over it…”
The song is called “Racecar Bed,” and Ash says it has something to do with her parents’ divorce. Sometimes Maxine thinks she understands how the lyrics relate to that, but sometimes she’s still not entirely sure.
She sits on a metal folding chair on the far end of the rehearsal space–a small detached garage-cum-studio that Other Mike made arrangements for. He knows the owners of the house the garage belongs to, maybe? This, she’s decided, is her favorite place to be–sitting in this garage while the band rocks and Ash seems to be singing directly at her–an audience of one.
Sometimes, Maxine feels like she’s in the band herself. She’s friendly with everyone in the group. She’s there for every rehearsal and every performance–either on campus or at the local dive-y club, Merengue. Also, since she shared some of her poetry with Ash, Ash has been hounding her to write some songs for the band–even inviting her to join in vocal duties. Maxine has been giving it some serious consideration, though she’s still a little apprehensive.
The band is no longer called Snowball Fight. They were briefly Moist! Moist! Moist!, but Other Mike made a very strong argument about how it didn’t really fit the ‘vibe’ of the band’s songs. Currently, they’re called Pet House, a name that Maxine pitched after a drunken conversation about the Beach Boys that nobody really remembers the details of anymore.
“See, I don’t like that thing you do in the bridge,” Ash says to Buck, causing the music to come to an abrupt stop.
Buck shrugs. “Okay? What do you want instead?”
“Something, like…” She sighs and looks to Lee. “Do you know what I’m saying?”
“I think,” Lee says. “Maybe…more snare? Less kick drum?”
“Yes,” Ash says, her finger wagging back at Buck again. “Something like that.”
Buck shrugs again. “Yeah, alright. Wanna take it from the top again? Or…”
“Let’s take a break,” Other Mike says. “I gotta piss.” Maxine still doesn’t know who the ‘original’ Mike was, but she continues to call him ‘Other Mike’ like everyone else does. That’s just his name.
“I’m gonna get some fresh air,” Ash says. She nods towards Maxine with her chin. “You coming?”
“Absolutely,” Maxine says, her mouth spread into a girlish grin as she springs up from her chair.
‘Fresh air’ is code for vaping outside in the alley, and making out a little bit, something that neither Maxine or Ash can ever seem to get enough of. Moments after rounding the corner from the front of the garage into the alley, Maxine’s pinned against the brick wall, Ash pushing her warm lips against hers.
“You sound good today, Mommy,” Maxine says softly into Ash’s ear.
‘Mommy’ is an interesting word between the two of them, one that seems to have taken on its own meaning within their relationship as of late. Maxine used to mean it a little more literally–actually imagining Ash as someone who could make her wear a diaper or suck her thumb. She does still imagine this from time to time, though when she uses the term now, it’s more of a cute and intimate moniker. An affectionate little in-joke between the two of them–even if Ash probably has no idea how literal Maxine has meant the name to be at times.
Ash is Mommy. She’s strong. She’s caring and supportive. She’s the supportive older sister Maxine’s never had. The attentive mother she’s never had. And, on top of all that, the greatest kisser she’s ever known.
“It’s hard sometimes,” Ash says, pulling away from Maxine’s body and pulling her vape out of the pocket of her cardigan. “I see you sitting there, watching me as I sing, and all I can think about is how badly I want to fuck you.”
“Oops,” Maxine offers, shrugging while flashing a playful grin.
“You’re not doing anything later, are you?” Ash asks.
“Don’t think so.”
“So…you want to stay here at the garage with me after everyone else leaves? I’d like to practice a little more.”
They both snort and laugh, knowing damn well that this was probably not what they’d be using the garage for.
“Shit,” Maxine sighs. “Actually, I’ve got to go back to my dorm. Juju went home for a few days, so I’ve got to feed her stupid fish.”
“Wait–so that means you have the dorm room to yourself, right?”
Maxine laughs, not even considering that until now. They were both so used to assuming that her dorm was just not an option, because her roommate would be around. Nothing personal against Juju, of course–they just wanted to have the kind of fun that was best enjoyed without an audience.
“Yeah, you know what? You should come over to my room tonight. Crash there if you want to.”
“Oh, I plan on it,” Ash says. “I’m going to wake up naked in your bed tomorrow.”
“You better.”
“So, after rehearsal wraps up we’ll just go over to your room?”
“Actually,” Maxine says, thinking about it. “I mean, yes, I want you to come over. But the room’s kind of a mess right now. I should probably tidy up a little bit.”
Ash laughs. “Tidy up? I’m not your mother. I don’t care what your room looks like.”
Maxine bites her lip a little at the ‘not your mother’ comment, but keeps her comments about it to herself. “My clothes are all over the place. You’d think a bomb went off in there.”
“I like all of you,” Ash says. “Let me like the messy part of you too.”
They still used the word ‘like’ when they talked about their feelings. Maxine suspected that they wanted to use the word ‘love’ instead, but it just felt too soon for that. They’d only been together for a few weeks now. They’d been an incredible few weeks, but it still felt too soon to start using lofty l-words.
“Look, I really want you to like the messy part of me too,” Maxine says. “And I’d really like to just be messy around you and not worry about cleaning up after myself. But I’m not there yet, okay? Just let me try to continue the illusion that I’ve got my shit together.”
“Seems kind of silly when you’re telling me exactly what you’re doing,” Ash says, smiling. “But…I get it. Maybe I’m still trying to be the best version of myself around you too.”
“So then it’s settled. I’m going to head back to campus and straighten up my room, okay? Text me when y’all are done rocking and you’re on your way over.”
“Deal,” Ash says. “How about I bring over some food. Pizza and a bottle of coke?”
“It’s like you know the way to my heart is through my stomach.”
“I’ve also found that it’s the way into your pants,” Ash giggles.
“Oh please,” Maxine says, her cheeks glowing. “All you have to do is look at me and my legs start to spread.”
“Is that so?” Ash asks. “Because I’m looking at you right now.”
“Right. And I’m wet.”
“Let me see…”
Without even bothering to look either way down the alley, Ash pulls open the front of Maxine’s pants before slowly sliding her hand down into them. Her fingers carefully explore southward along the silky fabric of the panties until they’re burrowed between Maxine’s thighs. Maxine gasps, her eyes closing tight and her mouth hanging open as she feels Ash’s hand stroking her pussy through the panties.
“I guess I’ll just have to check later, then,” Ash says, shrugging. “For now, I should probably-”
She’s interrupted by a voice at the end of the alley, nearest to where the garage door is. It’s Other Mike: “Hey, whenever you’re done groping your girlfriend, we’re ready to get started again.”
Ash and Maxine both laugh, though Maxine’s cheeks get a lot more red than Ash’s do.
“Go on,” Ash says to her. “Get out of here and clean your room for me, alright?”
“Yes, Mommy.”
===
It’s a cool, beautiful day–a welcome change after all the dreary weather they had in the last week. The sun’s out, the breeze feels good, and Maxine’s vulva feels like it’s still tingling from Ash’s touch.
Life is good.
She slows her pace a little, knowing she’s probably got a bit of time yet. Besides, her ‘cleaning’ will mostly just entail shoving things under her bed or in her closet, and that probably won’t take very long to do.
And then, as happens from time to time–especially when her ‘mommy needs’ get especially strong–she thinks of Alfie. She hasn’t heard from him in a while. A while ago, Alfie’s sister Sam had reached out to her, asking if she had heard from him. It was a little concerning that not even his own sister had heard from him, but she also just assumed that Alfie was enjoying his time over in baby-land, or whatever that place was. She had asked Sam to keep in touch with her and to provide any updates she might have about Alfie. She hadn’t gotten any updates yet, but she assumed no news was good news. She’d have probably heard if Alfie, like, fell into a ravine or something.
If only he could see her now–getting wet at the sight of some cool rock-and-roll chick just looking at her. He’d probably get a kick out of Maxine’s fantasies–like the one where Maxine pisses her pants, and Ash forces her into a pair of thick pampers.
“This is all your fault, Alf,” she mutters to herself as she strolls through the campus gates. If she hadn’t met him–or, perhaps, if he hadn’t taken that first trip over to California–she’d still be years and years away from diapers being something she thinks about on a daily basis.
A few minutes later, she spots a familiar face sitting on a bench near a courtyard. Zach. Zachy. The cherubic boy she had so badly wanted to diaper and swaddle on her first week on campus. The boy she had attempted to spank, only to have him cream his pants. They’d occasionally make small talk when they drifted past each other on campus now, but for the most part, it was clear that he was avoiding her. She was a little disappointed about this. All dirty fantasies aside, she didn’t dislike the guy, and his avoidance made her feel like she was a monster of some kind. She didn’t think she did anything wrong, but she wondered if Zach felt differently.
She asked herself: Do I approach him, or leave him be?
No, she couldn’t bring herself to just walk past him. She had to at least say hi.
“Hi.”
He looks up from the book opened on his lap, an especially thick volume with columns of text and diagrams. Probably something for one of his classes.
“Oh, uh…hey.”
“Sorry,” she says. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything. I just saw you here and wanted to see how you’ve been.”
“N-not at all,” he says, his cheeks getting a little pink. She’s not sure how she knows, but she has a feeling that he’s thinking about that time they hung out together–when he made a mess of his pants. “And I’ve been alright, thanks. How are you?”
“Can’t complain,” she says, shrugging.
“I, uh, saw you last week over at Merengue. You were, uh, hanging out with Pet House.”
“Oh shit, yeah, I was there. Damn, I didn’t know you were there, or else I would’ve said hi. How come you didn’t say anything to me there?”
“Well…you looked like you were having a good time and stuff, so I just didn’t want to bother you.”
She thinks back to the show the band played there last week. Pet House was opening for another local-ish band called Rugby Acres–and after the band had finished their set, she and Ash had spent the rest of the night making out in the corner. Yeah, she probably wouldn’t have approached herself either if she was Zach.
“It was cool of you to come out to the show, though. What’d you think?”
“Pet House? Uh, pretty good. I liked Snowball Fight, honestly, but I think the band sounds better than it ever has.”
“I think so too.”
“You and Ash–you’re, like, dating now?”
“Something like that,” she says, trying to downplay it a little. She’s not even sure why.
“Hey, so, I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” he says, scratching at the back of his head a little.
“Yeah? Here I am. Whatcha got?”
“I was just, you know, thinking about that time we hung out. Over in your dorm room?”
She laughs. “Yeah, I think I know what you mean.”
“I feel like I handled that in the worst way that I could’ve.”
She shrugs. “It’s not a big deal. I mean…you can’t control what your body does, right?”
His face turns red. “Oh…uh, well. That was plenty humiliating too. I meant the part where I ran out of your dorm.”
“Oh, right. Well…” She shrugs. “Look, you have no idea how often I want to run away from things. If I had, like, farted in front of you that day you were in my dorm room, I probably would’ve taken a flying leap out the window.”
He laughs. “You’re only on the second floor, though…”
“So then I would’ve started running when I hit the ground. Maybe to the hospital if I had to have jumped through the glass.”
“I was an ass,” he says. “I…wish I hadn’t left that day.”
“It’s cool,” she says. “Seriously. Don’t worry about it.”
“I was just thinking, like, if I hadn’t done that…maybe we could’ve kept hanging out together? Like, maybe if we tried again…”
She thinks she sees where this is going. He feels regret for having bailed out of that scene like he had. He sees now–or at least he thinks he sees–that this is probably his only chance at having fun like that. If he had just stuck around, there would’ve been a lot more fun to have had. So now he’s sticking his foot in the door, so to speak, to stop it from closing completely and locking him out.
Yeah, sure, it’s probably embarrassing to blow your load in your pants in front of a girl. But she would’ve rolled with it. She thinks about the way she pleasured herself in the minutes after he ran from her dorm, in fact–still imagining what’d it be like to finish that spanking before putting him in a diaper. And, sure, it’s flattering to think about how it sounds like he still thinks about all the possibilities too, and still seems interested.
But, man. Maybe she’s just looking for messages that aren’t there, but it kind of sounds like he’s saying that he wants to reconnect and pick up where they left off. Okay, sure, that does sound nice. But buy a girl a cup of coffee first. She worries that he’s more interested in getting his bottom spanked than he is spending time with her.
Then again, maybe friends with kinky benefits wouldn’t be the worst thing?
“We should hang out sometime,” she says with as casual a shrug as she can muster.
“I-I would like that,” he says, nodding. His cheeks get a little pinker as he pulls the big book in his lap a little closer to his body–his legs closing a little. Is just the thought of hanging out with her again giving him a little stiffy?
She’s not mad about that. In fact, she’s almost positive now that diapers are in little Zachy’s future. Because he’s going to be willing to do anything to make up for fleeing previous. He’ll even say that to her: “I’ll do anything for you.”
And she’ll say: “Let’s see how true that is. On your back, little boy. I’m going to show you what I want.”
“Cool,” she says to him. “I gotta run right now. But we’ll figure something out soon, okay?”
“Yeah,” he says, nodding his head, the book being held a little tighter in his lap.
===
Maxine was feeling good when she left the garage. By the time she gets back to her dorm room, she’s feeling transcendent. She’s in love with a beautiful girl–she can use the big l-word when she’s talking to herself–and now she’s got a potential boy-toy to play around with later.
The dorm room doesn’t even seem that bad when she gets inside. The clothes that probably need to be dragged down to the first floor washing machines get stuffed into the bin. Everything that looks potentially wearable again gets tossed into the bottom of her wardrobe. She takes all the random papers, notebooks spread across her desk and puts it into a single unorganized pile. She stuffs all of the garbage into the trash can and ties the bag shut, throwing it near the door to take downstairs later before putting a new bag into the can.
Maybe there’s more she could do. She could straighten things up on the top of her dresser. She could finally hang those new postcards she bought for the purpose of hanging on her wall that she hasn’t touched yet. She even considers putting together a new playlist that she leaves playing on her laptop while Ash is over–Ash is always talking about how good Maxine’s taste in music is.
Instead, she rifles through the clothes she just dumped into her wardrobe until she finds the disposable diapers she had hidden away in the same space. She doesn’t want to wear them–she just wants to see them. Feel them. She needs this every once in a while. She likes the feel of the satin plastic-backing of the diapers. She likes the way it crinkles between her fingers. She even likes the way they smell. No, they don’t smell like baby diapers–which is a shame, she thinks–but she kind of likes the generic plastic scent that they have.
For a moment, she imagines that Zachy is lying on the bed behind her–pants off and legs open wide, waiting to be wrapped up good and tight in some thick padding.
Holding the diaper in both of her hands, she spins around, slowly strutting towards the bed, practicing her seductive ‘mommy-walk.’
“Well, well, well, little boy,” she says. “Looks like someone’s ready for their diaper, hmm?”
There’s no response, of course, though she waits a beat as if giving his phantom presence the chance to reply.
“It’s about time you got treated like the baby you are,” she says. “I think about that little mess you made in your pants the last time you were here. The way you…splooged yourself.”
She hunches over, hands on her knees, as she cackles at herself. Splooged? Who the hell talks like that? Thank god she’s practicing–there’d be nothing sexy about talking about how ‘splooged’ himself.’
She clears her throat and tries again: “It’s about time you got treated like the baby you are,” she says. That part she likes–she’s definitely going to use that when he’s here. “You made such a little mess in your pants the last time you were here, didn’t you? I bet that was an uncomfortable walk home, wasn’t it?”
Yes, yes. This is good.
She continues: “I think it’s just smarter to keep you in diapers. That way, whatever mess you make is contained inside of these bad boys.”
She snorts with laughter again. Bad boys. That probably won’t make the cut either.
She tries again: “Not only do you look cuter in a diaper, but it means that if you have any sticky little accidents again, it’ll be even easier for me to clean you up.”
Mmm. She likes that too. She likes implying that he will end up blowing his load in the diaper, just as she likes the idea that she’d be there to clean him up after it happens.
“That’s right, little boy,” she says, trying something else out. “You can do whatever you need to do in this diaper. You can make your sticky little cummies. You can make pee-pees. You can even make a big stinky poopy into it if you want. I’ll clean you up no matter what you do.”
Her clit feels like it’s pulsating. There’s something thrilling about saying these dirty things out loud, even if there’s nobody else to hear her say them. Can she actually see a scenario where Zach poops in a diaper? No, probably not–nor would it even be a good idea for something like that to happen in this space she shares with Juju. Hell, she’s not even sure she wants to wipe the ass of some guy she barely knows in the first place.
But the idea of it is kind of hot. Saying the words out loud is hot, for sure.
Now she kind of wants to run with that–saying more dirty things out loud, just to hear herself say them.
“Oh, Zachy, what did you do?” She waves her hand in front of her face in an exaggerated way. “Did you just… Well, don’t even bother denying it, little baby. Someone just made a really stinky mess in their diaper and it certainly wasn’t me. Did you do that, huh? Did you go poo-poo in your diaper? Did you make a mess for Mommy to clean up?”
She squeezes the diaper in her hands again, listening to the crinkling it makes as it squishes between her fingers. She holds it up to her face, taking a big drag of the plastic exterior.
She’s thinking about if this was her diaper now. She’s imagining that Ash is in the room with her, and Maxine now has to plead her case for a diaper change.
“Mommy,” she says. No, that’s not right. It’s too ‘normal’ sounding. She needs some desperation in her tone.
“M-mommy…” That’s better. But it’s still missing something…
She slides her thumb into her mouth, holding out the other diaper in front of her. “M-mommy? I neethe you tho, uhm…changth me…”
Oh yeah. That’s it. That’s perfect.
Fuck. She can’t believe she’s never done this before. It’s one thing to try and imagine these things happening. But acting them out–saying these dirty things out loud–is absolutely hitting the spot right now.
What else would be fun to say aloud? She pulls her thumb from her mouth, letting it slide down her side towards her thighs.
“Mommy…I went pee-pee.”
“I…peed in my diapey.”
Not bad. She’s getting a feel for the baby-talk, finding the right balance between helpless child and humiliated adult.
“Mommy, ch-change my diaper pwease? I went potties again…”
She’s a little wet again. These poor panties of hers–how many times is she going to make them moist today? Not that she’s complaining much. She wouldn’t mind if the first thing Ash said to her when she came by the room later was something like “Babe, I can smell your damp panties out in the fucking hallway.”
Ugh. She’d fucking melt if that happened.
She clutches the diaper tightly against her chest as she slips her other hand down the front of her pants. She probably shouldn’t be doing this right now–she’d be better off saving all this energy for Ash, wouldn’t she?
I’ll just touch myself a little, she thinks. That’s not hurting anyone.
Less than a minute later, she’s collapsed on top of the bed, on her back. Her legs are spread wide. The diaper is still being clutched against her body with one hand, while the other is plunged into her unzipped pants. Her back has a little arch in it as she gazes up at the ceiling, her mouth wide open.
She wishes she could say something humiliating in-character as she does. Something about how she’s a filthy little baby. Maybe she’d beg for a good spanking. But all she can manage to get out of her mouth is: “F-fuck…”
She hears something in the background. A noise in the hallway? It might as well be on another fucking planet. She just can’t bring herself to care right now. All that matters is this orgasm she’s working towards while holding onto the diaper tightly.
Come on…
Not much longer now…
But then she hears the noise again, and realizes what’s happening.
Someone is knocking on the door.
Who the hell…
It seems too early for it to be Ash. And Juju wouldn’t knock on her own door. So…it’s probably someone else. Fine. Whatever. She’ll just pretend like she’s not home. Whoever it is–whatever they want–can wait until later.
Her fingers remain on her clit, stroking it in circular motions. Her eyes are closed tight again. She’s imagining Ash standing above her, looking down and shaking her head in a condescending sort of way.
“And just what am I going to do with you?” Ash says.
Yes, that’s perfect. It’s like she can actually hear Ash saying those words to her.
Wait…
She opens her eyes. Either she’s tripping really hard–which she shouldn’t be, considering that she hasn’t smoked anything yet today–or Ash really is standing at the side of her bed, watching her touch herself while holding a diaper.
“Hi,” Ash says. “I didn’t mean to interrupt anything…”
===
There’s a moment where Maxine is so overwhelmed with what’s happening in this moment that she simply short circuits. Beyond sitting straight up and taking her hand out of her still-open pants, all she can do is stare at Ash in disbelief.
“Sorry,” Ash says. “Maybe I shouldn’t have let myself in, but I didn’t think you’d mind and, uh… Well, I didn’t think you’d be busy.”
“I…uh…”
“Don’t get me wrong,” Ash says. “I’m not mad that I caught you like this.”
Maxine looks down at the diaper that she’s still tightly gripping in her hand. She looks up at Ash’s face, observing the fact that Ash is looking at it too.
“Is that a…diaper?” Ash asks.
“Uhm…”
Ash chuckles. “Look, just so you know? I’m not judging you or anything. I’m just curious.”
Maxine’s face feels way too warm. She opens her mouth, though she still has no idea what she’s supposed to say. How does she defend herself? How does she spin this so she doesn’t look like a crazy person who loves diapers?
“I…uhm…” The best she can come up with is: “It’s not what it looks like.”
Ash laughs again. “That’s a shame. Because, to me, it looks like the little baby’s got herself a diaper. Is that what you like? You can tell me.”
Maxine considers denying this, but then she sees that big smile on Ash’s face.
“Yes.”
“Mm,” Ash moans, slowly rolling into bed alongside Maxine. “I’m going to want to hear all about that.”
“Yeah?”
“Oh, for sure. But there’s something else we need to do first?”
“Wh-what’s that?”
“Have you cum yet?”
“No.”
“Let’s take care of that, then. Then I want to hear everything.”
And now Ash’s hand is down inside of her panties where hers was just a moment ago.
Alfie, Maxine thinks to herself, I hope you’re having as good of a time right now as I am.
Forty-Two: Nikki’s Story, Part 9
I have a theory. I suspect that at this moment–waddling out of the woods and down a small hill to get onto the trail again, while wearing a messy diaper–I am closer to an actual baby than any of the weirdos who call The Cradle their home.
See, they like this. They drink this milk and they think that it puts them in touch with their inner-baby. They poop and piss their pants and get all sorts of delight out of it. “Look at me,” they say, “I’m a baby!”
I’m not a mother, and I don’t spend a lot of time around babies. But I still know a little about them from just being a citizen of the world. Babies and little kids are everywhere. You go to the store, and there they are. You walk down the street, and there they are. And don’t forget about all the TV shows and movies about parenthood. I’d like to think that everybody has some basic understanding of a baby’s needs just on account of being exposed to them on a regular basis.
What’s one of the first things someone says when a baby starts crying?
“Do they need to be changed?”
And do you know why people ask that? Because babies don’t like sitting in their own mess. They don’t want to be in dirty diapers. They want to be cleaned. They want to be dry.
These people–these big babies bopping around The Cradle–they happily fill the back of their pants all day long, laughing with each other about how smelly they are.
I’m a baby. I’m the one with an enormous frown on my face. I’m the one grumbling under my breath as I take careful steps with my legs spread apart while I walk, so as to not further disturb the mushy mound in my diaper. I’m the one who wants to get this fucking diaper off my ass more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my entire life.
I hate this.
There was this brief moment where I thought that maybe I was wrong about all of it. Just after I had fallen on my ass in the woods, and having felt my mess spread throughout my diaper, I laughed at how ridiculous all of this was. I had this thought, like, “Well, this is it–the stupidest moment of your entire life.” It’s like hitting rock-bottom, you know? Where else does one even go from there? And it was almost liberating. I was so close to coming around on it completely. Like: “Well, I might as well embrace it. I’m a baby now.”
And then I stood up again, and felt the weight in the back of my diaper shift a bit–the diaper sagging between my legs. And I said: “Fuck this.”
So, whatever. If someone else wants to have a blast in their dirty diapers, they can go right ahead and do that. But they’re not as infantile as they think they are.
And it’s definitely not for me.
I have no idea what the hell I’m supposed to do right now. Where do I go? Do I just stumble up to some ‘Mommy’ and tell her to change me?
I don’t need to be changed. Just give me a shower. Give me a hose and I’ll just spray myself down.
“I didn’t expect to see you like this so soon,” someone behind me says.
I sigh. The voice is familiar, but my head is swirling a little too much for me to place it. It just figures though, doesn’t it? This embarrassing thing happens to me and then, of course, someone has to witness it happening and then make some commentary about it.
I turn around, and see that it’s Mirabelle. I don’t think there would’ve been anyone that I’d be happy to see–except, maybe, Freya–but Mirabelle feels especially disappointing.
“I guess that’s the, uh, milk, huh?” I ask, gritting my teeth a little. I don’t know if she’ll buy that or not. If Freya could see through my milk-fakery, I’d assume that Mirabelle–the big cheese around here–would be able to as well.
But I’ll take my chances and let her call my bluff.
“Is the first time that you, uhm…”
“Y-yes,” I say, feeling my cheeks warming.
She smiles, and her head tilts a little to the side–a very parental look.
She has yet to be anything other than warm and friendly towards me. But I don’t trust her, and the longer I’m at The Cradle, the less I trust her. Something’s happened to Alfie–something that nobody else seems to know anything about. But she knows, though isn’t sharing any details.
“What do you think?” she asks.
I snort. “What do I think?”
“Do you like the way it feels, Nikki? Do you feel yourself warming to the life that we have here?”
It takes a surprising amount of effort to prevent myself from saying what I want to say. If I’m ‘playing the game,’ then this is the boss at the very end of it.
“Uh, maybe,” I say.
“You were off to get yourself changed, I hope,” Mirabelle asks, her nose scrunching a little.
Yeah, I smell myself too. It’s foul.
“That’s the plan,” I say.
“Well I have a few minutes,” she says, shrugging. “If you’d like, I’d be happy to take you someplace and take care of that dirty diaper of yours.”
“I…” I’m not sure what to say here. I do need a change, and I had already assumed that I’d have to allow someone else to do it, whether I liked it or not. But I don’t really want to spend any more time than I have to with Mirabelle–and I especially don’t need her to be the one wiping my dirty ass.
“Why don’t you follow me, sweetie. I know a place close by where we can get you all cleaned up.”
I just don’t get her. Her body language and tone make her seem so genuine. She has this incredible aura around her. I can almost see myself running over to her and grabbing her hand like I was a little girl–letting her tow me along to wherever she thinks we should go.
“I appreciate it,” I say. “But I was just going to go…over there.” I point in the direction I was walking before Mirabelle found me, though I don’t really know what’s in that direction–nor could I say why going ‘over there’ was something that prohibited her from changing me.
She smiles again in that patient, and possibly a little condescending, way and nods. “Of course, dear. You are going to get yourself changed though, yes?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Well, my offer for some assistance will still stand, okay? Should you need me to help you get changed–or anything else–you just come find me, yes?”
“Sure.” I start to turn away, but remember something else I wanted to say to her: “Wait–hold on.””
“Yes?”
“Alfie,” I say. “You said the other day that you’d let me see Alfie, but you just needed a day or two? And, well, I think we’re at about that now, aren’t we?”
There’s a little bit of surprise on Mirabelle’s face–like she either forgot she made such a promise, or she was hoping that I would’ve forgotten she said that.
“Ah, well, that’s a very good question,” she says, nodding her head. I’d have to check in and see what his status is and then get back to you. Would you mind if I got back to you on that?”
I sigh, my fists balling up at my sides. If my ass wasn’t caked in my own filth right now, I’d probably have a lot more to say to her, but the urgency of needing to be cleaned is taking precedence.
“Y-yeah…if you could let me know as soon as possible.”
“Of course,” she says. “I appreciate your understanding. We’re taking very good care of Alfie, and that means being very selective about external stimuli.”
“I’m his best friend,” I say. If that’s not an acceptable ‘external stimuli,’ then I’d love to know what is.
“Yes, you’re absolutely right,” she says. “Like I said, I’ll get back to you, okay?”
A moment later and I’m walking again in the direction I was originally headed in, taking wide and cautious strides to avoid making a bigger mess of myself.
I’m a little surprised that Mirabelle let me go so easily. I thought for sure that she would’ve insisted on changing me, and I’d have run out of excuses for why I didn’t want her to do that. Maybe she just wasn’t in the mood to change a dirty diaper. The thought amuses me–it’s probably the perk of being the closest thing to a boss around here, letting someone else take care of the stinkier problems.
I am a little curious if she bought that I was all milked-up or not, though. There was nothing about her attitude towards me that suggested she didn’t–but her unflinching sunniness, despite her possible misdeeds, has me thinking she could just be a sociopath.
===
A few minutes later, I spot another cabin with the Maternal Council symbol on the door–another ‘changing station,’ I guess. I hope.
I can’t believe I’m doing this–the last thing I want is for anyone else to see me, or smell me, in this condition. Just the idea of having to go to someone else to take care of this feels like it goes against everything I stand for.
Still, I challenge myself to find a different way to look at this. For my own sanity. I’m ‘playing the game,’ sure–blending in with all the other stinky babies around here. But, perhaps there’s something to be said for the fact that I’m not the one who has to do the cleaning. That gets to be someone else’ job. Someone else has to wipe me up and put me in a new diaper, while all I do is lie there. It doesn’t really make me feel better, though I’m pretty sure I’d rather be the changee than the changer.
I give the door a quick rap and wait. I can hear some movement inside. Maybe someone talking.
“One moment please!” a voice says from inside, in an almost sing-song cadence.
What’s a few more moments of standing around in my own filth?
Hm.
My mind wanders back to where it was earlier–how none of these supposed ‘babies’ have the disdain for dirty diapers that a literal infant would.
Do you know who likes rolling around in their own shit? Pigs. Or so I’m told–I’ve never actually been around pigs, as best as I can recall. So that just settles it. The Cradle isn’t actually for babies–it’s for piggies. Dirty little piggies.
The door opens before I can dwell on my new metaphor any longer. A young woman emerges, pushing her messy brownish-red hair out of her face. Her freckled cheeks have a vibrant pink glow to them right now. The first thing she does is take a whiff of the air around me and wrinkle her nose. I roll my eyes, biting my tongue before I say something like “I’m sure your diapers don’t smell like cotton candy, missy.”
The girl quickly scrambles away from me and the cabin, pulling at the hem of her powder-blue dress to cover the thick white diaper underneath it. I don’t know why she’s even bothering. Maybe she’s also new to this place?
“Thanks for your patience,” a woman says emerging from the cabin next. The first things I notice about her are her long blonde hair and rather impressive chest–bulging out from the tight white shirt they’ve been stuffed into. Truth be told, I’m usually more of a butt-girl than I am a boob-girl, but if she’s going to flaunt those puppies like she is, I’m not going to stop myself from getting a little lost in her cleavage.
“Uh oh,” she says, waving a hand in front of her face. “Someone made a little boom-boom, huh?”
I resist the urge to call her ‘Captain Obvious’ and just nod my head. If nothing else, I’m grateful for the fact that I don’t have to tell her that I pooped myself and need her to change me.
“Come inside, buttercup. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
“Uh, sure.”
I follow her inside the cabin and she closes the door behind me. Either all these ‘changing station’ cabins look the same, or I’ve been in this one before. I try to recall where I was when Freya changed my wet diaper, but I find there’s a lot of empty space in my memories from around that time.
“Why don’t you hop onto the changing table, okay?” the woman asks. A moment later, her eyes flutter and she laughs to herself. “Silly me–I didn’t even introduce myself, did I? I guess I just assumed all the babies know who I am, but I don’t recognize your face. I’m Kelly.”
“Nikki,” I say, waddling towards the changing table.
“Nikki,” she repeats, speaking to herself. “Is there another Nikki here?”
I shrug. “No idea.”
“I just heard that name recently, and I’m trying to remember why.”
I leave her to her pondering as I propel myself up onto the table’s soft matt. The odor in here is…not great. It’s not just me, I don’t think–though I’m certainly contributing. There’s other competing scents in here. Baby powder, and a stink that I don’t think is mine. Maybe that last girl’s dirty diaper.
I spin myself around and lower myself onto the mat, feeling my filthy diaper squish beneath me as I do so. I’m cringing as I flatten my body out, feeling even grosser than I did a moment ago.
“Ah,” the woman says, nodding her head finally. “Nikki.”
“Thinking of someone else?” I ask.
She laughs. “No, someone mentioned your name to me just this morning.”
I’ve never been a fan of other people talking about me when I’m not there. I guess there’s nothing you can do about it, but it just feels like a loss of control over how people perceive me. Not that I even care about how people perceive most of the time–but I still want to be in control of it.
“Who?” I ask.
She smirks at me. “Don’t worry your cute little nose. Nobody said anything bad about you.”
I sigh. “But…who?”
“If you must know, it was Freya. She didn’t say much–just that she had a, uh, favorable experience with a new member of our community yesterday.”
“Hrm.” I feel my cheeks warming.
“It’s a good thing,” she says, gripping the waistband of my shorts and easing them down my thighs. “Trust me, you should hear the way we ‘mommies’ talk about the babies we don’t like.”
Admittedly, I am a little curious about that. I don’t like it when it’s about me, but I do have a little thing for gossip. It might come from the longer, slower nights at the bar when there’s barely any people around and I’m looking for something to amuse myself with. I’ll listen in on conversations taking place on the other side of the counter, absorbing all the nasty rumors and drama for people I’ll never meet.
Baby gossip. What’s that like? Who has the stinkiest diapers? Who’s the hardest to get to sit still during a diaper change? Who guzzles the most milk?
I bet there’s some good gossip in a place like this. Seeing the way the milk can make people act all loopy, and given that everyone is always being encouraged to be their most real selves, The Cradle probably has a surprising amount of drama. Didn’t Tommy say something about that a bit ago? Something about one of Alfie’s roommates sleeping with some semi-famous stranger behind everyone’s back.
Wild.
The sound of the tape being peeled up from the front of my diaper reminds me of where I am, and what’s about to happen.
“Now then, let’s see what we’re dealing with in here, stinky,” she says, giving the bottom of my diaper a good pat. I don’t care much for being called ‘stinky,’ but the pat to my disgusted diaper triggers some of the same tingling sensations that Freya stumbled into when she changed me last.
Keep it together. You’re not doing that again. Not with a messy diaper.
“You’re so tense,” she says.
“Things like this don’t usually happen to me,” I say.
She laughs. “Is this…your first poopy diaper, Nikki?”
“We really don’t have to talk about it,” I say, my face getting even warmer. “I just need a, uh, new diaper so that I can be on my way.”
“This is a big deal!” she says. “A special moment! Baby’s first poopy!”
I shake my head. “Not exactly a moment I want to remember or celebrate.”
“Aw, you’re such a cute little stick in the mud. I guess that rules out me taking a picture of you right now for prosperity?”
“Not if you don’t want to see me kick your phone as far as I can into the trees.”
“I’m kidding,” she says. “I’m just trying to loosen you up a little.”
I snort. “Well, threatening to take pictures of me like this isn’t going to do the trick.”
“Not really into joking around, huh? Okay, okay, that’s fair. That’s probably a good thing for me to know.”
“Sorry…” I sigh. “I don’t mean to be standoffish. I just… This is all new to me. And I've got a lot on my mind and…” But I don’t want to divulge anything else. I don’t know who I can trust around here–even if they’re about to have their hands in my soiled diaper.
Kelly’s response is simple–she leans down, her big breasts briefly resting atop my own chest, and she lays a kiss on my forehead. And without another word, she goes back to my diaper, a little smile on her face.
It’s an incredibly disarming kiss. It helps to brush away some of the anxiety I’m feeling. And, well, when’s the last time someone kissed me like that? Just…gave me a loving and reassuring little smooch on the head?
It makes me miss my parents. Well, no–it makes me miss the concept of my parents. The idea of who my parents could’ve been. In a world where my mother kissed me on the forehead once or twice, would I have moved so far away from them? Would I have met Alfie? Would I have ended up on a changing table, smelling my own foul mess?
I intermittently switch between closing my eyes and staring up at the ceiling. Anything to avoid having to watch Kelly wipe my ass clean for me.
But I feel it. And I hear the crinkling of the dirty diaper beneath me. I hear the sound of the moist baby wipes being pulled from the package. I hear Kelly’s little “Hm”s and “Ah”s as she carefully manipulates my legs to get into each and every orifice.
I don’t feel that rush, that thrill, that I had when Freya was cleaning me up yesterday. Even when Kelly runs a moist wipe over my vulva, it doesn’t quite send positive vibes up my spine. It could be Kelly herself. Nothing personal–she’s very pretty, and seems to be nice enough–but her entire approach to this process is different. Freya had an unmistakably sexually charged energy about her. Kelly’s is more maternal. She wants to clean me up and take care of me, because that’s who she is and that’s what I need. Also, it could just be that I’m a lot less horny now, following the magic Freya performed with her fingers previously. It’ll probably take a good long while before I’m that horny again. And by that time, I’d like to think that I’m anywhere other than here.
Last, but certainly not least, is the possibility that it’s just the nature of my messy ‘accident.’ Lying here in my own filth probably won’t ever be the sort of thing that turns me on.
“Are you okay?” Kelly asks.
“Fine,” I mutter, sparing her the complaints about how I don’t want to be here.
“We’re almost done.”
“So soon?” I’m surprised that I’m thinking this, let alone saying it.
She laughs. “Should I have taken my time?”
“I just… I thought that was going to take a while. It was a big mess.”
“Sweetheart, do you know how many times a day I have to change a dirty diaper? And you might find this hard to believe, but I see far worse than yours. I’ve already seen worse than yours today–and I bet by the end of it, I’ll have seen even worse than that.”
This is actually a little reassuring. My most humiliating moment–the most shame I’ve felt in a very, very long time–is barely even a blip on someone else’s radar. She might even forget about me, and my mess, midway through changing the next diaper.
And, speaking of: Knock, knock.
Kelly smiles. “My work is never done, it seems.” She turns to the door and says the exact same thing she said to me when I had knocked, in even the same sing-song tone: “One moment please!” Then, to me: “Alright, lift up your little bottom for me again.”
One of the rare times my bottom is called ‘little,’ but okay. I see her unfolding a new diaper, and I almost laugh at how distinct the rustling sounds are with a clean diaper than a messy one. So much more crisper. Airy? She slides it beneath me before signalling for me to lower my ass onto it. Out comes the baby powder. It’s the fact that I ‘need’ baby powder that bothers me more than the scent itself. I use powder-scented deodorant from time to time, and it’s a smell I often associate with feeling clean. Plus, it cuts through the scent of my dirty diaper, and my nose is happy to have a little bit of relief there. And then, in just a few efficient moves of her hands, she completes the task of sealing me in my diaper.
“Good to go,” she says with a big smile on her face.
Knock knock, on the door again.
Kelly, though still smiling, rolls her eyes. “One min-ute please!” It’s still got a song-y element to it, though it’s a little more forced this time. “I swear, every baby thinks their diaper is the most important one.”
“Thanks for, uh, taking care of me,” I say, swinging my legs over the side of the changing table and standing up–feeling the new padding crinkle loudly beneath me.
“That’s what I do, baby. Always happy to lend a hand.”
“Well…” I don’t really know what else to say. I’m tempted to make a quip about how, hopefully, there won’t be many more diapers that need changing, but those are probably better kept to myself.
My feet land on the ground again and I grab my shorts, pulling them up my legs. When I look over to Kelly, I see she has a hand stretched towards me, holding up one finger. “Just one more thing.”
“Hm?” I ask.
“Freya mentioned that you’re Alfie’s friend.” Her smile has diminished a little. She’s talking in a softer tone.
“Yes,” I say. “I came here to find him.”
“And that’s been a little tricky, hasn’t it?”
“It seems that way,” I say.
“Freya’s probably mentioned that that’s a sentiment shared by many of us.”
I narrow my eyes a little, skeptical of whether or not this is a trap or a trick of some sort. Freya did mention her own concerns, but she didn’t say that they were shared by a collective ‘us.’
“Us?” I ask.
“The Maternal Council.”
“The whole thing?” I ask.
“Enough of us,” Kelly says with a shrug.
“Okay.” I’m not really sure what else to say to that, nor do I know how this helps my cause. If anything, it makes me concerned that it’s going to be even harder to get more answers from anyone besides Mirabelle.
“Freya proposed that we get together later and talk some more.”
“We?”
“You, me, Freya…maybe some other members of the Maternal Council.”
I ask her the same question I asked Freya: “Can I trust you? Can I trust all of you?”
“None of us want to be having these conversations. None of us want to think that something shady is going on around here. None of us want to cross Mirabelle. Or…”
“Or Mother?” I ask.
She nods.
But I’m not afraid of that as they are. I say: “Alright. I’d like to talk too.”
“Okay,” she says. “We don’t have a designated time or place just yet. But once we do, we’ll be sure to…”
Knock knock knock.
“Just one minute, please!” I find myself yelling at the door, lacking all the sweetness that Kelly had channeled at the door earlier.
Kelly snickers and finishes her thought: “We’ll be sure to let you know.”
I’m tempted to ask how they’ll go about doing that, but it’s probably not that hard. They obviously know which cabin I’m in, for starters.
We say our goodbyes and I open the door to leave, and an antsy guy in a diaper and a t-shirt rushes past me through the doorway. I smell him before I get a good chance to look at him–a toxic rankness that puts my own soiled diaper somewhere closer to actual cotton candy. When I finally glance in his direction, I see that he’s holding onto the top of the diaper with both of his hands, trying to prevent it from slipping further down thighs. At the very bottom of it, I can see the dark brown stains that tell the story of what happened. And if that wasn’t enough, I catch a glimpse of the back of his shirt, where a brown stain announces that he’s had some trouble keeping his mess contained to his diaper.
“Goodness,” Kelly says to him. “What in the world happened to you, sweetheart?”
He stammers: “I…I went potty and…” Tears well from his eyes and he sniffles pathetically.
Kelly looks up at me as I finally make my exit and smiles. I’m sure she’s thinking the same thing I am: “You thought your diaper was bad? Well here’s proof that it could’ve been worse.”
And, yeah, that does make me feel a little better as I walk back towards the garden to get back to what I was going to do before my life became consumed by shit.
===
“Took you long enough,” Tess says with a smile as I walk into the garden, slipping some work gloves on over my hands.
“Sorry if that took a while,” I sigh. “I had to, uh, find a place to…”
“I’m teasing,” she says. “Come on over here, I could use a hand.”
I waddle my way over towards her. The diaper under my shorts is a little too hot and restrictive to be considered comfortable, but it’s infinitely better than the feeling of a load in the back of my diaper.
“I have some more overalls if you want some,” she says.
I shake my head. “I think I’m good. I don’t mind getting a little dirty.” Or, maybe, my tolerance for a little bit of dirt has just increased after the morning I’ve had so far.
And with that, she puts me to work. Pulling up vegetables. Weeding. Shoveling dirt into a wheelbarrow and moving it to another location. Watering plants. Pretty much anything she needs, I’m game for. And the sprawling gardens have a near-endless number of things that need doing. Even with more people working over here, it still seems like too much work.
“You should have more help,” I say, wiping sweat from my brow as I stroll up to her after dropping some dying plants off in the compost bins.
She laughs. “Preaching to the choir.”
“They don’t, like, make people work here with you?”
“They,” she says with extra emphasis–likely alluding to the Maternal Council–don’t really make anyone do anything. They’re always suggesting that people volunteer to be a part of the community, you know? And a good number of people do. But they’re all doing things like working in the kitchen, or walking around and tidying up things. Hell, people are more interested in taking care of the animals than they are growing things. I get it, I guess, this is an exhausting life.”
“Animals?” I ask. I vaguely recall Tommy–once upon a time, when I had just met him–mentioning that there were animals at The Cradle.
“It’s more of an experiment than anything else,” Tess says. “We’ve got some goats, a cow, and some chickens. Down the road, we’d like to have more.”
“I think I’d rather fuck around in the dirt than shovel animal crap,” I say.
She laughs. “That’s why I like you, Nikki. Great minds, thinking alike.”
“So what else needs to be done?” I ask. I’m in the mode now–once I get my body moving, it’s hard to slow down.
She chuckles lightly to herself and shakes her head. “I think that’s enough for today. There’s more to do, of course. But I’m beat, and you’re probably more tired than you’re letting on.”
I take a deep breath and expel it slowly, letting off some of the pent up steam that was keeping me going through the afternoon. Maybe I’m more ready to call it a day than I thought. “Yeah, that works for me. We’ll pick up from where we left off tomorrow?”
“You want more?”
“The work ain’t going to do itself,” I say with a shrug.
“See, if we ever get around to cloning people, I’d want a hundred more of you.”
I snort, shaking my head. “One is more than enough, trust me.”
===
By the time I’ve waddled my way back to my cabin, I’m wet. No, not pissy–just sweaty. My shirt is wet. My shorts feel damp. I need a long, cool shower and then I need a beer.
I’ve never seen any alcohol around this place, come to think of it. I haven’t seen anyone smoking either. Do people just sacrifice their vices when they enter The Cradle? I doubt that. More likely, their vices are just replaced with milk. And I don’t like that. Everyone so dependent on the same thing, that you can only get in one place?
Seems like a means to control people if I ever heard one.
I haven’t had to piss much this afternoon, despite the copious amounts of water I’ve guzzled–I probably sweat it all out. But now, with my cabin in view, I’m finding that I finally need to pee.
Do I just…wet myself again?
I’d rather not. I’ve already spent more time on a changing table than I’d like today. Instead, I walk around to the back of the cabin–the side that faces some trees–lower my shorts, shimmy my diaper down my thighs, and squat. A moment later, I hear the sound of my pee stream hitting the ground beneath–a delicate pattering sound. It’s not a toilet, but it’s still better than doing it in my pants.
I was a little short-sighted in not bringing anything to wipe myself dry when I’m done, but I guess that’s where the diaper comes in handy. I pull the diaper and my shorts back into place and then head around to the door of the cabin and let myself in.
Someone’s been here, I see. Nothing has been disturbed, as best as I can tell, but I see some things have been left for me on the bedside table.
The first is a bottle of milk. It’s a short, stubby bottle, like the one that was left for me when I first came to the cabin. Somewhere along the way, I remember someone saying that milk was dispersed like this–every few days, per some unknown schedule, new milk was delivered to residents of The Cradle. Not everyone got it on the same day either. I’d imagine that’s so the whole population isn’t helplessly reeling around like a whiny infant at the same time?
Well I definitely won’t be drinking this either. I’ll probably toss it out the window like I did with the last milk. I suppose I could be nice and offer it to Tommy. I’m sure he’d slurp it right up. But if the milk is bad news like I think it is, it’s probably better that nobody drinks it.
There’s something else too, next to the milk. A note, written on a piece of scrap paper, torn from who-knows-where.
It reads: “Let’s talk tonight. I’ll come to you.” And then, there’s Freya’s signature.
My heart quickens a little. Interesting. Does she want to finger me some more? Or does she want to talk about Alfie?
Either way, I’d be happy to see her.
===
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I don’t think there was this exact moment where it clicked for me that I liked both men and women. It’s not like some pretty girl walked past me one day and, after following her ass with my eyes, I said: “Yeah, I think I’m bisexual now.”
It’s more like I always knew this about myself. It was always just a given. When I came of age and started noticing other people, and thinking about all the things we could be doing together–whether I understood them or not–my gaze was unbiased.
How could I ever only like boys? How could anyone? They’ve got their perks and advantages, but look at all the other shit we have to put up with. The patriarchy, you know? Eye roll.
“Not all men,” they’ll say.
Okay, sure. But, like, enough of you all. Calm down.
And don’t get me wrong, women aren’t a walk in the park either. Sometimes I think we might even be worse, though maybe I’m biased–having had to wade through twenty-some years of the catty societal norms expected of us.
My motto is, and always has been: I’ll just take what I can get. Whatever shape. Whatever size. Whatever equipment. So long as you’re cool, we get along, and you’re willing to jam your tongue between my thighs, I think we’ll be just fine.
That said–yeah, sure, I guess it has always been harder to interact with women in a romantic sort of way. It’s more awkward because that’s just not the way the world is built. Guys? I can talk to a guy no problem. A guy can certainly talk to me with no problem, if nothing else. Girls, though–there’s this added level of insecurity in having to parse whether or not they’re on the same page as you or not.
“What kind of girls do you like?” Alfie asked me once. Well, no, he asks me this once every six or seven months–like he either forgets that we had this conversation before, or he just wants to see if my answer is different.
I don’t know. Maybe I’m looking for the same things I look for in a guy. Someone cool. Confident. Someone who isn’t afraid to smell like sweat. Someone who uses their hands. Someone who can keep up with me–or who can actually manage to take the lead. Give me a girl who can pick me up or throw me around a little and I’ll be real fucking smitten.
So when Freya takes my hand and starts pulling me through The Cradle, it puts some color in my cheeks. It might even make me a little wet–though who would know, considering the sopping wet diaper I’m tromping around in right now.
Getting my diaper changed, by itself, is just ridiculous. Easily the weirdest damn thing that’s happened to me in my adult life. And I hate how avoidable this seems in hindsight. Months ago, when Alfie asked me if I would join him on a trip to California to find his brother-in-law, all I had to say was “No thanks.” I could’ve just stayed home, kept my shifts at the bar, and let Alfie go do his thing. But no, I had to tag along. And look at me now–waddling around in a pissy diaper, moments away from being changed. Humiliating because, you know, I’m not a baby–but also because the idea of this pretty woman manhandling me and having any sort of power over me is aligned with some of my favorite fantasies.
I feel like I owe Alfie both a punch and a kiss for this.
“Are you coming in?” Freya asks, standing in the doorway to the cabin we’ve come to–one of the many ‘changing stations’ dispersed around The Cradle.
“Yeah…” I was lost in my head for a moment, just thinking about everything. Maybe I was disconnected from reality for a few moments–long enough to look like I was just standing there, staring into space.
She smiles, beckoning me with her hand. “Come along, Nikki. I promise I won't bite.”
“Hrm.” I feel my cheeks getting a little warmer.
She smirks at this. “I mean, unless you want me to bite. Do you need a little nibble?”
“Uh…”
She laughs. “I’m teasing.”
Look, I want to say, make good on that teasing and I might just throw away my search for Alfie and become your special little baby girl. Whatever you want.
It’s that goddamn horniness–what I was feeling on the drive here with Tommy. It’s still unresolved, and with every day that passes in which I don’t take care of it, it seems to get even stronger. Maybe I’m not perpetually horny 24/7, but when those feelings do surface…watch out.
They’re surfacing now. I’m not happy about it.
Or am I? That’s the thing about feeling like this–I won’t know how I actually feel about it until later, with hindsight.
I walk into the little cabin, spotting a large table pressed into the corner with a thin mattress atop it. I presume this is the adult-sized changing table. Nearby, there are shelves of diapers, wipes, ointments, oils, and powders. Baby bottles. Pacifiers. Folded clothes–onesies? Everything a baby could need, I guess.
“Come on up,” she says, patting the top of the changing table. “Are you good to get up here, or do you need a boost?”
She knows damn well I’m capable of climbing atop the table myself–she’s just trying to make me feel small.
Well, it’s working. I feel my face getting even warmer, and I scoff as I shuffle past her.
“Should I, uh, take off my shorts, or…?”
“I’ll take care of everything,” she says. “You don’t need to worry about it.”
“Sure,” I say, propelling my first leg up onto the table and then using it to help pull the rest of my body up. I’m successful in getting onto the table, though it’s a little more of a struggle than I’d like. Maybe it’s the fact that my range of motion is slightly diminished by the wet diaper. Or, it could just be that I’m short–which is even more embarrassing, given everything else.
“Good girl,” she says when I’m atop the table. She says this with a knowing grin, as she seems to be well aware of how her playful condescension is making me feel.
I no longer have any idea how I feel about this. I’m opposed to the concept of arbitrarily surrendering my independence, just because we’re in a place where everyone else has done the same thing. I can, and should, be able to take care of this myself. I shouldn’t have had to wet a diaper in the first place. But… Here I am, in a place where things happen. I’m in the pissy diaper now. And here’s this tall, pretty woman who wants to touch me and care for me.
It’s hard to be mad about that.
“Are there cameras in here?” I ask. It’s a silly thing to ask and I know it. I think the real question I want to ask is: “Is there any chance that anyone will ever know about what happens here?”
“You’re safe here,” she says. “It’s just you and me.” I suspect she knows exactly what I’m asking.
This helps a little. I’m still tense and anxious, but I did need to hear that.
She says: “You should lie down, sweetie.”
When’s the last time someone called me ‘sweetie’? It doesn’t happen that much anymore. I think, when I grew into my adult body–my ‘final form’ as Alfie might say–it was made abundantly clear to people that I’m not the type you call ‘sweetie’ or ‘honey.’ It’s that look of scorn on my face, maybe. ‘Resting bitch face,’ I’ve heard a few guys at the bar say over the years–usually in hushed tones to each other when they don’t think I can hear them.
But being called ‘sweetie’ now melts me just a little bit. On some level I’ve been needing to be called this.
I do as she asks, laying down on my back. She towers over me at the side of the changing table now. She’s huge. And I feel small and helpless.
I wonder what this would be like if I had actually drank the milk. Would I feel even smaller? Even more docile? Would I be reaching up at her tits, foolishly thinking that I was allowed to suckle from them like she was my ‘mommy?’
I don’t actually regret dumping out the milk. These hormones are more than enough for me right now–and I maintain that it’s better that I keep my wits about me otherwise.
She puts her hands on the waistband of my shorts and pulls at them, trying to pull them down from my hips and expose the diaper under. Instinctively, my hands lash out towards hers, trying to push her away.
“You have to let me help you,” she says.
“R-right,” I say, retracting my hands.
She tries again, reaching to the waistband so she can pull my shorts down. This time she’s successful, and I watch as my shorts are slid down my thighs, past my knees, down my ankles, and then right off from my feet.
I take a deep breath, the blushing–no doubt–intensifying.
“Did they give you some milk today?” Freya asks, her fingers playing with one of the tapes on the front of the diaper, though not actually peeling it up just yet.
“Yeah.”
“Hm,” she nods.
“Wh-what?”
“Well…a few minutes ago, when I knew you had a wet diaper on just by looking at you? It’s because I see a lot of babies every single day.”
“Sure.”
“But there’s lots of little things I can pick up on, given how often I do this.”
She’s getting at something. “Okay?”
“I don’t think you drank any milk,” she says. She says without any sort of smirk, shrug or nod–it’s devoid of any tell that would let me know how she feels about it.
She laughs. “So then that wasn’t an accident, was it?”
“You don’t know that,” I say again.
“Ah, but I do, little girl. I’m very familiar with how milk makes babies act. Even in the subtle ways that they don’t even realize.”
“Who’s to say that it just doesn’t affect me differently?” I ask.
“Possible,” she shrugs. “But my gut is usually pretty reliable when it comes to these things.”
I say nothing just to be safe. I don’t know if I can trust her or not. She could walk out of here when we’re done and go right to Mirabelle and talk about how I lied about drinking milk.
So what? I don’t even know what I’m being paranoid about anymore. I don’t know what the worst case scenario looks like. I guess, if anything, I just don’t want to fuck anything up for Alfie–or for my chances at seeing Alfie for myself.
“But you’re going to behave for me, right?” Freya asks. “You’re going to let me change your diaper?”
I sigh, though I’m still not sure if I should say anything at all.
“Let’s make a deal, then,” she says. “You let me change your diaper, and I keep your little secret that you didn’t drink your milkies. I don’t know why you’d want to keep that a secret, but I’m sure a girl like you has your reasons.”
“Blackmail?” I ask. “Really?”
She chuckles. “It’s not blackmail. It’s a deal. You have a secret to keep. I have a diaper to change.”
“What would I owe you if, instead, you let me change my own diaper and still didn’t say anything to anyone?”,
“You don’t want that, sweetheart,” she says. “You think you do, but you don’t. You want me to change your diaper.”
I snort, again having to say: “You don’t know that.”
But she surprises me by putting her open palm between my thighs, pressing my wet diaper into my crotch. Sure enough, feeling the force of her hand push the dirty diaper against my already-confused-and-throbbing pussy causes a groan to escape my mouth.
Fuck. I wish she hadn’t heard that.
“Let me see if I can guess who I’ve got on the changing table right now,” she says, her smirk returning. “Here, we have a stubborn little girl who is fiercely independent. More often than not, she thinks she knows better than anyone else. She keeps everyone she can at arm’s length to protect herself. But she has needs too, and they’re harder to achieve when she’s created a little bubble for herself.”
“Are you done?” I mutter. Now I’m a little annoyed.
And, well, still a little turned on.
“I could probably go on,” she says.
Her hand is still on my diaper, and I’m reminded of this when she pushes it into me again. I clench my hands, close my eyes, and offer up another little moan.
“I see all kinds of babies come through here,” she says. “And diaper changes–well, they’re a very intimate moment, you know? It’s a space where lots of babies feel they can open up about things they don’t usually talk about. It’s, like, therapy while your butt gets wiped clean, you know?”
“Hm.”
“I studied psychology in college. That helps,” she says. “If I didn’t come here, I likely would’ve been a therapist.”
I moan a little again, her hand now massaging the squishy padding between my legs. I hate that I like this. I hate that she seems to have control over me right now by exploiting…my loins.
I also kind of love it.
I can never really get into porn in picture or video form. The actors and subjects are never who I want them to be. The ‘professional’ stuff always feels too fake. The homegrown stuff is way too intimate–I just imagine a couple, moments after finishing a video, having an argument about whose turn it is to wash the dishes. I take my smut in word form, thank you very much. Would it shock anyone to learn that I’m an avid reader, and that 80% of what I read is smut?
Consensual non-consent. That’s where it’s at for me. It’s seemingly impossible for me to be thrown around and ‘forced’ to do anything in the real world, so I like my smut to let me slip into a place where that’s possible.
And here I am now, getting almost what I’ve fantasized about, only it’s like I made a wish on the fucking monkey’s paw or something. Sure, you can have a hot lady that will make you feel small and weak in her presence. But…you have to wear a wet diaper, and she’s going to treat you like a baby.
But maybe it’s close enough?
“You resist,” she says. “But I think you like it.”
I don’t respond with words, just a frustrated-but-titillated moan.
She’s got me wanting more. My legs open a little wider, and my hands retreat even further from hers–the equivalent of a dog rolling over to expose its belly. Here, look, you can do whatever you want now, okay? I can’t think of the last time I let myself do this, though this might just be the first time.
Her little grin tells me that she knows what I want, and that the power is in her hands. Which is probably why she then pulls her hand away from the bottom of my diaper, using it to instead tug at one of the tapes.
I grunt at her. The translation would be akin to: “Put your hand right back where it was.”
She laughs a little. “Come now, little girl. I have to get you out of this very wet diaper, don’t I?”
“Hrm.”
“Unless you like being in a wet diaper. Is that the case? Are you a dirty little girl, Nikki?”
Her words. Her condescending tone. The fluttering of her eyelashes and the smugness of her grin. She’s absolutely wrecking me right now.
I feel myself tensing up again, and I keep my mouth tightly shut.
I wonder if, maybe, I do like being in a wet diaper. Maybe it’s not the wet diaper itself as much as it is the figurative display of showing weakness and vulnerability to a pretty woman in a position of power. Something is certainly working for me right now.
“Go on,” Freya coos. “Just answer my question.”
“I…” I sigh. It’s hard to believe these words would ever come out of my mouth, but it feels like the toll I have to pay if I want to proceed down this path. Here, in this private space–where Freya already knows that I’ve avoided the milk–I think I might just be able to allow myself to let it happen. “I’m…a dirty little girl…”
Freya’s smile is the biggest I’ve seen it yet. She clasps her hands together in front of her, just about squealing with delight. “I knew it.”
Her hand is back between my thighs again, pressing the bulky, soggy padding against my pussy. I hate how much I love this–but I do love this feeling. At least right now I do. I wonder if I’d feel the same about it later, without a diaper or inflamed loins.
Her hand pushes another long moan from my lips–a moan I’m sure that nobody else has ever heard me make before, because it might be the first time I’m hearing it for myself too.
“That’s it,” she says. “Make your little noises for me.”
“Unh…”
“I know you like this, but there’s so much more I could be doing if you just allow me to open this diaper.”
I wonder if this is kind of what it’s like to drink the milk. To feel so incredibly desperate and needy. To feel so small and helpless. Maybe this is just a little part of the whole milk experience. I almost regret not drinking it now. Almost. Even in my horny and stupified state, I still feel like I made the right decision on that one. It’s bad enough that my hormones are in an electrified state while I’m at this place–I don’t need a foreign substance sending me further into a tailspin.
“Sure,” I manage to say to her. Translation: “Do whatever the fuck you need to do–but please do something right now.”
She’s pulling at the tapes on the front of the diaper again. Each time she gives one a quick, practiced tug–with its sticky tearing sound–it sends a little jolt through my body. When the last is pulled free, she grabs the diaper’s front and pulls it back between my open legs slowly, like she’s revealing a birthday gift she’s received in front of all my friends.
“Well would you look at this,” she says. “Just as wet as I thought.”
“You knew that already,” I say, though my face still feels like it’s turning a deeper shade of red.
“And look at this cute little stubble down here. Looks like it might be time for another shave, hmm?”
I sigh, looking up at the ceiling. I don’t always shave my pubic hair. I can never tell if I like it better shaved, trimmed, or if it’s just left to its own devices. It’s like a cycle, I guess, where I’ll shave it off until I get sick of doing it, and then I just let it grow for a while before I get sick of that too.
“Can I tell you something else?” Freya asks.
“S-sure…”
She brings her head down closer to my ear and whispers into it: “You have a very pretty pussy, Nikki.”
I’m not even sure what that means, but I like hearing it. Can pussies even be ‘pretty?’ What’s the difference between a pretty pussy and an ugly one? Maybe it’s a trick question–like, all pussies are pretty, and she’d have said this no matter what. Regardless, it melts me.
The word ‘pretty’ can go a long way with me sometimes. I’m not a ‘pretty’ person. I mean, I dunno, someone out there finds me attractive. But I’m not, like, traditionally ‘pretty’ and I know this. I’ve made peace with that. Some girls can rock the pinks and the curls and the jewelry and the makeup and the cute vocal affectations and the giggles. Some girls can’t.
Once in a while, I find myself a little envious of the ‘pretty’ girls. I try to imagine what my life would be like if I was more like them–what path I would’ve had to have taken, or where that would lead me.
Like, I don’t know, maybe I wouldn’t be here right now, on a big changing table, if I was ‘pretty.’ Maybe I wouldn’t have the relationship I have with Alfie if I was ‘pretty.’ I try not to go down this rabbit hole when I can help it, though. I still like who I am, and I have little regret for the choices I’ve made–even if I sometimes think about the ‘what-ifs.’
All this to say that when Freya says ‘pretty’–even if it’s just about my throbbing, hungry pussy, it further stokes the fire inside of me.
“I… I’m sorry,” I say softly.
She laughs. “Sorry? Sorry for what, dear?”
I sigh. “Sorry that you’re going to see me like this.”
Her eyebrows lift curiously as her fingers graze my damp vulva. “Why, whatever do you mean?”
My answer is a guttural groan that I release as I arch my back and thrust my midsection towards her–begging her to touch it more.
She laughs and nods. “I see. Well, no apologies are needed. It should be obvious by now that I don’t judge you in the slightest.”
Fine, fine. I don’t even bother responding. I think I’ve said enough. I think I’ve done enough thinking. It’s time to turn my brain off and just enjoy whatever this moment is. If this was a mistake, I’ll deal with the fallout later–right now, I need Freya to have her way with me in whatever way that’s to come.
“First of all, I think it’s imperative that we clean you up a little, don’t you think?” she asks. She puts the back of her hand on the moist skin near my vagina. “This dampness I’m feeling? That’s your pee. We can’t have that now, can we?”
I let out a little grunt again, hoping to communicate that I don’t care what she does.
She seems to get the message. With a smug little grin, she pulls a wet wipe from the lidded plastic tub that they’re kept in. She drapes it over her hand before slowly, gently sliding down my inner thigh towards my quivering body. Another swipe on the other thigh. My legs tremble and I bite my lip as I feel her hand whisk across my skin. It’s hard to pay attention to such things, so I’m unsure if she’s using the same wipe over and over again, or if she’s occasionally switching to a fresh cloth. Either way, I trust her–she’s changed enough diapers that I’m sure she’s got a good system for this.
Her wipe-gripping hand slides overtop my pussy, sending a new thrill up my spine. When she slides over it again, her fingers pushing the moist cloth a little deeper inside of me as she does so, I release a series of one-syllable noises. It sounds a lot like baby talk–noises I’d assume I couldn’t make if I wasn’t in this position.
“Aw, the little baby likes getting cleaned, does she?”
“Unh…”
“What a good little girl, letting me do everything I need to do. Now, I need you to lift your little bottom up for me. Can you do that?”
Of course I can, and I do it without hesitation. She guides another wipe under my body, sliding it along the contours of my ass cheeks–letting it sink into the crack just enough that I’m made to bite my lip a little harder. I pull a long, deep breath into myself through my nose.
“There,” she finally says. I feel her pulling the soggy diaper out from under me as gently presses my abdomen downwards to let me know it’s good to lie flat again. “I think that takes care of your icky diaper.”
I breathe out through my mouth.
“This is usually the part where I put the baby in a new diaper,” says Freya. “But if you’re not drinking the milk, I’m not so sure that you’re a baby.”
I say nothing.
“Are you a baby?” she asks, her hand gingerly working its way up my inner-thigh again.
“Y-yes…” She could ask me if I’m an astronaut right now, and the feeling of her hand on me would probably get an affirmative answer.
“I want to hear you say it. Tell me that you’re a baby, Nikki.”
It’s surprisingly easy to say: “I’m a baby.”
“Surprisingly convincing,” she says.
Now, her fingertips dance lightly over my vulva. She’s teasing me. Playing with me. She wants me to want more. It’s working. My knees shake and a muffled moan is pushed through my locked lips: “Mm-mmm-mm-mmm.”
Finally, I feel a finger–maybe two–pushing past my wet vulva. They begin to slowly explore inside of me, searching for the points that excite me the most. It’s not hard to figure out where her fingers have the most impact–she only needs to follow the sounds I make. Gasps, moans, groans, little squeaks–noises I don’t recall ever making before.
I am so wrapped around her fingers right now. Literally.
It’s when she begins to touch my clit that I just about lose it. I let out a loud noise–something of a “Hyuh!”– and thrust my midsection into her hand once more. With a playful giggle, she continues to stroke my clit with small circular motions.
This is good.
I don’t know that this is everything I need–getting filled up with a cock might also hit the spot right now–but her talented fingers are working absolute magic on me. Any person that I choose to date in the future–regardless of gender–is going to have to take lessons from her before we disrobe in a bedroom together.
I feel the heat of her face near mine again, though I can’t bring myself to open my eyes. I hear the wetness on her lips as she opens them to whisper: “You really want to cum, don’t you?”
“Y-yes…”
“Maybe you should ask permission.”
“M-may I…uhm…” It’s not that I’m too embarrassed to finish the statement, it’s that the pace of her fingers have quickened, making it even harder to think straight.
“What’s that?” she asks. “You’ll have to try again.”
“May I…cum.” I say it again, so quickly that it sounds like it’s all one word: “May-eye-cum.”
“Well, since you’ve been a good girl,” she says. “I guess I could allow for that. But you’re going into a diaper as soon as you do.”
And just like that, I lose control of myself. My body’s shaking, my legs are wobbling, and my hands are grasping at the padding of the changing table like I might just tears chunks of it away. My back and neck are arched as far as they can be. I’m making absolutely inhuman sounds. I don’t just squirt–I feel myself gushing like I’m an opened fire hydrant. She’s saying something to me, but I can’t be bothered to pay attention.
Maybe this is the greatest orgasm of my entire life.
Or maybe it’s like when you haven’t eaten anything all day and you finally settle for something absolutely sinful, like a fast-food hamburger, and the taste hits you like a religious experience–beams of light, loud organ chords, and the choir chanting in the background.
This is what I’ve been needing.
===
I don’t remember Freya changing me into a new diaper, but here I am with the bulk of some fluffy padding between my thighs again as my feet dangle off the end of the changing table.
“I…hope that wasn’t too much,” Freya says. She’s leaning against the wall, staring at me with a big smile on her face. “I like playing with the babies on my changing table. Sometimes I get a little carried away.”
I clear my throat, feeling my cheeks warm again. “It’s fine.”
“But you were especially fun to play with, Nikki. There’s just something about the more defiant ones…”
“Hrm.”
A moment or two of silence passes before she changes the subject: “So why aren’t you drinking milk?”
“Are you going to rat me out?”
She shakes her head.
I have no reason to trust this woman, but I tell myself that anyone who can make me cum like has earned some truthful answers from me.
“I think something’s happened to Alfie,” I say. “I’m here to figure it out and bring him home.”
“So you’re thinking that you’d, what, come here and pretend to be one of us or something while you tried to learn more?”
“Something like that,” I say, shrugging.
“And you’re not drinking milk because…”
“Because I want to keep my wits about me,” I say. “I’ve seen what it does to people. I’m no use to Alfie if I’m a diaper-dumping baby like everyone else around here.”
She laughs at this, nodding her head. “That’s fair. And you’re so committed to the bit that you’re even going to use your diapers so people think you’ve been drinking it too?”
“Yep.”
She seems to consider this for a moment, her fingers tapping on her thigh. “It’s not a bad plan. But this place has had some, er, trust issues in the last few weeks. I don’t know how far deceit will get you anymore.”
“I heard about that,” I say, choosing not to mention that I just spent time hanging out with the last baby who betrayed The Cradle. “But who do I need to be careful about? The Maternal Council? Mirabelle?”
“I’m part of the Maternal Council,” Freya says. “But…” She hesitates, letting her voice trail off.
“But?”
“I’ve had my own concerns about Alife. I honestly have no idea what happened to him, only that he’s part of a, uh, ‘special project.’”
“Hrm.”
Freya sighs. “Look, if we’re being honest, I don’t like it. This is the first time the Maternal Council has ever been left out of anything before. It’s not like Mirabelle, or Mother, to keep us out of the loop like this.”
“So you think something shady’s going on?”
“Something is different,” she says. “But that’s all I know. I’ve been trying to assure myself that Mirabelle knows what she’s doing and that everything was actually on the up and up. But now you’re here, asking questions, and I’m remembering how fucked up it is that I don’t know anything about where Alfie is or what happened to him.”
“Can I trust you?” I ask. A foolish question, perhaps. No untrustworthy person would ever say ‘no.’ But I tell myself that I’ll just know if Freya’s lying to me or not.
“You can.”
I think I believe that.
Or, at the very least, she’s bought herself a little bit of trust with the orgasm she gave me a few minutes ago.
Forty-One: Nikki’s Story, Part 8
Freya has assured me that she not only wants to help me find Alfie, but wants to aid in keeping Mirabelle out of my business as much as possible. She says that she’ll ‘stay in touch,’ but details are scarce on how she’ll do that.
But she does know where I’m sleeping, so I guess it’s not too hard to find me.
I sleep pretty damn well that night, following my little encounter with Freya. There is something strangely cozy about having a cabin to myself out in the wilderness. Also, my orgasm while on the changing table has done wonders for me. A heavy weight has been lifted off my shoulders–or maybe it’s been lifted from my loins? It’s the best night of sleep I’ve had since I left New Jersey.
I don’t bother setting an alarm for the morning, figuring that I’ll just get up whenever I wake up. If I sleep in until noon, so be it. I could probably use the rest.
I’ve never really been an advocate for sleeping-in–I typically like getting my day started early. Maybe it’s one of the few traits I’ve willfully taken–a bunch of early-risers themselves. To me, the world has always felt a little different at the crack of dawn. Everyone else is either sleeping or in some sort of zombified state as they drag themselves to the closest coffee dispenser. Yeah, I like getting a morning dose of caffeine myself, but I’ve never felt especially useless without it.
Also, I don’t like sleeping in for the same reason that I don’t like naps: it feels like time I could just be doing something. Not that I have an infinite number of things to do. But I figure I’m already forced to sleep every night as it is–the daytime is my time. The last thing I want is to be an old lady on my deathbed, regretting all the books I didn’t read because I chose to sleep even more than I had to.
Alas, the sound of knocking on the cabin’s door wakes me up from some dream that disperses so quickly that I immediately forget what it was about. I look at my cell phone and see that it’s only 8 AM.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
There’s another round of knocking.
“Hold on, hold on,” I sigh, throwing my legs off the side of the cabin’s cot and letting my feet land on the ground.
I immediately sense that something is off–some slight alteration to how my body normally feels when I wake up.
Ah, right. It’s the diaper–the bulky padding still crinkling between my thighs. Still dry as a bone, as it should be. I can’t help but wonder how many babies in The Cradle woke up to wet diapers this morning. Or maybe worse.
I thought I went to sleep in a t-shirt last night, but I realize now that I’m only wearing a diaper. My eyes instinctively dart to the cabin’s windows, checking to see if some peeping-Tommy’s face is there, seeing far more than he’s been given permission to see. The coast seems clear, and so I take my shirt off the floor and pull it over my head before walking to the door. It’s my favorite tee–the light green one I got from a bike race I participated in a few years ago–back when I briefly had a ‘biking phase.’ Alfie calls it my ‘security shirt,’ because it’s always my go-to when I need something comfortable to wear. But he’s no different–he’s got his stupid Life Aquatic shirt he wears just as often.
I briefly consider putting some shorts on over my diaper, but I’m just a little too tired to care about concealing it right now. Besides, whoever is at the door is probably expecting me to be in a diaper anyway.
I’m expecting Tommy at the door when I open it, but it’s not. Instead, Tess is there in her overalls–a different pair than the ones I saw her in last, I think, though these have their own set of unique stains–and a straw hat.
“Hey, Nikki,” she says, her eyes fixed on my diaper for a moment before slowly bringing her gaze to my face. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“Well…” I pinch the top of my nose and close my eyes before giving my head a little shake in an effort to wake myself up a little more. “I needed to get up anyway.” As an afterthought, I throw in: “And, uh, good morning.”
“Sorry to come by unannounced like this. Freya told me I could find you here.”
“F-Freya?” I ask. I feel my cheeks warming a little. I can’t help but wonder what else Freya might have said to Tess. Something about how I can squirt a few feet when I’m good and horny?
“Look, you can say ‘no’ if you want to, or if you have other plans,” Tess says. “But we’re a baby down on the farm today. Brinley says she’s come down with something. Honestly, I think she’s just got a case of the ‘lazy-bones.’”
I have no idea who Brinley is. “So you, uh, need a hand?” I ask.
Tess nods. “If you need something to do. I’ll try not to work you too hard, if you’re not up for it.”
“No, that actually sounds pretty good,” I say. I’m missing the gym a little bit right now, so some physical labor sounds like it might just scratch the same itch. “Let me just, uh, put some pants on…”
“Did you eat?” she asks.
“I’ve barely woken up.”
“You have to eat. We’ll get you breakfast on the way.” I think the implication is that she’s already eaten, as she’s been up for a while.
Tess is older than me, though I’m not sure by how much. Not old enough to be my mother, but maybe a little older than I’d imagine a big sister to be. Maybe ten-ish years older? That puts her in, what, ‘cool aunt’ territory?
I think I’ve pieced together that she’s the de facto leader of the farming operation here on The Cradle, though I don’t recall her ever saying this to me herself. She seems different than everyone else here, even the ‘Maternal Council’ ladies I’ve met thus far. She seems a little less obsessed with the ‘baby’ side of things. Not to say she’s completely removed from it–I hear the crinkling coming from under overalls. But it’s clear that the farm is her main interest here, and I respect that. If I had to live here, I think that’s how I’d be too.
“You want to, uh, come in while I get ready?” I ask. I don’t know what the protocol is around here for visitors.
She shrugs. “It’s a nice day. I might just stand out here and absorb some of that sun while you get yourself together.”
I respect that. “I won’t be long.”
“Don’t worry too much about what you put on,” she says. “I’ve got some extra overalls down at the barn you can change into if you want to wear something you don’t care about getting dirty.”
I snort. “That’s probably good. I didn’t bring, like, work clothes with me.”
I haphazardly run a brush through my hair, brush my teeth, and slide into the same shorts I wore the day before. The bare minimum amount of effort.
Stepping outside, I can see what Tess means by absorbing the sun–it does feel pretty good today. Warm, with room to get warmer without being uncomfortable.
“Ready?” she asks.
“Let’s go.”
===
“I always feel like a little bit of an outcast,” Tess says as we walk.
“How so?”
“I mean, I know I’m not the only one who came here without any prior interest in, uh, diapers. But I’m certainly in the minority.”
I snort, finding this to be unsurprisingly relatable. “How do you feel about them now?”
She smirks, running a hand through her hair as she considers her answer for a moment. “They’re fine. I don’t think I’ll ever be as in love with them as everyone else is. But if this is the cost of paradise, that’s not the worst thing.”
“Paradise?” I ask. “Is that what you think this place is?”
“In a strange way, maybe. It’s a happy, friendly community here, you know? And I don’t I was ever truly compatible with the way that life works on the other side of The Cradle’s fence. The whole 8-5 workday thing? Rent? Cell phone plans? Putting gas in the car? I think this place is more ideal for me. I wake up in the morning and I go and do the things I love to do. I give to the community and the community gives back to me. And then there’s the milk…”
“Yeah,” I say. “How do you feel about that?”
She bites her lip and blushes a little. “It's weird. Maybe the hardest part of this to adapt to. But I’ve come to love it. I find that it helps me to, like, free my mind, you know? It further liberates me from all those ‘adult’ concerns I used to have.”
“Hm.” I nod my head.
“What do you think of it?” she asks.
I’m tempted to tell her the truth–that I’m staying as far from it as I can. But I’m already questioning whether or not it was the right move to tell Freya about it. The more people I talk to, the more likely it is that the wrong people learn of my secret.
“I’m still getting used to it,” I say with a shrug. “I don’t know how I feel about it just yet.”
“Fair enough,” she says with a knowing nod. “It took me a while to come around to it.”
“So then what brought you here?” I ask. “If it wasn’t the milk. Or the diapers.”
She grimaces a little. “My husband.”
“Oh.” I instinctively look down at her hand, finding a vacancy on her ring finger. “I didn’t know you were married. He’s here too, I assume?”
“We’re not officially divorced just yet,” she shrugs. “For all intents and purposes, we’re just separated. No, he doesn’t live here any more.”
“What happened?” I ask, before quickly adding: “Like, if you want to talk about it, that is.”
“I don’t mind,” she says. “We came here together. It was his idea. He’s into…uh, diapers, you know? Back before The Cradle existed, Mirabelle and, uh, Mother were inviting people to their home to try the milk. And Brandon somehow got involved in that scene.”
“I had no idea that was a thing,” I say. “Like, milk being passed around before The Cradle was around.”
“I don’t know that much about it myself,” she says. “Brandon had a knack for, well, keeping things from me.”
“Oh…”
“Most of what I know now is stuff I’ve learned after the fact,” she shrugs.
“And yet he convinced you to move here?”
“When The Cradle became a place that you could move to, he was ready to drop everything and move here in a heartbeat. He was going to quit his job, abandon his responsibilities and even leave me. I think he thought he was just going to sneak off in the night and never be seen again.”
I snort. “So obviously that didn’t happen.”
“Nah. He was sneaky, but he wasn’t always the sharpest tool in the shed. I caught wind of something going on so I demanded he tell me everything. And only then did he tell me about this place.” She sighs. “If I was in a better place myself, maybe I’d have stayed put and told him to fuck off in babyland, you know? But I had just been laid off, and my mother had just passed. I was in a pretty bad place. So when he starts explaining about how he was going to go live in some commune, all I could think about was how I’d be abandoned and left all alone. So I proposed that maybe we should go together.”
“Even knowing about the milk and the diapers?” I ask.
She shrugs. “I’d love to know how I would’ve handled that conversation if I was in a better headspace, you know?”
“So then you came here. What then? What made him leave?”
“It was kind of funny how it worked out,” she says. “Despite not being a diaper-person, I managed to find an inviting community here that was ready to accept me. I made new friends, and found a place for myself on the farm. I feel like that’s where I thrive now, and I might not ever have known about it if I didn’t come here. Brandon…he struggled.”
“How so?”
“He’s the worst combination of awkward and entitled. I think he just assumed that he’d be someone special here, since he’d known Mirabelle before The Cradle. But, like, so did everyone else here at that point, you know? And just like everyone else, he had to put the work into being a part of the community and making friends and partnerships. He just…didn’t. And then he got pissy when people didn’t just automatically make him a part of things.”
I shake my head. I think I’ve known a few guys like that in my life. Plenty of them come to the bar too, drinking alone while complaining about all the things that could’ve been.
“I think it hurt him a lot that I was doing really well here while he wasn’t,” she continues. “A part of me wishes I could’ve done more. But…as we say in the garden: You reap what you sow.”
I snort.
“He left,” she says. “Diaper tucked between his legs. For a while, he used to write to me often, asking that I leave too. But I think he got the message that I’m not leaving. It’s been a while since he’s written to me.”
“What’s he doing now?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Couldn’t tell you. But you know what? I don’t really care anymore.”
I nod my head. Her story only makes me like her more.
===
Tess waits outside while I go into the dining hall to grab something quick for breakfast. I settle on a croissant, a few strips of bacon, and a cup of coffee. I consider just bringing my food with me over to the garden to eat so as to not hold up Tess, but then I spot Tommy sitting by himself at a table and figure I can sit for just a minute or two.
“Hey,” I say, sitting across from him.
He looks surprised to see me. “Did you just go out of your way to sit with me?”
I snort. “Maybe.”
“Character development,” he jokes.
I roll my eyes. “I can’t stay long. Tess is waiting for me outside, and we’re going to do some work in the garden.”
“Look at you, making yourself useful.”
I shrug. “I’m just blending in. Playing the game.”
He laughs, nodding. “So, uh, how did things go yesterday?”
“Hm?”
“The, uh, diaper change?”
“Oh right…” I feel my cheeks glowing. “It was, uhm, fine.” I think I’m going to leave it at that.
Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to have any follow up questions.
I catch something in his expression though. A sense of…worry? Concern? “Is something up?”
“Uh, no. I just…have something on my mind.”
“Do you want to share?” I ask. I stuff some of the food into my face as I wait for his response.
He leans forward a little in his seat, his diaper crinkling under him as he brings his face closer to mine. “Alfie said something to me a few weeks ago, when we were driving to town to confront whoever might’ve stolen the milk.”
My eyes light up. “What’d he say?”
“I kind of forgot about it for a while,” he says. “I guess with all the drama of what happened that day, and how things have been around The Cradle since, that makes sense. But then that conversation just popped into my head the other day. Maybe it’s something?”
“Spit it out,” I say. “What’d he say?”
“He asked me a question. He wanted to know if I knew someone named Harriet Tuller.”
“Who?”
Tommy shrugs. “I don’t know who that is either. He said that he was looking for her though. He said she might be someone at The Cradle, but I’ve never heard of her.”
“Do you know everyone here?” I ask.
“I know enough people,” he says. “But I’ve never heard that name before.”
“Did he say why he was looking for her?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “No. I mean, maybe she’s someone he met at the festival, you know? A guest? But, I don’t know.”
“I can ask Tess,” I say. “Maybe she knows the name?” I quickly eat the last of the food on the plate I’ve made for myself.
“Yeah,” Tommy says. “I’ll ask around too. I have a feeling she’s not here, but maybe someone’s at least familiar with her and knows how to get in touch with her.”
“You really think she’s a lead?”
He shrugs. “Maybe.”
“Next time you go to town, you should talk to Celia,” I say. “She’s got reliable cell service and access to the internet. Maybe she can, like, Google her or something.”
“Yeah, that’s not a bad idea. Maybe I can take a drive later. Do you…want to go with me?”
I shrug. “Come find me when you’re going. If I’m not too busy–”
He laughs. “You’re really getting into your new farm-girl role, huh?”
“I’m just helping,” I sigh.
I stand up from the table, ready to throw out my trash and take my cup of coffee to go. Then I hear Tommy laughing again.
“What is it?” I ask.
“It’s just, uh, your diaper. It’s sticking out from the top of your shorts.”
I look down. So it is. Whatever.
===
I leave the dining hall, ready to apologize to Tess for taking a little longer than I would’ve liked, only to find her chatting with another woman near a tree.
I slow my pace, studying their body language with each other as they converse, though I can’t hear the words. People watching is another skill I’ve honed over the years at the bar. I’ve seen it all from my side of the bar–breakups, budding romances, affairs, schemes, one-sided conversations. I’d like to think I’ve gotten pretty good at reading a situation from just a glance.
I’ve seen the woman that Tess is talking to before. She’s older, though maybe not quite old. She has a kind and patient temperament about her–but there’s something about the rigidity of her back that suggests she has a stricter side too. The conversation between the two women seems friendly, if not a little awkward. I’m wondering if they have some sort of history.
“Ah, Nikki, hello again,” Tess says, waving me over. “This is Marta. She’s on the Maternal Council.”
“Nikki, is it?” Marta says, extending a hand towards me. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise,” I say, shaking her hand.
“You know, I think I might have heard about you,” Marta says, wagging a finger at me. “I think you met Freya yesterday?”
I feel my face getting warmer and I momentarily lose track of my thoughts at the sound of Freya’s name. “Uh… Y-yeah, I met her yesterday.”
“She spoke highly of you,” Marta says. Her casual shrug suggests that Freya had given her too many details about yesterday, but for all I know, Marta’s just good at downplaying things.
“She was, uh, very nice as well,” I say.
“Ah, well, I probably shouldn’t hold you up any longer than I already have,” Marta says, looking back at Tess. “I’m sure I’ll see you around.”
“Oh, it’s always good to see you, Marta. I’m sure we’ll run into each other again sooner than later.”
“You really ought to come down to the shop sometime,” says Marta.
“I agree!” Tess says, nodding. “I have a hard time pulling myself away from work. But now that I’ve got some extra hands…” She gestures at me with her head. “...maybe I’ll finally be able to drop by.”
Final goodbyes are exchanged, and Marta walks in one direction while Tess and I walk in the other. When Tess finally looks at me, ready to offer some commentary, I can already see the little smile on her face–the kind of smile that says: “Okay, here’s the dirt.”
“I don’t dislike Marta,” she says. “I think we have a lot in common, actually. We should be very good friends.”
“But you’re not,” I say.
“We just haven’t clicked, you know? Just because two people are similar on paper doesn’t mean they’re actually destined to be good friends.”
“True,” I say, acting like I know what she means when the figurative stick that I use to keep everyone at a distance prohibits me from a lot of friend-making opportunities.
“She runs a floral shop in Harper’s Bell. I think it’s kind of like an experiment of sorts–seeing if The Cradle can find lucrative opportunities on the other side of the fence.”
“Hrm.”
“To hear some of the Maternal Council talk about it, they imagine a scenario where The Cradle has kind of taken over the whole town, and our little diapered empire just keeps growing. Seems a little lofty, if you ask me. But it’s good to have goals, right?”
“I guess.”
“Aaand if we’re being honest,” she continues, “I don’t think the Maternal Council likes me very much.”
“No? Why not?”
“They wanted me to be part of their little club at one point. I guess I’d been here long enough, and enough people looked up to me. But I turned them down. I already have a job to do around here, and I didn’t want to be seen as part of the ‘leadership.’ Seems like a fair thing to say, right?”
“I’d think so,” I say.
She laughs. “Yeah, well that apparently rubbed some of the ‘Mommies’ the wrong way. I don’t know–they thought I was saying that I was too good for them or something like that.”
I snort, amused by the high school levels of cattiness that seem to persist into adulthood in any place that people congregate.
“Not all of them dislike me,” she says. “Freya and I get along pretty well. Marta’s never been a jerk to me–not to my face. Ingrid, though…”
I shrug. “I don’t think I’ve met her.”
“She’s…prickly,” Tess says, laughing to herself. I suspect she’s holding back a little on her true feelings.
“What about, uh, Mother?” I ask. It’s weird saying the name aloud. Is it a name? A title? It feels like I’m talking about a deity. And around these parts, I might as well may be. This woman means nothing to me. I’ve never met her. And yet, because of just her reputation, I find myself trying to assign some reverence to her name as I say it aloud.
“What about her?”
“Do you know her?” I ask.
“Well sure. As much as anyone can really know her.”
“Do you like her?”
She laughs again. “I don’t even know how to answer that, Nikki. She’s, you know, important to this place. It wouldn’t be what it is without her. And her gift–her milk… Everything kind of revolves around that.”
It doesn’t really answer my question. Or maybe it does.
“Uh, one more question,” I say. “It’s unrelated to any of that, though. I think.”
“Of course. Whatcha got?”
“Do you know a, uh, Harriet…” I can’t remember the last name Tommy mentioned to me, so I just leave it at that. “Someone, anyone, named Harriet who might’ve been here at The Cradle?”
“Harriet?” she asks? She strokes her chin a little. “Can’t say it’s anyone I’m familiar with. But I also stick to a pretty small area of The Cradle. It’s possible they’re been here–or are still here–and I just don’t know them. Someone you’re looking for?”
“A friend of a friend, maybe,” I say. Though, I have no idea if that’s even true.
===
There’s an ominous rumble in my abdomen as we approach the garden. I knew this would eventually happen, and I wish I was a little better prepared for it. I need a toilet–and, of course, I just so happen to be in the one place where there isn’t one for miles. I can probably put this off for a little longer, but it occurs to me that I’ve probably already been, unconsciously, putting this off all morning as it is. A deadline is approaching–find a place to go, or else my body will make the decision for me.
But my body is stubborn, as evidenced by the debacle that was pissing myself yesterday. Things are going to get more uncomfortable before they get better.
“You alright?” Tess asks. “You’re looking a little, uh, pale all of a sudden.”
Tess seems like a reasonable, rational, human being. I’d like to be frank with her.
“I just…have to use the bathroom.”
She laughs a little at this. “Sorry, I don’t mean to laugh. It’s just…well, I rarely have a choice in the matter any more. It happens when it happens. That’s what the diapers are for, right?”
“I guess. But…I’d rather, uh, not use the diaper if I can help it.”
She makes a sympathetic frowny-face–the kind a mother might when their child comes to them with a scrape on their knee that needs a bandage. “Aw, poor thing. You haven’t, uh…messed yet?”
“No. And I’d kind of prefer to keep it that way.”
“You’ll find that’s a very unpopular opinion in these parts.”
“I know, but…”
“I didn’t like it either, when I first came here,” she says, shrugging. “I won’t say that I ‘love’ it now, but maybe I’ve made peace with it. There’s something kind of liberating about it, you know? The act of surrender and…”
I like Tess, I really do. But I'm learning that she’s kind of chatty. And right now, I don’t think that’s helping me. “I think I just need to go and…take care of some things.”
She laughs again. “If you have to go, just go. I’m probably about due for a dirty diaper myself. We could go get changed together if you want.”
“I…uh… Maybe it’s best that I just do this by myself.”
She shrugs. “I get it. I used to be like that too. I’d hide behind some bushes while I filled my diaper. You go and do whatever you have to do. And when you’re done, and have gotten all cleaned up, come right back here, alright? I could use your help today.”
“Sure,” I say, though it’s hard to focus on the future while the now is so taxing.
I’m not even sure if she says anything else to me after that, as I’m already jogging away from her.
===
I don’t know where I’m going, and I definitely don’t know what I’m going to do when I get there.
My instinct is to just run into the woods, pull down my pants and just leave a little pile on the ground. But then what? What do I wipe myself with? Or do I then have to sprint to a shower?
Everything about this is infuriating. This is the most ridiculous problem I’ve ever encountered in my adult life. I just want to poop for god’s sake. It shouldn’t be this hard.
Well, nobody else around here seems to have that problem…
Yes, because everyone else around here is blissfully packing their Pampers like that’s the most normal thing in the world.
Maybe I should’ve drank the milk. Then this wouldn’t be as big of a deal if I had no choice in the matter. I’d just…go. No control. No thinking about it. No concept of dignity or self-respect. Then I’d just shuffle off to the closest Mommy without a care in the world.
Though… Now I’m thinking about Freya again. Maybe another trip to her changing table wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world?
No. No way. I can’t let her see me in a disgustingly loaded diaper. Even if she has seen diapers far worse than whatever I could produce.
I can hear Tommy’s voice echoing in my mind too: “Play the game.”
“Fuck you, Tommy,” I say aloud. He’s not here–nobody seems close enough to have heard it, but I feel better for having said it.
I have no idea what to do, and that almost never happens. In most tough situations, I might have a moment where I need to weigh my options a little, but I usually feel like there’s at least one path I can count on. I’m just not finding that path right now.
I am wearing a diaper. Everyone is expecting me to use it. Nobody would blink an eye at me if I did. Hell, they’d probably love it if I messed myself just like they do. But it’s me–I’m the problem. I’m too proud. Too stubborn. I’m not a baby. I’m not drunk on magical milk. All I want to do is find Alfie–why should I have to resort to pooping my pants like everyone else?
The longer I hold it, the harder it gets to think straight. I can’t remember the last time I’ve been this desperate. No, that’s not true–I was in a similar pickle yesterday, wasn’t I? When I had to pee and refused to piss myself. This isn’t too different from that. Except, well, that it is different. There’s a world of difference between flooding a pair of diapers and pushing a disgusting, stinking mass into the back of my pants.
I veer off the path and into the woods. Am I actually going to just…poop out here in the middle of nowhere and worry about the cleanup later?
I don’t know. Maybe.
But Tess is waiting for me. Do I have time to find a shower and use it? Would that take more or less time than just letting someone change me?
There’s another urgent quake in my bowels. As stubborn as my body is, I can feel myself being worn down. There’s a quiver in my anus–and I can just tell that it’s holding onto control by a thread. At any moment, it could give out, giving me an answer to my conundrum whether I like it or not.
What do I do?
I sigh, thinking of Tommy’s advice again: “Play the game.”
I’m deep enough into the woods that nobody can see me. I doubt anyone knows that I’m here. Good enough. I drop into a squatting position and let out an almost-whimpering sigh–the sound of me begrudgingly surrendering myself to the needs of my body. But that’s not all I’m surrendering myself to–this is a sacrifice of my dignity to the ‘greater good.’ Maybe, just maybe, this buys me a little bit of extra credibility so that I can fit in around here and get some more answers.
“Alfie,” I mutter as I feel my asshole opening inside of the diaper. “You fucking owe me.”
I’m ready to push, and even let out a grunt as I prepare myself for one, but it’s not needed. Everything in my bowels rushes out from me in what feels like a split second. I feel the back of the diaper expand outwardly aggressively–violently–as it accommodates the mass that’s been forced into it. In an instant, I feel the diaper sag and shift, the filthy mess spreading downwards between my thighs.
Another wave, and I grunt again, this time having to push a little to ensure that I can get everything out of me and into the already-packed diaper.
My shorts suddenly feel too restrictive–like they’re preventing my diaper from having the space that they need. I try to pull them down, but my squatting position makes that hard to do. Fine, I’ll just move my legs a little. But I miscalculate something–maybe I don’t account for the little hill that I’m standing on–and I lose my balance.
“Fuck…”
My feet scramble to try and stop me from tumbling over, but I can already feel my body pitching itself backwards. I reach out for something to try and hold onto–a branch or a tree trunk or something–but there’s nothing close enough.
I’m going down.
Splat.
I end up on my ass–the absolute worst place I could’ve landed. Everything I just pushed into my diaper is now, well, smashed against my skin.
I feel disgusting. I smell disgusting. I hate absolutely everything about this.
If there was ever a time for me to throw a toddler-style temper tantrum, this would probably be it. Instead, I let out one last grumble, take a deep breath, and try to center myself.
This is all for Alfie. That son of a bitch.
***
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