I folded the diapers neatly, stacked them in the drawer, hid them from sight. The plastic panties went in another drawer, and my envelope fold onesies in a third. Wearing cloth diapers is more comfortable but the laundry is a pain. At least everything was dry before Rebecca arrived.
She knocked on the door several hours later, several hours after she said she’d be here. I’d expected that, she always found something to get involved with, never idle, although I’d made sure the laundry was out of sight early, just in case. She bundled noisily into the house, scaring my cats, all hugs and welcomes, a bottle of wine thrust towards me before she ran up the stairs.
She’d stayed before, knew where her room was, dropped her bags there and while I made us both tea I heard the toilet flush before she came back down to join me.
We gossiped, caught up. I had little news but wanted to hear how her family were doing; two children at university, one well on the way to becoming a doctor. Her husband was in Portugal for the week, allegedly business but she knew the real reason he’d gone there: golf. I commiserated but really it worked well for us, meant we could spend the week together. Shopping, a day at the spa, visit a country house. It meant no diapers for the week but that felt a reasonable trade for a week with a true friend.
Dinner was simple, vegetables in a bottled sauce, served with pasta, the wine leading us to giggles as we shared a tub of ice cream after. Rebecca insisted on helping wash up; I could’ve left the crockery to soak until morning but she’s not that type, so I washed, she dried. As I put everything away she held up the now wet dishtowel and asked me where she could hang it to dry. I casually waved her through to the room with my clothes racks in; I didn’t like putting diapers and rubbers into a tumble dryer and I certainly wasn’t going to hang them outside, so I had ample hanging space indoors.
Rebecca came back with an odd expression on her face. “You’ve been washing diapers,” she said, a statement that left behind a question, hanging in the air. She stopped speaking, looked at me, waited for a response.
“I what?” I asked, as though she was being silly.
She wasn’t being silly. “I’ve had three children, I know the smell after washing diapers,” she said, “and you’ve been washing diapers.”
I’d thought quickly, used that time to make an excuse. “A friend’s washing machine broke so I was helping her out while she waited for the replacement to be delivered.”
Rebecca might have believed me if I hadn’t been blushing in embarrassment throughout. I looked away, another tell she picked up on, and she let me know straight away. “Oh darling, you’re so cute when you’re telling fibs. You know I can see right through you.”
She’s right, I did. She could. She just had. She continued, “But if you’re trying to hide it then you find this embarrassing.”
Well, that was right too. I stood there unable to speak, knowing I’d stutter and lack credibility anyway, worried that my face was glowing brightly enough to see from the next village.
“So that means,” said Rebecca, thinking things through, “that it’s personal.” She stopped, her expression changed, and her voice switched into pure mother mode. “Oh honey, you poor thing.”
I just winced, decided I wasn’t going to get out of this one, tried a different cover story. This one was plausible, explained my embarrassment, didn’t try and avoid the issue. “I’ve been struggling a bit at night,” I said, “so I’ve been making sure the bedding’s protected.”
Rebecca nodded, her maternal pragmatism showing as approval. Then she reverted back to being a friend, tipsy and interested in fun new things, and demanded, “Where are they? I haven’t seen diapers in your size before! Let’s see them!”
Before I could respond she strode from the room and I heard her running upstairs. I followed as quickly as I could, found her in my room, pulling open my wardrobe, a cupboard, my drawers.
The diapers were in the bottom drawer, their weight too much to put higher, risk unbalancing the whole chest when the drawer was opened. Rebecca started from the top instead.
“Knickers, tights, socks, slips, nighti… ooh, this is a pretty one, where did you get that?” she asked, throwing a nightdress at me as she opened and closed drawers in turn. Before I could answer the next drawer made her gasp.
“Oh! These are adorable!” she said, turning to me and holding up an opaque pink pair of plastic panties. I didn’t dare respond, just hoped she wouldn’t look deeper into the drawer, find the pairs with ruffles or the one with a pretty infantile pattern on.
She didn’t, but it didn’t matter. Leaving the panties on my bed she’d turned back to the drawers and pulled open the next one down.
“Oh, I say young lady,” she said, a stern parental tone, “Now would you just look at this.”
She turned and held up one of my onesies, a favourite that I’d put away just that morning, had worn to bed two nights ago. The thin cotton stretched a little, had four poppers at the wide crotch, a print pattern of baby bottles and pacifiers unsuitable for adult attire.
Rebecca didn’t mention any of those things. Instead she held it by the shoulders, examined and twisted the folds of fabric between the head opening and the sleeves. “Envelope folds,” she said with interest, “you know what those are for.”
I stood there in shame, didn’t answer, started blushing again. Rebecca smiled and nodded, put the onesie on my bed, gave voice to her understanding. “Yes, you know what those are for.”
I wanted to run away, but it was my house, my bedroom; this is where I would normally run to. The things on the bed were what I’d wear too, when emotions were high, when I needed comfort. Instead I just stood there, weakly leaning against the door frame, frantically trying to think of a way out of this situation.
Rebecca closed the drawer, opened the final one, found the diapers inside. She lifted one out, a multi-layered tailored design, a soft fleece inner, towelling outside and thick thirsty material separating the two. It fastened with velcro, something she discovered as she undid it, the noise filling the room, the diaper filling her hands, its bulk apparent as she held it up to show to me.
“Oh, this is magnificent,” she said, “It’s perfect for you too! Where did you find this?”
Struggling to stay in emotional control I didn’t answer, just looked at her in distress. Rebecca looked up and realised the state I was in.
“Oh, darling,” she said, “It’s ok. Come here.”
She stepped towards me, arms open for a hug and I couldn’t resist, moved towards her, ended up in a close embrace. There were no tears, but she stroked my hair and my back, and I held her close.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “I…”
Rebecca broke from the embrace, took a half step backwards, held me just below my shoulders. It occurred to me that she was still holding my diaper, hadn’t put it down, but she ignored that, just looked straight into my face.
“There’s nothing to apologise for,” she said, “Come on, let’s sit down and chat.”
We sat on the edge of my bed, joining the plastic panties and onesie, a diaper held up between us as Rebecca started to speak. “Now, you’ve been hiding this…”
I interrupted, “No, I…”
Rebecca stopped speaking, put a finger on my lips to stop me speaking, chastised me, “Hush child, let me finish.” As I blushed for the umpteenth time that evening she looked around the room and asked, “I bet you have a pacifier in here, don’t you?”
My instinctive glance at the bedside table gave her an answer and before I could stop her she leaned over, opened the drawer, laughed at the contents.
“Well, you like playing the adult some of the time,” she said, holding up something sleek, elegant and battery powered. I rolled my eyes at her; we knew each other too well for that to cause embarrassment. Putting it down she drew out an oversized pacifier, smirked at its size and pushed it towards my mouth.
“Open up,” she commanded, and I conceded to the inevitable, let her put it in my mouth, my jaw instinctively closing on it and my tongue reflexively starting a sucking motion.
Rebecca smiled at that, the look you give to a cute puppy, a playful kitten… or a small child. I blushed again, felt annoyed at myself for that, but made no attempt to remove the pacifier.
“So. overnight problems?” asked Rebecca, “Protecting your bed?”
I nodded, looked down and away, tried to avoid further questions. There weren’t any; Rebecca had already joined the dots.
“Let’s see,” she said, “if you had an issue you might well find some protection. Incontinence pads, maybe even briefs, but they’re disposable. You wouldn’t invest in cloth for that. You wouldn’t buy onesies designed to accommodate messy diapers. And you certainly wouldn’t buy that.” She leaned forward, tapped my pacifier, made her point as she reminded me I couldn’t reply to it.
“So you must want to wear these things.” She looked at me, shook her head slightly as I tried to shake my own in denial.
“And that laundry smell? That smell now filling your room, coming from these panties?” She poked at the pink plastic, making it crinkle, its odour pleasant but unmistakeable. “That means you don’t just wear these things. Oh, no, these get properly used.”
She smiled, put a hand on each of my shoulders and gently but firmly pushed me back.
“You’ve always been my best friend,” she said, “but you’ve kept this hidden. I don’t like that. I think you need to be punished.”
I looked at her in consternation, but she didn’t keep me in suspense. “I think someone needs their adult privileges revoked,” she said, “if only I had some way of achieving…” She stopped, picked up the diaper and plastic panties, held them above me and in mock surprise said, “Oh, look at this. I think I have the answer.”
She put them down, started to undo my jeans, looking at me with a strange smile on her face.
We’d been friends long enough that we’d seen each other naked, even on one occasion tried giving each other a Brazilian waxing. So I had no secrets from her there but nonetheless I pushed at her wrists, let the pacifier fall from my mouth, tried to sit up, told her firmly to stop. “I’m an adult,” I declared, “and I…”
A hand just below my neck pushed me firmly back down, Rebecca’s second hand reaching for the pacifier and putting it back in my mouth.
“Trust me,” she said, “I’ve just discovered a whole new side to you, and we’ve got a whole week to explore it.”
I looked at her in shock, forced myself to relax, waited for her to continue.
“Now I’ve had a long journey,” she said, “and too much wine, and I need an early night. So you get one too, and I’m going to make sure your bedding is safe before I turn in. So lie back, relax, remember to enjoy it and we can discuss this more in the morning.”
She was right, I could trust her. So I let her undress me and for the first time in my adult life had someone put me in a diaper. Three children meant she was well practiced, but I made it easy, lifted my bottom and hips at the right times, let her slide the plastic panties up my legs, held out my arms so she could pull on my onesie and stood up while she crouched down to fasten it below my diaper.
“Does my baby need a drink before beddy-byes?” she asked, her tone gentle and sincere, the potential mockery of her words negated by the care in her voice.
I reached up and took the pacifier from my mouth to answer. “No, I’m fine thank you,” I told her, “Are you sure…”
She interrupted me at that point. “Of course I’m sure. I’ve missed having a baby in the house, and when you invited me here you told me you need some time out and some stress relief.”
Shopping, a day at the spa, visit a country house; that was what I’d meant. But I had told her that, so I nodded mutely at her, didn’t disagree.
“Right, so into bed with you,” she told me, pulled back my covers, waited for me to sit on the bed, swing my feet around, lie back and look up at her. As she pulled the covers up she smiled, stroked my cheek and tried to reassure me, “Now, my baby’s nice and cosy, everything safe and secure. So I don’t want to hear you getting out of bed - you won’t need to, after all. Don’t worry, babies can’t help themselves, it’s not your concern now. I’ll change you in the morning.”
I looked up at her in shock. This whole time I’d forgotten the consequences of wearing diapers, the obvious outcome, the humiliation of being wet and needing a change. Or worse! “What if I need to…” I started to ask, worry on my face and in my voice.
“Oh silly baby,” Rebecca said, guessing my question. She ran her hand up my side onto my shoulder, under the onesie’s folded cloth. “Diapers get used, and this onesie’s designed to cope with anything. So use your diaper, and your onesie will cope, and I’ll cope.”
She took my pacifier from my hand, put it back in my mouth, leaned over me and gave me a quick kiss on my forehead. “Now, night-night, sleep well,” she said.
I waved weakly, accepted the instruction to try and sleep and watched her switch off the light and leave the room. She pulled the door behind her, not completely closed but blocking my sight, leaving me alone in my infantile state, wondering how I’d let her take control so quickly, so easily.
I heard the toilet flush again, her way of assuring she’d wake up with dry bedclothes, and pushed a hand under the covers, ran it over my own bedding’s safety measure. I wanted to go to sleep dry and comfortable, even though I knew I wouldn’t make it to morning without needing the toilet. I sighed, accepted that I’d be woken during the night, knew I’d obey Rebecca, trusted her to deal with it in the morning.
This was going to be an interesting week.