Qualified

Why she lived in that house was always a mystery to her friends. Move downtown they’d say, god knows you can afford it, we can’t drive out to to the middle of nowhere just for you. You live in suburbia for godsakes. And she’d admit it.

She lived in the family friendly neighborhood where the nightlife was kids having sleepovers, all mutually struggling to be last one to fall asleep, finally safe in the knowledge that they weren’t going to suffer the gambit of pranks they did last time. Where children were awoken not by parents shouts but by that one blind they forgot to shut letting the gentle sun in, warmly playing across their faces. Breakfast would be home made pancakes and they’d all rush to the pool, hopeful that the chlorine bath would eliminate the need for a sudsier one later that night. It wasn’t simply a family friendly neighborhood, it was the family neighborhood, the type of place ice cream truck drivers have wet dreams about.

So why did she move there, what drew her there like a moth to flame?

. . . . . … . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Her first impression of the man would stick with her for a long time, something that would keep her up the night before she had the final interview with him for the position, not troubled, nor enraptured but …. Fascinated.

Greg was a tall man, easily over six feet, and with a easy confidence that wasn’t aggressive. Some taller men lord down from there position, looking down at the world from there lofty vantage but Greg used his height for perspective, to see and absorb quietly. That was the unnerving thing about him, was that you could tell that he was listening, really listening, not just waiting for his chance to talk. His patience created lapses in the conversation that others would have jumped to fill, trying to impress her with their qualifications, words spilling out of their mouths in a torrent of flattery and self aggrandizement.

He just sat, waiting her out till she filled the void with her own thoughts, telling things and thoughts that had laid undisturbed so long that she had a dusty flavor in her mouth when she finally unearthed them. She remembered asking him later, candidly what trick he had up his sleeve.
"How did you get me to open up like that? She asked.
Greg responded with his own question,
“Do you know how to get people to tell you their honest thoughts and feelings?”
“How?”
“Don’t ask, just listen.”

Re: Qualified

Ummmm… This is all you have so far? You should write a little more before posting, that said it wasn’t badly written, just way too short, that said I would like to see what ever happens in the future, and then I will pass my judgement of the story it’s self… Just write more next time

Re: Qualified

I should have explained, getting what little I have down was sort of a challenge to myself, to encourage me to write more. I’m glad you liked it. Thanks for the feedback

Re: Qualified

Part 2:

She felt apprehension at the idea of meeting him again for some reason, which she felt was understandable, given the circumstances. Who feels comfortable the first time around a life trainer? The very fact that she was looking for one meant that things were falling apart in her world, and the best she could do is run around letting everyone know the sky was falling.

It had started on the the day of that fucking meeting, she hadn’t felt nervous about the delivering the briefing the day beforehand. She had given the regional monthly profit report to so many people that she was the one who had the most trouble keeping her eyes open. It was so effective at making her drowsy she counted off profit margins instead of sheep when she wanted to sleep.

But when she woke up that morning, something was off. She knew it wasn’t nerves, but it sure as hell felt like that. She gets up, starts the shower and stares at her reflection in mirror. She starts to calm down by counting the beats of the, “thrum, thrum, thrum” her heart was pounding in her chest. She caught her breath, and let it out slowly.

“There,” she said to the reflection, “maybe I won’t have a heart attack today.”

Her knees still feel weak and she stares down at them, freezing her loose, bubblegum joints with her rigid gaze. When she looks back up at the mirror, the steam from the shower has clouded it up, making her reflection seem distorted. She ran the faucet, getting a handful of water, and splashes it on the mirror to clean away the steam. Her heart sinks to the pit of her stomach when she realizes she can not recognize the face in the mirror as her own. She has to repeat the whole calming routine just to get her breath back.

She jumps into the hot water, soaps up her hair, and brushes her teeth. No singing in the shower today. She rinses, gets out and dries off, while repeating the speech aloud.

“The decrease in sales in districts projected to have increasing market share last quarter,” she drones, " is a distressing sign of the unmotivated nature of our sales force."

She walks into her closet, picks a dress suit. “This makes the executives question the financial viability of your regions. In short, we have concerns.” She picks a pair of flat black dress shoes instead of her customary heels, “No fucking way I am wearing those torture devices today”, She thinks.

As she does her makeup she finishes the speech, “Frankly, any assets, employees included, that are not high functioning, will be liquidated.”


She travels though the rest of her day in a fog, simply trying to get through the day to get home and finally take off her public, “everything is fine” face. Luckily she has so much practice with this persona that she has most everybody fooled.

She has spent hours in front of the mirror, mastering control of her face. She pretty much had it down. Her smile was large, but not so large as to pull her face taunt, creating a grin that looked more unstable than anything else. Her back was straight, but not to straight, avoiding that jolting walk, like a puppet with its strings cut. Her arms she kept finely balanced between lose, but not swinging like a prepubescent school girl, and tight, but not clenched against her body like a tin soldier. It took her forever to discover that balancing act.

One thing she never mastered was the eyes though. Her smile never managed to reach her eyes. Hours and hours of practice never changed anything. No matter what she tried they looked lost on her face. She was very aware of this and when ever someone would finally make eye contact she would distract them by asking them about their pet hobby, bicycling, Thai food, gardening, whatever. It was painfully easy to hide.

This was how she walks into the meeting, her public face in full swing. She sits down and waits through the initial set the manager explaining to the new hires who she is, watching their eyes go wide as they stumble through their introductions. She gets each any every one of their hobbies though, as ammunition for later.

Finally it’s time for her to start up her PowerPoint and unplug as she gives her speech. She has such mastery over this material that she detaches completely as she give the statistics for the last month, and finds her conscious floating free, wondering about that face she saw in the mirror.

She grows more and more distant as she does the usual lame joke, getting the same nervous laughs as last time, till she feels like she is floating free above all of this, hovering above her body. She is fixated more and more around that face in the mirror, barely noticing the as the air from the room is sucked out when she talks about the missing of monthly sales goals.

She finally realizes that the face, the one in the mirror is that practiced, time tested public one she has spent hours on, staring into that same mirror. The Thought startles her so much that she starts to wake up. She comes back to her body then, fully there as she finishes with “Frankly, any assets, employees included, that are not high functioning, will be liquidated.” But as she looks around the room, she sees no one is intimidated. They are sitting at attention, yes. But staring shocked, straight at her. It is only then that she realizes that she has wet herself.

Re: Qualified

I need feed back negative or positive, and if you could liken to aspects of a previous story that would really help flesh out your comment. If anybody want to message me about their own story arcs and plot ideas I would respond promptly. They could be about the direction of something you wish to write or my own work. I want a true discussion. Any simple praise is nice, but if you substantiate on what you like, it will help me write it in more to the story.
Thanks,
T.D.A.D. 22

Re: Qualified

I am also looking for writing partners if anyone is interested.

Re: Qualified

First meeting

Fairy tales to me are never happy sweet stories. They’re moral stories about overcoming the dark side and the bad.

  • Joe Wright

We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful what we pretend to be.

  • Kurt Vonnegut

So, the final appointment before she hired him. His imminent arrival made her consider why she had finally asking for help, something entirely loathsome to her. The only reason she had sought the outside guidance was because the accidents had only got worse. The company had given her two months to straighten herself out, and despite her best efforts, three weeks had gone by and she still felt like a wreck. She had grasped some control over her bladder by maintaining a strict regimen of toilet breaks before each meal and before bedtime. within a week of achieving this control, she woke up to a wet mattress. She only had to clean up wet sheets and dry out the mattress one time before she realized she needed to to get some “protection”. She was disgusted by her need, but nothing else was working.

She hated psychology having spent way too much of her childhood pushed in and out of offices filled with prestigious degrees, listening to others tell her about her own life. If she agreed with them, they kept saying the same thing. If she disagreed with them, they kept saying the same thing. What she thought didn’t matter. If they were going to have the same conversation with or without her she didn’t much see the point of going anymore. So when got old enough she didn’t.

The doorbell rang, rousing her out of her thoughts. She realizes that a tee shirt and sweatpants aren’t going to make the best impression, and quickly changes into her black dress. She walks toward the front door, and hopes Greg is still there. He is waiting on the front step, but he only rang the doorbell once, seemingly content to wait.
She invites him in, noting his causal attire and mentally kicks herself for overdressing.
They head to the living room, she sits on the couch.
“Please, take a seat next to me.”
Greg politely declines and sits opposite of her, lounging in a stuffed chair, perfectly relaxed.
“So,” she says, " How does this usually start?"

Greg leans forward, giving her his complete attention, but still seeming utterly comfortable in his seat.

“Well, at this point, you still haven’t hired me yet, and I still haven’t accepted you as a client” he states. “I wanted to meet you in person one last time before you purchased my services,” he says, “so there would be no misunderstanding about the expectations from both of us.”
“I am glad you are taking this so seriously,” she replies, “That was mainly why I called you back.” A small, shrill, part of her, in the very back creases of her brain try’s to offer a second opinion. She squashes it with ease.

He acknowledges the compliment with a open smile and continues, “I was glad to hear that your schedule was freed up from your work. However, given the short time frame, and the level of work required, from both of us, I feel some drastic measures are necessary. To be blunt, I want to help you, but only believe I can do that if you trust the process. I believe that for what you want, reorienting yourself and continuing your life successfully, are within your grasp.”

“However,” he intones, “this will not be easy. Clearly, your old habits, while being successful for you in the past, have become self destructive.”

“I will help you,” he continues “but I have terms, you will have to give up some measures of control, and live according to my regimen.”

She feels her heart plummeting in to her chest.

“How long,” she almost murmurs.

"As long as it takes, he responds. “As long as it takes.”

“We will both participate,” Greg explains “side by side, in activities centered around self reflection, and practice both good diet and exercise. I would give you a time frame for results, but this is not a simple process. You have sought my services, not because you need a fixed knee, or door frame straightened. Something is wrong with the way you approach the world. My methods will not fix you, but they will help you fix yourself.”

“What if I want out?”

“You can feel free to suspend my service at any time, I will leave, no questions asked. You do not owe me any explanation. You will make a payment for the time I have given to the recovery process, and l will leave promptly. Are you comfortable with these terms?”

“I… I think so.”

“Good, I will get my bags from outside. Do you have a spare room I can retire to?”

“What! You aren’t sleeping here!”

“My methods have the best results with full immersion. We start early and we end late. I do not live in the area and there is not a hotel nearby. Do I leave now?”

She feels herself drawn to a crossroads, the possibilities of both decisions terrifying her. She decides on the lesser evil.

“No, no. I guess that’s okay. It’s just a little uncomfortable for me, I need my space.”

“You will have time for that, I promise.”

She feels totally chastised by his simple confidence.

He walks outside and gathers his belongings. He returns to the living room finding her still sitting in the same spot, almost shocked by her easy agreement to his through program.

" Do you have a corkscrew?" He asks.

" I’m sorry, what?" She was still mulling over exactly what he had in store for her.

“A corkscrew?”

“A corkscrew, yes in the kitchen.” She says as a afterthought, “Why do you need one?”

“A glass of red wine in the evenings is good for the heart. It’s health benefits are only multiplied when enjoyed in good company, while watching the sunset.”

“But where’s my good company?” she casually responds, her mouth operating much faster than her brain. She blushes when the rest of her catches up. He laughs an easy full bodied laugh. She is not sure if her wit or her blushing caused it. She even less sure about which she wishes did.

They sit on the deck, in the backyard watching the sunset, broadcasting its spectrum of reds and burnt orange as the day slips into the night. She does all the talking, and he manages that special feat of his, somehow lounging comfortably, like a cat soaking up the last of the sun’s rays, while giving her his complete attention. He stops after one glass but she is carried away, jubilant at the idea that all her problems will soon be a thing of past, and celebrates, prematurely, drinking glass after glass.

She finds herself still tense around him, still disturbed despite his complete openness. It unnerves her, unsettling the delicate rhythms of the conversation.

She draws closer and closer to him, almost trying to soak up the confidence he exudes so easily. She finds herself leaning in, flashing her dress line. He doesn’t bat an eye. He sits their as calm and distant as a mountain. Despite not getting any response she leans in, braver from the wine.
She says “You don’t have to sleep in the spare room tonight,” while gently swirling the scarlet liquid in her glass.
With out a word he stands up, takes her half full glass from her hands and dumps it in the yard. He stands, waiting in silence for a long, long moment. Again he seems like a mountain, the thoughts swirling round his head like mist round a mountain peak. “We will not speak of this again,” he says with a tone of dreadful finality, and heads inside, taking the bottle of with him. Leaving her there, feeling empty, his words reverberating between her ears, like a never ending echo.

It is some time later before she before she walks shakily to bed, trudging slowly up the veranda steps into the dark, the viscous, pitch black of the full night resisting her every step. She crawls more than walks the steps up to her bedroom. She collapses on the bed only to remember the hated but necessary “protection”. She distastefully dresses in the diaper, and finally falls asleep.

That night she dreams of him.

She finds herself in a playpen, set in the middle living room. The playpen seems enormous. She looks around and discovers a cascade of toys, in a loud mix of colors.
She feels a pressure in her bladder. She stands and finds that she is snugly diapered. She awkwardly walks to the side of the playpen, her stride and stance forced open by the overprotective undergarment. When she reaches the playpen wall, she realizes that crossing this barrier is impossible without help. Her frustration, and humiliation at even the thought of asking for help, wells up inside her, pushing a involuntary wail across her lips.
She hears a answering call of “Coming” from the direction of the kitchen. He walks into the the living room with a slow stride that covers a vast distance. “What is wrong honey” he says.
She finds at her mouth moves quicker than her brain, involuntarily erupting from behind the veil to tears, “I have to go potty” She says.
“I’m sorry darling, babies use their diapies, only big people use the potty” he replies, a easy smile drawn across his face by the very idea.
She tries to say “I am an adult and will not be treated that way” but it is mangled by her mouth and becomes “I am a big girl, and big girls use da potty.”
“I’m sorry sweetie, you are not ready,” he replies, clearly indulging his little one. She is about to argue when a gentle hissing between her legs, followed by a growing warmth destroys her thoughts, leaving only tears. He leans over, towering above her, to pick her up.

Re: Qualified

Vanity

Mirror, mirror on the wall, who in this land is the fairest of the all?
The mirror answered-
You, o queen, are the fairest of the, all."
-The Brothers Grimm, Snow White
People think that they can clear up profound matters if they consider them deeply, but they exercise perverse thoughts and come to no good because they do their reflecting with only self-interest at the center.
-Yamamoto Tsunetomo, Hagakure

She is forced awake at what she could only describe as uncharitably early by a firm rhythmical knock at her bedroom door.
“Come on, it’s time to greet the sun,” he says, “dress warm.”

She mutters to herself about man’s inhumanity to man as she dresses in her jogging suit. She wanders downstairs and finds the house vacant. She meanders sleepily room to room, fuming about what she figures to be a horrible joke, when she spots him through the porch door, siting calmly in the early dark.

She forces the door open, and strides out to meet him in the yard. “What are you doing,” she asks.
“Meditating,” he replies, not even opening his eyes.

“Ohhh……” She thinks disdainfully, “One of these guys, if only he had gone bare foot to the interviews I could have killed this thing in its infancy. Next we will dance through the flowers trying to recapture our lost childhood. If he starts talking about seeing through my third eye he is out of here like yesterday’s trash.”

But yet again his simple way of sitting patiently draws her in, involuntarily. He sits there, legs crossed Indian style, his hands gently intertwined, facing the east, waiting. She mimics him, crosses her legs, and folds her hands into each other. His breathes are long, deep and drawn in and let out every five seconds. She counts them. In, one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four Mississippi, five Mississippi, out. You could quite literally keep time by his clockwork lungs.

And she does, for a while with her eyes closed, trying to still her mind. But soon she finds thoughts drifting like destructive glaciers, slowly eroding her focus. She is jumping icy precipice to icy precipice .

“What do I do went I get back to work? Will I always be the one who pissed herself in public? Why do I even work there? Are they giving me two months just to find a replacement? Will my job even be there if I am ready for it?” Each and every time she jumps worry to worry, she lets out a involuntary, deep sigh, not even aware of release of tension as she jumps from fear to fear.

After two hours of her jumping from anxiety to anxiety, winding herself tighter and tighter Greg stands, suddenly. “Time for breakfast,” he announces.

They walk inside, Greg walking his easy, ground devouring, strides while she paces, furiously, to not be outdistanced. He reaches the door first and opens it for her, letting her walk inside first. She wanted to beat him there, and get inside first, but his courteous act steals her joy from the victory.

She walks into the kitchen to see that he has already laid out a pan, spatula, measuring cup and knife with the tender precision that a carpenter has for his tools. Greg enters the kitchen behind her, and immediately sets about his task.

He gathers eggs, jalapeños, green peppers, onions, mushrooms and butter from the fridge. He begins to hum, gently, deeply, from his chest. He follows no particular tune, but snatches here and there have a noticeable rhythm. He hums as he dices the vegetables, he hums as cracks the eggs in measuring cup over the sink, skillfully discarding the yolks without breaking them. He hums as he melts the butter in the pan, sliding in around the base, so no corner is ignored. He hums as pour the egg whites into the pan, his humming and the sizzling of food providing a harmony of sorts. He hums as he layers, craftsman like, the vegetables into the egg. He hums, absorbed with his task till they both have omelets on their plates.

They eat in silence.

After breakfast, he cleans up briskly, and announces over the hot running sink that they will be taking a run next. They walk out the front door, which he reaches first and cordially opens for her, stealing her victory yet again. The feeling of defeat spoils the taste of breakfast in her mouth.

They start at a brisk pace, Greg transitioning simply from his unhurried measured walk to a unhurried measured run. She runs at a more frantic sprint, quickly outdistancing him, finally feeling superior, like she has something he doesn’t. She is so far ahead that soon she can’t even see him.

The feeling quickly dissipates as she feels her limbs growing leaden, slowly but surely slowing down. “I will show him, I will show him,” she thinks, urging herself on with a new burst of energy. This burst lasts even shorter than the last. Again she focuses on his the look she wants on his face, the expression of awe, of recognition she needs from him, more than anything else. This provides a quick burst that just as quickly burns out. She slows more and more. Looking back she can see him, gaining ground on her, jogging along at a stable, unchanging speed.

Soon he draws next to her, despite her best efforts, and as he grow closer she slows and slows. By the time he is along side her, she is barely jogging, defeated and deflated. He slows his pace to match hers, taking one stride for every three of hers. After a while they reach her house again. He reaches the front door first again, and opens it for her letting her in first. This time she doesn’t feel anything.

They stretch then, easing the pain out of their joints. She notices out of the corner of her eye that can not only touch his toes, but place his full fists on the ground, with his knees straight. She pushes herself, harder and harder when stretching, to Mather him. She feels the tendons in her arms and legs wind tighter and tighter. She likes the pain. Real concern blooms on Greg’s face when he sees the self destructive turn her stretching has taken. She likes the look on his face even more.

Greg takes advantage of this break to transition to a workout focused around push-ups, sit-ups, and bicycle kicks. Again she tries to out perform him. It has typical results.

After the workout, he asks that she lays down on her bed. “A massage,” he assures her, just a massage to work out sore muscles."

She takes off her clothes, wrapping a towel around her midsection. She resents the direction, but she lays belly down on the bed her arms next to her, and her head turned to one side. He starts with her feet, cupping them in his hands, using his thumbs to trace tendons till they detect tension, and slowly, patiently, erase it. She feels herself unwind, finally, letting to of the tension she had been guarding through the day. He moves up her legs, slowly, following the tendons exploring the network of muscle with his thumbs, pressing and releasing, pressing and releasing.

After her thighs he moves to her hands, repeating in a gentle workmanlike way, his job of tracing the palms, easing out each and every muscle. He travels up her arms following the veins of muscle like a miner following the scent of gold. When he reaches the top, he moves to her lower back, pushing slowly, building pressure until he hears a telltale pop, then moving up a few vertebrae to repeat the whole process.

He continues until every single iota of muscular fiber in her body is relaxed, then he speaks, softly, “Sleep, I will wake you up after your nap.”

The largest part of her rails at this thought, wants to stand up and proclaim that she is not a child, and has not taken a nap since preschool and would not start now. But a small part, far back, in the darkest crevasse of her mind, yawns such a big yawn that it echoes, resounding till it reaches such a tempestuous volume that she releases it from her lips.

And she sleeps.

She does not dream when she sleeps.

Neither does she wet in her sleep.

She is woken yet again by his tapping at the door. “Time for lunch” he speaks through the door. She muddily rouses herself and is half dressed before she realizes that she had slept without protection.

Lunch is a simple affair, grilled turkey breast with a salad that uses part of the left over vegetables from before.

Again they eat in silence.

After lunch she lounges in the living room, still drowsy from her early sleep. He cleans away the plates, and wipes down the countertops.

He rouses her from seat and announces their next activity, “Have you ever rode a motorcycle?” he asks.

“No,” she promptly replies, " I have not."

“No time like the present then,” he says. “Grab a leather jacket.”

They walk outside to the front yard and she spots his motorcycle for the first time. She wonders why she didn’t spot it before. He passes her one of the two helmets, both a simple black. He show she how to strap in on safely.
"Uh, what? Se replies.
“Here,” he says undoing his own strap and demonstrating again, “like this.” She feels talked down to. They mount the motorcycle, Greg driving, her placing her arms around him. They are off quickly.

She spends her time struggling to see above his enormous back, mainly sightseeing around his shoulders, by leaning to one side. This unbalances the bike, and Greg halts, turning of the motor to tell her firmly but quietly tells her that that has to stop.
“Well, then,” she argues standing off the bike,“We can switch and you can stare at my back.”

“Sure,” he replies, “after you have learned how.” That ends that.

He waits on the bike, patient, till she sighs and takes her seat in the back yet again.
As they ride, the loud humming of the motor provides a background white noise, and the lack of sights, besides Greg’s leathered back, forces her thoughts inward. She thinks about the day, about her feeling of inadequacy, and how she has acted. She feels vindicated, after all she has been through, and rationalizes that needing time to adjust to someone else’s habits is normal.

As she draws deeper inward, she clutches Greg tighter and tighter, and only notices as they take a tight bend, their shifting weight refocusing her on what is going on. She feels dependent on him, utterly, and completely. It unnerves her deeply, sending her thoughts spinning again, regretting the fact that she hadn’t the nerve to insist that she drive this damnable device. A small part of her, in the farthest reaches of her mind, thinks that she enjoys his support, but she overwhelms that with her self focus, her indignation. They ride in silence.

After the finish the ride, Greg pulls up to the driveway of her house, and eases in. She gladly discards the helmet in the yard. Greg carefully takes of his own, and collects her’s as she heads inside. They lose the leather jackets, Greg hanging hers and his own.
“Now,” Greg transitions, “Time to medicate again.” She sighs, heavily, but doesn’t argue.

They sit in roughly the same spot in the yard, and Greg resumes his crossed legged position instantly, and starts breathing his impossibly accurate breathes. She feels so worn out, so tired after such a long day, she copies his breathing.
At first, nothing. Just the same jumping from thought to thought, anxiety to anxiety. She still matches his breathing, too mentally exhausted to try anything else. An hour passes this way.
Then, a thought, “I’ll work out a mantra. Just like the gurus you see in the movies.” She sorts through a collection of ideas, quickly eliminating, “Ommmmm” as boring, and counting she finds confusing and she lose count several times around the two hundreds.

She will not be defeated, not be shown up by Greg, this would-be spiritualist, and finally has a breakthrough. She repeats her speech mentally, again and again. Each time drawing more and more into her mind. She starts to finally relax and Greg announces that it is time for the last meal of the day.

Dinner is leftover veggies and turkey. They eat in silence. Her staring down in her food, lost in thinking about the day.

Greg just eats.

Greg cleans up, with his typical efficiency.

After, Greg heads to his room and returns with a red wine bottle. He uncorks it, grabs a glass, and heads outside. Alone. Without so much as acknowledging her. At all.

She ignores him in return and heads toward her room. As she climbs the stairs she feels a growing rage, boiling away in her stomach. She reflects on how she has felt all day, literally all day, like Greg was so much better than her.

She enters her room, and strips for bed. As she diapers herself, the final bedtime ritual, she announces to the empty room, “Just where the fuck does he get off, huh. I’m so fucking delighted that you are fucking chef, a fucking monk and a fucking Motorcycler. Whoopty fucking do. You are also a superior asshole.” By the end she is screaming, loud enough that she knows he can hear some of it outside on the porch. She relishes the thought. She waits laying on the bed, hoping he will come up, concerned, and she’ll fire him, right then and there. Without a word, and pay him to get the fuck out. She falls asleep, however, before too long.

That night she dreams of him.

She finds herself trapped, lying down, in a crib. She sits up, taking in the whole scene She is in a nursery, complete with mobile, changing table and pooh bear wallpaper. It is not long before she realizes that she is diapered. It takes but a moment, the longest moment she has ever known, filled with a eternity of denial, despair, disgust and dread to realized the diaper is soiled. Immediately she starts yelling, not screaming, not crying, but yelling, at the top of her lungs. She can just barely hear, over the clamor she is making, some heavy footsteps as someone runs to the room. It’s him, of course, it’s him.

The sight of him make her yell even louder, louder than she thought she could ever yell. As he picks her up she starts to fight him, kicking, punching her anger building and building like a bonfire, stacked unto infinity. She burns and burns, biting, clawing confident that she will win, that she will defeat him, leaving her alone finally. That thought, that cold, slimy, dark thought, extinguishes her rage, all at once. When he sees this, he smiles. “Let’s get you changed darling.”

Re: Qualified

Rage

Yes, yes," said the Beast, “my heart is good, but still I am a monster.”
“Among mankind,” says Beauty, “there are many that deserve that name more than you, and I prefer you, just as you are, to those, who, under a human form, hide a treacherous, corrupt, and ungrateful heart.”
-Jeanne-Marie Le Prince de Beaumont, Beauty and the Beast

Be soft. Do not let the world make you hard. Do not let pain make you hate. Do not let the bitterness steal your sweetness. Take pride that even though the rest of the world may disagree, you still believe it to be a beautiful place."
-Kurt Vonnegut

“Awe Christ,” she thinks, “there is that knocking again. If he asks me to greet the sun, I may commit my first homicide.”

“It’s time to greet the sun,” Greg says over his gentle rapping on the door. “Dress warm.” .

“There is no way I am stuck doing the same day over again is there. Groundhog Day was just a movie right. It wasn’t inspired by true events. Was it? If so I could kill him and get away with it. As many times as I like.”

She smiles at the thought, but gets up anyway. She changes out of the stale diaper and showers. She picks out another jogging suit, and walks down the steps out to the yard. As she paces over to where Greg is sitting, she stokes her rage, feeding it slowly, so it doesn’t burn out bright, like her dream. She knows it to be best defense and so, treasures it, like the last belonging from a childhood that has burned to the ground.

She assumes her seat next to him, siting legs crossed and hands folded together. She try’s the same trick she did yesterday, repeating her speech. However today it has lost it’s power. Every time she gets going, she is stopped short by his breathing. As regular as clockwork. Every five fucking seconds. She feeds the frustration to the fire, but keeps it low, simmering, as not to burn out.

So she looks for others things to burn in the righteous flames, and after a short search, finds herself dwelling on her position with the company. The goddamned company. She gave everything to them, everything. She has no family of her own, instead she has a corner office. She has no close friends, only workers she drinks with on holidays. She has no hobbies, only good business habits.

What is she supposed to do? Will she have anything left if they don’t take her back? Fuck them. What did she do, really? One accident, is that all it takes? One missed bathroom break and she loses everything? Oh sure, they gave her money, but she had enough of that already. What about her identity? Can enough money buy one of those?

She runs through these thoughts again, and again, on a merry-go-round of rage. It feels good. She feels clean inside, sterilized, like a surgeon’s knife. Finally drawn to a central focus. Rage is much better than confusion.

But it’s burning her, she can’t just sit there any more she needs to move, to do something, anything. Just as she is about to tell Greg that, he announces “Lets have breakfast.”

“Fine with me,” she retorts, sharply.

They head inside and she practically runs to get to the door first and beats him, handily. She is waiting for him in the kitchen, impatient, when he comes in.

“Finally,” she huffs aloud.

Greg smiles his easy smile, and walks to the fridge. He pulls out two protein shakes he prepared earlier. He barely hands it to her when she bolts it down, taking it all in, in several long draws. She races over to the door, pointedly ignoring Greg, trying to run into him as she passes. But somehow, he steps out of the way, with his simple grace. It only makes her angrier. She feeds that anger to the fire.

She is waiting for several minutes before Greg joins her outside. As soon as he walks up next to her, she takes off like a shot, not worried at all about fuel, knowing she has a stockpile to draw from that dwarfs his. She races along, and doesn’t even need to turn around to check if he is there. She knows he is not there, she knows he couldn’t keep up with her.

She doesn’t slow at all through the run, sprinting all the way. She has no loss of energy, but her motions become more jerky, slamming each foot forward, slapping against the concrete with a audible crack, to keep her pace. It is not long before she begins to ache. She just feeds its to the fire, growing it slowly to keep up with the demands of her body.

She finishes way before him, reaching her house again. Somehow though the victory feels hollow, like something is missing. She decides that she needs him close enough next time that she can see his face when he realizes he is losing. A small part of her, at the back of her brain says otherwise, but the inferno going on inside her scares it back to its hole. She sits on the curb till he gets there. When he arrives, he is going at that same measured pace, sweating, but still full of breath. She just caught hers moments ago. “Fuck him,” she thinks.

He smiles when he draws close and goes straight into stretching. Again he places his full fists on the floor from a upright position, so casually, like he has been able to do that his entire life. She tries to match the stance, stoking the flames inside for another feat. She bends over and yanks her fists toward the ground. Closer, closer, closer, she is almost there, she is…. Lying on the ground. Holding the back of her leg, biting her lip in pain, almost drawing blood. The fire goes out for just a moment. But that’s all it takes.

Greg is beside her almost as soon as she hits the ground, and has her in his arms so quickly she isn’t sure she can clearly remember him picking her up. His measured pace is gone. She is upstairs lying on her bed in thirty seconds flat. In another thirty seconds Greg has Advil and a glass of water in her hands.

“Drink,” he says, sounding angry for the first time. She does without question. After she she takes the medication though, the rage comes back full force. She resents Greg helping her, resents his speed. “He could have beaten me in that run easily,” she thinks, “He just let me win, humoring me like I am a kid. Fuck him.” This time the hate burns cold, making her calm, and patient. She knows she can wait for the right moment.

Greg begins his massage routine, telling her not to worry about taking off her clothes. Her whole body feels cold and tense, but she knows his hands will find it, will work it out, snuffing the fire wherever it hides. So she calms it even more, reduces it, compacting it to make a diamond, that she hides. And treasures.

The rest of herself she lets his hands have, untying knot after knot of tendon and muscle. He takes his time on her injured leg, touching and holding it delicately, like porcelain. He works with a almost glacial patience on the muscle, slowly, ever so slowly testing each nerve, like a man crossing a newly frozen lake. At the end he sighs, deeply, contentedly and lets her know that it was nothing to worry about, just a pinched nerve. He tells her to enjoy her nap.

She smiles into her pillow, relaxed, and content that the diamond would keep. It would keep.

She does not dream.

She does not wet herself.

She awakes to Greg’s knocking on the door. “Lunch,” he announces. As she undresses from her workout cloths and redresses she checks that secret place, deep inside her chest. She smiles when she finds the diamond, safe, undiminished. She walks down the stairs to the kitchen quietly, placing each step delicately, to not disturbed the perch of the diamond in her. She doesn’t want to dislodge it too early, to free it before the right time. She can wait.

Lunch is a grilled chicken salad, bright vegetables sticking out against a backdrop of lettuce. She bolts down the meal, trying to hurry along the day till that perfect moment of release. She walks to the living room and sits on the couch. It is a only a moment before she feels ill, after eating what she realizes was far too quickly. Her stomach aches. She composes herself, redirecting the discomfort, the pressure in her stomach to crystallizing, and growing the diamond.

After Greg finishes cleaning up, he walks into the room, her leather jacket in his hand. “Time to ride,” he says. She marches out the front door, and Greg follows. They get to the bike and both put on their matching black helmets. They get on the bike, and are off.

As they ride she is reminded of why she resents the back seat once again. “There is nothing to see,” she thinks. “Am I supposed to content myself with counting the stitches in his jacket?” She feeds it to the diamond, concentrating and distilling her rage. She smiles to herself, feeling content for a moment.

Then the engines starts to sputter, the gentle thrum interrupted by fierce hacking. Greg quickly pulls over, and they both get off the bike. Greg grabs a black bag off the back and says, “This will probably take awhile. You should get comfortable.” Then he unpacks his tools, methodically laying them down, one by one. Each and every patient motion by Greg enrages her, like silent scratches on a chalk board.

Her anger only grows as he begins to hum his tuneless hum, as he works slowly, taking of the engine’s cover, and begins to diagnose the issue. Each and every note sends fiery sparks through her body. Before she even knows what she is doing, she races over, taking a running start and kicks over the bike. Greg looks up, seemingly unsurprised. He points a short distance to the side and quietly says, “Wait over there please.” His politeness frightens her, and she does as he asks. He fixes the bike after what feels like a eternity, while she stews in her boiling fumes.

They ride back in silence.

When Greg eases back into the driveway of her house, she slams down her helmet on the bike and heads inside, not acknowledging his presence. She throws her jacket on the floor, again. Greg enter the house and delicately picks the jacket up, and hangs it beside his own, by the front door.

“Now,” he announces, “Time to meditate once again.” They walk outside and sit in their places, and assume the same pose as before. She takes the self reflective time to grow her anger, feeding it each grievance of the day, each perceived slight Greg has done to her. She lets the fire grow, untamed, and basks in its glow. Then she uses its own energy against it, forcing it shrink, more compacted, more fierce for the loss in size. She adds it the diamond in her chest, and clutches it, tightly. Then she repeats the process. The time passes quickly, and soon Greg announces dinner.

They have left over chicken breast in tacos, with guacamole, beans and cheese. She takes her time, eating slowly to be ready, to not be distracted when she unleashes the diamond. She feels the time growing close.

They eat in silence.

Greg cleans up dinner, then heads to his room and returns with a bottle of wine. “Would you like to join me,” he asks.

She smiles, toothily, like a shark spotting a seal. “Oh I would like nothing more than that.”

They head to the deck to watch the sun set as they drink. The time passes silently, Greg comfortably seated in his chair, stretched out, unwound, as always. She is tense, waiting for the right moment, that right moment. She clutches her diamond, and squeezes.

Even though she feels prepared, fully in control, the gem shatters suddenly, with the sound of glass breaking in her ears. She stands and begins to yell.

“Who do you think you are huh? Some wanna be guru? Some fucking four star chef? A half assed mechanic? I bet you think the sun wouldn’t rise if you weren’t sitting there, slacked jawed, to meet it every fucking day.”

Her volume rises, impossibly, as she continues.

“Let me tell you something asshole, I don’t need you! I was perfectly fine without you and Ill be perfectly fine when you leave! I am done with your garden variety wisdom, that you gathered from the back of greeting cards! You are a fraud, and I am sorry it took me so long to figure out!”

The rest of her anger pours out in a torrent.

“Why are you still sitting there huh? Haven’t you figured it out? You said you would leave with no questions asked. Are you a liar on top of everything else?”

Greg doesn’t stand, he just sits for a moment, seemingly taking in every complaint, every insult. “If he flashes that fucking smile,” she thinks, “I will beat him senseless.”

Greg stands, and as always, he takes his time, a long moment. “Have you asked me to leave?” he asks, finally.

“I thought I made my feelings crystal fucking clear,” she replies, voice full of venom.

“No,” he says, “you haven’t. You said you hate me, you said you won’t miss me when I am gone and you even said I am a fraud. But you haven’t asked me to leave.” He pauses again, letting out a deep, deep breathe, the first sign of his upset. “So, do you want me to leave?”

She takes a moment, to think on want he said, to finally realize what she has said. She finally feels embarrassed. “No. No, I don’t. I wouldn’t be surprised if you do though,” she half whispers.

“You haven’t asked me,” he replies, and he takes the wine as he walks inside. She cries then, openly. As she thinks of what she has said the tears flow faster and faster, her breath keeping pace. Soon her chest hurts from the manic pumping in and out of air. The racking sobs hurt her back. It is a long time before it winds down. She feels empty as she stands, and walks back to her room.

As she prepares for bed, undressing from her clothes and putting on the the hated diaper, she has her first coherent thought since her explosion. “Why would he stay?” she thinks “Why would he stay?”

That night she dreams of him.

She runs, in a full panic as fast as her little legs will take her. She does not know who she is running from, but she knows that the worst thing in the world would be to let herself get caught. Her gait feels awkward, and she slows for a moment to look down between her legs. She discovers a thick nighttime diaper. She is not surprised this time. That moment, while she is standing, she realizes that there is no way she can out run him in this, and her loud, frantic footfalls have only broadcasted where she is. She spots a nearby door, and opens it. She hurries inside the room, and closes it after her. When she quiets herself, slowing her breathing, she can hear his slow footsteps, magnified by the silence. As they grow closer, her panic rises, sending frantic signals to run, run anywhere to her whole little body. But there is no where to run to. The footsteps stop outside the door. “Found you,” he exclaims, as he opens the door.

She screams "What do you want from me? What do you want?

He seems unsurprised by her volume and her fear. “Nothing,” he gently replies, smiling “nothing you won’t give freely.”

Authors note: do me a favor. If you like it, let me know. If you hate it, let me know. If you don’t get it, let me know. I would like to know if anybody is reading.
Thanks

Re: Qualified

i am reading and enjoying it

Re: Qualified

Fear

“But he has nothing on at all,” said a little child at last. “Good heavens! listen to the voice of an innocent child,” said the father, and one whispered to the other what the child had said. “But he has nothing on at all,” cried at last the whole people. That made a deep impression upon the emperor, for it seemed to him that they were right; but he thought to himself, “Now I must bear up to the end.” And the chamberlains walked with still greater dignity, as if they carried the train which did not exist.
-Hans Christian Andersen, The Emperor’s New Clothes

"A young apprentice applied to a master carpenter for a job. The older man asked him, “Do you know your trade?” “Yes, sir!” the young man replied proudly. “Have you ever made a mistake?” the older man inquired. “No, sir!” the young man answered, feeling certain he would get the job. “Then there’s no way I’m going to hire you,” said the master carpenter, “because when you make one, you won’t know how to fix it.”
-Mr. Rogers

She wakes the next morning to Greg’s gentle rapping on the door.

“Come on,” he says, “it’s time to greet the sun.”

She groans into her pillow. “He is still here?,” she thinks, “Why is he still here? Hasn’t he seen I’m not worth the effort? That I am just going to hurt him again?” She gets up, despite her worries, and changes out of the stale diaper. She showers, briefly, before choosing a pair of sweatpants and a t shirt. She walks to the door and palms the handle. The simple contact of her hand on the door jolts her awake, reanimating all the fears the warm shower had put to rest. She takes a deep, long breath and lets it out slowly. Then she opens the door and heads downstairs.

She walks to her usual spot in the yard, grateful that Greg is already deeply meditating, and so does not acknowledge her presence. She sits cross legged, and folds her hands into each other. As she closes her eyes, her mind draws inward, closing off from the outside world. She does not like what she finds. Fear.

She dwells on it, in it, the bog of worries and anxieties dragging her down, weighing her down. With out her noticing, her body slowly hunches, curling in in itself protectively. All of this a reaction to one simple, scary thought. “Why is he still here?” Her mind repeats this again and again, pressure mounting till it becomes to much and the central thought unravels sending concerns spinning in all directions. “What does he want? What does he think he will get? It can’t be the money, it is definitely not worth this.” A small part in the far reaches of the back of her mind, so isolated it might be someone else entirely, ventures forward to offer up that maybe she is worth it. But it retreats quickly, afraid of being lost forever in the swamp of her sorrows.

Eventually, the scattered thoughts reform around one terrifying conclusion. “He,” she thinks, “is going to wait, like I was yesterday for that right moment, that moment I need him the most. And he will walk away then. He is still leaving, he is just waiting till he can do the most damage on the way out.”

The arch of her body leaning forward collapses then, her head falling heavily into her hands. “I won’t let him know that I have figured him out. I will tread cautiously, I will outlast him.” She barely musters her body into the upright position before he stands and invites her in for breakfast. She lets him walk inside first, not taking her eyes of him the whole time.

For breakfast he prepares a South Asian meal, fish ball soup. It looks like dirty dishwater with chunks of meat in it. She resolves not to take the first bite, and wary of any tainting of her meal, asks to switch dishes with him, saying, “Looks like yours has less meat, I am not that hungry.” He smiles at her then, openly,takes her bowl and without hesitation digs in. Only after his fifth bite does she start on her own soup. It is surprisingly good, both spicy and savory, and she finds the fish balls to be a particular delight. She regrets switching with him when she finishes hers.

They eat in silence.

Greg cleans up, in his usual, prompt manner. She waits in the kitchen for the first time, not trusting him to be there alone.

After he is done swiping down the counters, Greg says, “Time for the run.” They walk outside, she keeps him in front of her at all times, her dread growing with the day, constantly worrying about when he will take his opportunity.

When they run, she runs alongside him, not pushing herself like previously. She knows that if she pinched a nerve, or did something worse to herself, he would not help her. She wouldn’t deserve it. The heavy thoughts slow her down even more. She feels a almost physical deep wight in her stomach growing and growing, making each and ever step a titanic effort. She slows so much that soon Greg vanishes into the distance ahead. She does not increase her pace.

He is sitting on the curb when she finally reaches the front yard. He seems to be lounging effortlessly, as always. When she shows up he hands her a water bottle he had gotten inside. “Is this it?” She thinks, “Is this the trick?” At that moment she is too tired, too weighed down to care. She actually hopes that this is his revenge, that he will go finally, and end this charade.

She leans her head back, lifts the bottle and takes a swig. It’s ice water. She drinks greedily then, quickly sucking down the whole bottle.

They both start to stretch, going through the whole regimen of standing and sitting leg stretches. She does so slowly, tenderly and finds that she has better results.

They finish the stretches soon, and Greg starts his routine of push-ups, sit ups and bicycle kicks. She fakes it alongside him, not willing to participate for the risk of injury.

“Lets head inside,” Greg says as he finishes. He doesn’t address her lackluster effort in the workout. They head up to her room, she lets him go first, as has become the routine. She heads to the bathroom, and strips automatically, out of habit, and wraps herself in a towel. As she heads back towards her bedroom she realizes that the massage is the moment, the perfect moment when she is most vulnerable, most open with him. She trembles as she walks back to her bed and lays down. The dread in her stomach grows heavier and heavier until it feels like that even if she did have the courage to run, at that moment she wouldn’t have the strength to sit back up.

Greg reaches down, to start with her feet, as is his habit. She is so tense, so scared than as soon as he touches her, barely brushing her skin with his finger tips, she lets out a involuntary yelp of fear, leg kicking automatically. It catches him right in the jaw, but he doesn’t fall backward. He doesn’t show a sign of the pain. But she looks up, she sees that his composure has finally broken. His eyes are rimmed with water, and his mouth, usually set in his comfortable smile, is fully open in shock.

“My apologies,” he says, “I hope I did not hurt you.”

He turns his head toward the floor and leaves her then, alone. As soon as the door shuts she starts to cry, quietly. She doesn’t know why, but a small part of her, deep in the back of her mind takes advantage of the confusion, and thinks that it might be because she finally hurt him, not by trying to but by being afraid of him. She falls asleep after she has exhausted her supply of tears.

She does not dream.

She does not wet in her sleep.

She awakes to his timid knocking on the door.

“Time for lunch,” he says.

She dresses quickly, in a t shit and blue jeans. She feel numb, so hollow that an echo could survive for decades inside her. She walks down stairs to the kitchen.

For lunch they have lamb tiki masala, with rice and peppers.

They eat in silence, both of their gazes firmly planted on their plates. She likes the meal though, and tells him so. He brightens visibly, like a breath of new life has been given to him. He smiles his easy, open smile. She feels good about herself for the first time in days.

He cleans up and the walk alongside each other to the front door. They grab their leather jackets and head to the motorcycle.

" No helmets today, its way to hot," he says.

They take off like a shot, both grateful to be beside each other, in silence.

As they slow on a bend, Greg says, “You have enough experience now, you can stand of the footrests if you like, to see better.”

"How will I steady myself? She asks.

“Just put your arms on my shoulders. I won’t move. I am not going anywhere.”

It takes awhile for her to build up her nerve, but eventually, she stands on the footrests, holding tightly to his solid shoulders. She likes the view better from up there, but barely looks at the road. Instead she stares at him, and a smile grows slowly on her face. She enjoys the ride for the first time.

When they arrive home, they both deposit their jackets on the hooks at the door. They rad to the yard then, to meditate. They sit, cross legged, next to each other.

She keeps time with his rhythmical, clockwork breathing, matching his pace with her own. She reflects, for the first time not about herself, but about him. And how she has treated him. How he has treated her. She blushes when she thinks back to first day, when she had so much to prove. She feels sorry when she think about the second day, so full of mindless rage, directed at him. She thinks of her actions earlier in the day and almost starts crying again when she thinks of how she hurt him.

She resolves to try, to really try to engage, to try life at his pace. She needs it, she realizes, she really needs it. And he is willing to give it.

For the rest of time she makes a mental list of how she will help him tomorrow.

Before she finishes, Greg announces that it is time for dinner.

Dinner is sushi. They enjoy a light conversation, exchanging polite nothings. She insists on cleaning up after dinner. At this he finally looks surprised.

He heads to his room to collect his usual bottle of wine, and they head out to the deck to drink both the sunset and the wine. They both lounge, at ease, in their chairs. She tries to master his trick of complete relaxation balanced with complete attention, but fails. They continue their light conversation, talking about colleges, music interests and bad highschool hair cuts. She is surprised to learn that they both loved the punk scene growing up, and they reference obscure bands back at each other, both trying to prove there deeper devotion to the music of anarchy. They find themselves evenly matched.

As the sun finally fades over the horizon, she musters up her courage and prepares herself.

“I am sorry. I have been a monster. I haven’t been this emotional for a long, long time. It’s no excuse though. You haven’t deserved any of it.”

“Thank you for the apology,” he replies, “don’t worry yourself though. I’ve have had clients drag their feet for a lot longer than you have.”

“Thank you,” she says tears brimming in her eyes, “thank you.”

He stands when she says this, and pulls her out of her chair into a tight embrace. She cries, halting, with stops and starts into his chest. He slowly and gently rubs circles on her back.

It is long past dark when she stops, and she finds that she doesn’t want to let go. He does let go, however, when she calms down. They walk in doors together, and bid each other a good night. She walks up the steps to her bedroom slowly, forcing herself not to turn around, to call him back. She makes to her room, and heads inside, stripping off her clothing. She diapers herself and goes to sleep, peacefully

That night she dreams of him.

She is playing at the neighborhood playground. It is strangely empty, but that doesn’t bother her. She notices that she is dressed in overalls, with tell tale snaps at the crotch. She swings on the swings, going higher and higher. She spots her daddy sitting on a bench, watching attentively.

“Watch me daddy,” she yells, “watch me.”

“I am” he yells back, “I am.”

She bores of the swing quickly and head the to tall slides. She scampers up to the top, but can’t bring herself to slide to the bottom. Her daddy sees this and hurries over to the bottom.

“I’ll catch you darling,” he says, “you don’t have to worry.”

“I’m not ready daddy. I can’t do it yet.”

He smiles his easy smile.

“I can wait. It’s worth it. I can wait.”

Authors note: I couldn’t sleep last night, and did this instead. I hope you are enjoying it. Any feedback is good feedback.

Re: Qualified

This is honestly a really good story! I’m eager to see where this goes. Keep up the good work!

Re: Qualified

I like it. Please continue.

Re: Qualified

I just found this story today and am very much enjoying it.

You have a very unique writing style, and apart from some minor grammar errors, the story is pleasant to read. It’s also unique. I do hope you continue.

Re: Qualified

Thank you. Grammar has never been my strong suit. I should have another six pages out tomorrow. Anybody feeling a like it is a little emotionally over the top, the climax is coming soon. This so far has just been a gradual build up. But I was hoping to get more feedback. It might have something to do with the frantic pace I have produced material. I will admit that I am perfectly happy to wtprite this down and yell it into the wilderness, metaphorically, some feedback would help. Reposting favorite or hateds lines, pointing out when my pursuit of simile or metaphor destroys the pace of a scene, anything. I am not holding the story hostage, but I will admit that I was not going to continue past the first five pages until I recvieved feedback from the writer of “College or Cribs”. Just to know someone is listening helps.

To summarize, thank you all who have responded. I am glad you have found something enjoyable in what I have written. I would like if it were more substantial, but both beggars, and writers, cannot be choosers
Sincerely,
TDAD22

Re: Qualified

I usually don’t provide very much feedback within the ABDL setting because lots of authors tend to get really offended, but if that’s what you’re looking for I’m more than happy to comply.

I think one of the reasons you don’t get as much feedback as other authors is because of the writing style. It’s more complex and requires more time and attention to understand when compared to the average story. When first starting the story it is hard to follow and understand. Once you fall into the writing style it becomes easier, but lots of readers aren’t willing to commit that kind of time. I honestly think it’s one of the best features of the story though. It allows for an altogether unique look at the protagonist. It helps me to relate to her. The style makes me feel almost I like I have tapped directly into the conscience of your character. This is hard to do, and I can feel that you’re struggling with it at times, but the results can be excellent with enough time.

As for the story line itself, the days are very cookie cutter and the events basically all the same (Yes, I know that’s the goal). What makes this story so special is that within each cookie cutter day, the emotions of the protagonist are carefully analyzed and presented in an almost literary or artful way. You’ve managed to tell the exact same story five times, which at first glance seems boring and repetitive. What gives the story an edge is the presentation of such vivid and raw emotions as experienced by the protagonist.

Greg. I can’t explain why, but I adore Greg as a character. I love how patient and calm he is. He is a little flat, as the reader has almost no information about him, but the way you have developed him is good and he serves his purpose. He might appeal to me because that is the kind of patience that appeals to me within in an ABDL relationship.

I do feel like some of the extended metaphors go a bit far. The one about the diamond in particular I remember reading and thinking “Lord of the Rings overload…” (My preeeeeccccciiioooouuuusssss. Anyway, who thinks of their anger like a diamond? I feel like that one was a bit of a stretch) But overall most of them don’t cross the bounds of being reasonable. They do help to understand the protagonist’s point of view.

As for the ABDL content, it’s there and at the same time not there. At first glance is occurs only in dreams, but if closely examined you can see links within the day to day interaction as well. I’m curious as to whether or not the content will stay primarily in dreams or bleed over into reality as well.

I hope that’s more along the lines of what you’re hoping for, and I do hope to see this story continued.

Re: Qualified

Thanks Samushi. Everything you said was true, and everything but the grammar was a writers choice. I agree that the metaphor of the diamond needs some work. Maybe if drew analogy of the fires of rage leaving behind a coal instead? Maybe that pressure making a diamond. At any rate thanks for provide the most substantial feedback so far. Tell me what you think of this new section.
Sincerely,
TDAD22

Patience, or Recovery

If you are losing your soul and you know it, then you still have a soul left to lose.
-Charles Bukowski

“You were sick, but now you’re well again, and there’s work to do.”
-Kurt Vonnegut, Timequake

She awakes to his gentle raps on her bedroom door.

“Time to greet the sun,” he says, repeating the now familiar phrase. She smiles, involuntarily, at the sound of his voice. She rouses herself from her bed, and removes the wet diaper. She showers, removing the stench of stale urine from her body. Somehow though, she does not feel cleansed after the shower. She feels some grime, some stuff that doesn’t wash off. She towels off and dresses in in a t shirt and sweatpants.

She sighs to herself “I guess that, with somethings, saying your sorry doesn’t fix it. At least for yourself.”

As she walks to her bedroom door she takes a deep breath, trying to cleanse her thoughts, to put her best foot forward. “I am not going to sad sack it today,” she thinks, “Greg has put up with enough of that already. I am going to show him what I can do.”

So, resolutely she marches down the stairs, head held high, trembling inside. She finds him in the backyard, in the usual place. He is seated, as always facing the rising sun, smiling gently and breathing clockwork breaths. She sits next to him, quietly, not wanting to disturb his focus. She closes her eyes and syncs up her breathing with him. In, one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four Mississippi, five Mississippi, out.

Her mind slows, and turns silently inward. Her thoughts turn to her attitude change over the last few days. She feels deeply embarrassed when she thinks about the things she has done, what she has put him through. When she reflects on her actions she feels filthy, unclean, like she needs scrub off a greasy outer layer, show Greg what is beneath. “I’ll change,” she thinks, “I’ll be like another person entirely, I’ll cook today, I will… I will… I will.” The list goes on and on.

She continues making resolutions until finally deciding, " I will change so much that when we look back at the first days, it will seem like a different person. Hell, it is a different person from who I am now." Greg then stands up, suddenly and announces that it is time for breakfast. She pops up like a shot, and says, “Don’t worry, I’ll be cooking today.”
Greg smiles, warmly, proudly it seems to her, and replies, “Thank you.”

She scurries into the kitchen before him, rummaging through the fridge till she finds bacon and eggs. “I will start small,” she thinks, “but tonight I will be cooking a four course meal.”

If Greg’s cooking style seemed simply orchestrated, accompanied by a deep hum, hers was that orchestra tuning its instruments, disjointed sound followed by a more disjointed sound, accompanied by cries of panic.

She breaks the yolks when she tries to scoop them out. She tries to cook them over easy, but didn’t put enough butter on the pan, and they stick. She burns the bottom and has to settle for scrambled. She tries to be more aware with the bacon, laying each piece down exactly the same distance apart, giving them plenty of space so they don’t fuse together in the frying. But she leaves to serve Greg up his eggs and spends so long apologizing for the eggs, that by the time she gets back one side is burnt black.

She bring the bacon out to him on a plate setting it between the two of them. She feels so utterly defeated, grimy all over again, “I can’t do anything,” she thinks, “and all I have down is prove it yet again.” She look up to Greg, to punish herself with the look of disappointment on his face. Greg is staring long and hard at the burnt, black, bacon. He slowly, as always, reaches out a hand, stretching out to grab a slice of bacon that could be better described as a pork cinder.

He lifts it up to his mouth, takes a large bite of it. She watches memorized, as he chews, making an effort to keep his face straight, muscles in his jaw tightening, and swallows. She feels even worse that he felt obliged to eat the bacon, but then Greg says, “I love it, the flavor reminds me of when I used to smoke cigarettes.”

Laughter bursts explosively out her, and she says, " Well here is a whole pack!" and playfully dumps the rest of the bacon on his plate.

“No thanks,” he replies, “I don’t really feel like raising my cancer risks today.” He dumps the bacon back on her plate. They pass it back and forth, back and forth until soon they erupt in a bacon fight, chasing each other back and forth, flinging pieces at each, laughing as they mock sword fight with the longer pieces. Greg’s breaks and she yells, not able to resist, “Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya, you killed my father, now prepare to die,” while lunging in for the kill. She scores, and gets the meaty tinder in his open mouth, wide with shock. He takes her victory well, and crunches down on the petrified pork.

He stands up and looks around around at the catastrophe in the kitchen. “It looks like a pig exploded in here.” Even though it was lame, she couldn’t resist laughing. It had been so long since she had really smiled, really played like this, that her face hurt from the effort. She didn’t mind.

“Well,” she said, “You are probably familiar with the age old saying I cook, you clean.”

He looks up, his face such a mixture of sternness and sorrow, that she helps clean up. She was going to anyways.

After they finish rounding up pork shards, they eat their eggs and head out the front door. Greg sets off running at his measured, unhurried, but brisk pace. She matches him, taking two steps for each of his. She finds that at Greg’s pace, she actually has enough breath that she can hold a conversation, a halting, disjointed conversation, but a conversation. She razzes him announcing that “I am the baroness of bacon, gasp, the master of preserved meats, gasp. You are but a lowly pork peon.” Greg stops then falling behind for a second. He bows deeply, regally, saying “It would be painful if such a promoted pork personage were to walk.” He runs up behind her, and scoops her up in one easy motion and begins to run. She laughs openly, freely and tells him to put her down. She doesn’t ask more than once though.

This begins to eat at her though when they reach the front of the house. She feels grimy though Greg is the one who has done far more sweating. “I having been having fun,” she thinks, “but I haven’t shown Greg that I can stand on equal ground with him. I have acted like a child. Now is my chance.”

They start the stretching, and she pushes herself, yet again to match Greg’s flexibility, but she stops short when the pain grows to intense. Instead she stays there feeling the pain clean away the grime, show her real self to the world. She likes it.

They move on the workout, rotating to focus more on the stomach and the lower body than the arms. She focuses and pushes herself again, pushing further further away from how she acted earlier. Achieving some distance, and some control. Some part of her, in the far back of her mind, shouts forward trying to let everyone know that part of her is being lost, shut off, but it is too late.

They walk into the house side by side. She grows quiet as she focuses on being serious, to be taken seriously. Greg quiets as well. She marches into her bathroom, and undresses quickly, efficiently, before putting on a robe. As she walks back into the main room she says, " I like the massage Greg, but I won’t be taking the nap today." He smiles in return, but quickly smothers it when he sees the expression on her face.

“Feel free to skip it,” he replies, matching her seriousness “they have never been mandatory.”

“Good,” she says curtly, as she lays on the bed.

When Greg starts this time, it isn’t his usual, gentle, patient technique. He goes deep tissue, fast and quick. Pressure so intense, so brutal, that she feels a moan about to escape her lips, then the pressure is lifted, moved over inches and begins anew, restarting the whole process. She feels relaxed at the end, but exhausted as well. She doesn’t even remember Greg leaving the room.

She does not dream.

She does to wet in her sleep.

She groggily awakes to Greg’s knocking on the door. “Aww shit… he got me. It’s those fucking oversize thumbs, they are tension decimators.” She dresses, in a haze, arguing with herself about whether or not she be frustrated with herself for falling asleep. She still hasn’t decided as she walks downstairs.

She finds Greg waiting patiently in the kitchen. “You are going to make lunch remember?” He says. She shakes the cobwebs out of her head, and goes about her business.

“Alright,” she thinks, “I’ll start even smaller this time, something so simple that I won’t bungle it. My pooh bear PB&J sandwich of course.” She warms up the toaster and grabs the bread, peanut butter, grape jelly, and honey. She toasts the bread, spreads the peanut butter and jelly on either piece and squirts out some honey.

Smiling proudly, she brings over the masterpieces to the table, where Greg is sitting, sets them down, and returns with a glass of milk for each of them. Greg compliments her on the meal, and they both dig in.

Greg manages to eat his food without a singular drop of honey ending up anywhere except his mouth. She has more difficulty and tries to clean up with her napkin, but somehow makes it worse. Greg sit by, patiently until it gets in her hair. Then her walks over to the sink, wets a washcloth and starts cleaning her up. Without even asking her. Her anger grows, and grows but she takes a deep breath, and tries to think what the adult reaction would be.

“Thank you,” she says, curtly, " but I am perfectly capable of cleaning myself."

“Oh,” Greg responds, open mouthed, " I was just going to help with your hair."

He hands her the wash cloth and retreats to the living room. She cleans both herself up and the kitchen and joins him in the living room. Greg is waiting with both both their jackets, “Time to ride,” he says, “no helmets again.”

They leave promptly, both so used to the ritual that communication isn’t needed. It is tense for some reason. They take off.

She stands on the footrests as soon as she can, anxious to show her ability. She rests her arms around Greg’s shoulders. When he looks back and sees her standing confidently he says, “You can drive tomorrow, I have no doubt you are ready.” When he says this, the weight of his trust floors her, making her sit down suddenly. She spends the rest of the trip in a daze, somehow conflicted about the responsibility he has entrusted her with. She wanted it, but is she really ready? They arrive back the house quickly, and put up their jackets on the way inside.

Soon they are in their spots in the backyard, both drawing cloth work breaths, traveling deeper and deeper inside themselves. She thinks back through the events of the day. She started out determined to make a good impression, to show him her ability or even match his. But doing that only seemed to create tension, and anger in her. When she was freely reacting, just being herself, she felt closer to him than she had felt to anyone in a long, long time. “But he is so damn reserved,” she thinks, " he must just be indulging me, letting me have my way."

“But do I care? Yes, more than anything right now I need to know that he respects me, that he isn’t looking down at me.”

The mediation ends, and Greg asks her what she will be making for dinner. For a moment she panics, as she hasn’t thought that far ahead. But it blows over after a second. “How do you feel about pizza?” She asks.

“Sounds delicious to me,” Greg replies.

They head inside, and she orders quickly, settling on a half pepperoni, half cheese pizza. They talk small talk till it arrives, and talk even smaller talk while they eat. She throws away the pizza box after, and Greg goes back to his room to retrieve the customary bottle of red wine.

They go to the deck and resume their small talk. After a glass or two, she feels fortified enough to interrupt, “I am going to be blunt. I feel like I am making progress, but you are so quiet you don’t provide any guidance or feedback. You are so flipping perfect I feel overshadowed in practically everything.” Her voices lowers as she continues, finally nearly whispering, “I don’t know what you think of me.”

Greg sits still for a moment, looking equally shocked and mournful. " Firstly, I am sorry," he says, " for my silence. My purpose was not to leave you adrift. I have been so silent because I know this is a delicate time for you, and you are looking for answers. I am not going to give you any."

She stands then aghast, about to yell why the hell not, when he lifts his hand, silencing her for the the moment he needs to continue. “They are my answers,” he says, " and my focus is not around filling your head with my truth. I am not trying to make you a copy of me. I am trying to get you to ask your own questions, find your own answers. If I did it for you, you just have another set of facts in your head you knew, but you didn’t believe."

“I am a Buddhist,” he continues, " which you probably could have guessed. I don’t have much faith. I liked the spirit of Buddhism though, but I wasn’t convince until I read this quote. ‘Believe nothing, no matter where you read it, or who said it, no matter if I have said it, unless it agrees with your own reason and your own common sense.’ You need to find your own truth. I am not in the business of setting up people as franchises to my own thoughts."

“Secondly, I am far from perfect. I wouldn’t want to be if I could. I am the way I am because of my life, and I can be no other way. I seek calmness, control, because my early life had none. I grew up with a abusive alcoholic father. My older sister was so angry because of him, and she took it out on me. I still have deep scars on my back from her bloody scratches. I will have those for ever.”

“I am a very angry man. Angry at my life, angry at what was done to me and just angry in general. I run, I exercise religiously, because it calms my rage. I mediate, I loosely follow the practices of Buddhism, because its the best way to go though my day with out yelling.”

“I wear my fathers ring around my neck,” he says pulling it out from under his shirt, “to remind me, every day, to take responsibility for my rage, to struggle with it, and not punish others because of it. It’s the only thing of his I kept. I burned the rest of my inheritance.”

“I am not as selfless as you think,” Greg says, tears rimming his eyes, "I do this because it has alway been easier for me to be strong for others than it has been for me to be strong for myself. I am certain that as much as people get from my help, I get more. It is selfish, in a selfless way.

“But I accept who I am. I couldn’t be anything different. I love the worst of me, my anger, as much as I love the best of me, my patience, my helpfulness, my caring, that you bring out of me.”

He rises then, “I hope you understand,” he says, and he walks inside.

She stands then too. She walks up her bedroom in a haze, uncertain of what is going on inside her. She feels as if a great gathering of voices are in her head, each trying to shout above the other. She undresses and the voices get louder. She grabs a diaper from her dresser and the voices get louder. As she is laying down on the bed, diapering herself, she thinks of her strange dreams from the last few days. The voices stop, suddenly. She pulls the sides tight, and tapes herself up.

She lays down to go to bed, but she can’t quit thinking about those dreams, about herself as being small and Greg being big. She gasps, suddenly feeling her diaper rub against the lips of her vagina, gently. The feeling is so delicately intense, she reaches down the to front of her diaper and begins to massage herself.

She starts slowly, thinks of Greg, reaching down to pick her up, holding her gently in his arms, rocking her slowly. She picks up speed as she thinks of herself, waking up in a crib, in a dirty diaper, crying at the top of her lungs totally dependent on Greg to help her. She gets faster and faster as she thinks of Greg taking her over to the changing table, telling her softly not to cry, that he is going to make it all better while placing a pacifier between her lips. She picks up real speed, her massaging of her diaper growing louder and louder, as she thinks of Greg glowing raspberries into her stomach, while she wears nothing but a diaper. She can feel her self finally touching her clitoris, brushing against it though the diaper, a intense, wordless sensation of pleasure rolling through her. She thinks of Greg bottle feeding her, humming his tuneless hum to her, and the pleasure intensifies. Finally she thinks of what he said that night to her “I love the best of me, my patience, my helpfulness, my caring, that you bring out of me.” She cums, waves of warmth and pure unrefined, chaotic pleasure sending to her to a place without time, letting her float freely, while she lies there, gasping in the afterglow.

She thinks of what just happened, for a moment. Then she thinks of what Greg said about acceptance. Then she sleeps.

That night she dreams of him.

She is siting on her bed. She is her normal size and diapered. Greg walks through the door and smiles, his warm, open smile. “I accepted you,” he says, “all of you, your vanity, your anger, your fear, your patience, your need and your love, babygirl, from the moment I saw you. But I could not accept them for you. Are you ready?”

“Yes daddy,” she answers, “Yes daddy.”

Re: Qualified

Very good. More, please!

Re: Qualified

Acceptance

“There’s no “should” or “should not” when it comes to having feelings. They’re part of who we are and their origins are beyond our control. When we can believe that, we may find it easier to make constructive choices about what to do with those feelings.”
-Mr. Rogers

“Don’t ask questions of fairy tales.”
-Jewish folk saying

She awoke to Greg’s knocks on the door. She rips off her diaper, and almost stumbles to the shower in a fog. She thinks heavy, heavy thoughts while showering, and ends up siting there, on the floor, curled up, with the hot water coursing over her.

“What did last night mean? What does that say about me? Why do I, after all I have been through, have to find out that I want to be a baby. And be fucked by her daddy. What’s that called again, a Oedipal complex. Wait, that is for guys, I think the female version is the Electra complex.”

“I push through a self inflicted hell and find out heaven is me being entirely dependent on another human being? Could I even ask for what I need? Why the hell would Greg say yes. Nobody wants to be wrist deep in someone else’s poop. I’m fucked.”

She sits there, musing, and loses all track of time. Her fingers and toes begin to wrinkle, and she sits, pondering her impossible situation.

“I want him to be my daddy, for me to be totally dependent on him. But I have to find the bravery to ask. How can I take charge, by asking, for him to take charge and be my daddy. I’m fucked.”

The hot water begins to run out, after a long time, growing slowly colder. Only then does she think of how long she has been in the shower, crouched. She stands and washes quickly, gritting her teeth from the cold water.

She dresses even quicker, and practically runs down the stairs to join Greg in meditation. She sits next to him, but only manages a moment of introspection before he announces that it is time for breakfast. They walk to the kitchen side by side. She wants very badly to reach out and hold his hand, but recoils when she thinks his reaction on that very first night.

Breakfast is simple yogurt with granola sprinkled on top.

They eat in silence.

She insists on doing what little cleaning up is to be done. Then, they head outside to the front yard to start the run. Again they walk side by side. This time, instinctively she reaches out to grab his hand, recoiling just before making contact. She hopes he doesn’t notice.

They run together as well, both a unhurried, easy jog. They do not talk however, both seemingly lost in their own thoughts. As she jogs, she feels a revulsion rising in her gut, feeling sick, and broken inside. Images flash in her head of her masturbating last night. She stops suddenly, and leans over, feeling like she might throw up. She almost does, until she looks up and she sees the expression of perfected parental concern on Greg’s face.

He sits her down, and she leans over, resting her hands on her knees. “Are you going to be okay honey,” he says. She looks up in surprise at his choice of words. Greg looks more surprised than she does, a deep red blossoming on his cheeks. “He is blushing,” she thinks, “actually blushing.” She could have kissed him then, in that moment of vulnerability, but it passes before she has the courage to act.

She stands then, and Greg says, “We will walk from here.”

“I am perfectly fine now,” she argues.

His eyebrows bunch sternly, and he says with finality, “We will walk.”

They walk back in silence.

Greg starts to stretch first, displaying his usual talent. She stretches slowly, enjoying the feeling of nerves loosing their tight grip in her limbs. “I may not have his flexibility,” she thinks, “but with time, and practice, I’ll get there.” Mere moments later she is struck by her own maturity. Some of the disgust lingering in her stomach lifts, leaves her, makes her feel cleaner.

She takes the workout at the same pace, not worrying about Greg’s speed or repetition, taking things at her own speed.

She feel sore, but comfortable. She is proud at finally having the measure of her own ability, and the patience to work within it. “Everything in its own time.” She smiles, beaming with her own answer, finally her own answer, that feels real, feels viscerally right. The voice from the back of her head, usually hidden in the far reaches, come forward proudly announcing that she can stand on her own two feet.

They walk indoors side by side. When Greg sees the content smile on her face, he smiles even wider, so wide it seems like he can barely contain it on his face. But he chooses to say nothing.

They walk to her bedroom. She head to the bathroom and undresses, patiently and puts on a bathrobe. She walks out into her room, where Greg is waiting by the bed. She lies down without comment.

Greg begins to massage her, slowly taking his time like before yesterday’s brutal deep tissue treatment. He works on her toes, moving up the legs at his usually patient pace. His hands on her had never meant anything other than comfort before, but she feels herself growing warmer as he moves up toward her waist. She lets out a low, throaty moan. Greg coughs almost choking, and she lifts her head to look back at him. This time the blush on his face is almost scarlet and reaches all the way out to the tips of the tops of his ears.

She wants again to kiss him, deeply, passionately, to steal that look of boyish surprise right of his face. But Greg doesn’t stop his massage, and he slowly patiently works out every kink in every fiber of her body.

“Sleep tight darling.” He says, the words slipping out as he leaves the room.
If she had lifted her head then, instead of falling asleep, she would have seen a blush of the deepest red yet, and would not have been able to stop herself.

She does not dream.

She does not wet herself.

She wakes, with a smile, to Greg’s tapping on the bedroom door. She dress in jeans and a t shirt, and walks downstairs, almost floating from the days events. She walks to the kitchen.

For lunch Greg has prepared fruit salad, with grapes, watermelon, pineapple, pears, and strawberries. He has set the table with forks and a napkin. When she sits, he begins to dig right in, eating the fruit in no particular order. She sits for a moment, and thinks over the days earlier events. She vividly recalls the images of Greg blushing when he called her those pet names.

She is stuck at a crossroad, indecisive, weighing her options, conceptualizing them. Finally, she puts the question to herself in its simplest form. “Companionship or love?”

After that she doesn’t hesitate for a moment. She digs right in to the bowl of fruit with her hands. She doesn’t eat quietly, slurping at the juices of the fruit, munching loudly. Greg looks up at her and cannot resist, laughing deeply for the first time today. He lets her finish, and then grabs a wet washcloth, and begins to clean her face. This time, she says nothing, and beams up at him. After he finishes cleaning her face, he says, sweetly, “Hands princess,” this time without blushing. She presents them, lifting her digits in front of her face. He wipes them down, making sure to get between her fingers.

He tells her that her shirt is messy and she needs to change. “No,” she says, “I like this one.” He begins to guide her toward her bedroom, but she leans against him, trying to slow herself down. When that doesn’t work, she sits down, immediately, and sticks out her tongue at him. Greg laughs again, deep belly laughs that shake his whole frame, and kneels next to her.

Without a word, he picks her and carries her up to her room. She tells him to put her down. She only says it once. He puts her down on her bed, and tells her to dress in a new shirt before she rides the bike by herself today, then leaves the room.

Then, huffing, mostly in play, she picks out a new shirt. She dresses, while she thinks, “I really don’t have anything girly at all in my wardrobe.”

She hurts downs stairs and finds him, waiting by the front door with her jacket in his hands. He is not wearing his. She grabs hers, puts it on. Wordlessly, grabs his jacket of the rack, and with her other hand she finally reaches out and grabs his. Her hand is dwarfed by his, and she feels comforted by its size. Greg cannot help but smile at the look of determination on her face.

She leads him outside to the bike, still not having said a word, sits him down on the front of the bike. She then sits behind him, and wraps her arms as tight as she ever has around his chest. She can see his ears and neck grow red, as he repeats his incredible blushing trick.

Then they are off. She stands up on the footrest as soon as she can, moving her arms up to rest on his shoulders. She smiles into the winds, squinting, her joy growing as her hair whips backward from the wind. Soon she is gleefully, yelling, laughing at the top,of her lungs.

When she runs out of breath, she sits back down and hugs Greg all the tighter. She does not have a singular thought intrude in her mind, not a single worry, just comfort. The ride ends all too quickly for her.

They pull up to the house, and park in the driveway. Greg gets off the bike and starts to walk in. He is halfway there before he looks back and sees her pouting.

“I wanna go again,” she says.

Greg laughs so hard this time that bends down, curling over his legs, his whole body shaking and a tremendous noise erupts from him. When he catches his breath, he patiently walks over and picks her up. This time he doesn’t cradle her in his arms, instead he places one arm under her rear and uses the other to hold her to her to his body. She feels so little, so small, that even forgets to pretend to want down this time. She closes her eyes and leans into him, burying her face in his shirt.

When she looks back up, she sees that they are in the backyard all ready, and she almost whines when he puts her back down. Then Greg assumes his mediation pose, closes his eyes and begins to breath his clockwork breaths. There is a irrepressible smile on his face though, and he seems to wrestle with it his effort to become serene.

She draws inward in a flash, so quickly in fact that she startles herself out of the meditative state. She takes a breath, then syncs up her breathing with him again, and slowly, taking her time, turns inward. As she thinks back over the day, her face draws in to a grin, and she feels butterfly’s in her stomach. She enjoys this feeling, basking in it for a long time. Eventually, she goes deeper, searching her feelings. She thinks, “As much as I love this, it is not enough. I need more from him, I need him to to be my…be my….daddy.”

“This is going to be hard. I can’t trick him in to it, I can’t lead him there gently. I am just going to have to fucking ask. To bare myself completely and hope he replies. Fuck.”

When she finishes this thought, Greg announces that it is time for dinner. As they walk to the kitchen side by side, she reaches for his hand instantly. He grabs for hers just as hard.

He only lets to when he needs to start dinner, and watches him cook. He dices up mushrooms, red bell peppers, onions and garlic. Then he thinly slices a filet mignon. He tosses all of it in the pan, and sautés the mixture.

He asks, while cooking, “Will you be my little helper and prepare some bowls with lettuce and spinach for the meal?”

She literally jumps at the chance to help, and knocks over her chair. She quickly puts it back up and does as he asked. Greg then serves out some of the pan into to either bowl.

“I want more,” she says, instinctively.

“Sure,” Greg replies, “after you finish what you have already.”

She pouts for a moment, drawing another laugh out of Greg, but starts on her own food. They eat in silence, but not from lack of interest, but because of their shared loved of the meal.

Greg doesn’t even bother asking if she wants more when he sees her, bent over groaning and rubbing her belly. He cleans up in his usual efficient manner. Then he heads to his room to retrieve his customary bottle of red wine.

They drink on the deck, and she starts to talk and relate in a more adult manner, all the while in the back of her mind readying herself, preparing to ask him the question.

Before she can though, Greg asks her, “This is the happiest I have seen you so far. What has changed?”

The perfect opening, the perfect moment, “Now or never,” she thinks.

“Well, I could pretend that it was some large philosophical change in my mindset, but really it is quite simple. I was thinking about what you said about acceptance, and how I think about my actions. I judge myself, really, really harshly. I am trying to learn, to engage, in simply being, simply acting how I want, when I want, instead of worrying what other people think about me.”

“It is so freeing, it feels like I have been holding my breath for my entire life, and suddenly I can let it go. I know my emotions, I know who I am. I accept it. My anger, my vanity, my humor, my fear, my happiness, my ummm… my ummm…”

“Say it,” she thinks, “fucking nut up and say it!” She is screaming inside her own head, almost deafening herself.

“Ummmm,” she says aloud.

She is mentally yelling, “Now, now, now.”

Greg looks deeply saddened, but says, “That is wonderful. I am glad you can finally stand on your own.”

He is almost whispering when he finishes “Soon we will talk about me moving out, and just coming in a couple times a week for some hourly session.”

Then he walks inside. Leaving her there in more anguish than she has felt all week, perhaps even her whole life. She feels like she is at the bottom of a well, so far down the light only reaches her a midday, when the sun is at its zenith. And the light is sliding away fast.

She walks in a fog up to her room. She undresses despondently, and lays down to diaper herself and go to bed, bare breasted. As she lays down though, she realizes she has to pee. A idea strikes her.

“If I cannot tell him,” she thinks, " I will show him." Then, for the first time in her life, she consciously pees in a diaper. As soon as she finishes, she opens her door, and walks down to Greg’s room. The light is still on under the door. She gathers her strength, every piece of self acceptance, of self love, she can muster, and knocks on his door.

Greg opens it, and stares at her opened mouthed, totally shocked. She reacts the only way she can, runs towards him, hugs him tightly and cries, “I need you daddy! I need you.” She begins to cry her little heart out then, while burying her face in his shirt. Greg rubs her back for a moment. He quickly realizes more drastic action is needed as she buries herself deep and deep into him sobbing and gasping in equal measure. He squats down, and picks her up like earlier in the day, one arm under her tush, the other pushing her into his body.

“Shhhhhh, it’s alright,” Greg reassures her, “it’s alright baby girl. Daddy’s here, daddy’s here.”

This doesn’t stop her sobs, and impossibly they pick in intensity, her whole body shaking, with each sob. She slows though, when she hears daddy crying too.

“I am so sorry,” he cries, " when I met you, you were in so much pain, so self consumed with a lie, I wanted to help you anyway I could. I couldn’t push you though, I couldn’t push anything on you. You had to ask, you had to the make the choice. I only thought about how much it hurt me."

“I had no earthly idea it would put you through so much,” and he starts sobbing crying as intense as she was moment ago. She hugs him, this time to comfort him. She waits awhile before saying, “I don’t think this is how its supposed to go, daddy.”

Greg laughs then, behind the tears, and says, “I think you might be right princess.” He reaches for a towel by his bed side, and wipes her face, then his own.

“I was hoping beyond hope you would ask me to be your daddy,” Greg explains, “but I couldn’t resist preparing beforehand.”

With a flourish he produces a duffel bag from under the bed. He unzips it, and begins to remove its contents. He first pulls out a enormous adult diaper, unbelievable thick, with windmills, cherries, and little white baby bunny rabbits and bears. The sight of it takes her breath away.

“Holy shit,” she says, " who makes these?"

“There is a company called bambino, a online website that specializes in adult sized diapers for those who are little at heart. We are not alone in this.”

Next he pulls out baby wipes, baby powder and diaper cream. “The essentials,” he says. Meanwhile her eyes are growing wider and wider with each thing he produces from the bag. “He really prepared,” she thinks, prompting her to ask, " How did you know?"

“I didn’t,” he replies, warmth radiating from a content smile, “I hoped.”

“Okay,” she continues, “I guess I can buy that. But how did you know my size?”

“I bought them in two sizes,” he replies, shrugging, “I got really, really excited. Okay?”
He blushes as he says that, and she can finally, finally, kiss him right on the lips. It starts a firework show behind her eyeballs, so intense that she has no friggin idea of how long they stood, lips passionately locked.

When they unlock he stares at her, and seems to be wrestling with several thing he wants to do. Finally, he begins unpacking the duffle again. He pulls out a adult sized pacifier which he promptly place between her lips.

“To keep me from getting distracted,” he jokes, “while I have work to do.” Then he reaches down and squeezes the front of her diaper, reminding her she is drenched.

He lays her down then, and undoes the tapes to her diaper. She begins to nurse on her paci, gentle sucking in, and letting go, sucking in and letting go. The rhythm of it, and Greg’s gentle hands send her into a deep, calm place. Somewhere she hasn’t been since she was very, very little.

With as much gentleness as his massages Greg grabs both her legs and lifts them. With his free hand he grabs a wipe and begins to clean the top of her tushy. She squeals from behind the pacifier when the cold wipe makes contact with her, and Greg responds, playfully, “Don’t be such a whiner.” He set about cleaning her then methodically, workmanlike, around to her front. He sets her legs down then, and spreads them as her carefully cleans around her vagina. She feels her body grow warm, moaning slightly behind the plastic guard of the pacifier.

He ignores it though, involved in his task. He lifts her legs again, easily doing this one handed, removes her dirty diaper, and tosses it in the trash. He places a bambino under her and sets her down on top it. The first moment her skin makes contact with the diaper, she feels herself traveling even deeper into her mind going to traveling to a purely instinctual place, without words for anything but her simple needs.

Greg then dumps some baby powder in his hands, and lifts her up a third time, spreading with his hands, from the rear forward, getting everything throughly covered in a white dusting. She is in seventh heaven for her little self, enjoying the gentle way he massaged in the powder in her most sensitive areas.

Then Greg sets her legs down, and pulls the sides up tight. He tapes the four tapes, making sure to set them evenly, so his babygirl doesn’t have one side too tight.

As soon as he finishes, she sits up, and gestures with her arms in the air for him to pick her. He chuckles and instead pulls out two more things from the duffle bag. A pink onesie with “Daddy’s lil’ stinker” printed on the front and a adult sized baby bottle.

She squeals, delighted when she sees the onesie, and sticks her arms straight up for daddy to put it on her. She tries to be still, but she can’t help but bounce up and down on the bed in excitement. Daddy finally gets in over her arms and pulls it down past her head. Then he buttons the clips at the bottom.

Yet again, as soon as he finishes dressing her, she wants “uppy” and Greg obliges, but not before grabbing the baby bottle and stuffing in his pocket. She buries her face in his shirt, so familiar with the sensation, but not satisfied yet. He rocks her gently, as he walks to the kitchen. He places her on the counter, then he fills the bottle with milk, and places it in the microwave. She nurses on her pacifier more, intensely excited, even murmuring “baba” from behind her paci.

“That’s right princess,” Greg responds, in those dulcet tones only parents have, “baba. Do you want your baba?”

While he says this he grabs the bottle from the microwave, and walks past her. She almost starts crying then, but she sees that daddy is just getting a spoonful of honey that he mixes into the warm milk.

He hands he the bottle finally, and she grabs it with both hands, and begins to feed, greedily. Greg scoops her up, pocketing her discarded paci. cradling her against his chest. He starts to hum his deep melodious hum, and her whole body can feel the vibration from his chest, against her.
He rocks her slowly and carries her back to his room, all the while humming. He sits down on the bed, and gently takes the bottle from her hands. As he feeds her, with her comfortably safe in his arms, he begins to sing.

“Go to sleep little baby. Go to sleep little baby. You and me and the devil make three, don’t need nobody but the baby.” He repeats this simple verse, till she finishes her bottle, and continues on while he lifts her against his chest, patting her back till she burps gently.

He continues to sing as he lays her down on the bed, and places her paci back between her lips, where it belongs. She closes her eyes, the warmth from her belly radiating through her entire body. He wraps his arms around her as he lays down next to her. As she falls gently to sleep the last thing she hears is, “Daddy loves you, sweetheart. Daddy loves you.”

That night, she does not dream. She has reality.

Re: Qualified

Bonus points for whoever can tell me the diaper name.