The Secrets We (Don’t) Have

by Peri

  1. Exposed
  2. Accommodating
  3. Acquiescing
  4. Rushing
  5. Fears
  6. Reconsidering
  7. Anxieties
  8. Reality
  9. Acceptance
  10. Discovery
  11. Awareness

1. Exposed

“Shelly, quit your whining,” Brenda heard the woman assert firmly.
“I was dealing with this on my own, mom. You don’t need to do this,” a child replied, indeed whining.
Adding a pair of LightDays to her basket, Brenda glanced down the aisle as she extracted her phone from her pocket. The child in question seemed surprisingly old for whining.

Trish noticed the woman picking out maxi-pads making a judgmental expression after looking up. “You would think that by 15,” Trish explained, “she’d have learned to use the bathroom like most adults.”
“Mom!” her daughter objected to the disclosure.
“Now, I think these might do the trick,” Trish picked a package of ‘maximum protection’ adult diapers. “I don’t want you having accidents on my furniture if you can’t control yourself.”

“Oh god, not those mom—I can control myself,” Michelle insisted, realizing she was contradicting her previous story. “I mean, I had it under control myself,” she corrected obliquely, trying not to embarrass herself even more than her mother had already done by blabbing to another shopper. Said woman had now pulled out her phone and was poking at it, politely trying to ignore them and not smirk.
“First off, I don’t think those will work as well. Second, where’s the incentive to potty train yourself in that wanna-be underwear of yours? No, if you’re going to behave like a baby, you get treated like one. Don’t you think?”
The threat sent chills down Michelle’s spine. On the one hand, she’d read fantasies about being ‘forced’ to wear diapers like her mother was holding, but as a reality, she wasn’t so keen. Maybe on her own terms, but under her mother’s control she wanted nothing to do with them.

Despite feeling sorry for the teen, Brenda wanted to focus on her shopping list and escape the awkward situation. It was no use, though, as her interest was piqued.
A former client floated through her mind. She couldn’t remember his name, but recalled the stories of parental humiliation because of his bedwetting: being forced to wash his own plastic pants and hang them on the laundry line, or stand on the porch in just his diapers for the neighbors to see. The stories were probably bullshit, at best revisionist memories of his childhood blended with masturbatorial fantasies. But they reflected part of his sexuality, and understanding those stories and how to exploit them made Brenda money. Lots of it.
But that was consenting adults, fantasies, and past; this was present, reality, and some deranged parent. Perhaps she was wrong about the client’s story being complete crap. Brenda absentmindedly looked up and asked, “Pardon?” as she assessed the reality of the situation.

Maxi-pad woman came out of her haze after checking her phone. “My daughter,” Trish explained, “has apparently been wetting herself since—is that why you started wearing all those skirts last month?” Shelly’s blush was all the confirmation she needed; Trish huffed disapproval. “Two months, and she’s a teenager for god’s sake.”
“Have you taken her to the doctor?”
“What for? She’s just lazy,” Trish said with disdain.
“U-T-I? Neurological dysfunction? Psychological disorder, pregnancy, drug side-effect, um…” The woman’s face twisted as she asked Shelly directly, “Oh man, you didn’t get raped, did you?”

“Oh god no,” Michelle answered, waiving her hands as if to ward off the horrible possibility. But the other options were openings, if she could figure out how to use them. Her predicament never should have happened in the first place: she had badgered her mother into staying out of her room a few years ago. But today mom had fallen into old patterns putting away laundry, discovering Michelle’s stash of the cute, cozy pull-up ‘absorbent underwear.’
Confronted about it when she got home from school, Michelle had made up some quick lies. “I just leak a little bit, sometimes, mom, so I’ve been wearing them. I got them with my sitting money so it’s not a burden on you,” she had hoped to earn some mercy from mom. No such luck.
“So you’re wearing one now?”
“Well, um, no…”
“Well why not? We can’t have you leaking all over, can we?”
“I…I kinda had a little accident, so I just took it off. I’m sorry, mom, it won’t happen again.”
“If that was true, why didn’t you knock it off already? No, I’m not happy about this, Shelly, but I’m less happy about the prospects of you peeing on everything. If we’re going to do this, we’re going to do it right. Come on, we’re going shopping. You can put one of these on for now,” mom had thrust the pale yellow pair on her.
Cornered, Michelle took the underwear, looked at mom, and asked indignantly, “Privacy?” Her mother huffed but left the room, allowing Michelle to change out of the panties she had worn to school and into the cute yellow pull-up.
“Damnit!” she had realized after the pressure was off. “I should have said these were just for bedwetting.” She never did well lying in the heat of the moment.
And here she was, again in the heat of the moment, and she couldn’t figure out how to wrangle a plausible lie to escape the previous lies, lies which had only made matters worse. It didn’t help that part of her mind was preoccupied with a vague recollection of the other shopper.

“My daughter is fine,” her mom stated flatly, “I know her. C’mon, we should get you home. And by the way, you’re grounded, not that I think you’d want to be going out when you’re wearing these.”
Brenda’s dominant yet nurturing nature finally kicked in. “You know, this seems rather draconian.”
“Draconian?” The mother harrumphed.
“Yes, draconian. Your daughter is suffering incontinence, dealing with it on her own, and you’re going to punish her with humiliation? And without even checking the medical possibilities? For all you know it might just be adolescence, a growth spurt.” Years of practice inoffensively sussing out clients’ fetishes made her add, “Or perhaps it’s a regressive A-B-D-L sphincter.” She shook her head, “No, I’m all for appropriate punishment, but this is not right.”
As she spoke, she gauged Shelly’s reaction. There definitely was one, but instead of the typical coyness and guilt of clients, Shelly looked shocked. The mother, occupied with the conversation, missed it entirely.

“What are you, some goody-two-shoes therapist or something?” Trish asked the now-smirking woman.
“No, but I am studied in both the body and psychology,” the woman stroked her chin pensively, “and I’d hazard you’re angry. Angry at your daughter for not being normal, angry at me for not agreeing with you, angry at yourself for raising a deviant daughter—”
“What nonsense! What would you suggest as a solution? Talk therapy, allow her to explore her feelings?” Trish was really getting angry, the woman wasn’t even looking at her!
“I would try not to let my anger get the better of me, and let her work it out like she was already doing. Maybe do some research on the Internet before making a decision.”
“Research, bah! She just needs incentive.”

Michelle’s heart slowed down when the woman didn’t out her and continued fighting her mom. As she spoke, the woman’s eyes were transfixed on Michelle. They were alive, full of curiosity; her face expressed subtle amusement, her body language exuding confidence. Did she remember Michelle?
At mom’s latest outburst, the woman looked back at mom and shook her head sadly. “Well, you did ask, but I can see that I can’t change your mind, and I’m only likely to make the situation worse. You really shouldn’t ask questions you don’t want answered.” Returning her gaze to Michelle, the woman continued, “Have strength, and know there’s nothing wrong with you.”
Mom snorted at this.
After a moment’s caring smile, the woman walked away. ‘How could she know?’ Michelle wondered. ‘Is she one too?’

“C’mon,” Trish said, tugging her daughter’s arm to bring her back to reality. “Idiot bitch,” she continued under her breath as they made their way toward the registers. “How do these people expect to raise kids without any discipline?”
Trish fumed as they waited in line, thumping the package down when they made it to the cashier. “Not only do these look more effective than those others you were using,” Trish used the opportunity to further embarrass her daughter, “but they’re lower cost. I’ll take these out of your allowance.”
“$11.99,” the cashier indicated.
“We won’t need a bag,” Trish said as she counted out seven singles and a five. “My daughter can carry them.”

‘Jesus, what the hell is wrong with people?’ Brenda wondered as she searched for tissues. There were people that would pay good money for talk like that, and instead the bitch was abusing her daughter with it. She shook her head thinking about it, wishing there was something to be done but aware there wasn’t. Giving birth entitled people to fuck up those they gave birth to.
She reminisced how different it had been with her son. Returning from the grocery store, she’d found him asleep on the sofa, pacifier fallen from his mouth, cartoons on the TV, diaper around his waist. She’d worked with adult babies before, but was nevertheless startled seeing her son like that. She had known he was adolescent, it was then she was forced to acknowledge he was a sexual creature, just like everyone else.
After a few moments of stunned silence and bemusement, Brenda had quietly returned to the car and left. A safe distance from the house, she tapped the voice command button. “Call home.”
“Dialing, home” it had obeyed.
“Hi ma,” Daryl answered after a couple rings. “W’sup?”
“I don’t want to cook tonight. How would you feel about a grinder?”
“Ooh, yes please,” he had said and described what he wanted.
“Okay, see you in a half hour or so.”
It had been an easy solution, a way to avoid the horror stories that cross-dressing clients told about being discovered in their youth, and the subsequent punishments, rejection, guilt and self-repression. Returning with the sandwiches, Brenda had made no mention of discovering her son’s predilections.
But in the here and now, as she retrieved eggs from the dairy case, she questioned her earlier decision. Her clients were damaged from the punishments, not the discovery. Would her son be better off not having to hide it? She sighed; raising a child was complicated.

Daryl got up from his homework to answer the phone. “Hey ma,” he greeted after checking caller ID.
“I just finished some shopping; I’m on my way home now.”
“Okies. See you soon.”
Daryl shook his head at the coming-home call; it was ma’s new habit in the last few months. His pondering reminded him of something he wanted to look up on the Internet.
He was in pre-K when it had happened. They lived somewhere else, a place where subs were called ‘grinders’, and he had friends and it was all good—and then all of a sudden, his mother was really upset, crying sometimes and angry the rest. She took him out of school, he wasn’t allowed to see his friends anymore, and a few weeks later they moved. He’d been told it was financial, that she had lost the other house. As a kid, he bought it, but in retrospect it was suspicious: their new house was at least as nice as the old one, the yard bigger. And there had been reporters; reporters didn’t cover foreclosures.
It wasn’t hard to find an area newspaper and search the archives. Not surprising; everything was readily available on the ‘net, if you had the right search terms and bothered to look. Popping open several articles in new tabs, Daryl began to read about a sex scandal of a decade prior.

Michelle considered her options as they walked home. Fighting mom was no use, it just made mom angrier and more insistent. When she went along, though, mom lost interest. Punishments were still in effect, but not as stringent. When grounded, for instance, she might have to stay home but it made the difference of whether or not she could have a friend over.
As punishments went, too, this wasn’t much of one. Michelle didn’t want her interest shared with the world, as mom had just done, but what more could she do? At home, there was privacy; and since Michelle walked to school, there was opportunity to slip out of them. She could put them back on at end of day, or claim she’d had to take them off after an accident. And in a pinch, she could wear them at school—a prospect both dangerous and thrilling.

Brenda’s son was busy with homework, reading on the computer with his books spread around on the table, so she started dinner by herself. If he was on the phone with friends or playing video games, she would make him help in the kitchen; but as long as he was studying she would do it alone. She set the oven, retrieved pie crust from the freezer, and smiled as she began dicing a quarter sweet onion with her French chef knife; even when nobody else was involved, knives were such fun.
She was just putting the chicken pot pie in the oven when her son joined her. “Hey ma. Need any help?” That attitude usually meant he wanted something.
“Sure, can you slice some cucumbers and lettuce please?” Brenda got out a bowl and started dicing a tomato. “What’cha working on, so engrossed? Report of some kind?”

“No,” Daryl answered before seeing the opening. “I… Er, well, kind of. Gotta pick something for a book report. Have you heard of Fifty Shades of Grey? Everyone’s reading it.”
“Hmmm,” his mother’s dicing slowed, then stopped, and she looked at him. “I’m not against you reading it, though I think there are much better books on the topic. And I don’t think your school will find any of them acceptable.”
“I can ask though. So if Fifty Shades is no good, what’s better?”

Brenda focused on dicing the tomato and a pepper as she thought. “Story of O is the only one that comes to mind,” she avoided the BDSM erotica on her hard drive. “Oh! Um… The Ties that Bind by Vanessa Duriés, too. There’s also plenty on the Internet, mostly short stories, but the quality varies,” she compromised, figuring he and his friends had found it by now anyway.
There was an awkward moment, quiet except for the sounds of knives.
“So do you know a girl Shelly from your school?” Brenda asked, trying simultaneously to change the subject, learn about the girl from the store, surreptitiously learn her son’s sexual orientation—there was a 50% chance he was gay based on his fetish interest—and find him a companion. The straight babies she’d had as clients were all desperately lonely, and screwed up from it; she worried about her son’s future. “Brunette, shoulder length hair, brown plastic glasses, looks like a librarian, wear—”
“About 5 foot 7, little button nose?”
“That’s her.”
“Yeah, Michelle’s in my trig class. She hasn’t gone by Shelly since junior high. Why, what did she do?”
Her son was in the advanced classes, so the girl must be intelligent too; that was good. “Ran into her at the store today. Her mom’s a real bitch, the poor girl. You should invite her over for dinner sometime.”

Daryl rolled his eyes at his mom’s latest attempt to hook him up. He added olive oil up to the line, covered, shook and sighed. “I can find my own girl ma.”
“I know, or a boy if you want one, it doesn’t matter to me—”
“I’m not gay!”
“—so long as you’re happy.”
“I know, ma,” she could be so frustrating!
“I know you know, honey, but after what her mother pulled at the store today…”
“Why, what’d she do?” he pried.
“I’m not going to repeat it, the poor girl’s got enough problems,” his mom added her choppings to the bowl. “Don’t add the dressing yet, the pot pie’s not ready yet, I don’t want it getting soggy.” She turned to him. “I just worry about the girl. Her mother said very cruel things about her, right in front of her—to her, the poor thing. Watch out for her for me, okay?”
“Use my powers for good?” It was one of mom’s dorky sayings, but in light of his mother being a dominatrix, it had new subtlety. He had chores from an early age, but was paid an allowance; he was punished occasionally by grounding or losing some privilege, but was never spanked, hit, called names or told he was worthless. And yet, that’s what she did to a lot of other people to feed, clothe and shelter him.
“Exactly,” she agreed.

“Because if you aren’t able to hold it, it’s because you’re out of practice,” Trish explained. “Little kids learn to hold it a little longer, a little longer, and that’s what you need too. You can’t be running to the potty every time you feel the urge.”
“But I haven’t gone since school mom,” Shelly complained. “Before last period.”
“Then you should have gone before putting that on. Now it’s on, you’re wearing it until bedtime, so you’ll just have to hold it as long as you can.”
“Yes, bedtime. You can change in the morning, after school, and bedtime.”
“That’s like 8 hours, mom!”
“Most people do that when they sleep through the night. There’s no reason you can’t.”

Michelle huffed and went back to her bedroom to finish her social studies reading. The bitch had locked the bathroom. Who knew it even had a key?
She sat on her bed and cracked a book, but was too distracted by the unfairness of it all to read. She ruminated on it, making plans for tomorrow. Her diaper crinkled when she walked, but testing showed she could wriggle it down off her hips and back up. There was a convenience store on the way to school, a place to stop and take it off; a thrift store on the way home would be a chance to put it back on. If she looked around a bit, they wouldn’t mind and she wouldn’t be late enough for mom to notice, she hoped.
And she still had to pee right now. If that’s how her mom was going to be, she could work with that. She relaxed and pushed until the stream started, then closed her eyes and enjoyed the blissful feeling as her bladder emptied, the hot wetness collecting underneath her.

2. Accommodating

“Hurry up in there,” Brenda knocked on the bathroom door. “Waffles are almost ready.” She stopped in the living room to do a few stretches, then onto the kitchen. Waffles changed, she resumed stretching, attended the kettle when it whistled, changed another waffle, and again resumed stretching. “Morning ma,” Daryl greeted from the dining room as she poured the last batter into the iron.
She plated two of the waffles keeping warm in the oven and set them on the table. “Thanks ma.”
When the last waffle finished, Brenda put it in the oven with the other and covered them to stay fresh, then joined Daryl to enjoy her tea.

Despite planning, Michelle was worried and wanted out of diapers; too many things could go wrong leaving the house in them. “Mom?” she interrupted her mom’s coffee and paper.
“I made it all the way through the night, see?” Michelle raised her nightshirt so her mom could see the still-dry diaper she was wearing. “I can hold it if I try. Please, please, can I dress normal for school today?”
“So what? You positively soaked yourself yesterday evening. And you said you had an accident at school yesterday.”
“Pleeease mom,” she whined.
“Nnnnnoooo,” her mom answered. “Now stop asking.”
It was no use. “Can you at least unlock the bathroom? I’ve gotta go.”
“I’m reading the paper. You can hold it until after breakfast.”
Michelle stared at her mom, lowered her head, and walked toward the toaster. She wanted to cry, thinking about what was going to happen. Peeing herself was one thing, but this—an idea struck her. “You’re not going to enjoy your paper when it smells like shit in here.”
Her mother looked up at her and sighed. “Oh all right, you win,” she got up to unlock the bathroom. “But be careful taking that off, it’s still dry and there’s no reason you can’t wear it to school today.”

“Have a good time at Mike’s. Text me if you’re staying for dinner, please.”
“I will, ma,” Daryl answered as mom jogged toward the elementary and middle school. It was his mother’s morning ritual, jogging to the school, a couple times around the track, then back home. When he was younger, she’d wear his backpack and they would run together, the mile or so to school. He missed the exhilaration of the morning runs, but high school was too far, unless he was going to bike it, and then he was sweaty unless he showered at school.
Eventually the bus trundled into view, stopping to pick up some kids his mom had just passed, then came to pick him up.
“Daryl, my man! Who did you blow to get such a fine looking mother like that? I would love to just mmmm, mmmm eat that woman up, see what I’m saying?”
Frank wasn’t a bad guy, but Daryl had grown tired of the MILF lust for his mother. Today, though, it inspired visions of Frank strapped over a table, ball gag in his mouth, his mom standing by looking business with a whip. Daryl laughed and replied, “Dude, I don’t think you know the half of what you’re asking for.”

Brenda’s phone rang in the hip holster; she stopped and checked the caller ID. “Tom, how are you? How’s your mother doing?”
“Oh Miss Anne,” he greeted with her pseudonym. “It’s so good to hear your voice. She’s as well as can be expected with chemo, I’ve been getting a little, er, medication to help with the nauseousness. The doctors say it’s looking up though.”
“That’s good,” she said, glad to hear some optimism in his voice. They chit-chatted a few minutes before she changed tone and asked, “So have you been behaving?”
“You’ve been looking at porn and objectifying women again, haven’t you?”
“I believe I need to schedule you for another training session, don’t I, Thomas?” There was no response. “Thomas, answer me,” she demanded in a commanding tone.
“Yes ma’am,” he whimpered, moving toward scene-space.
“How many times am I going to have to fuck your ass before you learn to stop thinking of women as whores?” she asked, flipping to speakerphone and pulling up her calendar.
“I don’t know, ma’am. I try to be good, but I just can’t.”
They played a little more phone sex, then booked a session. “Now go take care of your mother.”
“Yes ma’am,” he rang off.
Brenda smiled. Tom, and the story lines he got off on, were ridiculous but so delightful to play with!

Trish was wary of her daughter’s acceptance of diapers at school. It had been too easy.
“Ready to go?” she asked as he daughter came down the stairs, crinkling softly. Her friends wouldn’t be able to hear it, which was too bad because peer pressure would help solve this problem quickly.
“See you later, mom,” Shelly headed for the door.
“Hey, hey, not so fast,” she stood and put her coat on. “Little girls need to be walked to school.” The expressions that passed across her daughter’s face assured Trish that she’d pegged it. “They might take their diapers off on the way to school and then have an accident. Give me a little credit, Shelly, I wasn’t born yesterday.”

It just wasn’t fair, Michelle figured. Mom had walked her to school so she couldn’t change at the convenience store. She’d kept them walking slow enough there was just enough time to visit her locker and get to home room. So here she was, in this noisy freaking diaper, and no way out of it until at least lunch. She would so get laughed at if she was found out. Yet, mixed with the danger of rejection and humiliation was a sense of excitement, terrifying yet stimulating.
“Here,” Michelle replied to the roll call.

Back at home, Trish started a load of darks. It wasn’t the greatest apartment, but having a free washer and dryer in the basement was a definite perk. The laundry underway, she changed into her work uniform for the 10 to 3 shift at the Sunnyside, a nearby greasy spoon. It wasn’t a grand or glorious job, but the tips weren’t bad, the customers mostly friendly, and it paid the bills.

Brenda finished her jog, ate the waffles keeping warm in the oven, and got a shower. Morning rituals complete, she sat down with her computer.
‘Shit,’ she said aloud on noticing the lunch-time meeting of the neighborhood association. They weren’t much of what they claimed, in Brenda’s opinion, since meetings were held in the middle of the day when most of the neighbors were at work. In reality, they were just a bunch of busybody old women out to impose their unrealistically outdated views on the area. Brenda hated the charade, but keeping up appearances was necessary to protect her son. With care, she was able to persuade them out of the worst of their regressive ideas.
She checked email, where a couple of client messages were waiting. She frowned at the top message from Weird George, as she thought of him; further down was a message from Chris! She opened that, excited by the prospect of an hour-long session wrestling him into submission. She needed one of those.

“Michelle!” Michelle came out of her stress-haze; it was Daryl. “My ma said your ma was being a major bitch about something—what the hell’d you do?”
Her body released another shot of adrenaline, but her mind clicked. The woman at the store—it had been Daryl’s mother. Back in the fifth grade, they had been classmates; Daryl’s mother walked him to school every day. He’d gotten a ‘momma’s boy’ reputation from it, at least up until the boys all went hormonal and decided his mother was hot. Now his sexy mother bought him grace among the boys.
“Is your mom psychic or something?” Michelle countered.
“Why, what’d she do?”
“She knows things, stuff I’ve never told anyone.”
“Like what?”
“I’m not telling you!” Michelle replied indignantly. “She didn’t say anything then?”
“Nah, wouldn’t tell me a thing. Just wanted me to make sure you’re okay.”
“I’m fine,” she breathed, but reflected on how nice it would be if her own mom cared about her like that, instead of being vicious all the time.

Brenda stopped for a dozen donuts on the way to the meeting. She wouldn’t eat any, but fattening made friends. Donuts bought the perception of normality among the busybodies, affording her wiggle room to push a few progressive ideas.

Michelle had one chance. The bathrooms were busy during pass times; others would hear the noise if she fiddled with her diaper. She couldn’t go during class because the noise would be conspicuous if she was the only one moving about. If only there wasn’t a lunchtime gym class, she could use the locker room toilets. But when the time came, she poked her head in the gymnasium and there was a class in progress, and she didn’t have an excuse why she needed that bathroom.
She sighed, having expected it would be the case. Stopping at her locker to get her lunch, she headed toward the cafeteria, resigned to the idea that the relief she needed meant being in a wet diaper the rest of the day. As she crossed the foyer, she stopped in an alcove and pulled out a notebook. Pretending she was reviewing some notes, she bore down until her bladder was empty. She prayed she wouldn’t leak or smell the rest of the day.

“What are ya having?” Trish asked the regular, setting down the cola that was his standard drink.
“Soup and sandwich today. The beef barley.”
“Coming right up.”

As he ate lunch, Daryl noted Michelle sitting alone. He never paid attention to her behavior before, so he didn’t know if it meant anything.

Michelle wasn’t staying focused, sidetracked by the feeling between her legs, and it got worse with each passing class. She hoped mom was working today so she would have a chance to masturbate when she got home.
The clock slowly wound its way to 2:30. When the bell rang, she stopped briefly at her locker for her coat and books, then headed home.
The walk home was brisk; she was glad she’d worn the warm coat. Still, the wet around her waist grew cold and renewed urgencies. Half-way home, waiting for a walk light, she bore down and wet herself again. She could have held it longer, but why bother? The question was answered when she began walking again and felt a trickle run down her legs. At least she wasn’t wearing pants.
At home, she was in luck. Not only was her mom out, but she’d left the bathroom unlocked. Michelle put her books in her bedroom, and given her leaky situation, proceeded to the bathroom and locked the door.

Trish heard the shower running when she arrived home. Damn, she hadn’t locked the bathroom! She got settled, then flicked on the TV and waited for Shelly to finished.
“Shelly!” she called when the door opened.
“I’m sorry mom, I know I’m not supposed to use the bathroom but I was really wet and leaking, and I needed a shower.”
“And why should I believe that?”
Shelly growled in frustration, but came downstairs wrapped in a towel, carrying a skirt. “For your inspection,” she said sarcastically.
“Don’t use that tone with me. You know I don’t like it.”
Her daughter scowled. “Here’s my wet skirt, and there’s a wet diaper in the garbage if you’re that interested.
“Did you learn anything today?”
“I shouldn’t wet myself and behave like a baby,” her daughter answered, but Trish could tell Shelly was just saying what she wanted to hear.
“Good. I hope you keep learning that. There’s a fresh diaper for you up on your bed.” Trish wondered why this wasn’t encouraging her daughter as much as she expected.

“So how was school today?” his mother asked. “Is that girl doing okay?”
“School was fine,” Daryl answered, “Michelle seems fine. I don’t know what you’re so worried about sometime, ma.”
“Guess I’m just protective,” she gave him a side-hug while continuing to pay attention to the beef she was browning.
“So are you going into the office this week?” Daryl smiled at the euphemism, now that he was aware of it. Until yesterday, mom’s work had never been clear. She worked from home for ‘J B Holdings,’ typically going into the office two days a week for ‘meetings.’ It was a good front; everyone bought it.

“I think I’m escaping this week,” Brenda answered. “Next week, though, ugh…” she snarled.
Scheduling was tricky. It was a balancing act, being a good mother, keeping clients satisfied, and not commuting all the time. She aimed for a run of sessions Thursdays and Fridays, but sometimes added a Wednesday or Saturday. If work slowed down, as it did this time of year, she’d skip a week.
She was more flexible when she was younger, back when she lived and worked in another city, another state. That was convenient for everyone, up until the story broke about one of the assistant D.A.s being her client; then they both got a lesson in not shitting in their own back yards. At least it wasn’t one of the state representatives; she would have had to change coasts, or maybe leave the country.
Now she lived in a smaller town, rather isolated, in a different broadcast and news region. There was still risk, Brenda knew, but she did everything she could to mitigate it. She shared a studio with Jen, another Dom in the City who worked the early half of the week. They rented time to trusted friends on weekends to further defray costs. The travel was annoying, but it kept work away from home. And it was much easier now that Daryl didn’t need a babysitter.

3. Acquiescing

For Michelle, having survived a day at school in diapers took the pressure off: if she did it once, she could do it again, despite her mom’s troublemaking. If she watched her fluid intake, it would be even easier. The next few days passed uneventfully, if a little anxiously.

Meanwhile, Trish was none too happy that Michelle was settled in. The girl needed to be motivated, but how?

Daryl wasn’t sure what his mother encountered, but he saw Michelle in class, and spotted her with friends a few times and she seemed fine. Perhaps she was a little on edge, but that could just be perception: “You see, what you wanna see; you hear, what you wanna hear,” he remembered a line from a weird DVD his mom owned.

Brenda kept to her daily ritual: keeping healthy and fit, maintaining the Stepford illusion, and keeping up with clients and business. Taking this week off, a busy next week was shaping up with a session or two on Wednesday. She e-mailed Jen to verify dungeon availability.

Friday afternoon, Allison approached Michelle about a matinee over the weekend. Michelle declined, citing being grounded.
“Again? What’d you do this time?”
Michelle shook her head. “Don’t ask.”
“Want me to come by? Bring my laptop, we can download a movie?”
“I don’t think I’m supposed to have friends over this time,” Michelle answered, though truth was she didn’t want friends over right now; who knew what her mother might say? She frowned as she considered how much diapers could impose on her life.
“Damn. Boring weekend for you.”
“Yeah, I know.”

Daryl had dinner and a movie with friends Friday night; Brenda went out a show at a repertory theatre just outside town. Trish kept an eye on her deviant daughter, who, for lack of better things, did her homework and read a book, and even managed to keep her pants dry doing it.

4. Rushing

Saturday Trish had an early shift. It wasn’t until she was half-way to work that she thought about her daughter: the bathroom was locked, and her daughter would need it. Trish glanced at her watch: there wasn’t time to go back, not with the snow and slippery sidewalks. Shelly would have to figure something out.

Brenda judged the conditions as she shoveled the walk, deciding it was a day for the gym. Daryl still wasn’t up, so she left a note, moved her gym bag from the new car to her old sports coupe that was to be Daryl’s starter car, and hit the road.
Enroute to the gym, she spotted an empty parking lot. A smile spread across her face as she detoured into the lot and began winter maneuvers. All skills came from practice, practice, practice, including handling a car in slippery conditions. And it was fun.

Michelle awoke to a wet diaper and a sore back. Her mom had been in the shower when she woke up earlier, not that she would have been allowed to use the bathroom anyway at that hour. She had decided to just go in her diaper so she could get back to sleep.
As she stood now, she noted her partially full bladder, and at only a moment’s thought performed the bear-down-then-relax trick to letting go. It was getting ever easier to use her diapers. That wasn’t her only need though.
“No way!” Michelle complained aloud on finding the bathroom locked. After that first morning, her mom had left it unlocked before breakfast; Michelle had expected it to be open today too. She stared at the door, wondering what to do.
“Shit!” She returned to her room, quickly dressed in yesterday’s clothes and headed out.

Daryl yawned, stretched, and stared out the window at the snow. Thinking about his day, a possibility struck him; he jumped out of bed and ran to the dining room. ‘Good old reliable ma,’ he thought, spying her note.
“Daryl—Going to the gym, be back 11:30. Love you.”
Daryl turned on Saturday morning cartoons and ran to his bedroom to dress for the occasion. He had two hours on his own!

Michelle wasn’t far from the house before realizing she needed boots. She doubled back, cursing all the way.
Boots on her feet, she pushed out into the storm again.

As the elliptical machine reduced the effort and lowered its incline, Brenda looked up, breathing hard. The hanging TVs were showing several sports networks, a news channel, and a do-it-yourself show. She looked out at the snow, which was really piling up. She hoped she had remembered to put the snow brush in the car, then smiled at a memory of perverting a similar brush on a date back in high school, back when she had little expertise but a big imagination. In retrospect, it had been too cramped in the car to deliver a good paddling, and too cold for him to enjoy it at all. Still, the memory had nostalgia.
She watched a figure trudging through the snow in a skirt, of all things. Wearing a coat that looked familiar—“Michelle!” Brenda said when the girl glanced toward the gym, worry written on her face.

Daryl was enjoying the urge to pee; it was strong and felt so good. He couldn’t though, not with the erection he was slowly stroking through his diaper.

Michelle was desperate. It wouldn’t have been so bad, but the snow slowed her down.
A cramp hit, the third she’d had along the way; she stopped and squeezed her cheeks together. After a bit it abated; when it felt safe to move again, she resumed her trek.

Brenda longed to jump at the chance fate offered her. If she toweled off quickly, changed her shorts for the jeans but left the sweaty top on she could follow the girl’s tracks, catch up and check on her.
But much as she wanted to, that simply wasn’t how things were done. Images had to be kept up, with no possible implications of impropriety; her work combined with society’s fear of pedophiles and sex offenders lead down bad paths. If the shit flew, truth wouldn’t matter, harm or lack of it wouldn’t matter; only accusations, prejudices and impressions. She and her son would be declared pariahs—and for Daryl’s sake, she wouldn’t allow that again.
Brenda sighed as she reflected on the compromises. Her double life wasn’t good, but the other choices were worse—either being a welfare parent with nothing to do and raising her child without a model of industriousness, or working some low-wage, long-hours job and barely raising her child at all.
Brenda felt bitter at the world that offered her only bad choices, then condemned her for picking any one of them, until the machine beeped, the subtle vibration of the changing incline started. Then she lost herself in routine as her effort ramped up.

‘I’m going to make it,’ Michelle told herself when her destination was in sight. She dashed across the street and cut though a parking lot to shave off distance.
Making it to the bathroom, she started to wriggle down her wet diaper, then decided to heck with it. She ripped the tapes, parked her butt on the toilet, and got much-needed relief. She rolled up the diaper and tossed it into the trashcan near the sink, then examined her skirt: as she suspected, her diaper had leaked a little. At least it wasn’t too visible; most had gone town her leg, stinging in the cold.
Now that the crisis was over, a pit formed in Michelle’s stomach: her mother was going to be peeved that she had left the house when grounded, and that she’d taken the diaper off. She checked her purse and decided to pick up some milk in hopes of appeasing her mom.

Brenda finished her cardio and started on the weight machines. She was in between chest press sets when she spotted Michelle heading the other way carrying a jug of milk. Her heart broke anew as she watched the girl trudge through the snow.
Shaking it off, Brenda sat down to do her third set. “Hey marine,” she greeted one of the other patrons as he approached. “You need to get on here?”
“Yassum, I do. Almost done?”
“Last set.”
“Alrighty, right. Man, really comin’ down out there, ain’t it?” But Brenda didn’t hear, as she was busy counting her reps. ‘Three… Four…’

Michelle tried to compensate as she slipped, but protecting the milk distracted her and her feet went out from under her.
As she collected her wits after the fall, she tried to sit up. Her right arm complained, so she compensated with her left arm, then took inventory: the milk was intact, she had some bruises, her arm felt strained from breaking the fall, but it wasn’t broken. Considering how much worse it could have been if she had fallen on the way to the store, Michelle thanked goodness for small favors. She climbed back on her feet and finished her trek home.

Trish pocketed another tip, wiped the table, and called the next patrons. “Coffees?” she asked, recognizing them, “and one hot chocolate.”

Brenda pulled into a parking lot; the older car didn’t have the integrated audio system of the new one. She got out her phone and called home. If Daryl was asleep, he needed to get up anyway; if he was up, she didn’t want to surprise him.

Michelle made herself some breakfast. With nothing to do afterward, she delved into her latest romance novel. A couple of chapters later she noticed the urge to pee and reflexively tried to let go. Catching herself just in time, she realized she needed to pay more attention! She started toward the bathroom, but that wasn’t an option either. Instead, she donned one of her pull-ups and hopped back in bed to continue reading.
At the end of the chapter, she remembered the urge to go. This time it was safe, so she relaxed and emptied her bladder.

“Just a moment, Michael,” Brenda said, recognizing the caller’s voice. “Daryl, Michael is on the phone,” she called to her son.
Brenda was not surprised when minutes later her son asked if they could get a ride to movies. She glanced out the window; the snow had subsided and Mr. Krakow was snow-blowing the driveway, something he’d taken to doing since Brenda had helped out when his wife had a broken leg a few years back. Any debt was more than repaid by now, so Brenda showed her appreciation most years with home-baked goods. Given how busy Nature was this year, she would need to add a few restaurant gift certificates too.
“Sure, what time do you need to be there?” she asked, palming her phone from her pocket and tapping the home button to view the time.

“Shelly!” Trish wondered how her daughter had made out this morning.
“I’m up here, mom,” her daughter yelled back.
“Well come down here, then.” She hung her coat, moved into the living room and settled down in her easy chair. “So how’d you make out this morning?” she asked when Shelly arrived.
“With the bathroom locked?” Shelly asked snidely. “I very nearly shit myself on the way Argo’s. I picked up some milk, by the way.”
Trish had a momentary desire to ride her daughter’s ass for violating her grounding, but the milk dissuaded her. She couldn’t expect her daughter to sit in a messy diaper for—“What time did you get up?”
“Around 9, I think. And yes, I’m wearing protection, one of my little ‘inadequate’ ones, since you didn’t leave me any choice.”
“You should watch your tone, young lady. We—”
“Why won’t you just let me have them so I can change when I want? This is stupid, mom.”
Trish frowned at Shelly’s uncooperative attitude. “If you don’t want to sit in a wet diaper, then learn to hold it. If you can change whenever you want, where’s your incentive to learn? Besides, money doesn’t grow on trees, you have to get the most out of things. If you gotta have ’em, you’re gonna use ’em. Now, looking at the time, you’re probably about due for another change.” Shelly looked at the ground. “Right, let me rest a moment and I’ll get you one.”

Michelle rolled up the wet pull-up and threw it away, visited the toilet, then hopped in the shower. As she got under the luke-warm stream (as hot as their shower went most days), she felt a burning sensation around her waist. She tried washing, but it didn’t help; the skin was red and irritated in some spots. ‘This must be diaper rash,’ she concluded.
Before rediapering herself, Michelle put some cream on the rash, though it only stung more. Afterward, she lay in her bed, intending to read but instead lost in thought.

5. Fears

Michelle was eating her sloppy joe alone when Allison joined her. “So is it true what Carrie says, that you’re wearing diapers?”
“Uh… No,” Michelle fumbled. “Why’d she think that?”
“She said you changed in gym class.”
“No,” Michelle remembered begging off of gym class for woman troubles. “That’s not true.”
“Okay, well, good. So are you coming?”
“We’re gonna be late for class.”
Michelle glanced at the clock; Allison was right. She took three more quick bites, picked up her things and walked with Allison toward English class.
“Hey Michelle, your diaper’s showing,” Michelle heard Carrie’s voice from behind.
“I’m not—” Michelle started to lie, but the skirt she was wearing was rising up. She tried to push it back into place, but it kept floating up, like an experiment with static electricity in a science lab.
“Oh my god, you are totally wearing a diaper,” Allison commented. Suddenly everyone was standing around; Michelle momentarily identified with Marilyn Monroe fighting the wind in that famous image, famous in such a strange way, and then she was awake.
The sun was up and her mom worked today. It was time to get up.

6. Reconsidering

Michelle checked the bathroom; it wasn’t locked today. Her mom had even left a fresh diaper on the vanity.
Michelle wriggled the still-dry diaper down, did her business, then wriggled the diaper back up.
After washing her hands, she grabbed the fresh diaper and took it back to her room, and tried to think up a new and better privacy solution.

“Hey kiddo, you hungry?” Daryl’s mom asked.
Daryl grunted; he’d been out late with Mike.
“I can make something or we can go out?”
“Mmm, sure ma. Can we go to the Sunnyside? Some of my friends were talking about it, I want to check it out.”
“Sure, what kind of place is it?”
“A diner, over toward the school kind of. I’ll look it up on maps,” he moved toward his laptop. “Can Mike come?”

Trish finished taking an order, collected the menus, and moved to a booth where three people had sat down. “How you doing today?” she greeted. “What’cha drinking?” she asked, handing out menus.
“I’ll have an orange juice,” the first boy said.
“Cola,” the second requested.
“Tea and a glass of water, please,” the woman said.
“Comin’ right up.” She passed table 12’s order to the cook and went to get the drinks for table 15.

Brenda decided it wasn’t so bad having Michael along, as the two boys were engaged discussing a video game they were playing. It left her free to watch their waitress, Michelle’s mother, in this context.
“Thank you,” she said when her coffee arrived.
“Y’all set? What can I get’cha?”
“I’ll have the two two two, over easy, rye, with bacon please.” The boys follow with their orders.
“I thought you said your mom was a health nut,” Mike badgered Daryl afterward. “She can’t be that serious if she’s eating bacon.”
“It’s because I like bacon,” Brenda retorted. “You can’t give up on the pleasures of life, but you can mitigate them.”
The boys resumed their game discussion and Brenda went back to watching: Michelle’s mom bustled around the restaurant, taking orders, refilling coffees and checking on patrons. Brenda had heard how hard waitressing was, and the woman seemed to do it well. Despite earlier impressions, Brenda couldn’t help respecting the woman.

After her shift, Trish stopped at the pharmacy to get more diapers for her daughter. While she was there, she checked into a few more options to encourage Shelly.
“Hmmm,” she said picking up what looked like a small soda bottle. She read the directions and decided this was exactly what she wanted.
She stopped in the drink aisle for some soda to go with her plan.

“Want some popcorn?”
“Sure,” Michelle agreed. Perhaps after yesterday, her mom had finished running her current course of evil, because she was being a lot nicer today. It was kind of the cycle; her mom would be a real bitch for a while, then back off.
“Thanks mom,” Michelle said genuinely when mom brought not only a bowl of popcorn, but some soda. It must have been a good week at the restaurant; popcorn and soda weren’t usuals of the household.
“Uh huh,” her mom sat down with her own bowl in the easy chair.

7. Anxieties

Michelle was in math class, but it was impossible to pay attention. Everyone had found out out about her diapers, and now they were all watching her and whispering to each other.
“Are you paying attention?” Mr. Jones complained. “This is important stuff, you need to know this for the PSATs. Now listen up!”
The whispering stopped, and Mr. Jones started talking but it didn’t make any sense to Michelle. She was thinking about the sort of full, queazy feeling in her gut. She focused on the feeling, trying to imagine it into feeling better.
“Michelle… Michelle!” She snapped to. “Can you tell us how to solve this problem?” She looked at the problem sprawled on the board, but couldn’t make any sense out of it. But the way it didn’t make sense felt odd. She’d just had lunch, which meant she should be in English class. Why was she in trigonometry?
Her stomach rumbled, a sense of urgency struck. “I think I need to go the bathroom,” she said aloud.
Jones looked annoyed, but assented.
She tried to stand but her legs buckled from under her. She stood again, using a desk to pull herself up, but when she tried to walk she again collapsed. Now the desk was out of reach, so she couldn’t use that. Whenever she tried to push up one way, it was too much and she fell down on the other side.
“Michelle, stop interrupting class,” Jones directed. “Now, who else wants to try this problem?”
A cramp set in, like when going to the store in the snowstorm the other day.
And everyone was watching her, right here in class.
“You’re wearing your diaper, just go,” Camille told her.
“What she said,” Carrie concurred.
“We know you can’t help it, hon,” Allison sounded sorry for her.
“Oh honey, it’s okay,” the woman from the store—Daryl’s mom—said from over her. “We all know, it’s no big deal. See, I wear them too,” she raised her skirt and flashed a diaper, twirling. ‘The blue line is in the back, but not the front, so she’s wet,’ Michelle realized. Maybe she wasn’t so alone.
“Why do you wear diapers?” Michelle asked, but the woman was gone.
‘Something is wrong. This must be a dream,’ Michelle thought fleetingly.
“Okay Michelle, that’s enough. Back in your seat,” Mr. Jones helped her up. As she reached her desk, more cramps hit; she collapsed over the desk in unbearable pain and lost control in front of the whole class. As diarrhea filled her diaper, she felt completely humiliated, but a sense of relief the battle was over. But as her diaper filled, it just kept coming.
“Now, we’re going to use the FOIL method to solve this equation…”
It was surreal, the way her diaper expanded to unrealistic proportions and everyone had gone back to the math lesson. ‘This isn’t realistic, I’m dreaming,’ Michelle realized, managing to hold the idea this time. ‘This is a dream. If I think it, it’ll happen.’ She sensed the need to pee, thinking, ‘It’s a dream, what’s the difference?’ She let go.
‘What do I want to happen?’ she considered. Enjoying the feeling of her bladder draining, she realized she needed to poop more. Her diaper was already a disaster, so she relaxed her bottom and pushed, still leaning over her desk. All the relief together felt amazing.
And then the dream ended. She was in her bed, wetting and messing herself. The acceptance of the dream dissipated too, replaced by horror at the burning, mushy sensation of diarrhea, the odor of feces in the air. She clamped down on her sphincters and began to sob. ‘What’s wrong with me?’ she asked herself repeatedly, but had no answer.
Minutes later, still crying, urgencies returned. She checked the bathroom, it was locked; she considered waking her mom, but that would result in more trouble.
She fell into bed again and sobbed some more, now beating herself up about what a horrible person she was. A person with some sick idea about wearing diapers, and now uncontrollably using them. As the need to evacuate got stronger, she angrily gave into her own needs and pushed, hating herself for it.
She thought about the fresh diaper she had stashed, the one she hadn’t needed in the morning. It was tucked in an old purse in the closet. But what was the use if she couldn’t clean up? She deserved to sit in her own mess.
Still weeping at how horrible a person she was, Michelle passed into a fitful sleep.

8. Reality

Trish made herself a cup of coffee and sat down with the paper. She’d made it throughout the headlines, obits and blotter when she heard Shelly getting up. She was waiting to hear how her daughter had made out; she had expected to be woken up in the middle of the night.
“Mom, can I get in the bathroom? Please?” Her daughter sounded desperate.
Trish took another sip of coffee and got up. “How’d you sleep, Shelly?” she asked as she climbed the stairs.
Instead of replying her daughter started weeping.
“Oh what now?” Trish asked, unlocking the door as she caught a whiff. She stopped and looked at Shelly, surprised at what had happened. “Now you’re messing yourself, girl? Jesus, what’s wrong with you.” Inwardly, Trish was amused that the laxative-laced soda had worked so well; if this didn’t incite her daughter into getting her problems under control, nothing would.
“I couldn’t help it, mom, I had the runs.”
“Well why didn’t you get me up? Or was it already too late?” No reply. “Well get yourself a shower, I’ll get you a fresh diaper, little girl.”

Daryl grabbed his pack and went toward the scent of breakfast coming from the kitchen.
“G’morning. Want a ride to school today?” his mom asked. “The sidewalks are still icy.”
“Sure, ma. Smells good in here,” he took the plate of French toast his mother handed him, which she released only after giving him a kiss. “Ma!” he half-complained.

Brenda dismissed Daryl’s rejection as teenage rebelliousness. She’d been the same way toward her parents. She flipped the toast on the griddle and shook some cinnamon on.
Brenda contemplated how her parents had always made the most plain French toast: white bread, egg, milk. She had disliked it growing up, but with a little bit of spice French toast wasn’t bad. She sipped her tea—it needed a touch more honey. She corrected that, plated the toast, and joined her son at the table.

Michelle’s diaper rash had spread overnight, and it stung even worse as Michelle cleaned herself up. She would have to stop on the way to school for some ointment.
Her confidence shaken by the overnight accident, she considered why she was putting her diaper on as she got dressed: previously it was compliance with some sadistic punishment, but now maybe she needed them. Her back was sore, too—had she injured something when she fell on Saturday? The possibility worried her.
Mom had made toast and OJ for breakfast. Michelle ate quietly, noting the orange juice was going off—nothing new in their household—while her mom read the paper and occasionally stole a sideward glance and shook her head. It was a sign mom had gone from angry to disappointed, and Michelle thought her mom had every right to be in this case.
Before leaving for school, Michelle got a few extra bucks from her babysitting stash for ointment.
“Where you going?” her mom asked when Michelle veered from the route to school.
“I need some rash ointment,” Michelle explained.
Her mom shook her head, but didn’t object further.

Trish inwardly smiled at her daughter’s new attitude; the pliant and subservient attitude meant she would toe the line soon enough. Shelly was still whining, but it was an upset instead of disobedient tone. Underlying the change, Trish could tell, were newly instilled senses of discomfort and worry.
After buying a tube of diaper rash cream, Shelly went to the bathroom to apply it so Trish checked out the tabloids. She had problems in her life, but at least she didn’t have the front-page troubles the stars were having.
“All set, mom,” Shelly interrupted her perusal, and they set off toward the school.

Brenda pulled to the curb. “Thanks ma,” her son said genuinely.
“Have a good day at school,” she smiled as he walked toward school, chatting up some mates as he went. It was wonderful to see her son thriving.
As she was about to leave, she noticed Michelle and her mom approaching. Perhaps the mother wasn’t so bad if she took the time to walk her daughter to school.
Contemplating the erratic waitress, Brenda put the car back into gear, checked her mirrors and blind spot, and set off for the gym.

Arriving early to math class, Daryl found Larry telling Frank about the 4-wheel drive truck he was buying. “What do you need a truck for?” he interrupted.
“It’s a man’s vehicle, you know? Take it mudding, maybe put a rack in the back there, a couple of chairs and go tailgating. Mattress in the summertime, take the ladies out in the woods and have a little fun…”
“How are you going to pay for gas for this stupid thing?”
“Just gas, a couple of bucks a gallon. Get a job, y’know.”
“Dude, that’s the investment that keeps you paying. Get something efficient, take her out somewhere nice with the money you save.” As he spoke, Daryl watched Michelle take her seat.
Larry answered but Daryl wasn’t listening anymore. “Michelle?” She had circles under her eyes, like she hadn’t been sleeping; her eyes were bloodshot, there was something different about the way she carried herself, and she flinched when she heard her name. “What’s going on? You look like shit.”
“It’s nothing, just tired,” she dismissed, but her voice said otherwise.
Before Daryl could inquire more, Mr. Jones began. “All right, let’s get started, today we’re going to be covering the law of cosines,” he started writing on the board.

Ten minutes into class, Michelle noted a queazy feeling. “Please don’t be,” she begged her body.
Five minutes later, her stomach growled loudly; she needed to use to the bathroom soon. She raised her hand when Mr. Jones looked up, but he dismissed her. “Let me finish the explanation of this angle, and then I’ll take questions,” he went back to writing on the board.
Three minutes later, he finished. “Questions?”
Michelle’s hand was already up, and she didn’t wait to be called on. “Excuse me sir, may I please go to the bathroom?” Jones looked annoyed, but as if advocating for her, her stomach made more noise. “I think I ate something,” she added as she tensed her butt to counter the increasing urgency.
He looked annoyed a moment more. “Go,” he said, flicking a hand toward the door. “Any questions on the derivation?”
Carefully keeping muscles tensed, Michelle left quickly.

Daryl’s attention was piqued by the subtle sound as Michelle passed. It had to be his imagination, right? He tried to dismiss the idea: it must have been her pants legs rubbing together. No, it couldn’t have been: she was wearing a skirt. But there was too much noise in the room; his imagination was making stuff up. He kept arguing with himself, losing himself to daydreaming and imagining.

Michelle made it to the toilet, lifted her skirt and wriggled her diaper down. There was somebody in the next stall, but there wasn’t time to worry about that. As her bum hit the seat, she let go; as she got relief, her emotions let go too. She began weeping in a mixture of horror that it had come so close to her nightmares, and relief that it hadn’t actualized. And aside from that, what was wrong with her? Had she eaten something bad, or picked up an intestinal bug?
After a minute or two, she composed herself; by now, the person in the next stall had finished their pee and was dilly-dallying washing their hands. Michelle tried to see who it was through the stall door gap, but couldn’t make them out. Whoever it was had heard Michelle’s diaper, and would hear it going back on if they stayed. Michelle waited for them to leave. She had a bad feeling they were waiting for her to come out.

“David,” Brenda greeted, “how are you?”
“I just found the coolest balloon video,” he began explaining what he had found.
Brenda forced herself to attention: balloon fetish was one of the rarer ones among her clientele. Some of the fetishists she could comprehend; the adult babies liked babying and being stuck in diapers, for instance. Even the vacuum guys, it was something their mother had done, and she was their first love. Try as she might, though, she just couldn’t grasp the origins of balloon fetishes.
That didn’t stop her from having balloon clients. In fact, they intrigued her more, but without her intuition to guide her, she had to pay careful attention when discussing their interests.

Whoever it was gave up after a few minutes. Michelle cleaned up and wriggled the diaper back up. As she approached the sinks, she was being watched: someone was standing near the door, watching her. They had only pretended to leave, and now she had been made.
“Anne?” Michelle asked, recognizing the outcast from two grades below. Anne was tall and gangly, with bushy red hair. When young, Michelle had been an outcast because she was poor, and was on terms with the other outcasts. Michelle had overcome it in time, but Anne was still an outsider.
They stared at each other awhile.

Anne flipped through her memories of Shelly, lately ‘Michelle’. They’d never been friends, but Michelle hadn’t shunned her the way many did. Michelle fit in, but she wasn’t the popular crowd either. Anne wondered how that was achieved when she wore diapers. ‘No, the rumor would exist, so this has to be a new thing,’ she concluded.
Anne wondered if it would have been different if she wore diapers when she was younger. Would other kids have rejected her more or less than they had for her frequent accidents? They weren’t her fault, she was just a kid, but they were humiliating just the same. Michelle wasn’t a kid, but it probably wasn’t her fault either. Perhaps Anne didn’t have it so bad, because at least she had outgrown the accidents, eventually.
“I had hoped it would be someone good, someone I could use it against, but you’re cool. Your secret is safe with me. I hope you’re okay.” She left before Michelle could respond.

Daryl was still distracted when Michelle returned. His mind cleared, his attention focused, his eyes and ears honed in on Michelle’s movement.
He was pretty sure it wasn’t his imagination.
When class was over, she rushed out. He followed her, but she went straight to the girl’s room. He’d have to catch up with her later.

Michelle slipped down her diaper and sat down again. There were a couple other girls in the bathroom, talking and making noise.
She had two options: wait until everyone left, and be late for class; or risk the noise of getting the diaper back on, which was always fidgety. If only her stupid mother hadn’t found out!
There was enough noise, and Mrs. Bunson strict enough, that Michelle risked it. As she washed her hands, she wanted to look around and see if anyone was staring at her, but that would be suspicious. Ignoring everyone, she dried her hands and headed to class.

“Excuse me guys,” Daryl collected his stuff and joined Michelle at the other table. “Hey,” he greeted.
“Hello,” She eyed him.
“Question. So…” This had seemed very easy, but in the moment it was plain awkward. What if it was just a precaution because she was sick? What if he was wrong?
Still, he wanted to know.
“So are you…” ‘Just spit it out,’ he told himself. “Are you feeling better?” ‘Dork!’ he criticized himself, frustrated at his lack of courage.
“Yeah, I am, thank you. I think maybe the orange juice was bad this morning.”
“I’m glad,” Daryl nodded. ‘Do it!’ he screamed at himself. “So…Are you—do you like…” He couldn’t find the words, but Michelle suddenly went pale anyway.

“Your mother told you, didn’t she? Fuck!” ‘Bitch,’ Michelle panicked; who had he told?
“No, no, she didn’t. Wait, was this was she was on about last week?”
Michelle leaned in. “Look, what do you know?”
She felt frustrated as he muttered incoherently, finally asking, “About what you’re wearing, you know?”
‘Crap,’ Michelle thought. ‘He knows.’ “You mean my, um…”
“Underwear,” he confirmed, nodding, “in a manner of speaking.”
“Shit, how do you know? Who fucking knows? Did Anne fucking tell you?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know, just me I think. I just figured it out, ’cause… Look, why are you wearing them? My mom didn’t say what had happened, just that your mom was being a bitch. Is this some kind of punishment?”
“Well, duh!” she answered rudely.
“Well sorry for making sure you’re okay.”
“Sorry? If you want me to be okay, why don’t you just leave me alone?”
“Because I think… I like… Because I want…”
Michelle could see he had more to say, but wasn’t able to say it. He continued to struggle while she racked her brains for the right reference, that only someone in-the-know would recognize.

Daryl wasn’t sure how to say it. Thankfully, Michelle handled it. “A disc?”
He knew that name. “,” he replied. She nodded. He closed his eyes and thought. “”
“Diaper Space?” she countered.
“Daily Diapers?” he whispered back, the tension replaced with excitement with each response.
“You pervert!”
“I’m not the one wearing to school!”
“Does your mom know? Because she knows what we are.”
Daryl laughed. “Yeah, well, mom knows about a lot of stuff. She’s a dominatrix.” He tried to keep a straight face as her eyes grew.
“Like hurts people for money?”
“Yup. Being a hentai runs in the family, I guess.”
“Yeah, apparently.”
“So what do we do now?”
“Want to get a burger after school? There’s this diner nearby, the Sunnyside—”
“Yeah, my psycho mom works there,” she interrupted. “Psycho mom that found out I wear diapers occasionally and now has me in them 24-7.”
“Dude, that’s like something out of a bad fiction.”
“Yeah, I know. You can’t make it up though.”
“Come over for dinner?”
“Can’t. I’m grounded.”
“When you’re ungrounded?” Daryl glanced at the time. “Shit, we’ve got to get to class.”
“Crap,” Michelle agreed, and both began wolfing down their lunch.

Brenda made her way through supermarket hell: fluorescent lighting, worn-out piped-in music, aisle after aisle of shrink-wrapped, sterile, tasteless shit in boxes. In the City there were bakeries, boutiques, delis, cafés and hole-in-the-wall restaurants of all kinds; people seemed more alive there. Just a few more years, after Daryl finished school, and appearances could go by the wayside. More than anything except the neighborhood association loonies, Brenda looked forward to leaving behind the forsaken wasteland of supermarkets and big-box stores.

“You need a change, Shelly?”
“No, I’m fine,” Michelle answered subserviently, nevertheless irked that her mom hadn’t bothered with a hello.
“Good, ’cause I’m feeling tired.”
“Want me to make dinner?” Michelle offered.
“Oh, that would be great,” her mom said without looking up from the TV talk show.
“Okay,” Michelle agreed, and went to the kitchen to look for ideas.

“Something smells good,” Daryl arrived. “What’cha making?”
“There’s a stew in the crock pot,” Brenda answered, preoccupied with papers spread out on the table.
“What’cha doing?”
She sighed, eventually looking up. “Figuring out what to do with all this stupid money.” It would be so much easier if she could keep it in one big pile, but instead it was spread across a bank account, an IRA with mutual funds, some mutual funds that weren’t IRAS, an 802.11 thing for Daryl’s college and a couple other places. “Why does this have to be so damn complicated?”
“That’s not a bad problem to have, ma. It’s better than losing the house again,” he pointed out.
“Yeah, I know, but…” She got up, gave him a kiss, and went to the kitchen to check the stew.

At 5 o’clock, Michelle started dinner. She didn’t bother to confirm that grill ham and cheese with tomatoes was acceptable since her mother was slumbering in front of the TV.
After preparing the meal, she carried it into the living room. “Mom, dinner’s ready,” she set the plate down on the end-table and shook her mom’s shoulder.
Her mom groaned and opened her eyes. “Oh, thank you Shelly.”
“You’re welcome,” Michelle set her food down. “Can I get you something to drink?” she asked as she went back to the kitchen.

9. Acceptance

“Hey sweetie,” Allison came alongside as they walked to social studies. “Do you want your diaper changed before class? It looks like you need it.”
Michelle was pissed at Anne and Daryl for letting her secret out until she realized her skirt was floating up again, and everyone could see the wetness she could only feel. “I’m fine, Ally, thanks.” What she really needed was to get to the bathroom for #2.
“You don’t want a rash,” Daryl advised, dressed in just a diaper.
“I don’t get diaper rash because my mom uses the skin protectants,” Camille’s diaper was plainly visible under a too-short miniskirt. “And she cleans me properly, I don’t have to do it myself like you people. Besides, I don’t make messies anymore like someone,” she looked pointedly at Michelle.
They passed a girls’ room, but Michelle was trapped in the middle of the group.
“Stop being a snoot, Camille,” Carrie continued the conversation. “It’s not her fault she’s a big baby.” Diaper rustle was all around as she walked.
Michelle’s heart went out to Anne, who was standing in the corner in wet pants, crying.
“Hi girls, how are you all today? Daryl, do you need a change?” his mom asked.
“Michelle needs a change,” he answered.
“Michelle, you poor thing. Doesn’t your mother take care of you?”
“I want to use the bathroom!”
They all laughed at her. “You can’t do that, they’re locked,” they stopped just outside one. Michelle pushed at the door, confirming it was locked.
“It’s okay honey, that’s what diapers are for,” Allison cooed, rubbing her arm and looking into her eyes.
Michelle woke gently, feeling comforted and loved despite a splitting headache. Unlike the dream, her diaper was still dry, although she did need to go. She had begged her mom to leave the bathroom unlocked, but was surprised to find it so anyway; maybe she bought some leniency by making dinner. After doing her business, she took an ibuprofen for her headache; any improvement in her backache was a bonus. Parched as she was, she washed it down with a full glass of water, expecting the fluids would come back to haunt her later.

10. Discovery

“Morning mom,” Daryl greeted as he sat down at the waiting omelet.
“Good morning, sweetie,” his mother abandoned the stove long enough to kiss his forehead. “What’s up, you sound like you have a question.”
“I do, it’s just…um, awkward, I guess.”
“Genuine questions are never awkward. Question away.”
“It’s about Michelle—that girl you asked me to watch over a few weeks ago.”
“Uh huh, I remember her,” his mother prompted when he paused.
Unable to think of a tactful approach, Daryl blurted his question: “Is it that she’s wearing diapers?”

The question interrupted Brenda’s cooking, but she slipped into a practiced poker face. “That’s a rather odd question, what makes you think that?”
“That she’s wearing diapers to school.” Brenda read his words as a statement, not a question.
“How did you find this out?” Brenda assessed the underlying question: Was he testing to see what she knew? Was he trying the waters before coming out? Or had the girl been outed or suspected?
After a bite of egg, he explained, “I thought I heard her diaper, so I asked her about it at lunch and… so is that what happened that night?”
Brenda ignored his question. “That’s very good hearing you’ve got. Who else knows?” she asked, concerned about the girl’s well-being.

“I think just me. I was paying attention, like you asked me to,” Daryl made an excuse for his having noticed. His mom scraped two sausages off her plate onto his and sat down.
“Be sure it stays that way. Not everyone is as understanding as you might be.”
Daryl wondered at his mom’s comment. ‘Understanding? Does she know about me?’ he wondered. “Why do you think she does it?” his mouth asked on autopilot.
“I would assume she’s having growth incontinence at that age. Unless there’s another explanation you can think of?” She stared at him.
It was the kind of answer that said she knew more, but wasn’t going to say what. His heart pounded as he considered suggesting AB/DL interest, but his mouth was already in motion. “No, I guess not. It’s just, kinda, poor Michelle, y’know?”
“Yeah, it’s got to be hard on her,” she nodded.

Michelle felt more confident as she dressed for the day. She had made it through the night with no trouble; perhaps it was a stomach virus and had passed. Now she just had a pounding headache and backache.
She made herself cereal for breakfast, daydreaming of Daryl as she ate. He was studious, kind, good-looking and shared her interest. Hopefully they would talk at lunch again today.
As she left for school, the neighbors’ bins reminded her it was trash day. She went back in and got the recyclables from the kitchen. As she set them on the curb, a bottle caught her eye; she fished it out and read: “Magnesium Citrate Saline Laxative Oral Solution.” She stared at the bottle, stuck in a disturbing conclusion.

“Hey,” Daryl said as he joined Michelle at lunch. She was brooding but had steadfastly refused to talk to him in mathematics. “Can I join you?”
“Sure, I’d like that,” she continued playing with her food, lost in thought.
“So what’s going on? I can tell something’s up.”
She sighed and returned to the world. “My mom has been drugging me,” she spoke in hushed tone. “A laxative—I’m not sure what to make of it. I mean, it’s bad enough she’s making me wear, y’know, and all, but what the fuck? Trying to make me crap myself?”
That did seem pretty screwed up. Daryl thought of one explanation: “Maybe she knows about your interest? Wants to break you of it?”
Michelle shook her head. “Way too sheltered. I don’t think she could imagine it.”
Daryl shrugged. “Yeah, but my ma always plays the prude and look at her career.”
“My mom’s a waitress.”
“It’s always the quiet ones. That’s what they say, right?”

“I suppose,” Michelle agreed but dismissed the idea. “So what am I going to do about gym class?” It was her next big problem.
“Claim it’s your period?”
“I already used that one last week.”
Daryl took a few bites. “Tell the truth?” he suggested finally. “Say you’ve been having the shits and don’t feel up to running and jumping around?” She wasn’t keen on the idea, and made a face that said so. “Hey, I wouldn’t want to risk that kind of disaster on my floor.”
“Maybe,” she sighed; it was the best option because it was the only option so far.

Brenda unlocked the supply cupboard, slid on a pair of nitrile gloves and pulled out the soak bin. The ‘office’ had an autoclave, but not all her toys could withstand that. Along with single-use items and barriers, chemical sterilants were essential for hygiene and client safety, but it required a long soak. Unlike bleach, the sterilant didn’t eat the toys, so she usually let them soak until she needed them again. She began plucking out toys and meticulously washing them off with plenty of water.
Pulling out a bin of clean toys, she separated the ones she would use over the next few days, packed them in a duffle, and put everything else back in the cupboard. The duffle went to her car’s trunk.

“How was school, Ms. Potty-pants?” Trish asked her daughter. In response she received a glare, and Shelly headed to her room without a word. This behavior did not please Trish.

Michelle tried to study but could not concentrate between dizziness, headache, and being tired. She barely made any progress before her mother called her for dinner.
Michelle sniffed and tasted the soda her mom had poured; it had a familiar offness. She glared at her mom.
“Is everything okay?”
Michelle’s anxiety grew as she girded herself for confronting her mom. She took another sip of soda, ran it around her tongue, and spat it back in the glass. “There’s something wrong with this soda.”
“It’s just a different brand.”
Michelle was fearful of directly contradicting her mom, but tainting her food was beyond the pale. “Yeah, just like the other night, and the different brand of orange juice the other morning.”

Trish had to give her daughter credit for figuring it out, but had no intention of acknowledging it.
“You’ve not been feeling well lately, maybe your sense of taste is off. Now stop fussing and eat your dinner.”
“Well, I’m not drinking this,” her daughter got up.
“You are not going to waste that, Shelly,” Trish demanded, but her daughter poured the soda down the sink.
“I didn’t waste it mom.”
Trish stood and crossed her arms, fuming. “What exactly are you implying?”
“You know perfectly well what I’m talking about.”
“I don’t like your tone, Shelly.”
“Well I don’t like the way you treat me,” her daughter stated in an unusually firm tone instead of the usual whining. “I’m always grounded, you stick me back in diapers and humiliate me, you’re always yelling at me…”
“What is wrong with you, Shelly? I feed you, I clothe you, I put this roof over your house. While you’re at school with your friends, I’m working myself to the bone to give you a place to sleep. You should show some appreciation. Need I remind you that you put yourself back in diapers, I’ve just made sure you’re wearing something adequate if you—”

Michelle had finally had enough of kowtowing to her mother. “That’s the point, mother! I was dealing with it, and then you butt in with some crazy scheme to humiliate me not only with diapers but by slipping laxatives into my food? I’ve been getting headaches and backaches and diarrhea, I thought I was really sick and it turns out you’ve been poisoning me. What is wrong with you? I go to school and work hard to get good grades and make you proud, but no matter what I do you think you need to push me harder in completely ridiculous ways.”
Her mother looked aghast that she had been confronted. “I think you had best go to bed without supper tonight, Shelly,” she finally said, and took her plate.
“Fine! Who knows whether or not it’s tainted anyway?” Michelle went to her room and slammed the door. Exhausted, she called it a night early, but lay awake a long time ruminating on her situation.

Trish didn’t like being talked back to, but for once her daughter had shown some spine instead of whine. After eating and putting the leftovers away, she flicked on the TV and flipped through the channels. Her mind, however, kept returning to the argument with her daughter: had she stepped over a line? ‘Of course not,’ she told herself, ‘it’s for her own good that I push her. She’s got no drive of her own.’
Except she never had to push Shelly to keep her grades up, the girl did well on her own. And the girl had bought pull-ups on her own to deal with her incontinence. Guilt crept into Trish’s conscience.

11. Awareness

Michelle’s world was spinning, her head pounding, her back aching and she was thirsty. She tried to collect her thoughts to no avail.
She thought about the bathroom, but in the confusion and weakness she didn’t want to move. She so desperately wanted a drink.
Michelle climbed out of bed and stood, leaning against the wall for support. She made her way to the bathroom, which was thankfully unlocked. She ripped off her diaper and sat on the toilet, but barely peed despite her urgency.
She was craving water. The sink was in reach, so she filled the cup and drank. It barely registered; she drank 3 cupfuls before it took the edge off, and felt compelled to drink two more slowly. Her mind began to clear.
‘Am I really sick now? Or has mom done something else to me now?’ Michelle wondered as she waited, hoping the dizziness would pass. The clock said it was half-past midnight. She continued sipping water for another 15 minutes, gradually feeling better.
She looked at the diaper laying on the floor. She had had enough, but what if her mother locked the bathroom? She brainstormed a bit, then went to the junkdrawer and found some superglue. Making sure the door was unlocked, she squeezed glue into the twist-to-lock mechanism, then went back to bed.

Trish climbed out of bed, got a quick shower, and dressed for work.
Before she left, she moved the half-filled container of laxative from the kitchen to the medicine chest; since Shelly recognized the taste, slipping it into her drinks wouldn’t do any good anymore. She avoided locking the bathroom in spite, although she wanted to.
She also retrieved Shelly’s diapers and panties from her closet and placed them outside Shelly’s door. ‘If the girl wants to take care of herself, she can,’ she told herself bitterly, trying to displace the guilt she now felt. ‘Never going to grow up without proper discipline, but the girl is just too much of a handful.’

Daryl noted his mom’s business-professional dress. “No gym today?”
“No, I’m needed in the office this afternoon.” Daryl smiled at the euphemism.
“Can I get a ride to school?” he took a bite of blueberry pancake.
“Sure,” she sat down with her breakfast. “So have you got any big doings planned while I’m away?”
“Well, I was thinking I’d hold a big orgy, just me and the rest of the juniors,” he joked.
“Alright, well, just don’t disturb the neighbors,” his mom deadpanned. “You know where the condoms are, and use the emergency money if you need more.”
“Yes, mom,” he intoned. “I may have Mike over on Friday night.”
“That’s fine. It looks like there’s a project running overtime, so I don’t expect to be back until Saturday evening. I’ll call if plans change.”

As she showered, Michelle debated what to wear. She knew it was risky to wear diapers to school, but now that her mom had apparently gotten over bitch mode Michelle wasn’t sure she wanted to stop. She’d gotten away with it, and what if she forgot she wasn’t wearing any? It would be disastrous.
Michelle knew she was making silly arguments, trying to justify indulging in her fetish, the erotic danger of being found out. But Daryl and Anne had found out, and neither of those discoveries resulted in disaster yet. Still, that was probably more exception than rule.

“Ooh, can I get out here, ma?” Daryl requested a little way from the school. “I want to talk with Michelle.”
“Sure,” his mother slowed to the curb. “Be good to her, Daryl. She seems like a sweet girl.”
“I know, ma,” he grinned at his mom’s matchmaking. “Love you,” he gave his mother a kiss on the cheek. As he climbed from the car, he paused.
“What is it?” his mother asked.
He wanted to ask, ‘You know about me, don’t know?’ But instead he shook his head, “Nah, it’s nothing.” A thought struck him; he smirked and laughed, “Have a great time in the ‘office’, ma.”

Brenda read between the lines, the way he spoke. Putting it together with recent events, like his book report request, asking about childhood events, and the wisecrack about an orgy earlier that morning, she felt suspicious he knew about her work. “I will,” she replied playfully. “Now go get the girl.”
He closed the door and started toward Michelle. On a whim, Brenda lowered the window and called to him. “If you need any, there’s some baby powder under the sink in my bathroom. In case she, uh, comes over and needs any.”
Making a middle-finger gesture, he kissed his hand and blew it toward her, grinning as he did. Brenda laughed and returned it; Daryl waved, turned, and dashed after Michelle.
Brenda watched and reminisced about how quickly her son was growing up.

“Michelle!” She waited for him to catch up. “How are you doing today?”
“Hey Daryl,” she took a deep breath. “I told my mom off yesterday, and she backed down. I’m in control of my own underwear again.”
Daryl laughed. “Sweet. Does that mean you’re out of lock-up too?”
“Um… She didn’t say that, but I would guess so, at least until she turns into a bitch again.”
“Wanna sleep over Friday night? Mom’s away, and a furry friend is crashing over, we’re gonna watch some horror flicks or something—”
“Babyfur or just furry?” she asked before he could check if she knew about furries.
“Just a furry.”

“Guy or girl? Is this like your…um…” Michelle fumbled for the ungendered form of girlfriend/boyfriend. “A lover?”
“Just a friend. He might like that but I’m too much into the ladies.”
Michelle laughed and considered. They came to a corner and turned toward the school, falling in behind some underclassmen who came from the other direction. “There’s someone I might want to invite,” Michelle decided. “Me alone with two guys would not be good for my reputation, even if one of them is gay.”
“Sure, who? But they’ve got to be cool with the… the party attire and theme.”
“I was thinking Anne? Underclassman, froppy red hair.”
“Anne of Yellow Gables?” Michelle gave him the evil eye; it wasn’t a kind nickname for Anne. “Hey, I’m just confirming I’ve got the right Anne,” he defended.
“Yeah, I would still have to check her out, but she knows about me and she seems cool with it. Given her past…”
“I’ll trust your judgment, you’re in this too.”
“Cool, I’ll let you know,” she said as they entered the schoolyard.

Anne watched Daryl and Michelle arriving together. When she was younger he had taken an interest in her—almost like a big brother, protecting her from torment by the other kids when she had an accident at recess. But at some point along the way, he had lost interest.
“Huh,” she said aloud, speculating whether he was a golden shower guy. It would explain his childhood interest in her, and newfound interest in Michelle.

“Morning Alan,” Trish greeted. “Coffee?”
“Eh, I’ll have decaf today. Doctor’s saying I shouldn’t be having so much caffeine.”
“Coming right up.” Trish prepared a cup, grabbed the two plates ready for table 17, and served the food. “Ready to order?” she asked after delivering the coffee.
“Two eggs, sunny side up, with hash browns and toast.”
“White, wheat, rye, or sourdough?” she asked automatically.
“Rye, please.”
“I’ll get your order right in,” she hustled to the kitchen.

Brenda wound her way toward the expressway, contemplating the parting conversation with her son. He seemed to know about her work; it would be a pleasant change to share her real self with him—but did she really want to open that door? It could be ‘TMI’, too much information. After her parents had found out, her work had been the elephant in the room, and her relationship with them had suffered. She raised her son to be more open-minded, but was it enough? And what if she was wrong about his knowing?
And if he did know, did he also have the wisdom to keep quiet about her work? ‘A slip of the lip could sink a ship,’ she remembered an axiom of bygone times.
Then there were the things she knew about his life. He was a teenager; he needed to rebel, to have privacy, and to believe his newfound world view was uniquely his creation. After years of double life, she prized honesty and openness, but he might prefer she didn’t know about his, or at least have plausible deniability of her knowing.
Brenda turned onto the southbound ramp. Accelerating to expressway speed, she tapped the audio controls and started some scene music. At first she had to focus on the music, but slowly it washed over her, through her; her mind drifted into a work headspace, goody-goody airs forgotten. There was no rush deciding how to handle things with Daryl; that problem would still be there when she returned home. Now it was time for work, and fun, and living the other part of her life. She had a few long days scheduled, with sessions running late into the night—but it would also be a fun couple of days, exempt from pretenses.
With any luck, her son would be having some excellent adventures too.


One thought on “The Secrets We (Don’t) Have”

  1. I really enjoyed the story from the beginning to the end. But I was dying to see the part about the sleepover on Friday. That would of been in treating to read but unfortunately the story hasn’t gone that far. Will there ever be more to this story do you think? I want to see more parts to this story, I would definitely love that to pieces. ❤

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