Amelia Odyssey ~ Story Hobbyist

Hey!

Probably best to get ahead of this if I keep posting.

To be extremely clear: 18+, Minors DNI

Specific trigger warnings are included at the top of every story. But you can generally expect NSFW ABDL explorations. Anticipate female/female (trans/enby inc) relationships. No shade to my dear DDLG friends and otherwise, I'm just a Mama's gal.

Stories:

Corner Table in the back, Ask for Lemon Water Part 1 Part 2

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Bloom of a Plucked Flower

~ A Nostalgic Lens

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Who Asks for Help?

Non-Stories: Amelia and Theory (ABDL and Deviancy)

~Drink some water, you dork! Love,

Death + Diapers

I don't intend to post more after this. Part of me wants to have said something, anything, that could be useful to someone beyond myself, beyond my own life. It's a silly thing to write a positive message about kinks and littlespace while I'm staring down the end of my road.

But what's so wrong with silly things?

Since 2024, I have dealt with a personality/memory-eradicating stroke, incapacity, reduced functionality and extreme poverty. I have kept precious few friends. Most former friends have not been capable of engaging with me, for their own reasons, and for the fact that I am essentially an entirely new person. I have a new name, a new outlook, new interests, and new feelings. I have watched my body degrade to the point where there is less I am able to do, every single day.

And in the face of all that, what could possibly be so wrong with silly things?

I doubt anyone can be convinced of anything that betrays the self-hate that they've internalized. If I can try, however?

It's okay to wear diapers for pleasure, because someday, you will die.

That's morbid, I imagine. But morbidity is the sole province of the healthy. When you're cognizant of life's show coming to a close, you're a fool to fault the curtains for how they fall.

Every time I hold my dear stuffed animals, or colour a single line in my book, or rest my teeth-grinding jaw on the soft rubber of my pacifier, I no longer bother to wonder if it's "okay." What harm could a diaper do me? I can barely put them on myself, and I'll probably need them if I last a while longer. So what does it hurt? What could a silly thing that brings me joy possibly do that is so shameful that it eclipses cognizance of death?

Have you ever heard that old bit that zealots have preached? That, without God, all things are permissable?

Guess what? If no one comes to harm, all things are permissable, God or not.

Silly things are permissable, because someday you will die.

I hope that is as hopeful as it seems to me. Extend your emotional imagination, your empathetic capacity, I beg of you. There is nothing wrong with silly things that bring you joy.

To prove it to you, to prove to you that it is okay to release yourself of all that self-condemnation, that it is okay to hold onto silly things, let me tell you of some other silly things that I hold dear.

I know what my experience has been, and I know what likely awaits me. But I love to imagine that... maybe I'll wake up tomorrow feeling better. And, silly as it may be, maybe my body will regain its strength and capacity. Maybe the pain will slowly fade. Maybe I will be able to walk again. Maybe I will be able to climb the stairs of my building again so that I can see the sun when it shines again. Maybe I will no longer have to beg local organizations to keep my utilities from being cut. Maybe I will live a long and happy life.

Comparatively, what could be so wrong with being silly enough to wear a diaper for fun?

For all that is worthwhile in the world, put yourself in my position and pretend that if you are not kind to yourself, it will radically brutalize your health. Give yourself grace, as if, without it, you won't be able to breathe.

This post is tagged mature. The contents, however, are completely SFW. This post is about learning to deprogram and accept your self, in all the ways that it is different. Be aware that the post will eventually discuss feelings of shame, only to instruct on how to fight back. Also keep in mind that my blog is 18+, minors should NOT interact, and will be blocked—and that is for everyone’s safety.

Amelia, what are you doing?

This is truly for no one, except me. And you, if it can help.

This isn’t a story.

I’m a dork. Some of the greatest joys in my life were the academic study of literature, philosophy and sociology. It’s been a hell of a long time since I’ve been either a student or an instructor in these fields, and I’ve been getting the itch.

Why you should you keep reading this post? Honestly, you do you. I’ve just been captivated with the idea of using theory to understand the ways in which the ABDL community is marginalized and disrespected. If you’re willing to join me on a ride, my hope is that we can aid in the de-stigmatization of our internal selves by learning about the social theories and practices that make us feel that we’re somehow “bad.”

If you’re not interested in reading, no problem! I won’t fault you for thinking it’s boring or not worth your time. Have a lovely day, drink some water, and please be kind to yourself.

Disclaimer: I am without access to an academic library. My best option for sources come from what’s open and available on the web. Keep in mind that the sources I present are limited in this way, and generally won’t have the same rigorous peer-review as those of an academic journal. I am aware that the bias of academia calls even peer-review itself into question, but I can’t get into that here.

I am restricted in gaining access to analysis that could further my understanding. You are welcome to challenge either me or the sources presented, and please take them all with a grain of salt. If the best that I can do is an educational website that summarizes ideas, I hope that you won’t allow that to be the end of your learning and I hope that you understand that it isn’t the end of mine. I would love to talk about Derrida or Spivak, for instance, but their texts are dense and are far more approachable with supporting articles. As such, we’re stuck on the dead-ass white guy train and the posts I can read from outside paywalls.

Why should I even care about sociology?

In simple terms: even if you don’t care about sociology, sociology is going to impact your life. Data-driven studies from the field of sociology—regardless of accuracy—inform the policy directions of think-tanks and politicians. Here’s one of many articles pointing out how sociologists might have a great time working in a think-tank directly—try not to roll your eyes out of your head at how hard folks drink the kool-aid: Link

Let’s narrow the focus, though. A common career path for a sociology major is a counselor or social worker. In Canada, this means that—especially when using government-offered counselling/social services—your attempts to seek help may well involve working with someone who has some level of background in sociology. At the very least, the restrictions on what they can do and what they can say are regulated by a government—a force whose understanding of what is acceptable/unacceptable behaviour is informed by think-tanks and politicians.

A social worker can help, they can offer you access to resources and help you improve your overall life. Anecdotally, I’ve had social workers both good and bad—and the good ones helped make marked improvements in my life.

But the goal of government social worker, at the end of the day, is to help you integrate into society and make you a “functioning” member of it. From large-scale policy and your individual attempts to get help, sociology is going to be a factor in what's possible.

That doesn’t have to be a bad thing. There is good, profound sociology that works to improve the individual conditions of existence within society. That’s not what we’re on about today.

Are you going to talk about ABDL stuff?

Since we’ve both made it this far, I think we deserve it.

It’s not common parlance anymore, but have you ever, in a bad moment, thought of your ABDL side as “deviant?” How about “gross” or “weird” or “wrong?” Maybe you had a bad time when a family or friend found out. Maybe you have a traumatic memory of a public “outing.”  Maybe you just have a cruel inner voice.

What informs that inner voice? What informs your family or friends or strangers that being ABDL is somehow “deviant?”

Incredibly complicated question. I can’t answer it fully. But let’s talk about a certain dude’s influential theories on the subject.

Émile Durkheim is considered as the guy who made sociology a thing. His work on theories about “deviancy” are one of the tenants that sociology is built on. I’m really restricted in source acquisition for this. We’re going to have to lean on Wikipedia, much as it pains me, because the good sources are paywalled:

“Deviance defines moral boundaries, people learn right from wrong by defining people as deviant." (Wikipedia)

Unless you are engaged in deprogramming what society has always taught you, it’s “natural” (sarcastic quotes) for you to believe that what society accepts is morally good. You have been taught that what it doesn’t accept is morally wrong.

If you ever had trouble disconnecting the idea that liking a thing that society doesn’t made you “wrong,” this quote above is a core tenant in what taught you to think that way. If it helps, you can apply the same principles in understanding unconscious biases about gender and race to understand how you were taught to think a certain way without knowing.

It's important to note that Durkheim—to an important extent—didn’t think that it was “bad” to challenge social norms. He was a proponent of civil rights and its “deviant” challenges to law. He reasoned that laws were a production of a society’s “collective unconscious” which could be challenged and changed (Source).

We won’t get into the faults of this argument here—but consider whether laws are created/enforced based on what people think/want or by agents of wealth of power.

So Durkheim would think ABDL stuff is cool, right?

I wish.

Durkheim had a hard stance on sexuality and marriage. Riley explains Durkheim’s views as such: “If Christianity, and in some degree all known religions, see human sexuality as “grave” and “solemn,” their belief must be based in some objective reality in human sexuality.” (TW: Article does discuss self-harm. If you want to check the source without reading those parts, you can ctrl+f to the specific line I quoted. Source)

Durkheim’s specific formulation of deviancy is still quoted constantly in academic circles. As we talked about earlier, that means that his ideas are still being used to direct think-tanks, policy, and social workers/counselors, among others.

Let’s revisit that quote:

“Deviance defines moral boundaries, people learn right from wrong by defining people as deviant."

Something that deviates from society’s normal expectations is inextricably linked to whether it is viewed as right or wrong. There’s no getting around it. Even if Durkheim believed in challenging norms in some cases, he didn’t believe it for others. And, even if he did, the above quote, the “value-neutral fact” (sarcastic quotes) is easily misconstrued.

Fundamentalist beliefs, conservative beliefs, they stop at the idea that a person who is deviant is morally wrong.

The above quote is not meant to explain how things "should" work. It's an attempt to understand how things currently work. But there are decades of theory that misinterprets the idea as being how things are correctly assigned moral value.

Academia, for all the ways it's out-of-touch and disconnected doesn't change the facts: those studies, books, and theories are weapons. Ones used specifically to harm individuals and communities. A drag story-time, for these people, is bad precisely because it is not how things are normally done. And if it's not normally done, these people think that means it shouldn't be done. And that leads them to a final conclusion: if someone does something that shouldn't be done, they must be punished.

Let's wrap this up.

Gladly.

Philosophy, sociology, literature, blah blah. It’s not above you, it’s not for people “smarter” than you—it’s there to take from it what you can to make life better. Don't let powerful people hold the intellectual armaments all to themselves.

I have a very simple proposal for you. Remember all this the next time that a venomous stray thought comes at you to tell you that you’re bad or wrong. Or, when you have a memory of someone finding out about your lifestyle or kink and being cruel to you.

Whether or not you totally get the concepts in this post, remember that the pain caused by your inner voice and the voices of others who have hurt you for who you are not “natural.” Ideas like Durkheim’s and their application have shaped the form that indoctrinated social beliefs take.

Taking care of yourself, embracing who you are—these are radical acts against the social forces that want to hammer you into a specific shape.

Say to that next harsh thought: “I am who I am. You are not something I chose to believe. You do not define me. You are not me. You can't hurt me.”

You can dismantle these thoughts entirely for what they are—stuff that other people made up. Remember that there is a history of theory and indoctrination that gives these thoughts power. You don’t need to engage with hurtful thoughts like they’re a rational agent that needs convincing. As Audre Lourde said:

“For the master’s tool will never dismantle the master’s house. They may allow us temporarily to beat him at his own game, but they will never enable us to bring about genuine change.”

Don’t fight these thoughts on their turf. Their tools are not your tools. Your tools, if you want them, are love, compassion and understanding.

Take care of yourself. Drink some water.

~Love,

AmeliaOdyssey

I'm sure this is no surprise to you, but for someone who doesn't know shit about tumblr, it was wild to discover.

TW: ABDL Story. Non-Consensual. Sexuality. All characters are adults: Namid (29), Jae (30), Jessica (27). What do you think the ABDL community will run out of first: cute diapers or iterations on careful what you wish for stories?

Corner Table in the Back, Ask for Lemon Water (Part 2/2)

by AmeliaOdyssey

My harrowing journey was behind me. I stripped off my yoga pants and flopped onto the couch. My pullup gave a plaintive squish. But that was never something I had to worry about. Besides, the couch had a plastic cover under the blankets. I let myself doze off, pillow poking into my half-agape mouth.

I woke up to find Namid changing me. Her hands were practiced and gentle. She squinted a bit as my eyes opened. “Wipes are a bit cold, sorry.” She wiped along my inner thigh.

A groan as I tried to force my brain awake. “S’all good…”

“Says the leaky pants.” Namid said, winking. A brief puff of powder and she slipped my feet into the new pullup. When I was clean and dry, she slid into the couch next to me and held me. “Leaky pants that could have gotten herself in trouble today.” She kissed my neck.

I turned my head to look at her. “Not my smartest move.” I kissed her gently.

She reciprocated with a measured tongue, before pulling back. “You’ll have to make it up to me. I was late on a deadline for helping you get home.”

At once, I was lip-deep in her neck, hand sliding down to her skirt. A long drag of my finger provoked a shuddering breath. A deeper suck on the flesh of her neck. A dancing finger playing the simple scale that always drove her wild. A chance nibble at the ear. I slid away, to the other end of the couch. With teeth and fingertips, I pulled down her skirt to pay my penance.

~

When the fun was over, for the moment, we slid into our normal routine. It was stir-fry night, according to the meal plan. Namid cooked, I chopped and washed. I was better with a wok, but I wasn’t allowed within feet of the stovetop. Imagine how long it took to convince her to let me use a knife.

When dinner was ready, Namid wrapped the butterfly-patterned bib around my neck, and we dug in. We chatted aimlessly. Our dialogues always weaved minutiae—weekend plans, gossip—into spirited discussions of every big thought under the sun.

As I finished and Namid poked at her last few bites, I summoned some courage. I leaned my soy-soiled chin into my overturned wrist and gazed moonily at my love. “Do you ever think about marriage, Namid?”

She smiled, innocently, and took a wet wipe to my food-coated mouth. “In the abstract, sure. Seems like a nice idea. Lot of hangups, but I get why some people want it.”

“And…in the specific?”

She crumpled the wipe and put it on her plate. I knew she was pretending a bit, but she gave it some real thought. “If someone asked me? They’d have to be a really special someone. I can think of at least one such person. I don’t know if that person put much into the idea.”

I nodded, listening. “If the person did…I think they’d get the hokey-ness of it all. I doubt they’d hate it, though. You can struggle and fight a world that wants to work a certain way, but still take part in the little rituals, and find what kernels they have in them.”

“But Marlow was not typical…”

“And Conrad was a bloody racist, but he wrote pretty sometimes.” I tilted my head. “What if this person got you the most beautiful ring, bent on a knee and proposed?”

Namid laughed. “I wouldn’t need a beautiful r—” A knock at the door. “Jessica’s here. Let’s table this one for a bit.” She winked, knowing what a tease she was.

I took the dishes to the sink and began to wash up. My goofy grin wouldn’t be chased away by a bit of a pause. When I was finished, I entered the living room. “Hey Jessica, nice to see you.”

Jessica pointed at my messy bib. “Did you get any of the food in your mouth?”

“Oh, a good half-portion, at least,” Namid said, coming behind me and undoing the strings.

“I brought cheap wine.” Jessica said, raising up a bottle with a shredded label. “It was at the ass bottom of the rack. I think I got half-off of half-off.”

I checked my phone. 7:01. I shrugged. “Bedtime.”

“Damn, I didn’t even notice. Jess, you okay for a few so I can get this one tucked in?”

Jessica had no complaints. She stood, gave me a gentle kiss on the forehead and a tap on the butt. “Night Jae-Jae.”

~

In the bedroom, Namid pulled the curtain shut as I crawled into our bed. She sat down, nestling my favourite stuffies around me. “I feel like I’m forgetting something.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Guests are guests, but you know I’m not heading to dreamland without a ‘story.’”

She played it perfect. “A story! Of course.” She drew the covers half up my body. Her hand came to rest on the front of my pullup. A teasing stroke.

“Tonight’s story is about a lovely woman who tried to go walking in the city by herself.” The strokes gained pressure and rhythm.

I moaned.

“She thought that her big important errand was cause enough to go strolling down the sidewalk with no one to hold her hand.” She leaned in, voice taking on a husky whisper. “But the poor girl couldn’t handle it all. The noise and the pedestrians were too much.”

My breath quickened.

“Alone on concrete and bereft of her caregiver, she called the only one who could help her. Her dear sweet partner answered quick. She guided the woman home, a gentle presence on the phone just like a warm hand.” On the word hand, she pressed deeper into my pullup—into me. “Do you know what the lesson is?”

I was a quavering body and a whimpering voice. “T-that I need…I need…”

“Uh huh?”

“I need someone t-to take c-care of me.” I was primed for the finale.

“You’re barely out of diapers, my sweet, no matter how old you are. Let the feelings take over. And think about who takes care of you.”

The instant of climax came in a rapturous burst. Before reality could snap me back into its cold embrace, Namid stepped in with warm covers and a hug. “Sleep well, Jae-Jae.”

And I did.

~

 I snuck out of her embrace the next morning. I squished out of the room to find my purse. I felt a grumble in my belly and rolled my eyes at the obnoxiously huge unicorn potty. A brief push and I expelled my morning movement into my pullup.

I was done waiting. Today was the day. I picked up my purse and removed the ring box. As I opened it, I started turning words around to come up with my proposal.

The ring was gone. Or, replaced, rather. The brilliant red stone had been replaced with a dorky plastic ruby—cheap plastic, no less.

What had I done? Did I screw up? I did something wrong. I ruined everything. With each breath, more ragged than the last, tears formed. Namid would never accept this.

I heard her shuffling towards the living room. I closed the ring box, dropped it in my purse and turned.

“Hey, stinky.” She said, rubbing her eyes. “It’s just a little poopie, don’t get upset.”

“We—we have to go back!” I begged, as I was lead to the changing mat on the floor.

Namid was all business, focused solely on cleaning me up. “We can go wherever you want tomorrow. I have work, and you got that daycare spot starting today.”

I gripped Namid’s wrist, to pull her focus. “We have to go today. Please.” I was desperate, and it was obvious.

Namid removed my hand from her wrist, perfectly gentle. She looked at me, heard me. She considered. “Okay…okay. We’ll get you cleaned up, and we’ll go. I’ll call in. Are you sure this is important?”

I could only nod, trying to communicate the importance. I didn’t have the words.

She didn’t ask for words. “I trust you.”

And she did. Despite my general care needs, despite my immaturity and foolishness, she trusted me. I could be trusted to know what was best for myself. I was her equal. Her peer. Her partner.

Bless her, truly, for not questioning me. We needed muted clothing. We couldn’t take the car. We had to take the 21 North and we couldn’t speak to anyone. Hand in mine, she let herself be dragged across the quiet streets.

It was early, but the dim Open sign was alight. I put my hands on Namid’s cheeks. “I’m going to be right back. Everything is fine, it’ll all be okay.”

Namid smiled, but her concern was clear. “I’m your girlfriend, not your Mom. Be safe. And you’re going to explain yourself as soon as you do what you need to do."

I promised with a kiss. My rapid gesture startled her, but she leant into it.

~

The server’s hair sliver was blue that day, and their studded bangle was on the other wrist. “Back table, please. In the corner.” I said, hurriedly.

The server nodded. I rushed to the back of the room, sat down in the booth. The server was still walking over when I called out “Lemon water, please!”

The server shrugged. “Sippy cup fine?”

I sighed in frustration. “Do I look like I can drink out of a regular glass?”

No response. The server lifted the nearby wall-curtain and walked through into darkness.

I dug out the ring box and smacked it on the table. I put my phone down next to it, taking another look at the summer memory of my lock screen. I steeled myself.

Brick scratching behind me. The distant voice of dead worlds spoke. “Was the ring not to your lover’s taste?” Still nothing in the tone. No bemusement, no criticism.

“It changed. It’s wrong. The ring is different now.”

“It is appropriate for the gesture.” A statement, a fact, and I would have none of it.

“It’s not. I need a ring that will prove…prove what I can give her. One that will remind us of the happiness we have and the happiness to come.”

A pause. “She loves you, as you said. Who is the ring for?”

I had no patience. I said what I meant, and I didn’t consider the words. “It’s for me! Sure. For me. Something that I can look at—something to remind me of what we are. A—a way to confirm that I am to her what I know that I am. Something that brings me joy, something that reminds me of my value in her life.” I held the ring box to my side, where the gnarled hand had come before. When it emerged, it took the box. It took its price.

Without pause, the hand sunk away. It returned with a larger box. This one was hard plastic, adorned with barn animals. But my eyes were greedy, my heart was sure. I took the box.

Namid was hurrying down the restaurant, pushing my stroller. She apologized to the server. “I’m so sorry, she got away from me. Jae-Jae, what were you thinking? We have babas and animal crackers galore packed. We don’t need to bother these nice people.”

My proud smile was undeterred. I plopped out of the booth onto my padded bottom with a poof. I opened the box. “Will you marry me?”

Even frustrated, Namid was kind. She plucked the brightly-coloured teething ring from the box. “You want to marry Mommy, huh?”

I affirmed with a nod. Namid pulled me off the ground, sat me in the stroller and strapped me in. “Okay, okay. We’ll get married, then.” She absentmindedly handed me the teething ring and I began to chew and drool all over it. “Is it okay if she keeps this?”

Pure indifference. “Free of charge.” The server got out of the way so Namid could wheel me out.

We strolled in the morning sun. “Can Mommy still date Mama Jessica if we get married?”

“Uh huh!” I answered, as if it was the silliest question I’d ever heard.

~Thanks for reading!

I have perpetual Twilight Zone brain, but I never actually watched more than an episode. All I had growing up were reruns of weird knockoffs like Outer Limits. I did once binge a bunch of Tales from the Crypt. Horror is kind of my favourite genre, so no surprise it influences me.

Love,

TW: ABDL Story. Non-Consensual. Sexuality. All characters are adults: Namid (29), Jae (30). What do you think the ABDL community will run out of first: cute diapers or iterations on careful what you wish for stories?

Corner Table in the Back, Ask for Lemon Water (Part 1/2)

by AmeliaOdyssey

I followed every posted instruction. I took the 21 North bus and I spoke to no one. I got off two blocks before The Restaurant. The closest I could come to wearing only muted colours was a garish combination of a salmon pink blouse and mineral green yoga pants. Damned if I didn’t look like a fashionista having a breakdown.

As I walked, I opened one of the forum posts that I’d bookmarked on my phone. I had spent quite a lot of time cross-referencing and knew the instructions word-for-word. Just had to make sure. My foot landed off a curb and I pulled back up. “Phone down, don’t get hit by a fucking car.” I chastised myself. A quick glance up and down the road told me I could probably take a nap on the asphalt and be fine. The few passerby—presumably locals—had also seemingly figured this out, because a couple of them were chatting away about two feet off the sidewalk.

The Restaurant was exactly as described. A couple patio tables. A dark interior. A half-dimmed Open sign. The key, of course, was that it didn’t have a name, no other signage at all. It was The Restaurant, and nothing else. I gave a last look at my phone lockscreen. Namid, trying to apply foundation, and my dorky ass, the perennially cheeky Jae, holding the camera toward us.

I would do anything for her.

~

The server had a sliver of pink in their hair and a studded bracelet. Otherwise, very casual. No apron, no nametag. “Good afternoon.” Polite indifference. “You can sit anywhere you like.”

I nodded. “How about the corner table?”

No noticeable reaction. “Completely unoccupied. Go right ahead.” They stepped past me. I was free to proceed.

In my head, the smart thing was to keep my head down. But I looked up and down the place as I moved towards the back of The Restaurant. It was more inviting than I imagined. Mood curtains and drapery covered every wall. You couldn’t see a sliver of wall. The fabric cut out natural light, so every table had small flickering candles. The décor was a mix between ironic tacky and thrift-shop master. Think shitty watercolour painting next to a lamp that should cost a thousand but probably went for five at the flea market.

At the corner table in the back, I saw the one exception to the cloth madness on the rest of the walls. A single brick was left exposed. If you didn’t know—if you even noticed it—you’d think it was an oversight. I sat down in the booth with my back to the brick. The instructions were clear not to look back.

The server approached with a menu and laid it down on the table. “Can I get you something to drink? If you wait twenty, we can do alcohol, otherwise we’ve got off-brand cola.”

“Actually,” I said, sliding the menu back. “I’ll just get a water, with lemon.”

The server nodded, took the menu, that blank politeness never leaving their face. “Water with a lemon, you got it.” They started to turn.

“Wait!” A brief panic, I nearly fucked it all up. “Not water with a lemon. Lemon water, please.”

The server kept walking. “Lemon water, you got it.” They absentmindedly span the unused menu between their palms.

As they reached a curtained wall, they pulled some of the fabric to reveal a doorway behind it. They walked through, the fabric fell back. I wondered, if I went to that spot, pulled that curtain, would I see a doorway, or not?

Behind me, I heard the scraping sound of a brick being slid out. I fought every urge to turn.

A voice spoke. “What do you come for?” The sound was distant, crackling with vocal fry. But it wasn’t frail. In the sound, I heard the power of lungs that could breathe the world’s air in one gulp.

My creeping horror at contacting such a being wouldn’t stop me. “I want a ring. A beautiful one. I’m going to propose to my girlfriend.”

“Rings can be purchased in every town on your Earth.” There was no reproach in the voice. There wasn’t even curiosity. Only banal indifference.

I shook my head. “She deserves the best. I can’t afford the best.”

“Her name?”

“Does it matter?”

“Answer as asked. Or leave.” A scraping of brick.

“Namid!” I said quickly.

The scraping stopped. “She is worth the price?”

Every online guide had a different take on the price you’d pay. Some people said it was as simple as a childhood photo or your last five bucks. Others said the voice behind the brick didn’t take anything at all. That was a popular sentiment, a belief that the force in the wall was benevolent. If you were a good-hearted soul, you would receive everything you needed.

“She’s worth everything, anything—all of the above.”

A pause. Consideration? The voice betrayed nothing. “Tell me what you see in this Namid.”

Easy. “She’s brave. I don’t know how else to put it. Nothing ever stops her. When you’re around her, you want to be like her—you want to walk forward and never stop. I never thought I would love someone in a way where I didn’t see them on a pedestal. Namid, she’s human, through and through. I don’t care when she’s wrong or makes mistakes. I love her more when she trips, if that’s possible, because she’ll get herself back up with a smile.”

“What do you believe she sees in you?” The dry voice pushed on with questions it didn’t seem to care to know the answer to.

This was a harder question. “Sometimes, I don’t know. Of her faults, Namid has a bit of trouble leaning on people. Like she thinks if she lets someone carry a bit of her burden, it’s the same as letting herself be carried wholesale. But…not with me. When she trips, she doesn’t bat my hand. She doesn’t think twice about grabbing my shoulder for support. I’m her equal and she doesn’t fight my help. That’s not super romantic, I guess. She trusts me. I make her laugh…Do you need more?”

In the corner of my eye, a shriveled arm crept out from the hole in the wall. An impossible thing, barely wrapped bone. The gnarls of its fingers unfurled. A large black velvet ring box sat in its palm. “Do you accept the terms of the agreement?”

It was better than I could have hoped. I was one of the lucky souls—my gift was coming freely. “Yes…” I took the ring box, trying not to touch the wretched hand that had produced it. Within the black velvet, nestled in a satin cradle, was a beautiful ring. The inlaid tone was a sharp red colour. It wasn’t a diamond—it was so much more. My eyes were lost in its refracted dimensions as I rotated the box. For how long, I don’t know. When I pulled my eyes away, I saw the creepy hand was still open, awaiting something.

What were the terms, again? What had the voice asked for? “I don’t remember what you…wanted…”

The hand curled up again. There was nothing in its palm that I could see, but the fingers looked as if they were perfectly curled around an object. The hand slowly withdrew. Brick scraped behind me. I turned back to the red stone in the ring.

“We’re closing for the day. Thanks for coming.” The server said, puncturing my reverie. They either appeared from nowhere or had been standing there the whole time.

“Thank you. Thank you.” I told them.

The server shrugged, polite and uncaring. “Next time we’ll be sure to get your lemon water.”

I slipped the ring box into my purse and stepped back out into the fresh air, blinking a bit at the bright sun. It was all worth it. Joy suffused my every thought. The world was new, the future bright.

I pulled my phone out. I smiled at the familiar lock screen. I was laughing in the photo, trying to cover myself with water-winged arms as Namid turned the hose from filling my kiddie pool to gently spraying me. A memory I cherished. You’d have to pay me in the millions to change my phone screen—to stop being reminded constantly of that brilliant summer day. Namid and Jae, together forever.

The phone rang once, then Namid answered. “Hey Jae. How’s the sunshine treating you?”

Mock sorrow filled my voice. “My sun is barely reaching me when she’s trapped in that dreary office.”

“Uh huh. Some of us have to work, if you recall. Especially when someone goes through pullups like she has a vendetta.”

“Find me a cuter potty and we can talk!” I replied, giggling.

“Are you going to tell me what your mysterious errand was today?” She asked.

I thought of the ring box in my purse. “Eventually…” I teased, slowly walking towards the curb to cross back to my return bus.

“Jessica is coming by for drinks tonight. Maybe we’ll pin you to the ground and tickle it out of you.”

“Darling,” I said demurely, “if you’re going to pin me to the ground, we’ll have quite a situation on our hands.” I had forgotten that Jessica was coming over. Whatever. I’d gone this far and waited this long, I could wait a day to propose.

An immediate problem faced me. “Oh, shoot.”

A creep of concern in Namid’s tone. “Are you leaking?”

I looked around from the edge of the curb. “I need to cross the road.”

“What are you talking about?”

“How am I supposed to cross the street alone?” The two strangers standing in the asphalt were looking at me oddly.

“Honey,” Namid reprimanded, “you’re not supposed to be running errands if you didn’t get someone to go with you.”

How embarrassing. “I know, I know. It was a secret, though.”

“Secret or not, it’s not safe to go wandering around by yourself.” A cluck of the tongue. “You know better than this.” Resolve. “Ask the nearest person to help you.”

I looked at the two people near me. “They’re strangers! You want me to break the rules to fix a broken rule?” Panic was creeping in. I was alone and afraid.

Namid dropped her frustration with me. “Keep the phone on, I’m right here. Walk up and ask. If anything happens, I’m right here.”

“Okay…” I whispered. The pit of my stomach was churning, but I believed Namid. I approached the two strangers. “Could you…uhm...”

“Give them the phone, Jae-Jae.”

I raised the phone towards one of the women, plaintive and doe-eyed.

She took the phone. She and Namid spoke a moment. All the while, the woman was growing more confused and skeptical at my shivering form. When she handed the phone back to me, she whispered something to her friend and the two walked away. “Don’t look, I think she went to...” She whispered to her friend.

“What did they say, Namid?”

Namid sounded pissed. “It doesn’t matter.” She softened. “Listen, I’m going to walk with you. It’ll just be my voice, but it’ll be like I’m right there. Look down one side of the road. Do you see cars?”

I checked. An impossibly empty street. “No…”

“Now, look down the other. Any cars?”

Nothing except the swiftly moving strangers. “Nope.”

“We’re going to do this. Pretend I’m holding your hand.”

I closed my eyes and imagined the phone in my palm was Namid’s warm touch. I stepped off the curb and walked forward.

“Jae-Jae?”

“I’m going. I’m a few steps in.”

“Are your eyes closed?”

I opened them. “Not…anymore.”

Namid laughed the tired laugh of a parent coaching a child through a particularly difficult meal. “Keep them open, please. We’re going to get you home in no time. No muss, no fuss, no tears. I love you.”

~Thanks for reading part one! A smart person recently explained to me the logic behind splitting a story. And I think this one warrants it! Absolutely no way I'm going to keep up my recent pace, but I'm still vibing, so who cares.

Love,

TW: Dark ABDL Themes, non-con/murky consent, sexuality, psychological/emotional manipulation, exhibitionism, brief alcohol use, public humiliation/degradation.  All characters are adults: Vivienne (34), Amrita (31)

A preachy reminder: Kinky fun is just that—fun. Real manipulation from either party outside playtime isn’t worth the trauma, regardless of the orgasms. Wearing someone down is not a path to a happy relationship. If you find the story is making you uncomfortable, take a break! Put it down, never come back to it, if you want. Take care of yourself.

~

Bloom of a Plucked Flower,

by AmeliaOdyssey

I have always wanted to see an ego die.

You’ll have to forgive me if I’m underselling the facts. I adore a bit of mystery, a bit of intrigue. I was hoping you might blush at so blunt an admission.

 I won’t pout if you need to leave. If you want to stay, I promise to explain.

I have always wanted to witness an ego curl into rigor mortis, safe forever in my murderer’s palm. I have always wanted to press my thumb into the bud of a plucked flower and force it to bloom.

If you haven’t left yet, let’s talk.

With the brutality of my naked desire clear, I don’t mind sharing the honey. I always wished I could suffocate a self-image with the relaxing scent of baby-powder. I wanted to drown an adult’s protests in a deluge of my breast’s milk.

I would coddle, care and coo. They would hardly need to do a thing. Once they submitted, I would be their all-devouring everything. How I would praise them for every little thing. The measure of their life would come to fall in the dimensions of a playpen—“Shin-high is high enough, Mama’s good baby knows not to leave their cage.” Their highest achievement would be a regular bowel movement in the soft plastic of a diaper—"You made such a good mess for Mommy, she loves you so much!”

What would they even have to trade away, really? Nothing but a trifle—nothing but their agency. And think how lovely it would be to never worry about a thing. Discard any thoughts about the tough decisions that Mama would handle for all time hence. Think of how nice it would be to give in, to let a living death creep into your mind, so Mama could kiss the booboo.

I wanted to burn away a person’s life that I would become their everything. All they had to do was break. Break, for Mommy.

Oh, darling, I’m so glad you’re still listening. Perhaps you want this yourself? Or, perhaps you wish to learn from Vivienne, Mama extraordinaire?

Don’t be too fussy, but I need to tell you that I’ve already done it. I have reached the goal that long tantalized me. I’d love to tell you how I did it.

~

I went through five targets before my eyes fell on my dearest little Amrita. Her downfall started so simply—a visitation to certain websites on public Wi-Fi. Why, what a foolish thing, to do, to watch grown women in diapers mewl for their Mommies, on a public connection? Surely, I knew, Amrita needed proper guidance. A little birdie behind a computer had been ever so kind to provide me with a short portfolio on Amrita, a trifling request in age of data-brokers.

The poor dear was a whiz in the courtroom. A defense attorney for only the most depraved of the rich. She had money, power and respect, that truly toxic cocktail. I am a woman of means, I’ll never deny, but the rich, as a class, are parasites—engorged royalty who take no joy in their vacant greed. At least I’m willing to have fun.

Of my previous unknowing applicants, Amrita had that special quality I desired most to destroy. Amrita was prideful. Success after success and the admiration of her peers had bloated her with an ego ripe for my reaper’s touch.

What would they say when they saw Amrita under the care of Mama Vivienne? I salivated at the answer: she would break.

At an innocent cocktail party, I struck up the band to play the first tentative overture of her destruction.

~

Amrita stood, draped in elegant maroon, on the balcony. She had stepped out for a cigarette.  A sly gesture, meant only to disguise a carnivorous smile as her ears were tickled by the whispered awe of partygoers she could still hear. Her hair caught a breeze and the black strands flowed like a ship’s captain on the prow.

She was so absorbed in herself that she didn’t hear me. I leaned my back against the balcony railing in my black column dress and oh-so-innocently allowed my thin, purple boa to tickle her arm. I watched her quickly hide the shark-teeth of her smile. Her lips warped into a damnably charming grin.

“Hey, little girl.” Amrita greeted me. With a dextrous wave, she popped a cigarette out of her case, offering it to me. “Need help finding your Mama? Or are you looking for a new one?”

I was innocence and seduction, entwined. I plucked the cigarette from Amrita’s lips. I took a deep drag and pitched it from the balcony as I exhaled. “I’m Vivienne. Why don’t you come inside? I wouldn’t want you to catch a chill or take a spill. Balconies are dangerous. All that champagne in those high heels? You’re liable to take a tumble.”

Oh, how she, in her pride, thought she was an active agent in my games. “What,” she replied in question, “and leave this lovely conversation?”

I leaned my head back over the balcony. “Arrogance is so unbecoming, Amrita.” With the movement of a shadow, I slipped behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist. I whispered warmly into her ear. “If you really must stay out here, I’ll have to keep you safe.”

She leaned back into me. “Not a bad idea, now that you mention it, Vivienne. You seem to know my name—but I could take you into the guest bedroom here and give a proper introduction.” Oh, that pride. I was going to enjoy dismantling it.

“No need for privacy.” I answered. “I’ll check you right here.” I slid my hand up Amrita’s leg and dragged a finger along her slightly dampened panties. “You’ve had a little accident, my love. Aren’t you a bit immature for lingerie?”

I felt her stiffen in my embrace. I continued, “Oh, hush. It’s quite alright. Playing big girl is fine within reason. But if you refuse to listen to Mama, we’ll have to put you back in diapers.”

Amrita loosened herself, with grace, from me. “So, you’re that kind of Mama, huh?” She shook her head. “Then let’s leave it here. All that baby stuff isn’t my thing.” She put out a hand. “I’m going back inside. It was lovely meeting you. I wish you all the best in your hunt.”

I took the offered hand. I didn’t shake. I held it firmly. “If you won’t be a good girl, will you at least give Mama a kiss goodbye?”

Amrita leaned in towards me. “It’s only polite.” She intended to lead, but as her lips neared, I seized them in mine. I could feel her muscles relax—I could feel her submit. I took my time, tamping down her tongue with my own so I could explore every inch of her mouth at my leisure.

When I pulled away, her mask of defiance had gone askew. “You’ll dream of me, even though you deserve discipline instead of a reward. But next time,” I warned, “don’t say no to Mommy.”

~

She thought that I had left the party after our encounter. But a quick change in the bathroom and a pair of glasses afforded me the chance to watch her. She spent the evening playing grown-up, yes, but not well. I saw her eyes scanning the party when she could—a little girl looking for her mother.

I just so happened to chance on my Amrita in her nearby coffee shop the very next morning. Oh, do you doubt? It was perfectly innocent, I assure you. But remember also that Mama Vivienne makes her own fortune.

I slid into the chair across from Amrita. I looked at the case files spread out before her. I silenced the quiet hum of her laptop by pressing the screen shut. “Looking for the next big case is a cute idea.” I produced a small package of crayons and slid it forward. “Wouldn’t it be more fun to draw a pretty picture for me?”

She protested, but I could see how her eyes lingered on the crayons. “Vivienne. I see you didn’t have luck finding another victim at the party last night.” She pushed the crayons back towards me. “I’m quite alright, thanks. I’ll get you a coffee.” She smiled. “To-go, of course. I’m busy. The firm is throwing me a party tonight and I want to get my next case picked out.”

“Oh, darling, my poor feelings.” I mockingly pouted. “I don’t need a victim. I have you. And I could hardly let you attend a grown-up party all alone.”

Amrita’s diplomacy was failing her. “You’re a smart lady. Have you heard the word No?”

“It’s my favourite word.” I replied. “But if you really want me to go, just say…oh, how about Aspirin?”

Did she hear herself when she next spoke? Did she stumble on her words? Did she want me to leave her be? I couldn’t tell, and I can only guess, because what she said was “Ibuprofen. Do you really get off pushing people towards something they don’t want?” She asked.

A playful shrug. “What is it you don’t want?”

Amrita gently packed up her papers. Perhaps to flee, perhaps to follow. “To clarify what you seem to think is going to happen. I go with you to a hotel room, let you put me in a diaper. You have me eat you out and then you let me cum in cartoon padding? Doesn’t sound too great.”

I tut-tutted. “A suite, dear Amrita. A Mommy of my caliber lavishes my sweetlings with only the best. It’s right across the street. A nursery, with everything you can imagine, all in your size. All you need to do is come with me.”

She seemed to consider the offer. “And what if I don’t like it? I say the word, we shake hands and say goodbye—” she caught herself, “—though I guess it’s a kiss goodbye with you.”

“We’ll see.” I said, standing, offering one of those maternal promises of maybe that have no guarantee. “Depends on how well-behaved you are.”

~

From the coffee shop to the street, to the hotel, to the elevator, I held firm to Amrita. An innocent embrace of two lovers from the outside. But Amrita felt the strength in my embrace. Her eyes darted about, a blush rose to her cheeks, she was afraid that others would see the truth—she was a little thing, under Mama’s guidance.

“Hush, baby girl.” I slipped a pacifier between her lips as the elevator approached the top floor. “No need to shiver, it’s warm here with Mama.”

She didn’t protest, she allowed herself to explore the feeling of the rubber bulb in her mouth. Her muscles relaxed as we stepped from the elevator into an empty hallway. I allowed her to ooze into me. I guided her to the suite, caressed the lock with my keycard, and we entered.

Oh, Amrita tried so hard. She tried not to allow awe in her gaze as she looked upon the brilliantly upholstered nursery suite. Plucking the pacifier from her mouth, she said “I didn’t think you were serious.”

“Mama is always serious.” I chided. I lifted her satin skirt. “Not even a smiling kitty on your panties? That won’t do.”

“M-maybe we take it slow. Talk for a while.”

“Don’t fuss, dearie. I think you’re hungry. And when I put your pacifier in, it stays in until I take it out. Understood?” I slid the soothing toy back between her lips.

She almost replied. She caught herself, and simply nodded.

Under my guidance, we walked to the loveseat. I sat first, then brought her down with me, resting her head in my lap. With a flourish, I undid the buttons of my blouse. I freed my breast from my bra and dangled the milky nipple above Amrita’s wide-eyed stare.

“Eat up, then we can play.” I watched her eyes, helpless. She was trying to find a way to communicate that the pacifier’s shield prevented her from consuming my delectable nectar. I softly pressed a finger against her nose. “That was a test. You did such a good job for Mommy.”

A moment after I removed the offending soother, she latched. She drew hungrily and deep from me. It was as if she had never eaten a day in her life. In short order, she slowed, and began feeding at a natural pace. An outsider could have regarded this as temperance. Perhaps an outsider with more knowledge would see the slowing as pricked with fear. They might imagine Amrita merely realized how she wanted this moment to last. But they wouldn’t have Mama’s eyes, they wouldn’t have Mama’s perspective. I saw the glaze trickle into my baby’s eyes. She nursed at a new pace because she knew this was merely the first of many. She was mine, now.

We luxuriated in the nursery suite that afternoon. As the final drops of milk petered out and Amrita relaxed in the cradle of my arms, I told her to let go. She did. Her bladder emptied into her clothes, onto me, onto the loveseat. That prideful adult didn’t even whimper. That prideful adult had withdrawn within.

My patronizing remarks did nothing but make the heat within Amrita rise. I brought her into the bath, climbed in with her, and languished in washing us both. In the warm bubbles and perfume, she suckled her soother and allowed herself to submit.

I left her only in a diaper as we explored the nursery. She had fallen completely into her role. The only prickling of that vaunted pride and damnable ego came in moments where I let my hand linger on her diaper a moment too long. As I introduced her, by name, to all her new stuffies, she repeatedly tried to superstitiously pleasure herself on them. But time and again, I whispered, “Not until Mama says it’s time.”

You might think that this would be enough for me. You might imagine that I’d become satisfied with my work.  I was satisfied, yes. But I told you what I wanted. This haze unto which the adult Amrita had descended was only temporary. Once the day had passed, she would return to herself. Perhaps shame would fall. Perhaps she would come to hate herself and me for allowing it all to happen. How else could I protect her? I had to break her.

I fostered her submission, her half-catatonic daze. I fed her, changed her, held her as she had an afternoon nap. I ceased speaking to her with words. I allowed the jumble of gentle colours and sensations to lull her completely.

As a test, I called her phone. Her ringtone sounded, but there wasn’t a hint of recognition in her for the sound. It was time to move ahead.

When I dressed her in a baby-doll dress that pressed tight against her breasts, she didn’t squirm. She let out no words and no whimpers as I fastened the toddler-harness onto her and took the leash. For the moment, she saw nothing but Mama, even as we left the suite and got into the cab.

It was only when the doors of the rented ballroom opened that she flickered back into herself. What an exquisite pain she must have felt as her firm, colleagues and friends saw the sight of her. I played with one of her black pigtails. “Aren’t you excited to say hello to everyone? The party is for you. I thought it would make a grand occasion for your coming out.”

Amrita’s eyes of fear and anger glared at me. I can only imagine the curses she wished to throw at me. But, she said nothing, because even in her fury, she knew that the pacifier only came out on Mama’s command.

“You’re going to tell them who you are. What you are. You’re going to punctuate it by filling those adorable pampers for them. And when you’re done, Mama will give you relief. If you do as you’re told, I’ll never deny your huffy humpies again. I’ll be Mommy forever.” I lifted a small vibrator from my purse. “Don’t you want to do a good job for Mommy?” I removed the pacifier.

The tension was excruciating as she turned from me.

I was proud to see her walk forward into the crowd. Her hand reached to her other arm and clutched it tightly. What better sight for a loving Mama than to see her baby step bravely into the world, no matter the fears that tugged at her?

A few murmurs. Confusion. A hint of betrayal, even? Questions passed among the crowd. “Is she having a breakdown?” “Should we call someone?” Disgust was a wave about to crash over my sweetling. The bonds she’d long worked to forge strained against the impossible sight of her, waddling to her downfall. I tightened the leash of her harness. The gesture said: “Far enough, darling.”

If you ask someone who has made a life-changing choice, they will tell you many things. Upon reflection, minutiae gain the significance of woven fate. If I hadn’t worn that hat, or if I had picked a different movie to watch, maybe I would have never gotten here. In reflection, events can calcify into deterministic fact. It was always going to come to this, I never had a chance for things to turn out differently. As a woman who prides herself on understanding the minds of adults who want to give everything that they are up for the infallible love of Mommy, I am aware of the truth. Every thought before the mind’s command to its body in the physical world? Only noise. The moment of choice, no matter how grand the consequences, is the easiest part.

Amrita breathed in to steady herself. The breath was ragged, and she only shivered more as she hollowed, dug down to the pillars upon which she had built an identity and knocked them loose with a gravedigger’s shovel.

“I’m a big baby. I need my Mama.” Tears pricked her eyes. A line of snot flowed from her nose. “I can’t wipe my own nose, or my bum. Mama feeds me. Mama takes care of me. I need her, and I can’t do anything myself. I ride in strollers and chew on soft toys. I can’t even be trusted to go to the potty by myself.” The tears poured forth, but she did not sob. She pulled up her skirt, bent her knees, grunted, and pushed. All eyes saw the back of her diaper expand with her waste. “I made poopies.” She said, voice quavering. She looked as if she were about to fall.

I was there to catch her. From behind, I brought the vibrator into her diaper as I held her up. She moaned, her eyes trying to close, to escape into herself. “Mommy says look.” Amerita obeyed.

As she moved towards a terrible climax, I whispered. I drew her gaze around to the horrified audience. I knew all their names and I knew the spaces they occupied in Amrita’s life. I reminded her of the life she was losing and how much these people meant to her. Their faces showed disgust. I allowed her to see the disparity between who she’d once been and never would be again. Darkened countenances glared down at her as she descended, and I forced her to watch every second. The wretched snapping of social bonds played percussion to her coming orgasm. When, finally, I was the only connection left, I whispered, “Come for Mommy.”

She obeyed. She gave a shuddering mewl of pleasure—the soft pastel fracture within her opened completely.

But as any good instructor, I made sure to test my work. I spoke to the crowd. “I’m truly so sorry. I thought she might be able to handle a party with the grown ups.” I looked down to see if my doll gave any reaction.

She gave none. She stared up at me. She thought nothing, she saw nothing, except me. I was the only thing in the world.

My flower had finally bloomed.

~

You look a sight. Are you afraid? You knew what you were getting into. I was very clear at the outset.

Or is it something else? Do you want to learn more, so you can prune your own treasure from the soil?

Maybe you’d rather something else. Maybe you’d like to know if my darling Amrita needs a sibling. Perhaps she does. But she’s ever so much trouble sometimes. She crawls about and gets into everything. She drools on all her pretty things, and lord help me if she doesn’t get cummies after her makes a stinky. If she were to have a sibling, they would have to be even less—someone that makes her look like a big girl.

Is that what you’d like?

~

Thanks for reading! I’m super happy with how this one turned out. I’ve been writing my whole life, but this is my third attempt at writing “smut” proper. I had a blast with it. Vivienne’s sociopathic glee was a treat to explore.

Love,

TW: ABDL Themes. Sexuality. All characters are adults: Georgia (24), Winnie (25), Evelyn (23).

About halfway from the parking lot to the picnic table, my arms gave out. “Suffer for art.” I groaned to myself, as I began to half-drag the VHS camera’s heavy plastic carrying case. I blinked an eye shut as it caught a bead of sweat from my forehead. “Stop laughing and help me!” I shouted to my friends ahead.

“I’m good!” Winnie shouted back. “I carried the cooler!”

“I got it.” Evelyn said. She met me on the grass, put a hand on the case and helped me lift it back up off the ground. “Georgia, I told you I had everything, you didn’t need to pack a…” she grunted, “an entire encyclopedia collection?”

As we reached the picnic table, I sat down, panting. I pulled a cap from my bag and slapped it on my head to protect me from the sun. Evelyn handed me a bottle of water and a napkin.

“You look like me when Evelyn dragged me out of the house today.” Winnie joked, lighting a cigarette.

Evelyn handed me a water bottle and a napkin to wipe my sweat. I powered half the bottle in one gulp and wiped my face off. “It’s a camera. A VHS camera.” Deep breath. “Heavy as hell, but it was only five bucks at the flea market.”

I knew the tell-tale silence of Evelyn and Winnie sharing a look and rolling their eyes at me.

“It’d be boring to point out that phones have cameras.” Evelyn chided. “But, you know you look like an idiot dragging that around. What’s the story?”

Finally catching my breath, I lifted my eyes. I let a mischievous tone take my tongue. “It’s an art project.”

Winne dragged her cigarette and waggled her eyebrows a little. I saw her eyes dart around quickly in unconscious habit—as if she was making sure no stranger was approaching.

“You see…” I took up the countenance of an ‘artiste,’ burying my genuine love for the idea under a layer of irony. “On this beautiful afternoon, I want to capture the nostalgia of a picnic lunch with my two dear friends with the similarly nostalgic view of this old hunk of tech.” I slapped the heavy case. “These things were falling out of fashion when we were kids. But I bet there’s a tape in a box somewhere of one of us doing an embarrassing recital or crying about having to leave a family reunion for bedtime.”

“I prefer the memory of my failure to learn the flute to stay in nightmares.” Winnie laughed. She pulled a portable ashtray cup from her sweater, snuffed out her butt and dropped it inside. She tried to clear a husky bit of phlegm in her throat.

“She never takes that thing with her unless I make her.” Evelyn told me. “Except today!”

Winnie shrugged. “If I’m going to pollute the park with my foul air, I can at least keep the bodies out of the grass.”

“Progress.” I noted.

Evelyn wanted to take some photos before we dug in. I obliged, keeping my hand from straying towards my own phone at the mention of taking a photo.

We took picture after picture. The best one was a selfie of the three of us on one side of the bench. Winnie had another cigarette hanging from her lips, winking but clearly feeling sheepish about the public display. Evelyn, holding the phone, was giving a peace sign and shooting a goofy grin. And there I was, in the middle of the two. Evelyn pulled the phone down so we could look.

Winnie was a sunny gal, awkward wink and all. She was nervous outside the house, waylaid by a persistent agoraphobia. Her anxiousness was displayed especially in her constant ingestion of nicotine—at home, she barely smoked at all. Even if it always took a bit of work to pull her out, she always tried to make the best of social days with Evelyn and me. I was proud of her, in my friend captured in the image, persisting in joy despite everything that tried to hold her back.

Evelyn, peace sign and goofy grin notwithstanding, had the humour of an oasis-less desert. She never took anything too seriously, but her dryness was never pointed—it was a reminder, a request for people to remember to take life as it came, to have fun with it. Evelyn was our perennial leader, always prodding us to go a little farther from our comfort zone. If we couldn’t make it past that barrier? No big deal. Maybe a brief gag at our expense and on she went.

Our happiness and our contradictions were reflected in the moment of the shutter snap.

I hated to see myself, though. I remembered smiling, and my cheeks were certainly poked with my upturned lips. But I didn’t look happy. In the harsh frame of a moment now passed, I saw the smile of someone who shouldn’t be there. I was a figure fit only to hold the camera in the backseat of a movie’s car scene, filming the leads as they drive off to the next adventure—forced into the pitiless eye of the lens.

If Winnie and Evelyn noticed my falling into thoughts, they kept their chatter up anyway. I couldn’t keep up with their words. I sunk deeper. When was the last time I ever existed purely within a given point in time? Even the odd prickle of my hidden desires—the ones that thrummed through every molecule of my body in moments of pleasure—existed entirely in the realm of fantasy.

“Well.” I said, getting off the bench, preparing to subsume myself in the safety of an art piece. I started opening the VHS camera case. “Let’s get filming! You two start eating, I’ll be right there.” I removed the camera and tripod, checked the best angle to avoid glare. Winnie snuffed out her cigarette into her portable ashtray and Evelyn started spreading out the food and plates.

Satisfied with my position, I checked the framing of the scene in the monitor. I could see my friends, smiling and preparing to dig in. “Alright, get ready for action.” I told them. I hit record.

In the monitor, I saw a different world.

Winnie was almost unrecognizable. The 25-year-old’s sweater and jeans had been replaced by a pink shirt and a pair of butterfly shortalls. Her messy black hair was pulled into a ponytail. Not once did her eyes dart around to note passerby or confirm that strangers weren’t approaching, she just looked ravenously at the plate Evelyn had served her. She sucked away on a pacifier.

“Hold on, Winnie, let me get your bib.” Evelyn said. Her own attire had been replaced by softer colours and an apron with a winking cartoon sun. She walked around behind Winnie and tied a duckie bib to her chest and neck. “Paci out.” She said, plucking the pacifier from Winnie’s mouth. “We promised we were trying to quit, hun. And you can hardly eat with it in.”

Winnie groaned but stayed smiling. “I bet I could figure out how to eat with it.” She started messily eating with a plastic spoon.

“Uh huh. And leave Mommy with the mess.” Evelyn noted, returning to her own plate.

I watched them eat a while. Neither looked up at me for even a second. I was a voyeur, as always. When I lifted my eyes off the monitor, the changes were still there.

“Eat up, so you can play.” Evelyn told Winnie. They both looked peaceful, so perfectly in the moment—as if this strange scene was completely normal.

An entire life of needling needs that I’d never admitted—never once embraced—had stitched the lips of a maw of want that was opening in me.

“Mommy?” I asked Evelyn. She didn’t turn. She didn’t hear me. I was a camera operator, not a participant. The camera battery blinked on the monitor. I hadn’t put the new batteries in. “No!” I shouted. Panic. I was going to lose this moment. The maw of want would moan its hunger forever.

“Is Georgie coming?” Winnie asked.

A shake of the head. “No, I don’t think she wanted to come.”

“I do.” I whispered. “Please, I’m right here!” But I couldn’t be heard. I was outside the dream before me. The battery light blinked more angrily in the monitor.

“I want this, I want you to see me.” I thought to myself.

I would do whatever it took. I left every reservation behind. I bent my knees, grunted, filled my panties with waste from my backend. I stepped into the camera’s gaze.

Winnie smiled and waved at me, her mouth covered in food.

“I know that look.” Evelyn said, her eyebrows raising. “You went behind your little camera to do your business, didn’t you? Shy thing.”

I turned to see that that the VHS relic had transformed into a bulky Barbie video camera toy. My adult body was clothed in a bright yellow sundress, hardly hiding the bulky diaper beneath.

Evelyn’s voice was in my ear. “Did someone make a stinky for Mommy?” She made a show of leaning down and sniffing. “I think you did!”

I could feel the warmth of her breath as well as I could feel the bulging mess in my diaper. “Yes, Mommy…”

Evelyn clapped. “What a good girl!”

Winnie stopped eating a moment. “Mommy, she did it!”

“She sure did.” Evelyn said, guiding me back to the park bench. “Now let’s get you all done up so you can have a little snooze while Winnie tires herself out.” She laid me into her lap, undid the straps of her apron and produced her breast, nipple dripping with milk. “Have your lunch, baby Georgie.”

I didn’t hesitate. I leaned in and began to suckle. Waves of understanding and desire flooded into me. This was right. This was everything. My hips lifted unconsciously, raising up to grind the air. Evelyn’s hand met my diaper. “That’s right, who’s a good girl.” She began to rub the front of my diaper. “Let’s get all those cummies out so I can change you.”

I felt warmth. I felt passion. I felt a desire to be nowhere else but right here. As Mommy cooed and Winnie cheered me on towards climax. I was a good girl, a good baby, a precious thing doing a wonderful job. When I finally came, I was spent. Milk and drool mixed on my lips and cheek.

Evelyn—my proud Mommy, settled me gently on the bench seat. She pulled wipes, powder, and a new diaper from her bag. She was so proud of me—humming as untapped my diaper and gently cleaned me in full view of the shining sun.

My eyes fell upon the space where the tripod once stood. Both it and the camera were gone. Not a single part of me cared to see it go.

~Thanks for reading!

Love,

Sam was an unconscious manipulator. She was innocent, if anyone can be for the things they do without meaning to. In all her 29 years, Sam had never asked another to swoop in and save her. She simply didn’t see that the way she acted and the things she said made it all but an imperative for others to help.

                “I’ll probably just have water.” Sam told her friend Lizzie. Sam looked around the bistro, crowded with other lunchgoers. “I’m broke.” She whispered.

                “Why don’t I get lunch? You look hungry enough to chow down on the fake breadsticks.” She laughed, happy to help. “Get whatever you want.” If Sam required someone to swoop in, Lizzie was a mother bird, happy to spread her wings.

                Sam smiled, gratefully. She spared not even a thought about how many times Lizzie had covered her meals. She opened her menu and scanned it.

                “I was thinking we could hit up the gallery expo after-party.” Lizzie said, making conversation. “Lord knows we don’t know anything about art, but Rachel should be able to get us in.”

                Sam nodded and murmured a grunt of assent. She was focused on trying to figure out what half the words were on the Bistro’s French menu. The server arrived and spoke to Lizzie, but Sam didn’t hear a word.

                Eventually, Lizzie pulled the menu down from Sam’s face and gave a wink. “She’ll do chicken fingers and fries, please. And milk. I’ll do coffee with my sandwich. Thanks!”

                “Thanks.” Sam said as the server took the menus and headed off. “I never know what to get.” For a quick moment, Sam wondered when the last time she’d had chicken fingers, but the thought passed without any interrogation.

                “You just let Mama Lizzie worry about all those things. You hardly got anywhere with your colouring.”

                Sam was horrified to see that, in fact, yes! She hadn’t even figured out what colour the kitty should be. Even if the poor, wide-eyed feline ever made it through the maze, what would they do living in black-and-white? “Yeah, you’re right. I just need to figure out what…” Sam reached for the jar of crayons, hand tentatively hovering over them. “’Cause kitties need to have the right colour.”

                “How about that pink one, sweetie?” Lizzie asked, looking at her phone, trying to figure out who was going to babysit her 29 year-old if she went to the gallery party.

                “Of course!” Sam said, excitedly. She plucked the pink crayon from the jar and began to help her new kitty-friend. “Ruff! Ruff!”

                “Kitties say meow-meow, Sammie.”

                “Mow-Mow!”

                “Close enough.” Lizzie laughed.

                When the food arrived, Lizzie put a splotch of ketchup on Sam’s plate. Sam began to devour her food, fingers and mess and all. Lizzie poured the glass of milk into a bottle for Sam. “You’re gonna choke, baby.”

                Sam did just that, a hunk of chicken tickling at her throat. Lizzie held the bottle up to Sam’s mouth and Sam suckled deep, until the chicken came loose. Sam coughed, mouth open, drooling and spraying food chunks down her mouth.

                Lizzie rolled her eyes playfully and tut-tutted as she wiped Sam’s face. “What do we say when we make a mess?”

                “Thanks, Mama!” Sam shouted gleefully. She felt a twinge and some warmth as her already-soaked diaper leaked out into her overalls. She looked down at her wet crotch. “Oopsie!”

                “Oopsie, indeed!” Lizzie replied. She helped Sam out of the booth and signaled the server over to ask for the location of the bathroom.

                “Uh oh.” The server said, playfully. “She looks like she’s getting up there, but she hasn’t quite figured out when she’s wet?”

                “Oh, she’s 30 next month.” Lizzie answered. “It’s not a huge thing, I know she knows when she needs a change. But, no, she just lets Mama take care of it.” She playfully booped the smiling Sam on the nose and shrugged. “Just can’t seem to get it into her head that big girls ask for help.”

~Thanks for Reading.

Love,