#dearchloe

TW: Ageplay, diapers, humiliation, bedwetting, spanking, manipulation

This story was inspired by and costars (with her permission) the wonderful @dearchloe. Go check out her amazing work!

"No, Mister, no way! You have wet the bed five of the last six nights. I am done playing around. Five nights of wet pull-ups in a week means you sleep in the nursery until you can prove you deserve otherwise. No exceptions!" Miss Chloe lectured me as she fought to get me diapered and dressed for bed.

Miss Chloe, the domineering British woman who had shown up at my door one day, declared she was my Nanny, and somehow took over my life like an AB/DL Mary Poppins, wasn't wrong. I had wet the bed five of the last six nights, and I had invoked her prescribed consequence of having to move into my guest room turned nursery until I could prove I could keep my pants dry overnight.

Of course, it didn't matter to Miss Chloe that my accidents had all been her fault.

All characters are 18+

cw: abdl, messy diapers, diaper change

“Stop, stop, stop.”

Kayleigh obediently stopped, mid-verse, and stepped back, turning to face Ava, the director, who stood at the back of the auditorium. Grace, who was the musical director but also the pianist, and therefore facing in the opposite direction, gave the leading actress a sympathetic grin and pushed her stool away from the keyboard, reaching down for the water bottle that they all knew was a necessity if they wanted to make it through the long hours of rehearsal in this overheated room without gaining blinding headaches along the way.

“Everything OK?”

“It’s missing something,” the director declared, and Kayleigh worked very hard not to roll her eyes. A similar declaration had been made at least three times a day ever since they started rehearsing for this production. Plenty of somethings had been added, and most of them had been taken out again shortly afterwards when the director changed her mind about it after a night’s sleep.

But it was just one of those things that you had to put up with when you did amateur dramatics — you got amateur directors.

“Like what?” Kayleigh inquired, as politely as she could manage, sitting down on the stage with an audible squish and crossing her legs. She’d been standing, walking, and dancing for four hours and counting by now, and if there was an opportunity for an impromptu break then she was absolutely going to take it. “A tap routine? Or a male voice choir? Or a saxophone solo? Or —”

“No, no, none of that. It needs more whimsy. Something like…” The director paused. “Kay, would you stand up and sit down again for me?”

The actress shrugged. “Sure?” She hopped up to her feet and then, somewhat awkwardly, sat down again. Same squish.

“I thought I heard something!”

“Yeah, I need a change.” Kayleigh brushed a hand through her hair. “Sorry, and all that, but —”

“No, no, don’t you see? It’s perfect! That’s what we need!”

Kayleigh and Grace exchanged a series of looks, and at long last, Kayleigh accepted defeat. “What’s what we need?”

“More verisimilitude!”

“Bless you.”

“You’re a baby, right? So why are you standing singing sophisticated stuff with harmonies and counterpoints?”

Grace intervened. “Because that’s what you asked me to write.”

“Yes, yes, yes.” Ava waved a dismissive hand. “But it doesn’t fit! And now I know why! It’s too grown-up.”

“Too grown-up?”

“We have a nursery setting, so we need nursery music!”

“Like… The Wheels on the Bus?”

“No, no. This is an original musical.”

“Oh, of course. Silly me.”

“What we need,” Ava continued, the light of creation in her eyes, “is a score that feels at home in a nursery. We need rattles. We need banging blocks. We need a kind of… nursery ambience. The authentic sounds of the nursery.”

“I cannot conceivably score a musical for rattle and teething ring, Ava.”

“Sure you can.”

Kayleigh stifled a yawn. “So are you guys going to need me for this? Only like I said, I could kinda use a change.”

“And it’s past her naptime,” Grace added, striking a gentle discord on the piano. “Let her go, Ava. She’ll only get fussy otherwise, and we need to work on this.”

The director sighed. “Fine, whatever. Will you put her down, Grace? I’ll try and brainstorm a bit.”

“I guess.” Grace stood up from the stool and stretched, her shoulders cracking. “Ready, Kay?”

“Sure.” The actress got up, taking her friend’s hand. “See you, Ava.”

“See you, Kay. Have a good nap.”

The two exited stage right, leaving the auditorium through a little-used side door, and began the short walk back to Kayleigh’s nearby accommodation.

“Do you think we’re ever actually gonna finish?”

Grace sighed. “Your guess is as good as mine. She doesn’t seem to get it. I can’t just write whole new songs overnight. Maybe there are people who can, but I’m not one of them, and if it goes on like this much longer, there won’t be anything left of the original concept at all.”

Kayleigh squeezed her shorter friend’s hand tightly. “I know you can do it.”

Grace laughed briefly. “Swap you? You write it, I’ll sing it.”

“I don’t think that would end well.” Kayleigh fumbled in her pocket to find her room key, letting them both into her apartment, and Grace wrinkled her nose as they entered.

“Wow, you really do need a change.”

The actress blushed. “Sorry. It was that curry night at the students’ union.”

“Yeah, no kidding. Get your butt on the mat, girl.”

Meekly, Kayleigh laid down on the changing mat which was the centrepiece of her living space, and there was a rustle of fabric as Grace flipped up the other girl’s skirt.

“You reek. Well, here goes nothing.” As was her wont, Grace began humming something faintly soothing under her breath. Whether she meant to calm herself or Kayleigh, the latter was never entirely sure, but it was nice, and so she didn’t question it. She wriggled a little on the mat as the other girl gave her bum an exploratory squeeze, and then couldn’t help giggling as Grace tore the four tapes, one by one, perfectly in time with the rhythm of her tune.

“What are you humming?”

“It’s, uh…” Grace frowned and hummed a few more bars as she tried to remember. “No idea. Something I made up, I think. I always just think of it as Kayleigh’s Stinky Song.”

The actress attempted to swat her friend’s face, but the other girl pulled back and she missed dramatically. “It’s cool, I like it. Title needs some work, though.”

“It’s nothing special.” Grace peeled back the front of her friend’s nappy and pulled a face. “Girl, we are so totally doing something about your diet. This is gross.”

“I can change myself, you know.”

“Eh, what are friends for?” The humming resumed as Grace pulled the baby wipes towards her and opened the lid of the packet with a click.

Kayleigh lay back and enjoyed the tickle of the wipes against her skin, and the soothing notes of the music. “Grace?”

“Yeah?”

“You know that thing you’re humming?”

“Yeah?”

“Would you say it’s an original soundtrack?”

Halfway across Kayleigh’s bottom, the wipe paused, and so did the tune.

“You know, I guess I would.”

“The authentic sounds of the nursery, right?”

“And nurseries don’t get much more authentic than this.”

cw: beginnings of cg/l and md/lg

Georgia shook her head. “It’s wrong.”

“How can it be wrong?” Leaning over her shoulder and regarding the shapes on the canvas with a supportive lack of comprehension, Sophie took the opportunity to sneak in a kiss. “It’s abstract, right? It doesn’t have to look anything like me.”

The artist gave her girlfriend a look which they were both very used to by now. “Just because it’s abstract doesn’t mean it doesn’t have to be right.”

“But how do you tell?”

“You just do.” Georgia sucked the end of her paintbrush and frowned. “It’s hard to explain. It gets kind of… deeper. More real. It comes alive.”

“Your paintings come alive?” Sophie studied the whirl of violent colours and tortured shapes again, with a degree of concern this time. “No offence or anything, babe, but maybe it’s better if this one stays wrong.”

“Ha, ha.” She exhaled. “I don’t think I’ve ever really got one right yet. Maybe I never will. But I guess I thought if I had you as a subject…”

“That better not be going somewhere soppy.”

“Sorry.”

Sophie kissed her again, pushing between the paints and the painter. “You have one of me already, remember? I don’t want any painted competitors coming alive and fighting me for your hand. I’m not Lancelot.”

“Did he have painted competitors?”

“I dunno. He went to jousts and things, and fought over a girl’s glove, right?”

Georgia shrugged.

“Anyway, I’m not offended or anything, ok? I can be your girlfriend without being your muse.But you gotta do without your model now, because I have to be in town.” She gave the brunette a playful pat on the head.

And Sophie went to town, and Georgia watched a TV show, and later they both went to bed. And that might have been the end of it, except that it wasn’t.

Actually, it was 3am when Sophie, unable to sleep, went to get a glass of water and found herself standing before the canvas. Maybe it was sleep deprivation, maybe something deeper, but she suddenly felt she knew what Georgia meant. There was something shallow about the whole thing. Colour, and shape, and perspective, all carefully manipulated, all carefully interwoven — but really, she mused, no more meaningful than a toddler’s finger-painting, with long smears of green grass below and blue sky above and nothing at all to join the gap. Stick figures with stick arms and endless grins.

She’d never touched her girlfriend’s work before. She didn’t interfere. But now she’d seen the error, she positively itched to fix it. Sophie knew exactly what was needed — just a touch here, and another here, and almost before she knew it, the brush was in her hand and careful strokes were transforming the whole picture. 

Time lost all meaning, but nevertheless went by. The grey dawn light crept through the windows, brushing curious fingers over the edges of her work. The birds began their chatter outside, debating its merits. And Sophie sat back, exhausted, her fingers stained in oils, her eyes dark with sleeplessness, the work finished at last.

It was probably kind of weird to make your first piece of art a self-portrait. But it felt so right, it felt so deep, it felt so much like her, that she couldn’t bear the thought of anyone criticising it. 

Maybe it made sense. She knew herself better than Georgia knew her, after all, however deep their connection. There were parts of her that she had never dared share with the beautiful brunette she’d brought into her life. 

Up to now, that was. Because as she cast a final glance over the product of her efforts, Sophie’s eyes widened and she realised that she had given her work a title, spelled out in broad capitals for all to see. 

MAMA.

The picture wasn’t wrong any more. And she had to concede that Georgia had had a point. Suddenly, it felt very real.

There was a creak from somewhere behind her, and Sophie looked around with such intense love in her face that Georgia, who was just wandering out of the bedroom, stopped dead in her tracks, eyes wide, wondering what was going on.

“Come here, baby girl. I think you need to do another pretty picture for me.”