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“Hello.”

His voice was nothing like I expected it to be. I thought it’d be soft and quiet. Soothing, maybe. The kind of voice that could put me to sleep if he wanted to. I wouldn’t say it was the opposite. But it was bolder. Those two syllables felt defined and pronounced.

“Hi,” I bashfully replied.

“May I have your name, sweetheart?”

Were this any other place, any other time, or any other person, I’d likely not have reacted well to his choice of words. He could get away with it. With him, I’d encourage it. That right there? That was a panty-melter – a word I’d never have used before experiencing in that moment.

“Hazel,” I said, pushing my book towards him. I imagine that my eyes are comically large and filled with childlike glee - though I hope that this isn’t actually the case.

“Hazel? That’s a very pretty name.” His emphasis on ‘very’ hits me deeply.

“Thank you,” I said. I wanted to say more. There were a thousand things I wanted to say, but I just couldn’t.

“This is a well-loved copy of my book,” he says, holding it in his hand. He flips through the pages, as if he had never seen it before. He wasn’t looking at his book, he was looking at mine. He was admiring the worn edges. The dog-eared corners. The missing piece of the back cover. The occasional handwritten note in a margin.

He stops on a page and reads one of the notes, but I can’t see which it is. It’s probably something embarrassing. They’re all embarrassing.

“Twila would never admit to such a thing,” he said, closing the book. “But you were absolutely right about that.”

I blushed, knowing exactly which note he was responding to.

“Thank you for being a reader,” he said, as his marker went to work on the title page of the book. “It means a lot to me.”

He holds the book up towards me and I snatch it from his hand. His smile is warm and friendly. There’s not an ounce of me that feels like this is an act or that he’s just going through the motions. I want to stay and talk to him. I want to ask him questions. Pick his brain.

But there’s a long line behind me, and everyone is looking a little impatient.

“If you’re all set,” the bookstore employee said to me with a friendly smile, “then I’ll have to ask you to step aside.”

“It was nice meeting you, Hazel,” he said, “I hope our paths cross again.”

--

Hazel,

We should talk again. Below is my number. Use it.

- JG

--

­I read the note he scrawled in my book four or five times from the front seat of my car. Then I read it another ten times. Just to be sure that it was real. It was real.

I now had John Gentry’s personal phone number. Or so it would seem.

I wondered, though, who would actually answer when I called. His publicist? A random hair salon in Kentucky? His wife?

I wasn’t ready to call yet, though I knew that I needed to do it soon.

--

The book is called Surrendered. Genre fiction that comes dangerously close to being seen as ‘trashy,’ to most, myself included.

Following the siege and subsequent invasion of The Castle Riphan, Princess Twila offers herself to the Lord of the Dark Riders, Mestaphon, in exchange for the lives of the people of her kingdom – an offer that is accepted.

There are swords. Magic. A dragon. But I shouldn’t have to tell you that a good portion of this book is dedicated to Twila’s servitude to Mestaphon. He doesn’t expect her to just clean the castle.

Critics didn’t have many nice things to say about the book at the time of its release, but even they knew that their opinions didn’t matter. The audience knew what they wanted, and this book delivered upon it. 653 pages of blush-inducing depravity that was best read in the middle of night when everyone else was asleep.

I should be embarrassed by my fandom, but I never really have been. I don’t need to impress anyone with my tastes. We’re allowed to like things. Lowbrow things. I probably won’t recommend it to my mother, but I’m not going to keep it in a locked box under my bed either.

John Gentry. I know almost nothing about the man. It’s a pseudonym, I think. His biography barely scratches the surface of who he is. There are scant interviews with him, and most are focused on his work and not his life.

I’m not sure if he’s mysterious, or if he lacks the level of fame where people start prying into this personal life feverishly.

I had driven four hours to a city I had never been in before just so I could have him sign my worn copy of Surrendered. I kept telling myself that I was going to be disappointed by my experience. I’d wait in a line, hand my book to a man who wouldn’t make eye contact with me, scribble on my book, and then I’d have to drive 4 hours back. I was prepared for that, and I told myself that I was okay with it – even if I wasn’t.

Now, I could put off the drive home for a while.

--

“Hello.” He didn’t answer the phone with a question – he answered it with just a greeting, like I had walked into his house. I wondered if he had seen my number – one that had never called him before – and knew it was me, or if this was how he always answered the phone.

“Hi,” I said. “I don’t know if you remember me or not, but…”

“Hazel?”

“Yes.” I laughed – I had to. I loved hearing him say my name. It also eased my mind of the suspicion that he had given his number to many women over the course of the day – hoping that at least one would call. I was, assumedly, the only one. I was special.

“I’m glad you called.”

“I’m glad you called too.”

“Do you live locally?”

“No. I live…a few hours away.”

“And are you home now?”

“N-no. I’m…here.”

I thought that I could hear him smiling. Maybe he just laughed subtly. “Here? In town? This is good news, Hazel.”

Say my name again. “Yeah?” I had no idea what else to say. I didn’t know what he wanted. I mean, I could guess. I’d leave it to him to direct where this goes.

“I’m meeting with my agent in a half hour,” he said.

I wasn’t sure what this meant for me. “Okay?”

“I don’t like my agent,” he said with a laugh. “I mean, he’s obviously done very good things for me. But I don’t like spending more time with him than I have to. The meeting won’t be long, because I don’t want it to be long. So, I may be free any time after, say, 7.”

I looked at the time on dashboard. It was almost 6 PM. “Alright…”

“How silly of me,” he said. “Here I am, thinking about our plans and not saying them aloud.”

Our.

“7, if that works for you,” he continued. “We can get a drink together?”

“Yes,” I said. “Yes, I’d like that.”

“I’m staying at the Grotto. There’s a bar there. Do you know where that is?”

I knew absolutely nothing about this city, but that was what my smart phone was for.

“Sure.”

“Very good. Hazel, I’m very excited to see you again.”

My vision was getting blurry and I felt like I was leaving my body. I tried hard to compose myself. “Yes. I…I’m looking forward to seeing you.”

“Excellent. I will see you soon.”

Maybe he had something else to say, maybe that’s where the call ended – I couldn’t be sure. I was on the verge of a panic attack, something I don’t think I had ever felt before.

Deep breaths, in and out. By the time I felt like I was back in the driver’s seat of my car again, I realized I only had 20 minutes to find The Grotto and get to it.

--

There’s a scene in Surrendered where Twila finds herself backed into a corner, literally, by Mestaphon. He has his sword held out in front of her, and she’s pinned against the walls. He stands there, unmoving, for hours. He’s so still and unresponsive that she wonders if he’s even there beyond the physical presence. Yet every time she makes the slightest move, he waves the sword in her direction – reminding her that he’s very much aware of what she’s doing.

He has made no demands. She doesn’t know why she’s trapped in the corner, and she doesn’t know how long she’ll be there. Her questions – her pleas for a reprieve – go unanswered.

It’s my favorite scene in the novel, and the one I’ve re-read the most. If I were to be asked if it was a fantasy of mine – if I would want to endure this scenario myself – I’d likely object.

I’d be lying, of course.

--

I expect that he’ll be late. I have no reason to think this, it’s just a hunch. The busy, important, writer-man has a schedule that I just can’t comprehend. He’s got wheelings and dealings to contend with. An agent.

But he’s already in the bar when I get there. He has two glasses waiting in front of them. As I approach, one of them is pushed in front of the barstool next to his. He’s wearing the same thing he was wearing at the book signing - a slim and professional looking navy suit. Matching necktie. He looks like a sexy investment banker, not what anyone would think the author of Witch Queen Wars looked like.

“I don’t know what you like,” he said. “But I know what I like, and so I got you the same.”

There’s so much happening at this moment that I don’t know what to address first. I thought about this moment – when we saw each other again – and I had been thinking about what I’d do. Handshake? Hug? Simple greeting?

I sat at the stool, and without saying a word, I took a sip of the drink. I have no idea what it is. It’s sweet. I think it’s got rum in it, but I’m not sure. I like it, though.

I’m not a drinker. A social drinker, I guess. I drink what’s given to me at parties and outings. I’m very pleased that he had a drink ready for me, otherwise I’d have no idea what to order.

“It’s very good,” I say, exaggerating slightly. I couldn’t believe those are my first words to him.

He smiles. “Good. You can tell me if you don’t, though.”

“It’s good,” I said. “Promise.”

“It’s a mai tai,” he said. “It’s a people-pleaser.”

“You’re not wrong. How was your meeting with your agent?”

The question feels so silly coming out of my mouth. It’s like he’s my friend. My spouse. He’s more than a stranger who I had just met today.

“Business,” he spits. “My least favorite thing. Inevitable and necessary, I guess. But, god, I just loathe it. International publishing rights or some shit like that.”

“Sounds dreadful.”

“You have no idea.” It almost sounds condescending, but I don’t let myself dwell on it. Perhaps realizing how it may have come off, he quickly changes gears: “How are you? How was your day?”

I can’t help but smile. I feel like a bashful pre-teen. That wasn’t that long ago - just 6 or 7 years now. I realize that I may still be that love-craving little girl.

“It was amazing,” I finally said. “I got to meet one of my…” I’m hesitant to say the word, and I try to find another instead. It’s taking too long and I stick with what I was going to say initially. “...heroes.”

“One of? Who is another?”

I wasn’t expecting the question. “Beyonce, I guess.”

He laughs, the most perfect smile appearing on his face. “Me and Beyonce. Good company for me. I don’t know how she’d feel about it.”

“This doesn’t feel real,” I said. I regret saying it immediately. I wanted to look mature and centered. I wasn’t just some lusting fan. I was a woman.

“Hazel, believe it or not, I’m human too. Writing - that’s just my job. Everyone has a job.”

I want to tell him that he’s wrong. Sure, he’s human, and everyone does have a job to do. But my cousin Craig, who makes sandwiches at the local deli, isn’t changing the life of a 21 year old girl across the country. So far as I know.

“I don’t want you to think of me as a celebrity,” he added. “Let’s be friends.”

His mouth hangs open for another minute. He wants to say something else, but he decides against it. I don’t know what it was, but I could guess. I could tell you what I wanted him to say. “Let’s be friends. Maybe more.”

“John Gentry isn’t your real name, correct?”

He laughs. “It is not. John - that part is real.”

He doesn’t elaborate on what his actual last name is, but he doesn’t know what my last name is either.

“Where did ‘Gentry’ come from?”

“Do you know who Bobbie Gentry is?”

I shook my head.

“Look her up sometime.”

It’s not really an answer, but it’ll do. We both know that later - once I get home - I’m going to look up that name. And then I’m going to overanalyze whatever it is I find.

“Do you like book signings?” I asked. “It’s exciting for someone like me, I guess. A fan. But it always seems kind of boring and laborious for the writer.”

“It’s humbling,” he said. “They always are. I make it a point not to take too closely of a look at what people are saying about me online. I don’t want to know how many fans I have. Or how many haters. I just write, and my publisher keeps asking for more, and they keep giving me money. So I assume I’m doing well, right? So events like book signings tend to be one of the only times I get to see what my, uh, fandom looks like. It’s amazing. It’s terrifying.”

“Terrifying?”

“Well sure. What if my next book is the one that everyone hates so much that it ruins my career?”

“If I’m being honest,” I said. “I didn’t really care for Into the Golden Chasm.”

He laughed loudly. While he hadn’t seemed fake so far, this moment seemed so candid and real that it suddenly made everything else feel less genuine.

“No? I’m really sorry you didn’t like that one.”

“You made up for it with Sunflower Years and Sword and Sorrow though. I don’t think a bad book would be the end for you.”

“I appreciate that feedback. Though...maybe we should talk about Surrendered a little bit.”

I felt my eyes growing big and my heart skipping a beat or two. “Okay?”

“These signings - you see a lot of brand new books, you know? People show up at the bookstore, buy my book and take it to me to sign. You can always tell when it’s a well-loved copy that came off of someone’s personal bookshelf. And then there was your copy.” He laughed and shook his head. “It was as if it had never even been on a bookshelf before. You’ve never put the book down in the years you’ve owned it.”

I felt my cheeks warming. “I...like it. A lot.”

“I could tell.”

--

Excerpt from Surrendered, page 253:

Mestaphon remained still, as if he was a statue. As if he had petrified in the hours of having pinned her in the corner with his blade.

“Please,” she pleaded again. She knew it’d be hopeless, but she couldn’t convince herself to stay silent. “Please. You must let me go. I...I must…”

There was no response from Mestaphon. She wasn’t even sure that he was breathing.

“You don’t understand,” she said. “If I’m not freed from this corner, I’m...I’m going to…”

She let out a long sigh. This was never going to work. Her feet shuffled slightly - perhaps a test to see if he would respond, or maybe they just needed to shift position from exhaustion.

The tip of his sword shook. Subtle waving motions from him. A reminder that he was still watching. If he truly believed she would try to escape, he’d have cut her down - she had no doubt about this.

What choices were left? What else could she do? She was already cursed to having been stuck where she was, it seemed pointless to carry any other discomforts with her as well.

She didn’t release her bladder, so much as she just stopped concentrating on it. Instantly, she felt the hot liquid soaking through her undergarments and trickling down her leg. Most of it just fell from between her thighs onto the ground like a waterfall, while little rivers and streams spiraled around her ankles and into her slippers.

She could’ve sworn that, through the mask of Mestaphon’s helmet, he was smiling.

Handwritten note in the margins of the same page:

“Twila isn’t ashamed of this. She’s never felt more liberated.”

--

“Mestaphon is frequently - almost unanimously - seen as the villain,” John said, taking the first sip of his second mai tai. “But that’s not how I viewed him. I suspect you feel the same way?”

I nodded, finishing the last of my first cocktail. “Yes, exactly. I mean, he’s not a good guy. But he’s a savior, in a way, for Hazel. Her old life, though elegant and extravagant, was riddled with rules and schedules. Mestaphon challenges her to become someone new. To shed that structure and to embrace something more wild. More free.”

He closed his eyes and nodded slowly. He was savoring that.

“Thank you,” he said. “I’m glad it got through to you.”

“That was the beginning for a new her,” I said. “She just had to piss herself. Piss away the old life.”

“Mestaphon didn’t necessarily want her to piss himself,” John said. “But he wanted to see her break. He wanted to see her give up the stoicness that she had instilled in her since birth. She needed to give and break a little.”

I nodded. This felt completely surreal - talking about my favorite scene in my favorite book with the author who wrote it.

“What about you, Hazel? Have you ever pissed away your old life?”

“Literally?”

“Or figuratively.”

--

I had taken five towels and laid them out in the corner of my bedroom, after moving everything else out of the way. Most of the towels overlapped - and I felt that I had provided a sufficient barrier between myself and the carpet beneath.

I wore what I believed to be the closest I could manage to what Twila had worn - A simple dress, a simple pair of panties, and some open-toed sandals.

Then, I stood in the corner, my back to the walls. I decided that I would stand there and wait. No matter how long it took, I would wait until I had to go to the bathroom. I’d suffer through the desperation until I couldn’t hold it any longer. I’d let tears develop in my eyes. I’d have internal battles about whether or not I was being completely stupid and pathetic. And then I’d surrender the control on my bladder, as Twila did hers, and I’d piss myself in the corner.

It took two hours.

--

“Yes,” I said.

He laughed again. “But which was it? Literally or figuratively?”

“It could be both. Like Twila.”

“Was it both?”

I nodded. My face felt like it was on fire.

He took a deep breath and nodded. Some of his glee seemed to wash away, but it had been replaced with something else that I couldn’t quite place. It didn’t seem to be a negative energy.

“There was supposed to be another scene, later, that called back to that moment,” he said.

“Oh?” This was news to me. I had always wished that it had been referenced again.

“The publisher didn’t care for it. They felt that it had pushed the book too far in a direction that would be unpopular with many readers. Too...fetishistic.”

“How?”

He shrugged. “Well. It’d be a return of the, uh, wetting.”

I swallowed and nodded. “What was the scene about?”

“It’d have taken place after the execution of Finnel, but before Halder returned to the castle with the united armies.”

I understood the timing in the story. Mestaphon at his most lax towards Twila. Twila at her most rebellious.

“Twila is riding a high, of sorts. She’s been given more space to just, you know, live. Her ankles are no longer bound together. She’s free to roam the halls of the castle once more. But she doesn’t want to do the things she used to do. She doesn’t want to practice the lute. She doesn’t want to sit in the garden. She wants to be filthy. Crass. She wants to embrace the uglier parts of humanity that others would call sinful.”

Without even knowing it had happened, I realize that my heart is beating quicker and my breathing has grown louder.

“She demands an audience with Mestaphon, alone. In the old war room. He agrees to this - expecting that she’ll plead for her release from the castle as she once had. But to his surprise...she has nothing to say to him. She only wants him to watch as she pulls up her dress and pisses herself once more.”

I swallowed again, letting out air from my nose as if I was letting off steam.

It looked as if he had more to say. Maybe there was more to the scene, but he could see that he had stirred something within me already. Neither of us said anything for a few moments.

“I have a very nice hotel room,” he said. “It’s very large. A gorgeous view of the city. Would you care to see it?”

“Yes. I would like that.”

--

“I don’t have alcohol here,” he said as the hotel door closed.

“I don’t need it,” I said.

“Good.”

I wondered, for the briefest of moments, if he had mentioned this because he had done this before. Every city - every signing - yielded a young woman that he could herd into his hotel room. Sometimes this woman - or perhaps John - would need an extra drink or two to really get things going.

I was tempted to call him on it, or at least think out loud. I was curious to see how he’d react, or to see how honest about it he’d be. I bit my tongue for the time being.

“Ask me anything,” he said, slowly removing his suit jacket and tie, draping them over the back of the couch.

“Am I interviewing you?” I asked, smiling.

“This is an exclusive. No question will go unanswered.”

“Who is the father of Brahmell?”

He laughed. “Brahmell? Uh...Centaur’s Ride?”

I nod. I had never considered the fact that he may not have lived and breathed his own books in the way that I had.

“I never thought about it. It wasn’t important - only that he didn’t have a father.”

“I always suspected it was Jorn,” I said.

“Yeah? Alright, I like that. Let’s say that that’s canonical now. Jord is the father of Brahmell.”

I laughed, a feeling of pure delight washing over me.

“May I ask you questions?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Did you, or did you not, piss yourself like Twila?”

My cheeks are warm again. My pulse is racing. My chest and gut are fluttering and queasy.

I saw no reason to lie: “I did.”

“Did you enjoy that?”

“It’s my turn to ask a question,” I said, cracking a smile.

“Oh yes, of course. Go on.”

“Are you...married? Single?”

“Married,” he said. I expected him to dance around it a little, but he’s blunt. “Sheila. She’s a beautiful woman. She’s very far away from here.”

I had no idea what to make of that. It made everything feel a little shadier. It almost felt spoiling. But it didn’t shake me as much as I had thought it would. Maybe I had already assumed that was the case. Maybe it didn’t matter to me.

“My turn,” he said. I assumed he was going to re-ask if I liked my recreation of Twila’s plight. “Do you have secrets?”

It was a strange question. Of course I had secrets - everyone had secrets.

“Yes.”

A silence hung over the room a little too long. I should’ve left it at that. I had, after all, answered him. There was nothing more that I was obligated to say.

“What if we changed the game?” I asked.

“Okay?”

“I’ll trade you a secret of mine for a secret of yours.”

“I’m fine with that.”

“I’ll go first,” I said. “Since this was my idea.”

“Very well. Go on.” He stared intently at my face, seeming to soak in every movement and mannerism of mine.

“I put myself in a corner,” I said. “And I stayed there until I pissed myself. As Twila had.”

He opens his mouth, I assume he wants to ask for more details, but he resists. He mulled it over for a moment, and offered his own secret instead: “I have written erotica. Under yet another pseudonym. Nobody knows of it, so far as I know. It is not...vanilla.”

I find myself in the same predicament that he had been moments earlier. I want to ask him more about that, but I feelt obligated to offer another secret instead.

But I might have stumbled onto a workaround. “When I stood in the corner, pissing myself, I imagined that it would be you - or the concept of you - watching me. The extended sword would be optional. But it’d be you watching me do it.”

A secret, yes. But also an elaboration. I hoped that he would do the same.

“I write erotica about pissing,” he said, smiling and nodding to assure me that we were on the same page. “Well, not about pissing exclusively. But it tends to happen often. And it never happens in a toilet.”

“It awoke something in me,” I countered, further elaborating on my own secret. “I...I’ve done it more than once.”

“Desperate women, badly needing a restroom,” he said. “Their desperation drives them to take extreme measures - but they never seem to make it.”

It was my turn: “For a while, I thought it had to be a very specific scenario. I had to be in the corner, and I had to stand there and wait until I had to go. Hours. I’ve spent hours standing in corners while waiting for the pressure in my bladder to grow until I couldn’t hold it anymore.”

“I suppose it’s, uh, leaked into my more popular novels here and there - no pun intended. I don’t use it in scenes as much as I’d like to. I wouldn’t want my reputation as a writer to be reduced down to ‘guy who keeps writing pissing scenes.’”

“But, you know, I tried. I tried to...simplify it. I didn’t need to devote hours to it. I didn’t need to stand in the corner. I just decided to just...do it. Just wait until I had to pee and then just wet my pants.”

“It’s more than desperation. It’s more than just women wetting themselves. It’s about experiencing humiliation at a level that reduces someone to a horny mess.”

“I’m addicted to pissing my pants,” I said. “And I consider that to be your fault.”

“I know,” he said. “But I’m not sorry.”

“You shouldn’t be.”

He had started to lean forward, but I was faster. I planted my lips on his, and his arms quickly found their way to my sides. As our lips smacked together, and our tongues explored each other’s mouths, our hands gripped and grabbed blindly. My hands were on his chest, and I found the buttons to his shirt. I made it halfway down his shirt, slowly opening every button along the way.

His hands, meanwhile, had slipped under my shirt, pawing at my bra. Never before had I allowed someone such carte blanche access so soon. But it felt like an honor for him to be the one with that privilege. He could do whatever he wanted.

“If you like it so much,” he said, “you should show me.”

“Do you want me to...wet my pants?”

He nodded. I kissed him again.

“Whatever you want,” he said. “You could show me anything you want to.”

“I only have one pair of pants,” I said. “One pair of panties. I...I’d eventually have to leave here and go home.”

“Are you sure?” he asked. “You’re welcome to stay here until they dry.”

“My pants would still smell like pee.”

“It’d be heavenly.”

“I’d like it too,” I said. “But...eventually someone would probably notice.”

He laughed and nodded. “Fair enough. I...may have an alternative.”

“Okay?”

His fingers rapidly tapped at his knee while he considered it further. I wondered if he had regretted bringing it up, or if he was just nervous to see my reaction.

I attempted to guess: “Did you bring extra panties and pants? In case you meet some pissy little girl at the book signing that you could lure to your hotel room?” I followed this up with a big smile - wanting to be sure that I was teasing and not throwing shade.

“Panties?” he asked, laughing. “No, I didn’t bring panties. I have something else. Stay here, and I’ll fetch it.”

He stood up, straightening his pants and shirt a little before walking to the bedroom. I took the opportunity to center myself again too, fixing my bra and shirt a little and running my hand through my hair a few times.

I was curious. Very curious. But it was more than just his possible alternative to wet panties. It was the erotica that he mentioned - desperate women pushed to extreme measures? Damn. I’d like to have read that. Not to mention his entire persona. Where was the line between John Gentry and the real John - if that was even to be believed.

“I have these,” he said, returning to the living area. He plopped a clear plastic package down on the coffee table in front of me. And while I couldn’t quite figure out what I was looking at by staring at the contents, my eyes soon found the package’s label.

“Diapers?”

He nodded. “I should have led with that,” he said. “This. This is what another version of me writes about. Desperate women using diapers.”

I was surprised - but I wasn’t that surprised. The idea of diapers had never crossed my mind before. I guess, in some way, I knew that there was a subculture of adults who liked this sort of thing, but I had never considered it my personal explorations of my own kinks. It made sense.

“You bring diapers with you on your book tour?” I asked.

He laughed nervously and shrugged. The package had been opened, and some were clearly missing.

“Do you wear them?” I asked.

He shook his head.

I wasn’t the first woman to have this conversation with him. I wouldn’t be the last.

“It’s just an option,” he said. “If you’d like. But you can say no.”

“Does anyone ever say no?”

He blushed a little, perhaps not as comfortable with having his history pointed out. “No. But...I also don’t suggest them unless I feel good about the odds.”

In the back of my mind, I’m reading between the lines. There are more women then I could even imagine. Some get the diapers. Some get...just sex?

At the forefront of my mind, I’m thinking about the diapers. I think I’d like them.

My moral quandary doesn’t last especially long. He’s not the only one spending time in a hotel room with someone who isn’t their spouse.

“I want it,” I said. “Give me the diaper and I’ll wet it for you.”

“It’s that easy?” he asked.

I nod, shrugging.

“A diaper is not a pair of panties,” he says, pulling one from the package. He unfolds it completely, showing just how thick and large it is. It’s mostly white with pastel blue and pink designs on it. “It’s not just an undergarment.”

“No?”

“This isn’t just a diaper. It’s an experience.”

“So…”

“So, if you want the diaper, you’re going to go to my bedroom, like a good girl, and you’re going to lie down on my bed. And then, I’ll put the diaper on you myself.”

There’s a lot to take in, but what resonates with me the most is ‘good girl.’ It makes me wet. It also reminds me of something.

--

Excerpt from Witch Queen Wars, page 189:

“And so,” spoke Sage Gunbrook to Olnar, “if you want the Golden Belt, you will return to the Tantilin Shrine, and you will take your seat before the altar. And there, I shall place the Golden Belt onto you myself.”

I assumed - I hoped - that this was just a coincidence. Olnar would later be devoured by sea serpents.

--

My feet dangled from the end of his hotel room bed. He had just finished pulling my pants and panties off. I had felt good about some of the decisions I had made that morning: cute peach colored panties and a fresh shave. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that I was doing those things to end up where I’d be later - but it was funny how things worked out like that sometimes.

“When was the last time you were in diapers?” he said.

“Uhm...when I was a baby, I think,” I said, laughing. He laughed too.

“Just curious. You can never be too sure.”

I want to follow up on that. Had he ever stripped a young woman of her panties, diaper in hand, only to find she was already wearing a diaper?

Having younger siblings and cousins, the act of diapering another isn’t foreign to me. I find him to be surprisingly skilled. I wonder if he has children, or if this just comes from his post book-signing activities.

My legs were lifted into the air, the diaper spread out under me before being tucked under my ass. I’m a little self-conscious of it - if only because it’s been a long day. I’ve been sweaty. I’ve been aroused. There’s no way that’s not evident, especially as I continue to feel aroused as he manhandles me.

He was right - this was an experience. The diaper is not a replacement for panties - the diaper is the doorway to something else entirely. He’s babying me. I’m being treated like a giant baby.

“I like baby oil,” he says. “It helps keep your skin protected. And it smells very nice. Shall I get you some?”

This made me nervous. Nothing up to this point gave me that feeling, but the mention of baby oil felt dangerous to me. The idea of a lingering scent - the lingering scent of a baby - that would follow me home. It’d keep reminding me of what had happened in this hotel room. It could possibly call unwanted attention to me.

It was more than that. With every step I took into John’s world, the harder it was to imagine myself ever getting out of it again.

But I couldn’t say no.

“Yes.”

Tell me something is ‘baby scented’ and I know what that smells like. I don’t know what that scent actually is - talc and soft fragrances? But when the scent hits my nose - it is unmistakably, and exclusively, infantile. The moment he opens the bottle of oil, the scent overwhelms me, seeming to seep into my every pore.

He splashes some into his hands and rubs them together before dispatching them between my legs. He has no hesitation and doesn’t seek permission - but he doesn’t need it. If I hadn’t made it clear by that point, I would’ve - but we were clearly on the same page.

He rubs it into my skin. Each cheek. My inner thighs. Around my pussy, coming close to massaging my wetness directly, but never actually getting there. He teased me and I loved him for it. As quickly as he had started it, he wipes his hands off and sets aside the bottle. The diaper is folded over and taped shut.

I was now wearing a diaper.

“There you go,” he cooed. “Now you’re ready to go.”

Ready to go indeed. I hadn’t used the bathroom since lunch - and that was before the book signing. Before driving around the city while I debated as to when, or if, I’d call him. Before the drinks in the bar. I could distract myself easily enough, but when we were both looking for me to piss myself - my bladder began to scream at me internally.

“Now what?” I asked.

“I’m sure you can figure out what to do next.”

“I just...I just want to do right by you.”

He smiled, gently rubbing my leg. “You’re a good girl. One of the best.”

Later, I’d dwell a little too long on ‘one of.’ At that moment, this was a satisfactory response.

His hand stretched out to me, and I grasped it. He pulled me to a sitting position and I slid off the end of the bed. I kept looking down to the thick diaper and then back up to his smiling face. He said nothing, but his eyes encouraged me to explore my new situation a little.

I took a few lumbering steps - a waddle that shifted my weight from side to side, reminding me of watching baby cousins drift about in backyards. The thickness between my legs was a new sensation. It didn’t really remind me of anything else I would’ve worn before. Like the baby oil, it was something that felt as if it could only be a diaper.

“You look adorable,” he said.

I turned to the mirror, but I didn’t recognize the woman who looked back at me. My shirt was still on, but it did nothing to conceal the bulk of my diaper. I looked away, my face hot and full of color. “I’ll take your word for it.”

--

Excerpt from Sunflower Years, page 98:

“They disappeared into his room together,” said Alamott. “He told me that they would not return until he changed her.”

“What does that even mean?” asked Laydo.

“I haven’t the slightest,” Alamott said, shaking his head. “But I put my ear up to the door earlier.”

“And?”

“I...won’t do that again. What I heard made me blush.”

--

There was a quiet tension, of sorts, in the hotel room. I wore the diaper, and we both knew that as soon as I could wet it, I would.

I had to pee very badly. The hard part was allowing my body to let this happen there, in a diaper. In the presence of a stranger.

But there was a silver lining. I knew myself well enough to know that if I took too long to choose to wet my diaper, eventually my body would just give up and let it happen regardless.

I didn’t want to wait that long. Though, had I all the time in the world - and if John was wearing a suit of armor and had me pinned in a corner with a sword - I’d stand there all day if I had to.

“I don’t want you to overthink this,” he said.

“A little gun-shy, that’s all.”

I had sat down on the couch back in the living room, and he joined me, sitting to my left. His hand had been on my thigh, slowly sliding towards my diaper. By the time I had said the words ‘gun-shy,’ his hand was on the front of my diaper. A small moan released from my mouth. In all honesty, I barely felt his hand there - it was just the idea of it that triggered a release of endorphins.

With his left hand on my diaper, his right arm slowly stretched over my shoulder. I was beginning to feel enveloped by him. I was being absorbed. I didn’t dislike it, though I wished he had been a little more...maternal. That warmth and closeness was good, but I wished I was being swaddled and cuddled tightly. I’d like to have been in a womb.

“Do you like this, Baby?”

“Mmm.” It both was and wasn’t an answer.

Internally, my mind and body had formed a truce, and a peace accord had been signed. I would be allowed to use the diaper with no further resistance.

“Oh,” he said. “It’s...getting warmer.”

His hand remained there, pressing deeper into the padding as it swelled and flooded.

My smartwatch vibrated and lit up, coordinated with my cell phone - which I could also see had lit up from across the room. Someone, somewhere, was looking for me. They were going to have to wait a little longer.

--

Excerpt from “Hillary Storm’s” recently published erotica novel, The Autograph, page 104:

“Did you do that for me?” Joseph asked, his hand squeezing at her the front of her diaper.

She nodded. He initially thought she was just being bashful with her sudden silence. When he realized that she was actually biting her bottom lip, he knew better to ask any further questions. Instead, he leaned forward, kissing her lips. She let him, not reciprocating immediately. For just a moment, she wanted to feel what it was like to have the lips of her favorite author pressed against hers. But she couldn’t resist for long, and she returned his kisses, slipping her tongue deep into his mouth.

His hands were on the tapes of her diaper, trying to blindly pull them open. Meanwhile, her hands fumbled with his belt and the button of his pants. The tearing of each of the tapes was like a jolt of excitement to both of them - just as the jingling of his freed belt buckle was.

She remained seated on the diaper, and once she had opened his pants, he took it the rest of the way, lowering his pants and boxers out of the way.

He took her on top of the soaked diaper. Just as she had, he felt the damp padding beneath him as entered her.

--

It was something like that.

Ms. Storm left out the part, pre-coitus, where John - well, Joseph’s - mouth ate me out, his face resting on the pissy diaper. Or when I had been called a ‘naughty little baby’ and repeatedly paddled with a copy of my book over his knees.

So maybe that story is based on events that I was witness to, or maybe it was someone else’s similar story in another city entirely.

Fearing that one day someone would ask to see John Gentry’s signature in my copy of Surrendered, I tore the page out from the book and scribbled something on the next page. Another scar on the sacred tomb - joining the new crease in the back cover where the book had bounced off of my ass.

“You drove 8 hours total for someone to scribble that in your book?” someone would later ask.

“It wasn’t about the signature itself, you know? It was about the experience.”

I keep the corner clear in the bedroom. I don’t use towels anymore. I suspect I know what Twila would have been wearing if she could’ve. What she would’ve worn if John Gentry and Hillary Storm had been allowed to write the story together.