8 Weeks (or, the Truth is Best Shown and Not Told) [Tier 3 Exclusive] (Patreon)

He arrives with only two suitcases of clothes and a worn messenger bag draped over his shoulder. He’s wearing thick horn-rimmed glasses, a tweed jacket, and brushed leather shoes.

She’s seen this kind of man before, and she’s never really been a fan.

Still, she meets him in the driveway, big smile on her face. It’s not for his sake–it’s for her mother’s. And maybe that’s for her own sake too, in the long run.

“You must be Nathan Harrison?” she asks.

“Indeed. But you can just call me Nat.”

She doesn’t love that nickname, but it’s not hers so she tries not to think about that too much.

“I assume you are not Carol Parker?” he adds.

She laughs. “No, that’s my mother. I’m Virginia. But you can just call me…” She comes dreadfully close to finishing with the word ‘Virgin,’ but it probably would be in poor taste to use that sort of humor with a guest. “Actually, just Virginia is the way to go.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you. Forgive me if I look a little surprised. I didn’t realize that Carol had a daughter.”

“It came as a surprise to her too,” she says playfully.

“Oh, uh…” He laughs, catching on a moment too late that it was a joke.

“My mother probably didn’t think to mention me when you made the accommodation with her,” she says, grabbing one of his suitcases. “I’m normally not around much because I go to college out of state. But I had a last minute trip cancellation and some time to spare so…”

“And so here you are,” he says, finishing her thought as he smiles.

“I promise you,” she adds. “I’ll stay out of your hair. You won’t even know I’m around.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “I don’t anticipate there being a problem. As I understand it, the rental is the cabin behind your house?”

“That’s right,” Virginia says. She begins walking down the sidewalk, dragging his wheeled suitcase behind her. “My father refurbished an old shed into one of those, uh, tiny houses? It was supposed to be for me, you know? But…then he passed away and so it seems weird for me to stay out there when I’m home now.”

“I’m sincerely sorry to hear that,” he says, keeping pace behind her with the rest of his bags.

“All things considered, it’s kind of a blessing,” she says, shrugging. “My mom now rents it out and makes some extra money, you know? It’s kind of like he’s still providing for her, in a way.”

“That’s a beautiful sentiment,” he says.

“I still use the space from time to time,” she says. “I was here a few weeks ago and I spent a day there just studying. It’s a great space when you just need to be alone.”

“That’s exactly what I’m hoping for.”

They walk past the main house and the sidewalk curves around, bringing the converted shed into view. It’s a charming sight, the small structure looks even more impressive than the listing made it appear online.

“And you’re staying for a while, right?” she asks, trying to remember if her mother did say that or if she just imagined it.

“That’s the plan,” he says. “At least 8 weeks.”

“Hiding from the police?”

He laughs. “You’re quite funny. I should recommend to your mother that she add that online as a feature for the rental.”

“It’s that mother/daughter thing where she’s impervious to my sense of humor, while I refuse to believe she has my best interests at heart. We probably have a few years left until we’re actually able to see eye-to-eye.”

“Well best of luck with that,” he says. “But, sadly, I’m not on the run from anyone. Well, except my publisher. I owe him this book, but I’ve been dragging my heels on completing it. I’m hoping that out here in the middle of nowhere, I have a few less distractions so that I can finish it.”

“A writer?” she asks. “Anything I’ve ever heard of?”

“I suppose that depends on how many books about the history of jazz you’ve ever read.”

She grimaces, bored with just the concept of that topic. “Not many.”

“I figured,” he answers. “And no offense taken. You’re not an old white man with an audiophile sound system that costs more than a new car. You’re probably not the target audience.”

She’s pretty sure that’s a joke, but she’s not entirely sure. She laughs anyway, just to be safe.

“Well, here we are,” she says, unlocking the door. “Su casa.”

“Magnificent!” He places his bags down and walks around the small living space to take it all in. “This is perfect.”

“It’s kind of hard to get lost in here,” she says. “But here’s the kitchen. There’s the main living area. A table folds out from the wall here, so you can use it as a dining table or as a desk. There’s a small hall there with access to a bathroom and the bedroom. And there’s a ladder you can pull down here to go up to the loft. It’s just another smaller living area. There’s another table and chair up there if you find that works better as an office space for you.”

“This is everything I hoped it would be. Thank you, Virginia.”

“There’s a phone right there,” she says. “There’s a red button on the side of it. If you need anything–food, water, or even if the toilet is clogged, just hit that button and it will let us know you need something.”

“Splendid.”

“I’ll get out of your way and let you unpack and settle in,” she says. “But I’m sure my mother will check in on you later. Or, you know, she’ll send me.”

“You’ve been such a good hostess so far,” he says. “I certainly wouldn’t mind seeing you again. But, if I see your mother, I’m going to be singing your praises.”

She feels her cheeks warm a little as she smiles. She’s normally pretty resilient to flattery, but there’s something about his well-learned tone that strikes a chord in her.

“It was nice to meet you, Mr. Harrison.”

“Nat,” he reminds her.

“Of course.”

_ _

She doesn’t have a name for the feeling in her gut, as it’s entirely new to her. It’s way too soon to be a crush. No, it’s not a crush. She’s had crushes before. Goofy things–a tangle of complicated hormones for boys who ultimately never seem to be worth it.

He reminds her of college professors she’s had. Snooty men at parties. Know-it-alls at the coffee shop. Pompous asshats on dating websites. By her normal standards, she’s uninterested in his brand. But there’s something about Nathan Harrison that seems to resonate with her.

Maybe it was his sense of humor, or at least his appreciation of hers. Or maybe it was simply the fact that he was an older attractive man who didn’t immediately hit on her when he had the chance to.

There was a word she was looking for to describe him, but she couldn’t place it.

She was still thinking about it later when she knocked on the front door to the small cabin.

“Virginia,” he says with a smile. “Come in.”

She does, and he closes the door behind her.

“My mother wanted to check in on you,” she says. “But I insisted that I would stop by instead.”

She almost immediately regrets saying this out loud. It sounds pathetic to her–almost like it was an admittance of some girlish infatuation.

“I’ll be honest,” he says. “I’m happy that it was you who came over.”

“Yeah?” She can barely hide the excitement in her voice.

Calm down.

“Can I get you something to drink?” he asks.

“Oh, actually, I was going to offer you something,” she says, holding out the bottle of merlot her mother wanted to give him. “My mother loves doting on the guests.”

“Well this was very nice of her,” he says, taking the bottle from her. “You’ll tell her ‘thank you’ for me, yes?”

“Of course.”

He begins opening drawers in the kitchen area and rifling through the contents.

“The bottle opener is over there,” she says, pointing to the drawer by the sink. “If that’s what you’re looking for.”

“That’s exactly what I was hoping to find. May I pour you a glass, Virginia?”

There’s something about the way he asks that question that she likes. Maybe she’s just reaching for the things she wants to hear, but she swears that she hears respect in his tone.

“I’m not much of a wine drinker…”

“Me neither,” he says. “I’m more of a Scotch man, myself. But I imagine you drink even less Scotch, yes?”

She laughs, nodding.

“Free wine is always the best tasting,” he says, taking two glasses off one of the shelves.

“Just one glass,” she says. “I don’t want to stay too long. My mother will accuse me of bothering you.”

“But you’re not.”

“You do have a book to write.”

“Did my agent call you too?” he asks, smiling.

“Not yet,” she says.

“Just one glass.” He pours two glasses of the burgundy wine before handing her one. “To an excellent hostess and what should be a prosperous 8 weeks.”

They clink the glasses together before each taking a sip of the wine.

She involuntarily shudders a little. “Nope…still not a wine person.”

He chuckled, his face strains a little as well. “Later, if your mother asks, please tell her I said that I just adored this wine. She doesn’t need to know the truth.”

She laughs, finding delight in being part of a private joke with him. She can’t quite pin down why she feels this way–maybe it’s the result of not being as social the last semester at school. Or, maybe attractive older men in tweed jackets do a lot more for her than she previously thought they did.

“I was hoping you’d come by,” he says, setting down his glass on the counter. “I wanted to ask you about something.”

“Oh?”

“I’ve been unpacking some of my things,” he says. “I brought my laptop and books up to the loft and… Well, I think I found some belongings that the last guest here might have left behind.”

She thinks about it for a moment, wondering if she knows who the last guest was. It might have been a few weeks since the last time someone was here.

“Well, what is it?” she asks. “I can bring it to my mother and I’m sure she can send it off to whoever it might belong to.”

“I guess…” He pauses, seeming to need a moment to figure out the right way to say whatever it is he needs to. “I wanted to make sure that it didn’t belong to you first. You did say that you spent time here studying recently, right?”

She feels a growing ball of anxiety in her chest. She’s still not entirely sure what he might be referring to yet, but his slight hesitation has her searching her memories for the worst case scenario.

And then it hits her. Oh fuck. She thinks she might know what it is–or at least what the worst case scenario would be for this found object.

“What is it?” she asks again.

Without another word, he steps into the living room, grabbing something from behind one of his suitcases, before carrying it back to her. He holds it out in front of him.

It is exactly what she feared it would be: the worst case scenario. It’s a white disposable diaper with a rainbow print on it. But there was no mistaking a diaper of this size as being for a baby.

She takes it from him, but she’s still not entirely sure how she should react. She could deny that it was hers. It wouldn’t be that far outside of the realm of possibility that another guest had left it here. Of course, her mother thoroughly goes through the cabin after a guest leaves–but he doesn’t know that. The only reason it was still up in the loft was because her mother didn’t think she needed to clean out the cabin after Virginia had studied there for a day.

“If it’s not yours,” he says, “I suppose we could just throw it out. Your mother probably wouldn’t see the point in finding its owner either.”

He was giving her an out, which she appreciated. But she thought it was curious that he brought it up at all. He could’ve spared her the reddened cheeks and awkward conversation if he had just thrown it away himself and said nothing about it.

Unless…he wanted to know more.

“It’s mine,” she says. “Thank you.” It’s a difficult thing to admit, and it’s the first time–so far as she knows–that anyone else knows about her little kink.

He offers a warm smile and nods. “I just wanted to be sure that it got back to whomever it belonged to.”

Gross taste be damned, she takes another swig of the red wine.

“I trust that you can keep that little discovery to yourself?” she asks.

He laughs, nodding again. “You have nothing to fear. Your secret will be safe with me. Though…”

“Yes?”

He shrugs. “I must admit that I’m a little curious.”

Of course he is. She certainly can’t hold that against him. She’s got time–if she wanted to have a conversation about wearing diapers with this stranger.

She thinks she might want to.

“What do you want to know?”

He smiles, maybe a little surprised by her willingness to have a conversation about it. “Everything, if I’m being honest.”

“You don’t think it’s weird? Gross?”

“Even if I did, that doesn’t mean those are bad things.”

Her heart was beating fast and her palms were sweaty. She felt as if she was in a precarious position–he was curious, but she wondered how many learned details it would take to scare him away.

“Maybe questions are the wrong way to go about this,” he says. “I’m an inquisitive guy, you know? I write nonfiction. I interview a lot of people. But there’s some things that you don’t really get from questions. I write about jazz, you know? And I’ll tell you something, some of these jazz guys are a real challenge to talk to. They’ve got little to say, and what they do say isn’t all that interesting. So if you want to get into these guys’ heads, you have to go see them live. That’s where the magic happens. You just watch them play and interact with the rest of the band, and you can pick up everything you’d ever want to know about them.”

“Are you saying you want to see me play a saxophone?” she asks with a wry grin.

His whole face seems to light up as he laughs and wags a finger at her. “Are you always this amusing?”

“That’d be hard for me to answer,” she says.

“What I’m saying is that I’d much rather see it then hear about it,” he continues.

“So you want me to…wear a diaper? And show you?”

“Sometimes the truth is best shown and not told,” he says, shrugging.

“But if I did, you’d want to see it?” she asks.

He nods. “That’s right.”

“I’m going to think about it.”

“Of course. Take all the time you need. Well, you know, up to eight weeks worth of waiting.”

She already has an idea of where she’s leaning, but she thinks it’s best to go and think about it a little longer anyways.

“I’ll see you later,” she says.

“I hope that I do. And please, thank your mother for the wine for me, yes?”

_ _

Earlier, there was a word she was trying to think of to describe Nathan Harrison. Nat. As she holds the large diaper in her hands, bending it back and forth to hear it crinkle, she thinks she knows what it is. Not a description so much as a title. A role.

Daddy.

Oh boy. It’s not lost on her that from someone else’s perspective, this looks a lot like ‘daddy issues.’ It’s not that–or at least she doesn’t think that it is. But, man oh man, she’d really like to see him smile after she calls him that. It’d probably melt her into a pile of goo.

Speaking of melting, her panties are feeling moist. Admittedly, they had been earlier too, when he said that he wanted to see her wearing the diaper.

There’s a knock on her bedroom door. Terrible timing. At least her hand wasn’t yet thrust down the front of her pants yet.

“Come in.” She probably didn’t need to say that. Her mother’s knock wasn’t a request for permission to enter, it was a warning that a breach of the door was incoming.

“How was everything with Mr. Harrison?” her mother asks. “You gave him the wine, right?”

“He seems to be doing well,” Virginia says. “And he was very touched that you thought to bring him a bottle of wine.” Excluded from the conversation: drinking the wine with Nat, sharing disgust for the wine with Nat, and teasing the idea of wearing a diaper for Nat.

“He seems like a nice man,” her mother says. “Easy on the eyes too.”

“Mom!”

Which was worse? Her mother expressing attraction for a new man, or that new man being the same that she, herself, was eyeing up?

“I’m just saying! He’s not an unattractive man, right?”

“N-no,” Virginia says. “He’s certainly good looking.”

“Think he’s out of my league?”

Now that was a challenging question to answer. “I, uh, guess…you miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.”

Her mother laughs. “I would never. My dating days are behind me.”

Were this any other time, and any other man, Virginia would have a lot more encouraging things to say about how she should put herself out there and how she should talk to more men. Maybe next time. For now, Virginia just shrugs nonchalantly.

The moment that her mother leaves, closing the bedroom door behind her, Virginia’s hand slips into her panties.

_ _

She knocks on the cabin’s door the next morning, and he answers almost immediately, cup of steaming coffee in hand.

“Virginia,” he says with a smile. “Good morning. It’s nice to see you.”

“And you,” she says, smiling like a fool. “I wasn’t sure if you had any breakfast, so I thought I’d bring over some croissants. There’s a bakery downtown and these are seriously the best I’ve ever had.”

“And you thought to bring some for me?” he asks.

She nods, feeling her cheeks warm a little.

“Please, come inside.” She does so without hesitation, and he shuts the door. “Though I’ll say this, you don’t have to get me breakfast as an excuse to come visit me.”

“Oh, but I wasn’t–”

“You’re welcome to come see me anytime you’d like,” he says.

“Thank you. I’ll remember you said that.”

“I made some coffee,” he says. “Can I get you a cup?”

“I actually don’t drink coffee.”

“Really?” He looks as surprised as she imagines he’d be if he saw a UFO. “I live on coffee.”

“More of a diet soda kind of girl myself.”

He grimaces.

“I know, I know,” she says. “It’s bad for you with all those artificial what-nots in it. Someday I’ll grow up and develop more adult tastes.”

“Don’t bother,” he says. “Growing up is overrated.” She could swear that he just winked at her.

“I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” she asks.

He shrugs. “I haven’t started pretending to be productive yet. Still have a cup or coffee to go before I’m at that stage.”

He pulls out a chair for her at the fold-out table from the wall of the living room. They both sit down as he pulls some croissants out of the white paper bag, handing one to her and placing one in front of him.

“You’re probably not supposed to eat them plain, huh?” he says, taking a bite out of it.

“My mother puts jelly on hers,” Virginia says. “I like mine plain though. I think they’re buttery enough as is.”

“They’re very good,” he says.

For a moment, the scene almost feels normal–two people eating breakfast together. But they’ve just recently met, and something that remains unsaid still hangs in the room–a leftover from their conversation the day before.

She decides to bite the bullet and do as she had told her mother yesterday afternoon–take the shot.

“I’ve been thinking a bit about our conversation yesterday,” she says.

“Ah, right,” he says without pause. He seems ready to pick this conversation back up himself. “Did you come here today wearing your diaper?”

She isn’t expecting this level of bluntness, though it certainly makes the conversation easier.

“Yes…”

“May I see?”

“N-now?”

“I won’t hold it against you if you want to finish your croissant first.”

“That can wait,” she says. “Probably better if I just get this over with.”

She stands up, lifting her gray sweatshirt up, giving him a better view of her tight black yoga pants. She’s pretty sure the bulge of the thick diaper is obvious through them. Next, she reaches down, grasping the sides of the leggings so she can shimmy them down her legs. She does so slowly, shoving them down just past her knees before sitting down so she can work them the rest of the way off of her legs. Finally, she stands again, legs slightly parted and hands up in the air. There she is, in just her sweatshirt and diaper.

“Ta-da!” she says.

“It looks even better than I thought it would,” he says.

“But you have to watch the whole performance,” she says. “This is where the magic happens.”

He laughs and nods. “Took the jazz story to heart, huh?”

“Just watch.”

She’s thought about this moment a lot. All night, at the expense of her sleep. All morning, both on the way to and from the bakery to pick up the croissants. And she’s convinced herself that this isn’t a bad idea. He said that he wanted to see the show, and so he gets it.

She turns away from him, separating her legs a little further as she does so. Next, she bends forward, sticking her padded ass into the air, giving him a very good look at it.

To his credit, he’s being very quiet behind her and just letting her do her thing.

For a moment or two, nothing seems to happen. Her ass is jutting out towards him, and he’s just looking at it. She knows what she wants to do–what she has to do–but her body seems unwilling to cooperate with her mind. Pee. Just pee, damn you. It takes another moment, but she finally feels the dam break. It starts as a little trickle, quickly building into a rushing river.

She can hear the stream pouring into her diaper, and so she’s sure that he can hear it too. And soon after that, she feels the diaper getting warmer. Heavier. It begins to sag as it swells and the padding expands to wick away the new moisture.

And then it’s done, and she turns back around with a big confident proud smile on her face. Did you see that? Do you see what I did for you?

He gives her a round of applause. “Amazing,” he says. “I never realized how badly I needed to see someone do that.”

“You liked?”

“Loved,” he says.

She takes her seat at the table again, her diaper crinkling below her as she squishes into it.

“Has anyone ever seen you do that before?”

She shakes her head.

“Does anyone else know about your diapers?”

She shakes her head again.

“Well, what can I say? I feel quite special.”

“As you should.”

“And what do you want from this?” he asks. “Not right this very second, necessarily. But overall. What’s the big picture of your fantasy look like? Are you just crawling around like an infant, getting diaper checks until it’s time to be changed? Or are you scurrying about your daily life with a bulging diaper under your clothes?”

She thinks about his questions for a moment or two. She knows the answers, she’s just not entirely sure she wants to say them out aloud. But she could, if she wanted. He’d listen, and he’d probably even accept them.

Sometimes the truth is best shown and not told.

She stands up and waddles the few feet that separate her and Nat. He remains still and composed the entire time. He’s seemingly ready to react to whatever she does next.

She straddles his lap, her legs bowing out around his. And when her soggy diaper is hovering over his lap, she lowers herself upon him. She hopes that he hears her crinkling bottom get sandwiched between her body and his legs as she sits on him. She hopes he can feel the warmth of the wet diaper.

He releases a soft moan from his mouth. “You’re just full of surprises.”

She begins to lean forward, biting her bottom lip, but hesitates just before her lips reach his. He leans forward himself, filling that last half-inch needed to connect with her. They kiss.

“Eight weeks,” she says to him. “That’s it?”

“That’s what I’m booked for.”

Her body trembles as she feels a physical yearning she’s never felt before in her life.

“That’s still a lot of time,” she says.

“It sure is.”

“I’m probably going to be a distraction.”

“I hope that you are.”

There’s a lot that she wants to say but won’t. He’ll figure it all out. Eventually. But before they go any further, she does think there’s at least one thing that is really best said aloud.

“Daddy.”

He moans again.

_ _

“I probably shouldn’t be telling you this,” Virginia’s mother says one night in the kitchen as she cooks.

“Well you can’t not tell me now,” Virginia responds, sitting off to the side while scrolling through her phone.

“I…decided to ask Mr. Harrison if he wanted to get dinner with me sometime,” she says.

Virginia’s eyes grow large and she lowers her phone. “Y-you did? When did you do that?”

“This afternoon,” she says. “I got home from work and I saw him sitting out in front of the cabin. And I remembered what you said about missing shots that you don’t take, or whatever, and thought that…I dunno. Maybe it was time I took a shot.”

Virginia does recall saying that to her mother. That was two weeks ago–the first day Nat had moved in.

“What did he say?”

“He was very polite,” her mother says. “You know him. Always a total gentleman.”

“Mmhmm.” Virginia knows this all too well.

“I think he turned me down. He talked about how much work he had, and how he had a life waiting for him back at home and all that.”

“Oh,” Virginia says. She feels bad for her mother. There’s so much she doesn’t know–things that she also can’t know. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not a big deal,” her mother says, smiling and shrugging. “Honestly, it was good just to talk to him and ask. It was a lot easier than I thought it’d be. And, you know, I think he was right–he probably doesn’t have time for me. But now that I know I can ask the question if I want to…maybe I’ll take a few more, uh, shots.”

Virginia laughs. “You really ought to.”

“Slightly off topic,” her mother says, stirring a pot at the stove. “Do you know if Mr. Harrison has children?”

“Uhm… Not that I know of. Why?”

She just shrugs. “He had a pink pacifier sitting in front of him on the table. I didn’t think he had kids, but I guess I never asked either. I wonder if he brought it to remind him of his little girl back home or something. Though he seems a little old to have a baby, you know?”

Virginia laughed a little, recalling a moment a few hours earlier where she had misplaced her pacifier and was worried her mother would find it in the house.

“You never know,” she says to her mom. “Some men are just always Daddys.”

_ _

The diaper is so thick that she has, what she feels is, a waddle. She overthinks her efforts to correct this, and ends up walking at a slower pace–falling a few steps behind him.

“Come up here with me,” Nat says, waving his hand. “I promise you, nobody can tell.”

“But I can,” Virginia protests. “I feel like a duck.”

“A very cute duck, though.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” she asks.

“Think of it this way. We’re out in public, walking down the street together. It’s not just your reputation at stake, right? It’s mine too. So if you actually look like the giant waddling toddler that you think you look like, that would make me look like the weirdo who hangs out with a giant waddling toddler. And that’s just publicity for a published author like myself.”

She laughs, shaking her head. She doesn’t completely agree with this logic, but he has managed to diffuse some of her anxiety with the power of humor.

This is only the second time she’s worn diapers in public–with the first being a short day trip with Nat to the liquor store a week prior. But whereas she wore pants and a large jacket that time, she’s only in a simple rust-colored sun dress now. Between her legs, her diaper is just there, waiting for one stiff breeze to reveal her diaper to the entire town.

She puts her hand in his and he holds it tightly. It does help to ease her worries.

It’s week five now. Past the halfway point. The time past has made it easy for them to slip into their roles in the morning, once Virginia’s mother has pulled out of the driveway to go to work. But it’s also made it more challenging at night, when Virginia lies in her bed thinking about the dwindling time left before Nat has to leave. She’s asked if he could stay longer, but it doesn’t seem to be in the cards. He has obligations that he can’t put off forever. An entire life that doesn’t revolve around treating her like a baby, supposedly.

“You didn’t bring your diaper bag,” he says as they walk.

“It’s in the car,” she says. “Should I have?”

He shrugs. “I’m just thinking that if you have an accident while we’re out and about, I won’t have a new diaper for you. You’re going to have to wait until we get back to the car. It might be a while.”

“That’s your job,” she says. “You’re the daddy. I’m the baby.”

“Are you?” he asks. “I sometimes forget. Let’s just check.”

He playfully tugs at the back of her dress as he tilts his head to see. She can feel the cool air on the back of her thighs, suggesting that her diaper is fully on display.

“Daddy, no!” she squeals, pulling her dress out of his hand and shifting it back into place. She turns to look behind her, seeing only a few emotionless people power-walking a few yards back. Hopefully they either didn’t see anything or they didn’t care.

“Ah yes,” he says, laughing. “You are a baby.”

She comes close to telling him that she’ll get him back for that, but she figures it’d be better if her revenge came without a threat or warning.

“Where are we going anyway?”

“A record store. Well…it’s not really a store. It’s this guy’s private collection. But he’s got a ton of older jazz LPs, some of which are pretty rare. So this is kind of a little field trip for the purpose of research.”

“How very exciting,” she says in a deadpan monotone.

“I can give you my car keys, if you want to play with those,” he teases.

“I’m just saying–the quicker we’re done looking at old dirty vinyl records, the sooner you can be fucking me back at the cabin.”

He clears his throat and cracks his neck–a little nonverbal signal that she’s seen a few times. It usually means: “I really like the sound of that, but I’m temporarily unable to say as such.”

“And here we are,” he says as they reach the entrance to an older brick house on a quiet side street. “I trust you’ll behave yourself?”

“You know I can’t promise that.”

“I know,” he says, smiling. “That’s what I love about you.”

There’s surprisingly little conversation between Nat and the owner of the record collection. Maybe they had all already communicated everything they had to say in phone calls or emails. Or, maybe, there just wasn’t a lot to say about it other than: “There’s the records. Go and look.”

For a while, it’s not even that bad. She has no idea who any of these artists are, but it’s kind of fascinating to see an entire world of music that’s unknown to her. Artists, groups, and even entire record labels that she’s never heard of. There were probably artists and albums here that even some other jazz snob had ever heard of, they were just lost to time outside of this room.

“Do you know who all these musicians are?” she asks.

“Many,” Nat says. “I doubt anyone knows them all.”

“How about this one,” she says, picking up a random record in a small stack near her. “Lee Morgan?”

He laughs.

“What?”

“He’s rather well known,” Nat says.

She shrugs.

“You don’t know him?”

“Should I?”

“The Rumproller? The Cooker? The Sidewinder?”

“I don’t know what those words mean. Are they dances?”

He laughs again, giving her a condescending pat on the head. “You’ll never not be adorable, Virginia.”

“And how’s your diaper doing?” he asks. “Should I check it?”

“N-no,” she says. “I’m fine.” For now.

“Alright. But if you need a change, you’ll come tell me?”

“Mmmhmm.”

She quickly wanders away again, leaving him to his records and notepad.

She has a plan–a little something she’s been working on for the last few minutes in the name of getting revenge for exposing her diaper on the street earlier. She had already wet herself a little bit on the walk from the car to this house, but she feels worse things stirring in her lower abdomen.

It wouldn’t be new for her to push a stinky present into the back of her diaper for Daddy–he had been on the receiving end of that gift a few times now back at the cabin. But to do it outside of the cabin? Here, at a stranger’s house? So far from the car?

I bet I could do it.

She finds a smaller room of records off to the side of the main room, and she quickly darts into it. It’s a perfectly private room so long as Nat stays where he is for a while longer.

I just need enough time to convince myself this is a good idea.

Her legs split apart and she squats a little. She sends every signal she can think of to her bowels to communicate that she’s ready for release. It doesn’t agree–which she expects. She just needs to reason with a little. I want this. I want this. I promise you, I want this.

Her bowels eventually seemed convinced. She grunts and pushes, feeling the firm log force its way into her diaper. Slowly but surely, it starts to fill the bottom of her diaper. And once she starts, it gets a bit easier. The last half of her mess comes quickly and suddenly, filling the back of her diaper with a heavy mass. She reaches around herself, lifting up the back of her dress so she can inspect the diaper for herself. It certainly feels like she did something in there.

Moments later: It certainly smells like she did something in there.

Perfect. And now, to go and find Daddy to show him what she had done.

While there’s been an obviously childish undertone to their little game the last few weeks, it’s rarely felt explicitly infantile. Even diaper checks and changes feel steeped in sexuality and naughty desire. But waddling past the shelves of records now, with her full diaper flump-ing up and down with every step, feels more juvenile than anything she’s ever done before.

“Daaaaaaddy,” she sings. “Ohhh, Daaaaaaaddy. I have something to shooooow you.”

She’s not sure where he is anymore, and so every time she rounds a corner, she momentarily holds her breath–bracing herself for the moment she finds him.

But it’s not until she hears a board in the old wooden floor creek behind her that she realizes that he had been following her.

“And I thought that I would surprise you,” she says with a devilish grin.

“Well it wasn’t hard to find you,” he says. “I just followed my nose.”

She blushes, playfully shrugging her shoulders.

“I suppose I could be frustrated that you’ve chosen to interrupt my research with your smelly diaper...”

“Oops…”

“...but there’s something about your face that makes it impossible for me to be mad at you.”

“Nobody’s ever gotten mad at a little baby before.”

“The guy who owns this place might be if you stink up his house any longer. C’mon, we’ve got to get out of here.”

_ _

The sky has darkened a little and there’s been a slight, but persistent, drizzle all day. The dreary weather seems to match the mood as Nat returns to the cabin after putting the last suitcase into the trunk of his car.

Virginia is sitting on the floor, wearing just a diaper, t-shirt, and a dramatic frown.

“Are you going to pout all day?” he asks.

“Well, you’re leaving,” she says. “What else am I supposed to do?”

“For one,” he says, stretching an arm out towards her, “you could put off that pouting until tomorrow. I haven’t left just yet, and I’d love to see a smile on your face for my last day in your company.”

She sighs, disliking the finality implied by ‘last day,’ though she can’t deny that he’s right. She takes his hand, allowing him to pull her up to her feet.

“Now then, how’s your diaper looking?” he asks. “Leave me any goodbye presents in there?”

“Not yet…”

He crouches down a little, feeling the bottom of her diaper.

“But it’s a little wet.”

“Just a little,” she says.

“I feel like it’s always just a little wet.”

She giggles and blushes as she wriggles out from his grip on her diaper. It’s moments like this where she feels she’s changed. Being in his presence–being his baby–has made her more playful. Infantile, she’s tempted to say.

Her mother had recently asked why her bedroom smelled like baby powder. Virginia had brushed it off, claiming it was just a new body spray she was trying out. But the question had forced her to reflect a little. She had changed some, and not just her diaper.

A change for the better, she believes.

She reaches between his legs, cupping his cock through his pants. He may have helped transform her into the baby girl she is now, but she wields that role expertly. He immediately grows hard in his pants.

“There’s an awful lot I’d like to do to you right now,” he says.

She smiles, putting a finger over his lips. “You know what someone told me once, right?”

He can’t help but laugh, already knowing where this is going.

“It’s best shown,” she says, “and not told.”

He unzips his pants as she pulls her diaper down her thighs a little. Just enough.

_ _

A few months ago, Virginia’s mother called her to say that a package had arrived at the house for her. There was no return address and no indication as to who it was from. Virginia told her mother to just put it in her room. Eventually she’d be home to see what it was.

She had completely forgotten about it by the time she came home again for the summer. But there it was, a brown paper-wrapped packaged addressed to her, sitting on the bed.

Tearing it open revealed a copy of a book: City of Brass: Underground Jazz Culture 1960-1963, by Nathan Harrison. It’s bittersweet, seeing his name again. It’s been a while–a year now, or thereabouts. She smiles wistfully, opening the book and flipping through the pages.

She pauses at the the dedication:

“To V.

Thank you for showing me.”

Handwritten beneath it was a phone number. She smiled, feeling as if she had regressed just from his acknowledgment.

She’d call him, of course. But not until she put a diaper on.