Painting Auntie's Barn, Part 1 of 3 [Tier 2 & 3 Exclusive] (Patreon)

Day 1

At 9:00 AM, on the dot, Emile is at my front door. He doesn’t look completely enthused to be here, though I don’t hold it against him. His punctuality is noted, and it suggests that he understands why he is here, regardless of how he feels about it.

I give him a quick once-over. Old and faded denim shorts. A stained Metallica tee. Battered tennis shoes that look to be a day away from retirement.

I find it quite satisfactory. He looks like he’s here to work.

“I made some coffee,” I say as I allow him inside. “Would you like some before you get to work?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Not a coffee drinker?”

“N-no, ma’am.”

“I thought children lived off of caffeine.”

He scratches his head nervously. I suspect there’s a lot he wants to say, though he’s biting his tongue. A young man of his age is, no doubt, desperate to distance himself from the trappings of ‘childhood.’ He’s a man now, or so he believes. Of course, I said what I said on purpose–curious to see what his reaction is.

“Never been much of a coffee drinker,” he says finally, opting not to touch the ‘childhood’ comment. “My mother says I’ll eventually come around on it.”

“She might be right,” I say. “Whether it’s school or work, eventually you’ll see the value in coffee.”

He nods. It’s nice of him to acknowledge my ramblings, but I know that he couldn’t care less.

“You are in school now, yes?” I ask. “College or university?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says. “Just finished my first year at State.”

“What are you studying?”

“Political science.”

I feel my face scrunch a little. “And what does one do with that degree?”

He shrugs sheepishly. “I’d love to get into a nonprofit, maybe. And I’m still thinking about law school after undergrad, so…”

“Quite the path you have before you,” I say. We walk through the kitchen and right out the back door onto the deck that overlooks the expansive backyard. Off to the right is the old barn, which both of us fixate on.

He nods.

“Seems like a path better left unsullied by silly things like…vandalism.”

“Ms. Holcomb, again, I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I was with my friends and we weren’t thinking when…”

“There’s no need to dwell on what you did,” I advise. “We’re going to focus on what you will be doing to correct those mistakes.”

He nods again.

“All the supplies that I think you’ll need are in the garage. Paint, brushes, ladders, drop cloths, etc. If you need something else that I didn’t account for, simply let me know. The barn needed to be painted anyways, but your little stunt has only accelerated that need.”

“I understand,” he says solemnly. “I’ll probably have to strip off the old paint first. So…I guess it might take at least… a week?”

“It doesn’t matter to me how long it takes you to paint it, only that you get it done. And, as promised, if you can take care of that for me, I have no reason to hand my security footage over to the police.”

“Of course,” he says. “And, Ms. Holcomb?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you for giving me this chance to redeem myself. I’ve felt really terrible about that night and I’m so happy I could make it up to you.”

***

In my mind, he’s already redeemed himself. Of the three young men who spray painted genitals and curse-words on my barn, he was the only one of them who came to my home to apologize.

I knew who the boys were. Live in this town long enough, and you know who everyone is. I reached out to each of the families for the boys involved, explained what had happened, the evidence I had, and what I planned to do with that information should they not have a better idea of how to handle it.

Alexander Fitzgerald’s parents offered financial compensation in addition to the promise that Alexander would be “dealt with accordingly.” I choose to believe that they will be true to their word. And the money was more than enough to not only buy the painting supplies needed for the barn, but to pay for my stay at a nice bed and breakfast next month.

Caleb O’Neil’s parents seem to have enough on their hands already, as far as Caleb goes. It’s true, he has developed a bit of a reputation as a local problem over the last year or two. His exhausted parents apologized on his behalf. For now, that was enough. As I understand it, he’s already in the process of answering for other crimes.

But Emile Donner. That was an interesting case. His parents never reached out to me in response to the messages I left. Yet, one afternoon, Emile was just on my porch, offering as much of his own time as was needed to make good for his misdeeds.

Truthfully, I was a little disappointed to see that it was Emile on my porch. I’ve known his family for a long time and I know them to be good people. Perhaps he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, or just hanging out with the wrong people when the night got away from him. I imagine he did not come completely on his own accord, though I felt confident that he knew he was doing the right thing by coming to my home. While I wouldn’t turn away his offer, I’d be lying if I didn’t say that I wished it was one of the other boys who were offering their services.

And so I watch him. I keep my phone open as I drink my morning coffee and eat a bagel, watching him on the camera in the garage as he assembles the tools he needs. Later, I sit on the deck and stare across the grass to the barn, where I watch him lay out drop cloths and begin chipping away at the aged and flaking paint on the barn.

I have nothing but time, and I like watching the young man work. He’s methodical and careful and he treats the barn like it's his own.

I wouldn’t mind if it took a month for him to complete this project.

It occurs to me, somewhere around my third trip to the bathroom that morning–the mildly inconvenient combination of middle-age and drinking too much coffee–that Emile hasn’t had a need to return to the house in a few hours. This isn’t upsetting, but it is a little curious. Does he not need food? Water? A toilet?

“How are you holding up?” I ask, approaching the barn with a cold bottle of water for him.

“So far, so good, Ms. Holcomb.”

“Don’t feel like you can’t come to the house if you need anything,” I say. “Even if it’s just to use the bathroom.”

“Thank you, Ms. Holcomb,” he says. “I’ll keep that in mind. But I’m okay so far.”

“I brought you some water,” I say.

“You can just set it down,” he says. “But I appreciate you bringing it to me.”

I spot the bookbag he brought with him and I bring the bottle over, placing it beside it. But when I get closer to the bag, I see that it’s open, with some objects sticking out from the top of it. I can’t quite make out what they are, which makes me more curious.

“Oh, uh, maybe I will have some water now,” he says, quickly trotting back to his bag. He quickly zips up the bookbag before taking a hearty swig from the bottle.

Whatever was in the bag, I probably wasn’t meant to see it.

“I have some capicola and provolone,” I say, changing the subject. “I may make sandwiches for lunch soon. Are you okay with that?”

“O-o f course,” he says. “That sounds great.”

“I’ll leave you to it and get out of your way. If you need more water–if you need anything–just come and ask, yes?”

“Uhm, yes,” he says, nodding. “I will.”

***

And so what was it that I had seen in his bag?

I’d love nothing more than to just forget about it and move on with my day. Especially if it was something insignificant. But it didn’t feel insignificant. It was in the way that he came running to the bag when he realized I could see what was sticking out of it.

What would make someone act so nervously?

My initial thought was something illegal. Drugs or alcohol. Maybe even a firearm. Something that not only I shouldn’t have seen, but something that nobody should see. And given the fact that he had vandalized my barn recently, maybe it wasn’t so far of a reach that he was headed down a darker path, and further evidence of this new lifestyle was at risk of being exposed.

But I doubted that. All I had to do was look at his face after he zipped shut his bag. He was blushing. Stammering and muttering when he answered my questions. He didn’t look angry or paranoid when he realized I might have seen what was in the bag–he looked embarrassed. Ashamed.

The more time that had passed since I visited him, the harder it was to recall what I thought I saw. Replaying the footage in my mind now, the objects seemed amorphous and obscure. But I could recall bits and pieces of the words I had used to describe what I had seen. White. Soft. Plastic-like. Folded. Cloth-like.

I’m completely baffled, and can’t think of anything that checks all those boxes. I let it go. There’s, at least, a week ahead of us for me to search for more clues.

And, admittedly, maybe not every mystery is one that is meant to be solved.

An hour or two later, I wave him back to the house, where I have a variety of sandwich-fixings waiting on the counter.

“I appreciate this, Ms. Holcomb.”

“Please, you can call me Nancy, Emile.”

“Th-thank you, Nancy.”

I’m still studying him; I can’t help it. I feel like there are more clues to be spotted, and so I’m overanalyzing his every move in an effort to figure him out. Does it mean something when he’s quicker to grab a slice of capicola than he is to reach for the mayo?

I worry that I’ve stared at him too hard, though, and I’ve begun to see things that might not actually be there. Do his shorts have a strange bulge in them? Is there a strange rustling sound coming from him as he walks past me?

I opened my mouth, at one point, to make a joke. It was just off the cuff–a remark intended only to be smart-ass and sarcastic: What, are you wearing a diaper or something?

I close my mouth and bite my tongue for a moment. Have I stumbled onto something? It seems to connect with my hazy observations from earlier. Big white diapers, folded into thirds in his backpack. No, he probably wouldn’t want me to see that.

I’m a little too brazen. A little too curious. He’s already peeling paint off of my barn so he can paint over the cartoonish penises he’s drawn on it–I’m not sure that it matters if I make an ass out of myself or not.

“Diapers, Emile?”

“I-I’m sorry?”

I shrug. “I shouldn’t be so nosey. Perhaps that’s why I’m single, in my 40s, and having 19 year olds spray paint my barn at night.”

He seems conflicted on whether or not he wants to acknowledge my observation. I could let him off the hook and say ‘nevermind,’ but I choose to watch him wriggle a little longer. Just to see what happens.

“You…can tell?” he finally asks.

I nod, declining to tell him that it was more a lucky guess than anything else.

“I won’t tell anybody else about this, of course,” I say. “I’m sure that’s a challenging thing to have to keep secret.”

He shrugs, nodding. “It can be.”

I feel bad for bringing it up at all. This poor guy, in the prime of his young adulthood, dealing with incontinence on top of the trouble caused by his ill-mannered friends.

“But,” he says, “you won’t bring this up with my parents, will you?”

“Your incontinence?”

“My what?”

The room falls into a deathly silence for a few moments as we stare at each other. It seems that we had both made some incorrect assumptions.

I’m curious again, and I’m feeling a lot less guilty for talking about it.

“You don’t need diapers, do you?” I ask.

His hesitation is answer enough, though he finally manages a meek shake of his head.

“I see.”

“You won’t tell?” he asks again.

There’s desperation in his voice, and I’m mildly ashamed to admit that it excites me. A better woman would leave it be without trying to humiliate the poor boy much further. I don’t think I’m that woman, however.

“I don’t have to tell anyone,” I say.

“They don’t know,” he says. “And I don’t think they’d understand if–”

“Help me to understand,” I say. “And perhaps I can help this stay a secret.”

He sighs, a sound that feels like a white flag.

“What do you want to know?”

“If you don’t need diapers,” I ask, “then why do you wear them?”

“You can’t guess?” he asks.

It’s an interesting question, and I take my time to consider it. Is there really any other obvious reason for a non-infant to waddle about in diapers?

An answer slowly comes to mind, and I find myself thinking out loud as I try to make sense of it myself: “If you don’t wear them because you need them, you’re wearing them because you want to. And…you’d only want to wear them, I assume, because it’s some sort of…fetish?”

“Y-yes, ma’am.”

I almost correct him with my first name again, but I’m wondering if I had insisted on that too soon.

“So you’re just out there, scraping away at my barn, while scuttling about in a diaper?”

He nods.

“And I assume that if one is wearing a diaper, they’re not going to stop there, yes? If you just wanted to wear something ridiculous, you could wear–I don’t know–a bright pink tutu? You wear a diaper because you want to use a diaper?”

He nods again, but only after sighing.

“That makes sense,” I say. “Considering you bring extras with you. What was that–your diaper bag?”

“Y-yes, I guess you could call it that…”

“What’s the status of the one you’re wearing now?” I ask, pointing and twirling my finger in the direction of his denim shorts. “Been working on that one this morning, have you? In need of a change?”

He blushes again, slowly shrugging as he hems and haws over an answer to my question. “I…well…”

“I genuinely want to know,” I say. “And I promise I won’t tell anyone else.”

“I’ve wet myself,” he says. “Maybe a few times.”

“A few? And your diaper can hold all that?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I don’t correct him. It’s different now that I know he isn’t just a young man in my employ. He’s a much younger man now. One who should, rightfully, respect his elders.

“And do you only wet your diapers?” I ask.

“Uhm…”

That’s probably sufficient as an answer. But I do like seeing the poor boy squirm.

“Come now. You can tell me. I may giggle a little, but I promise I won’t think any less of you.”

“No,” he says. “I don’t only wet my diaper.”

“And would you have done that out at my barn today?” I ask. “Had I remained oblivious to your diapers? Would you have…soiled yourself?”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “Probably not.”

“Probably?”

“It’s a lot to clean up,” he says. I doubt I’d call this tone ‘confident,’ though it does feel like he’s slowly warming to having this conversation with me. “So I probably wouldn’t do something like that here.”

The bigger picture comes into focus for me. With a week or two ahead of him to paint the barn–mostly in isolation–it seems like the perfect time to easily live out his fantasies of wearing diapers all day without the risk of running into his parents.

Really, I’m doing him a favor.

It makes sense to me, even if his strange little world is new to me. Maybe he needs a space like this, where he can just be…a baby.

“I want you to take your time with the barn,” I say. “As long as it takes to get it right.”

He nods, seemingly able to read between the lines I wanted him to read between. “Are you sure?”

“Quite sure. And when you’re done with that, I might have some other tasks for you as well. Possibly an entire summer’s worth of projects.”

His eyes light up a little. “Yeah?”

“You could be here all day, every day, for the next few months if you needed to be.”

He nods, smiling a little. “I…appreciate that, Ms. Holcomb.”

“Of course. And I want to be clear. My house is not off limits to you. If you need something to drink or eat, you come back here and help yourself. If you need the bathroom, or…a place to change yourself, I can provide that too.”

His eyes light up a little more.

“Down that hallway,” I say, pointing, “second door on the left. That’s my guest bedroom. But I haven’t had a guest in a few years. So, you’re more than welcome to use that space as you need. If you need a place to change. Or, a place just to store things.”

“Are you sure about that?”

I nod. I have another thought too, but I’m not sure if he’s ready to hear it yet. Honestly, I’m not sure if I’m ready to say it out loud yet.

“Ms. Holcomb,” he says, “you are extremely generous.”

“Despite what the other night’s actions might have suggested, I feel that you’re a good person at heart. I won’t pretend to understand your interests, but I don’t think wearing a diaper is going to hurt anyone. You scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours.”

“Thank you,” he says. “I, uhm, suppose I should get back to work, though.”

“The barn isn’t going anywhere,” I say, looking out the window to confirm this. “And you said, yourself, that you’re in a soggy diaper, yes? Why don’t you go and take care of that.”

“Yes,” he says, nodding. “I shall. Thank you.”

I decide to throw it out there–that uncertain thought. There seems little point in holding back.

“Should you need any help with your diaper,” I say, “I can help.”

His face grows beet red.

“Th-thank you for, uhm, the offer, Ms. Holcomb. I…well…I think I’m good right now.”

Day 2

He arrives early in the morning and immediately hauls the tools he needs to the barn before picking up where he left off the day before. I wave to him from the deck, morning cup of coffee in my hand. He waves back.

It could just be my imagination, but his diaper bag looks a little thicker today. Heavier and fuller.

I’m torn between going out to the barn and giving him his space. I do wonder where his head is at. Is he excited at the prospect of potentially having a summer to strut about in baby-pants? Is any of that excitement diminished with me lurking around the background?

I opt for giving him space. This isn’t about me. Well, not beyond the chores and tasks he’s completing for me. The more I think about it, the more I want him to have this opportunity to explore his interests–however strange they may be. Maybe this is the only space he has for that.

I think back to when I was a teenager, living with my single mother. So long as I lived in her house, she needed to know what I was doing at all times of the day. Unless I was in the bathroom, she took offense to a closed door. It insinuated I was doing something shameful. And, if the door was closed, I probably was. Or I was at least trying. My fingers had discovered the pleasure they could create when they wandered between my legs and I had become addicted to those sensations. But so long as my mother was around–and she almost always was–I couldn’t act on those needs. I had become insatiable. A dangerous powder keg.

Emile deserved better than that, and I could help. He had the summer, and my home, to explore whatever he needed to. And I’d step aside and let it happen without intervening.

Unless he wanted me to.

I wanted him to want me to intervene.

Never in my life had I given much thought to adults in diapers, especially for the purposes of sexual gratification. Yet after being introduced to the concept the day before, I found that it had quickly become all-consuming.

I want to see him in his big plump diaper. I want to see what it looks like after he has wet it. Does it look soggy? Does it sag between his legs?

I want to feel it in my hand.

I want to change his diaper.

Is that weird? Yes, probably. But the weirdest part is not that I want to change this young man’s diaper–it’s that I want to change a diaper at all.

I’m in my 40s and I have no children of my own. I had opportunities and I passed on them every single time. I have nieces and nephews, and I’d like to think that I’m a decent enough aunt. Still, I can feel that biological need inside of me still.

Maternity. The need to raise and nurture a little human. I’ve kept that desire down for long enough, but I feel it bubbling to the surface again, perhaps stronger than I’ve ever felt it. It’s young Emile, in his diaper, that’s doing it to me.

I don’t want an actual baby. I just want to pamper little Baby Emile into oblivion.

I can barely contain my glee when he comes up the back steps of the deck and into the kitchen. I’ve made chicken salad for lunch–an old family recipe that I’ve long considered to be the best-tasting chicken salad I’ve ever had. I’m excited to share that with him–excited to care for him.

“Did you make this, Ms. Holcomb? It looks amazing.”

“Thank you, Emile. And I did. I hope you enjoy it.”

He wipes the sweat from his brow and sits down at the kitchen table, helping himself to a bowlful.

I can never be entirely sure, but I swear that I hear his diaper crinkling in his shorts as he sits down.

“How is it going out there so far today?” I ask.

“Seems okay,” he says. “I’ve gotten most of the flaking paint off two of the walls so far. Maybe by tomorrow I’ll have worked my way around the barn. And then I can start sanding everything down so that it’s even for the paint.”

“You seem to know a lot about painting.”

“I helped paint my grandparents shed last year,” he says with a shrug.

I almost don’t want to bring up his undergarments. But, of course, I can’t help myself: “And how are things with your, uhm, diapers today?”

His face immediately turns a shade or two more pink. I wonder if he saw this conversation coming or if he had hoped it could’ve been avoided.

“I should probably change myself,” he says. “I’m worried this one might leak.”

“After you eat,” I say. “You should take your bag to the guest room and take care of that.”

He nods and smiles. “I will.”

I badly want to remind him of my open invitation to let me change his diapers for him, but I digress. He knows what I said, and I trust that if he decides he would like that, he can tell me.

“Perhaps you ought to change yourself more often,” I say. “You wouldn’t actually want to spring a leak while you’re working.”

“You’re probably right,” he says as he finishes chewing his last bite. “I guess I just get so caught up in working that I don’t really think about it.”

I feel a wide smile growing across my face. “Is that so? Well if you don’t realize how full your diaper is getting, perhaps that’s something I can help with.”

His face turns even more pink. “H-how so, Ms. Holcomb?”

“Shall I come check on you from time to time? Ask you how your diaper is holding up?”

“Well…if you wanted to. I wouldn’t want to ask you to keep interrupting your day for that.”

“I would love to,” I say. “It wouldn’t be a bother at all.”

He smiles sheepishly. “Then yes, please, Ms. Holcomb. I certainly wouldn’t mind if you came out from time to time to remind me to check on my diaper.”

***

Two hours later, I’m casually strolling across the lawn towards the barn. I have to remain conscious of what my lips are doing, because otherwise I’d be smiling like a maniac.

“Oh, Ms. Holcomb. Hi!”

I can see it in his eyes–it wasn’t until he saw me approaching that he remembered why I might be coming out here to check in on him.

“How are things going?”

“Very well,” he says, pointing to the large pile of paint chips covering the drop cloth at the base of the barn’s wall.”I’m, uh, taking my time. To make sure it’s thorough.”

I nod, trying not to smile too much. Though I want to.

“I did want to ask you about your diaper,” I say. “We don’t want any leaks, of course.”

“O-of course,” he says, nodding. “Now that you mention it…I did wet it a while ago.”

“Did you wet it a lot?”

He shrugs. “Maybe? It could probably hold more though.”

There’s a silence that hangs over the two of us for a moment or two. I wonder if he’s thinking the same things that I am.

“I know a thing or two about babies from being an aunt,” I say. “I’ve gotten my babysitting hours in.”

He nods. “I’m sure.”

“When you ask a little boy if he needs his diaper changed, he’ll almost always say that he doesn’t. And I’ll always check his diaper myself and find that it, in fact, does need to be changed.”

He nods again, a little more nervous energy about him.

“What if you let Auntie check your diaper?” I ask. “I can tell you if you need to be changed or not.”

He’s thinking about it–I can see the gears turning. He seems curious; interested, even. But apprehensive. I couldn’t hold that against him. I continue to question whether I’m crossing any sort of line myself. At the very best this still seems incredibly taboo.

“If you could check for me,” he finally says. “I’d like that.”

“Very good. Why don’t you pull down your pants for me then.”

“Yes…Auntie.”

I didn’t expect that to stick, but his little smile would suggest that he liked saying it as much as I liked hearing it. It further empowers me, boosting my confidence a bit.

He unbuttons his fly, and that’s all it takes for his weathered khaki cargo shorts to collapse to the ground, leaving his diaper fully exposed to me. Not only is it everything I had hoped it would be–it’s even better. It looks even thicker, plumper, than I imagined. Even better, the middle of the diaper sags down between his thighs, a telltale yellow stain showing through the diaper’s white plastic coating.

“Now then,” I say, leaning down to get a closer look at his diaper. “Let’s get a good look at this, hmm?”

“Yes, Auntie.”

“It does look like a little boy has gone and piddled in his diaper. But you said that you just wet yourself once?”

“I…I think so.”

“You don’t even know?” I laugh. “Silly boy. See, this is why it’s good you’re in a diaper. You may not even know when you’re wetting yourself.”

He nods, his face a lovely shade of magenta now.

I lean in a little closer. I want to smell the diaper. I want to catch a whiff of his urine-soaked padding as it bunches up between his legs. Maybe it was there. Faintly.

“I think you ought to change your diaper,” I say. “Standing around in this heat with a soggy diaper on? You’re just asking for a diaper rash.”

“You’re probably right,” he says.

“Go on,” I say. “Leave your pants here. Run along to the house with your diaper bag and get changed.”

He nods nervously, but grabs his bookbag. “Th-thank you, Auntie.”

I watch him trot across the lawn in his diaper, watching it glimmer in the sun. I wish he had invited me to join him so that I could change him, but I’m not upset that he didn’t. All good things in time. He let me check his diaper. And he’s calling me Auntie. That feels like a very good start.

I pick up his shorts from the ground, inspecting the seat of them, I found a little damp patch–it looks like he leaked a little after all. I glance back towards the house to make sure he’s already inside. I lift his shorts up to my face, taking a little sniff of the area near the wet spot. There it is–the faintest scent of his accident.

I’m well aware of how absurd I must look in this moment. How perverse. I’m feeling a little crazy myself. But Emile seems to have ignited something in me–a fascination I never knew existed before now.

I want more. I crave more.