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

Day 4

This morning, he arrives with a box.

“What have we here?”

“The rest of my, uhm, diapers,” he says, his face turning red.

I find it cute that even now, after days of me inspecting and even changing his diaper, he’s still bashful about just saying the word.

“You can put them in the nursery.”

“Yes, Auntie. Thank you for letting me keep them here.”

“Well, they belong here, don’t you think?”

He nods, smiling.

***

While he works on the barn, I’ve got my phone in my hand, and I’m doing some online shopping. His little diaper supply will certainly get us through a few days, but I suspect that we’ll be going through diapers more frequently as the summer goes on. We’ll perfect our routine. Diaper changes will become the norm. I’ll be giving the Diaper Genie a workout.

There’s a robust number of options in the adult diaper market, with a surprising amount seemingly designed with the fetish community in mind.

A number of options catch my eye. There’s a pretty pink diaper, in particular, that I linger on for a bit. A soft pastel pink with white and lavender designs on it. A little girl would be nice.

A future project, perhaps. For another baby. Because now that the box is opened, I don’t see myself closing it anytime soon. And Emile will be going back to college eventually, and then what?

I’ll need another baby.

I add the feminine diapers to my cart, deciding that I’ll probably be happy that I have them on hand later. Eventually.

I pick out two other styles–’Little Sluggers,’ with baseball-playing cartoon animals, and ‘Wheelz’ with silly tire track prints criss-crossing the thick padding. I order enough to last a while. A few weeks, maybe. Probably more than I actually need, but I have high hopes that they’ll see use.

The order is placed. I sit back in my chair again, watching Emile work. I do love watching that big bottom move about.

***

“Hello, Auntie.”

“I thought I’d bring you a glass of lemonade.”

“That was very kind of you.”

“And…well, I think that I should check your diaper while I’m here, don’t you?”

“Y-yes, I think that’s a good idea.”

He didn’t need directions from me anymore–he knew exactly what to do. With no further prompting, he let his shorts fall down to his ankles, exposing his obviously wet diaper.

“Reliably wet,” I say, reaching between his legs to gently squeeze the heavy padding.

“You always seem to know exactly when to check,” he says.

“It seems that way, doesn’t it? Maybe we should get you out of this and into a clean diaper. It already feels like you might have been waddling about in this one for longer than you should’ve.”

“Well…” His thought, whatever it is, doesn’t get any further than that. But it’s clear that he has something on his mind.

“Yes?”

“I was just thinking…”

“Emile, darling, I’ve changed your diaper. I’d hope that by this point you know you can say anything to me. Whatever it is, can we not drag it out too much? Just say what’s on your mind.”

“I was thinking about, you know, if I ever had to…” He pauses and takes a deep breath to center himself before starting again. “If I have to, uhm, poop? Would you rather I do that in the bathroom? Because I don’t know if that’s the sort of thing that you’d want to deal with or…”

“Is that what this is about?” I ask. “Do you have to poop?”

He shrugs, his face bright red from being so flustered. “I mean…maybe. I just…well, I wanted to be sure, just in case.”

“Do you want to make a messy diaper, baby?”

He kicks at the ground a little as he considers his answer. “I’ve done it before.”

“I’m sure you have. It’s what diapers are made for, yes?”

He nods.

“You’re sweet to ask,” I say. “I imagine there are other big babies who wouldn’t hesitate to load up their diapers without any care for what the person who changes them thinks.”

“If you don’t want to deal with that, Auntie, I’d understand.”

“I’m sure I’ve said it before, but I’ve changed many diapers in my aunt-ing career. And they’ve run the gamut from little dribbles to full-on blowouts. This is certainly a bigger scale, but it’s not all that different. Emile, I can assure you that I’ll be able to handle whatever you want to put in your diaper.”

“You’re sure, Auntie?”

“Positive.”

“Thank you.”

“So…do you have to go?” I ask. Do you need to make poopies in your diaper?”

His cheeks flare again as he takes a series of short, nervous, breaths. “M-maybe…”

“Because I wouldn’t want to change your diaper now if you’re just going to go and immediately dirty a new one.”

“I…I could probably do it,” he says. “I could use this one again. Before you change me.”

“Why don’t you do that,” I say. “Mess your diaper and then Auntie can get you all cleaned up.”

“Yes, Auntie,” he says. “But…it might take a while. I’ve never had to do it in front of anyone before.”

“If I go back to the house and leave you be, do you think you can do it?”

He nods.

“Very well. Why don’t you come back to the house when you’ve done your business in your diaper. And then we’ll get you changed into a new one. Does that sound good?”

“Yes, Auntie.”

***

I watch him from my chair on the deck. He attempts to be productive for a few more minutes, casually poking at the walls with some tools. But it’s clear–even from this distance–that his mind is somewhere else entirely.

Soon, he stops doing anything else and just stands there. Then, his legs bend a little so that he’s squatting.

My heart is racing. I don’t know exactly what is happening, but I can guess. I try to imagine what it sounds like as he’s filling his diaper. What it smells like.

He stays in this position for a while before finally standing straight again. He again returns to the barn wall, as if he was going to go back to work. But he doesn’t, he just sort of paces back and forth. His steps look a little more awkward now, and I suspect he’s accounting for the new weight of his diaper.

He glances towards the house once or twice. I think I can read his mind–he’s debating when he wants to head back for his diaper change. He’s working up the courage to face me with loaded pants. I’ll smell it all. See it all. I’m sure that’s a lot for him.

But I’m ready, and I can’t think of anything I’ve been more excited about in a long time.

Slowly, he begins to shuffle his way towards me.

Day 4, continued

I’m sure he knows I’m watching him from the deck as he trudges across the lawn. Once in a while, I’ll catch his eyes glancing directly at me. But otherwise, he’s trying his hardest to pretend like everything is normal.

He’s just a normal 19 year old guy, walking back to the house after having spent the morning working on the barn. Just a completely run of the mill young man.

But it doesn’t take much studying to see the flaws in this scene. His awkwardly short strides. The way his legs seem a little further apart than they are normally. The careful and overcorrected nature of each step. This completely normal young man has a secret.

Of course, I already know what it is.

“There you are, Emile,” I say as he steps onto the deck with me. “I was wondering when you’d be back.”

“I, uhm, I’m all…done.”

“Done?” I ask. I wish I could keep a straight face, but I’m far too giddy for that. My lips are already curled into a goofy grin and I can barely keep a rogue giggle to myself.

“You know…” he says.

I know that “You know” all too well. Any parent, grandparent, aunt or uncle probably does. It means “You know exactly what I mean, so please don’t make me say it out loud.”

But I need to hear it.

“I’m not sure that I do,” I say, though I know my face says otherwise. “Tell me.”

Despite his rosy cheeks, the rest of his face seems to go pale. He nervously wobbles from side to side as he stands before me.

Even if I genuinely had no idea what he had done or why he had come to me, I imagine I would’ve quickly figured it out before he said another word. My auntie-nose was still a powerful detector of babies who needed their bottoms changed. Time was, when the nephews and nieces were younger, I could sniff out a dirty diaper quicker than Mom and Dad ever could.

“Well, uhm…”

“Do you smell something?” I ask playfully? “Something smells foul over here all of a sudden.”

“Uh…”

“No, I’m sorry,” I say. “Go on–I didn’t mean to cut you off. What did you come here to tell me?”

“Auntie, you told me to come back when I was ready to be changed. And…I’m ready.”

“Changed?”

“My…diaper.”

“Ah yes, right right. You’re a big baby who still needs to wear his precious diapers, aren’t you?”

“Y-yes, Auntie.”

“And you’ve–what, now–used them, is that right?”

He nods.

“Well? What did you do in your diapers, sweetpea? Is it the same wet diaper I saw earlier?”

“No…”

I make a dramatic gesture of waving my hand in front of my nose. “So? What did you do?”

“Auntie…I pooped my pants.”

“Your pants?”

“My…diaper. I pooped my diaper.”

“Did you really? Oh goodness, you better show me. Go ahead and take your shorts off. Show Auntie what you did in your diapers.”

He’s a good boy, and he knows exactly what I need to see. The words are barely out of my mouth and he’s spun around as he lets his shorts fall to the ground again.

“You’re taking this off so often, I’m beginning to wonder if you should even bother wearing shorts at all.”

I watch his head turn from side to side, perhaps taking in the surrounding area and determining if he would be comfortable with that or not. There’s not much to see–the hills surrounding my property mostly obscure the vantage points of even my closest neighbors. I can, and have, walked about the backyard nude before without issue.

“If you think that’s best,” he says.

“I know it’s best. Now then, let’s take a look at this stinky diaper, hmm?”

His backside faces me, with his bloated and sagging diaper at eye-level. It’s the same yellow-tinged sag I saw earlier, but there’s a new lumpy deposit in the rear. I can’t help myself and I put my hand on it. It’s still warm. A firm and sizable pile of shame.

“This is quite the mess you’ve made,” I say, patting his dirty bottom. “Did you have to push hard to get it all out and into your diaper?”

“Yes, Auntie, I did.”

“I’m sure. You’re a very stinky little boy right now, do you know that?”

“Y-yes. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” I laugh, shaking my head. “No, don’t be sorry. This is what babies do. They make their smelly little messes in their diapers. Here’s what I’d like to know…”

“Yes?”

“Did you like it? Did you like filling your diapers for Auntie?”

I’m anticipating more hemming and hawing. More drawn out conversations where I have to coerce an answer out of him.

But he surprises me with a prompt response: “I really did.”

***

He’s on his back again, on the ‘nursery’s’ bed. I’m trying not to look too eager to open up his diaper, but I’m sure he can’t detect at least some of my excitement.

“Diapers are one thing,” I say. “But how do you feel about other–more babyish–things?”

“Like what?”

“Bottles and bibs? Bonnets? Playpens full of stuffed toys? Rattles?”

He blushes and sheepishly nods. “I don’t keep many things like that around. But I like the idea of things like that.”

“Do you worry about how your parents would react if they caught you doing any of this?”

“I don’t think they’d approve if they found out,” he says with a little shrug. “But that’d also require them to care a little more about me in the first place.”

It’s not the answer I expected to hear, and it's surprisingly painful. I think back on my efforts to reach out to Emile’s parents when my barn was first vandalized, and how they couldn’t be reached. And how I had assumed that they were the ones who sent him to my house to work off his crime.

I’m curious as to whether or not I was wrong about those assumptions.

“They don’t care?”

“They have their own problems, I think.”

“Oh?”

“They’ve been going through a divorce,” he says, “but they've been going through it for about ten years now.”

“Oh wow. Emile, I’m sorry to hear that.”

He offers a small smile–a brave look that he’s probably had to perfect over the last few years. I want to hug him tightly–and I probably will, later. After I change his dirty diaper.

“I have something for you,” I say, walking over to the dresser.

I’m a little nervous about how he’ll react. I think he’ll like it. I pull open the drawer and take out the pacifier, carrying it back to him.

“Here we go, baby. Let’s pop this in your mouth and you can just suck on that like a good boy while Auntie takes care of your stinky pants.”

To my delight, his face seems to brighten as I push the pacifier into his mouth. I swear I hear a little moan coming from behind the pacifier, but I don’t dwell on it long. I have a job to do.

I open the diaper, revealing his big-baby-sized mess, along with his not-quite-baby-sized stiff cock. It shouldn’t surprise me–having his dirty diaper changed by an eager caregiver is likely straight out of his fantasies.

“I don’t know if I can reward every dirty diaper of yours with climax,” I say, playfully poking at his erection. “But for being such a brave boy and making a smelly diaper for Auntie, I’d say you’ve earned this.”

I consider, briefly, pulling his soiled diaper away from him while I stroke his cock, but it seems better to leave it where it is. If messing himself turns him on, then his mess should stay close by while I pleasure him.

He moans through his pacifier as I slide my hand up and down his shaft. The sight of him, arching his back slightly while his messy legs open wide, help to make my panties moist. I want his tongue in me again.

No–I want far naughtier things.

I want to pull up my dress while standing on the deck. I want to lean over the short railing, sticking my ass out in front of him. And I want the big baby to fish his cock out of his sagging and messy diaper so that he can slip it inside me and fuck me.

The words “Fuck me in your dirty diaper” come very close to falling out of my mouth.

I keep it together. Later, after he’s gone home, I’ll lie on the bed–in the very spot he’s lying in now–and I’ll run my hands between my legs.

After that? Well, it’s a long summer. Who knows what’s possible.

I’m so lost in my filthy fantasy that I’ve almost forgotten what my hands were doing. Not that it mattered all that much–he seems to be doing just fine. In fact.

“Mmm…muhhh…”

With a few feeble grunts from behind the pacifier, he climaxes, spurting a little load onto himself. I step back, letting him recover a little while I fetch the baby wipes.

“You’re such a good little boy, you know that?”

“Mmph.”

Maybe that was supposed to be a word, or maybe that was just a noise. I’ll never know.

“Now then,” I say, drawing a damp wipe from its package. “With that out of the way, we can get back to cleaning your stinky bottom and changing you into a new diaper, yes?”

He does offer a tiny nod of his head. Not that it mattered much–I was going to do it anyway.

I’ve fooled myself into thinking that it wasn’t that different from changing an actual infant’s dirty diaper. I’ve never found that to be very challenging–you open up the diaper, give them a thorough wipe-down and then bundle them up in a fresh one before sending them on their way. But it doesn’t quite translate, 1-to-1, to an adult in a messy diaper. Obviously, everything is bigger. The diaper. The baby. The mess. There’s a difference between manhandling an infant with just a single hand and contending with a baby of this size.

Still, it’s nothing that I can’t handle. I thrive on challenge, especially deliciously disgusting ones like this.

I talk through my process aloud–filtering it through my maternal sense of condescension.

“It’s no big deal, baby boy. We’re just going to start wiping away some of the stinky mess you’ve made of yourself.”

“What a smelly little bottom you have!”

“How does such a little tiny boy make such an enormous mess!”

“Do you like that? Do you like when Auntie gets deep in your tooshy to clean out those poo-poos?”

“Now that we got all that cleaned up, how about we deal with that sticky little puddle you’ve made just below your belly button, hmm?”

He eats it up–devours it, really. He’s just as engaged as I am, and his eyes follow my every move. He’s taking it in and burning it into his memory. He’s going to be thinking about this later. Tonight. A month from now. Ten years from now–maybe he’s married with a baby of his own, and he’s still thinking about the time Auntie cleaned up his icky bottom.

“All done,” I say. “Fresh diaper and everything. How do you feel?”

He nods approvingly, keeping the pacifier in his mouth.

“What do you think? Time to get back to work on the barn?”

He nods again.

“I’m going to keep your shorts here. You can work in just your diaper, yes?”

Another nod.

“And will you be holding onto that pacifier too?”

He nods once more.

“Good boy.”

Day 7

It just continues to get easier. Everyday, Emile arrives at my house eager to crawl out of his pants so that he can begin to work on the barn in just his diaper. I’ll usually change his diaper twice a day–once in the morning and once in the afternoon.

I actually changed him three times yesterday–he had a rather unexpected mess just after lunch. The closest he’s come to a blowout. But he handled it like a champ, coming to Auntie for help. I gave it to him, of course.

But it’s 9:30 in the morning and he hasn’t arrived yet. There’s never been a schedule, nor has there been an exact time that he was expected–but there never had to be. He’s been exceptionally punctual thus far, arriving at 9:00 every morning.

Except for today.

I’m tempted to call his home, if for no other reason than to see that he’s okay. I resist the urge, however. It sounds like his home life is challenging, and I fear that any meddling on my part could make things worse in ways I couldn’t understand.

I just wait.

Around 10, Emile’s aged red station wagon finally pulls up the curb. In many ways, it’s the same Emile I’ve seen every morning for the past week, with his bag over his shoulder and the same haste in his step as he approaches the front door. But there’s something different about him–I can see it in his eyes.

“Are you okay?” I ask. It’s the very first thing I say when I open the door.

“I…I’m sorry, Auntie. It’s been a hard morning.”

“Come here. Come to Auntie.”

Our arms wrap around each other tightly. As exhilarating as it is to have his strong arms holding me, and his padded crotch pressed against me, I try to remain focused on the fact that he’s obviously hurting.

“What happened?”

“A lot,” he says. “Everything.”

“Come with me. We’ll sit down. Tell me everything.”

We sit in the dining room, and I’ve put some pastries on a plate for him. He takes one, but doesn’t eat it. Instead, he just nervously picks at it as we talk.

“My mother demanded to know where I’ve been for the last week.”

“Did you tell her you were here?”

“No. But only because I didn’t want to cause any trouble for you.”

I laugh and put my hand on his. “Emile, I can handle trouble. Especially if it’d help you. You’re just painting my barn for me, right? You’re just helping me with some chores this summer.”

“It doesn’t really matter where I was,” he says. “She just wants to know where I am. She just wants to…control me.”

I remember being his age. And I also remember being wrong about a lot of things. Does his mother actually want to control him? Or does she just wonder what he’s been doing with his time? Like any parent would.

I bite my tongue. This probably isn’t my business to meddle in–I’m just an ear for listening. A shoulder to cry on. And, if need be, hands for changing a diaper.

“She found one of my diapers,” he says.

“Oh.”

“A…wet one.”

“Oh…”

“It was my own fault. I thought I was being really careful about them when I was at home. I bundle them up tightly, and then double bag them.”

“How did she find it, then?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe it was an accident. Or maybe she was snooping around.”

“I’m really sorry that happened, Emile.”

He wipes a tear from his eye. “She called me a pervert. A…freak.”

Parts of the story seem missing to me. The part where his mother sees an adult diaper and wonders if he’s having issues with his bladder and should see a doctor.

Oh, wait. The new diapers had arrived yesterday. I sent him home in a Little Slugger. That probably didn’t convey ‘embarrassing medical situation.’

“You aren’t either of those things,” I say. “Promise.”

“Thank you for saying that. But…my mom certainly thinks I am. We had a big fight this morning. I stormed out and told her I wasn’t coming home.”

“Ever?”

He laughs, shaking his head. “I don’t know.”

“You have a room here,” I say. “If you need it. Or just want it.”

“I could never ask you for–”

“It’s already a nursery,” I say. “And I’m not taking care of any other babies. So it’s yours to use for however long you need.”

***

He spoke with his mother over the phone shortly after dinner. I don’t know what was said, as he took the call on the porch, but judging from the flailing of his arms and his occasionally raised tone, it didn’t sound like an especially positive conversation.

I don’t press for details. If he wants to tell me, I’ll listen. If not, I’m there to support him in any other way he might need.

“You look stressed,” I say. “You could use a hot bath.”

He mulls the idea over briefly before nodding to agree. “That’s actually a very good idea, Auntie.”

“I’ll start the water,” I say. “You take your clothes off.”

He seems surprised–pleasantly so–that I’m involved with the process of drawing a bath for him.

“Are you going to…help me?” he asks. “Will you bathe me, Auntie?”

“Of course, baby.”

I take his hand and lead him to the bathroom.

Day 10

I asked him to sleep in my bed with me last night. Truthfully, I wasn’t hoping for anything to happen. I just wanted to feel the warmth of someone else in the bed with me. I wanted to cuddle.

And I think he needed that too.

I behaved myself. Even when, as we spooned–I was the big spoon, of course–I could feel his firm manhood through the front of his diaper. Even when he began drifting off to sleep and he wet himself, and I felt his diaper swelling and growing warmer as it was pressed against me.

It was very very challenging, but I behaved myself. I make no such promises about tonight.

He’s in the midst of priming the barn now for the new paint. I’m watching him work his way slowly across the wall, slathering the white paste across the freshly sanded surface–wearing just his diaper and t-shirt.

I find myself occasionally glancing towards the road. I feel relatively certain that nobody is going to come stumbling over the ridge to spot Emile in his diaper, but I do have a little bit of paranoia. Maybe it’s because the stakes have been raised a little with Emile’s near-constant exposure. Or maybe it’s because, in the back of my mind, I keep imagining a scenario where his mother pulls up to my house and starts screaming at me about making her son paint my barn in a diaper.

But she never shows. I’m certainly not mad about it, though it’s mildly disappointing to think that it’s only because she doesn’t care where he is.

I don’t pry, and I try not to ask too many questions. He might suckle from a pacifier and fill his diapers inside my home, but he’s also technically an adult.

I was so lost in thought that I didn’t notice him lumbering across the lawn and up onto the deck to talk to me.

“Auntie, do you have a moment?”

His very polite way of asking me to change his diaper, usually. I miss going to him and checking his diaper myself, but I also like the new routine of him coming to me.

“I do. What’s wrong, baby?”

I can already smell his dirty diaper. But he knows he needs to ask me for a diaper change. And he knows better than to just tell me that he needs his diaper changed–he needs to tell me why he needs it changed.

“I…uhm…”

It doesn’t matter how many times he comes to me in need of having his bottom cleaned, it’s still hard for him to get the words out. I find it to be rather endearing.

“Go on. You can tell Auntie what you did in your diaper.”

“Well, I wet myself…”

“And?” I ask, taking an obvious sniff of the air.

“I…also pooped.”

“I thought so. Did this just happen?”

“A little bit ago,” he says with a little shrug.

“And you kept working with your diaper in this state? You’ve probably made a complete mess of yourself.”

“Probably…”

“Thankfully, I specialize in messes. Come along, baby. Let’s get you changed.”

Day 12

I watch him waddle across the lawn towards the deck. His full diaper heaves beneath him–though this isn’t the only reason I know he’s loaded it. For one, it’s been a while since his last diaper change. But also, I watched him adopt his patented squat near the barn a few minutes ago. He seems to have it down to a science now.

I’ve already decided that this is the day. I’ve been waiting for him to come back to me in need of a change.

I stand up and lean on the deck’s railing, pushing my ass up in the air as far as I can. I hike my dress up to my waist, leaving my bright yellow panties on display.

“Auntie…”

“Hello, baby. What brings you up here?”

“Uhm…” He seems to have forgotten, and his eyes fixate on my ass.

“Did you need something?”

“Uh…”

“Come now, you’ve gotten so much better at telling Auntie about the dirty things you’ve done in your diaper. What’s different now?”

“Well, I…pooped in my diaper, Auntie.”

“I know.”

“Did you want to…”

“Change you? I do. But not yet.”

“Not yet?”

“Here’s what I want you to do. I want you to reach into the front of your diaper and grab your cock.”

Without hesitation, his hand vanishes into the front of his diaper. He nods to confirm that he’s done as I asked.

“Now, pull it out of your diaper. Show me it.”

He does so. Seeing his firm manhood sticking out of his loaded diaper is every bit as glorious as I imagined it’d be.

“Do you think you can come over here to me, baby? I’ll pull my panties down. You can put your cock inside of me?”

He nods, though he still seems a little flustered and confused. “But…with my diaper?”

“Yes, dear.”

“But it’s…full.”

“I know.”

It seems to click for him. I watch his eyes light up and his lips twist into a smile. I wonder if he’s wanted this for a long time too, or if it’s just dawning on him now. For now, the answer doesn’t matter.

None of my fantasies for this moment factor in the questions I have now. Is he a virgin? Does he know what to do right now, or do I need to walk him through it? I wouldn’t mind if it was the latter–I’d give him a thorough walkthrough.

He approaches me from behind, his hard manhood pressed against my panties. I reach behind myself to pull them aside and give him access to my soaked pussy–but he’s a step ahead of me and has already moved them himself. The head of his cock presses into me and I feel it slowly slide inside as I moan loudly.

Perhaps the baby knows exactly what he’s doing.

The moment gets away from me, and I’m barely tethered in reality. He fucks me from behind, his sagging diaper crinkling and swaying between his legs with every thrust. The smell of his diaper mixed with the naughty scent of sweaty sex is intoxicating.

He makes a feeble attempt to pull out at the end. He succeeds, but not without making a mess of my ass and the back of my thighs. I feel his c*m dripping down my legs.

“Th-thank you,” he says.

“Oh, but you’re not done yet,” I say.

“Yes, Auntie.”

Like a good boy, he gets on his knees and pulls aside my panties again, finishing what he started with his tongue.

Day 17

Emile says that he’s worked things out with his mother, for now. I don’t know what all that entails, but he seems content with wherever the two of them are now.

It’s my understanding that his parents are handling his college tuition–or at least a good portion of it. Part of me wonders how much the threat of that being withheld affects his willingness to make up with her.

I want to ask about the diaper she found, and what she thought about it. What did he say about it to her?

I keep it to myself.

He has the option to go home, but he stays at my house. I don’t know what he’s told his mother about where he’s staying, who he’s with, and why he’s not coming home. But, selfishly, I’m happy he’s still here.

Progress on the barn seems to have slowed. He’s working on it everyday, though it’s not the only thing he’s been working on. I obviously don’t mind. He can take all the time he needs.

Day 23

The barn is done. He’s painted the nursery, too. There’s other things I could keep him busy with, but he can’t stay forever. There’s pressure at home for him to return.

Sometimes it’s easy to forget he’s not mine.

“It feels weird,” he says, rubbing his ass through his shorts.

“Did you ever think you’d get so used to wearing diapers that it’d feel strange not to wear them?” I ask.

He laughs and shakes his head. “It took a lot of convincing for my Mom to believe me that the diapers were just a…phase. An experiment. I had to assure her countless times that I wasn’t going to wear them again.”

“But is that the truth?” I ask.

He laughs. “You know the answer to that already, Auntie.”

“You’re a good boy, Emile. I’m going to miss you.”

“This isn’t good-bye forever, Auntie. I don’t have to be back in school for another month. That’s plenty of time for me to come back and handle a stray project or two.”

“I’m holding you to that,” I say, laughing.

“I have to come back,” he says. “All my diapers are here now.”

There’s tears in both of our eyes as we embrace. It’s not ‘The End,’ but it is the end of an era. For a few weeks, we had our own little world, and I doubt that it’ll ever be like that again.

“Thank you, Auntie.” he says, kissing my lips. “Thank you for teaching me a lesson when I was naughty. And thank you for taking care of me.”

“You’re a good boy,” I say again.

Two Months Later

I vaguely know what Emile’s mother looks like. He might have shown me a photo of her once, but what catches my eye is how similar her facial features are. I almost immediately recognize her when she approaches me in the supermarket.

“Nancy Holcomb, yes? Sorry to bother you. My name is…”

I’m surprised she knows my name. Maybe even a little worried. “Mrs. Donner. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise,” she says, shaking my hand. “I’ve been meaning to reach out to you, so I’m glad to have run into you here.”

I’m a little surprised and confused, but I play along, smiling and nodding.

“You have?”

“I understand you know my son, yes? Emile.”

I nod. “That I do.” I’m hesitant to say much else, having no idea what she does or doesn’t know.

“I heard about what he and those other boys did. Vandalizing your barn? I was really upset about that. Perhaps more so because I didn’t hear about it from him–I heard about it from the parents of one of his cohorts.”

I almost mention that I had reached out to her and left messages, but I bite my tongue. There’s no need to put Emile in hot water again.

“It’s in the past,” I say.

“Well, as I understand it, my Emile came to your house and offered to repaint your barn?”

I laugh–I can’t even help myself. Yes, among other things. “He did, yes. And I was extremely grateful for that, too.”

“I was disappointed that he didn’t tell me,” she says. “But…after learning how he made it up to you, I almost can’t be mad about it.”

“He went above and beyond for me this summer,” I say. “He more than made up for his mistakes.”

Mrs. Donner sighs and nods. “I’m really glad to hear that. He’s had a rough few months, I think. His father and I have been having some problems of our own and so we haven’t really been there for him. I should’ve known that he’d act out. The vandalism and the…weird things he was getting into…”

This would normally be the part where I asked about sorts of weird things she thought he was getting into, but I leave it be. I probably know that weirdness far better than she ever will.

“Well,” I say. “He was nothing but a class act while he worked on my barn.”

“I think he must’ve needed that,” she says. “Some sort of project to channel his energy into. He wasn’t home for a while this summer. But when he came back, he was like a changed man. For the better.”

I smile. “I’m so happy to hear that.”

“He seems to be doing well in school too,” she continues. “And he seems excited about coming home during the winter break. Honestly…I can’t remember the last time he was excited to come home.”

I’m excited too. I feel myself getting a little wet. “That’s wonderful.”

“It's been a ride,” she says, “but I’m glad things are getting better. These are the sorts of things that nobody prepares you for when you have a child. I swear, it was easier when they were babies.”

“It’s a shame they can’t stay that way forever.”

“I suppose,” she says. Her tone changes a little–maybe she’s reminded of the wet Little Sluggers diaper she found over the summer. I suspect she doesn’t know that I know about that. Or the rest of the relationship I’ve shared with Emile.

We make a little more small talk and split off in different directions on a more positive note. I buy a small bottle of baby powder while at the supermarket. I have plenty at home–but I need some now. I need a little hit.

When I get back to the car, I open it up and shake it into the air, letting the powder fall wherever. The smell takes me back to changing Emile’s diapers, which is exactly what I wanted.

Maybe I’ll go home and work on the nursery a little, in preparation for a visit from Emile in the coming months. But first, I need to slip my hand into my moist panties and think about that time on the deck.