A Tale of Two Worlds (Patreon)

By Max Harper

Preface

For justification, I, Tom, referred to as Daddy in the following text, would like to thank each and every one of you for following along with Nora’s exploits. When I originally sat her down to write out her transition, she resisted. After some careful reminding of her place and why we were doing this, she finally relented. Not that she had a choice in the matter. She doesn’t have many choices these days. I remind her daily that she chose this life and through all of the pouting, brattiness, and adorable childish whimsey, she’s happy.

What follows is her story. In her words, unaltered by me. I did have to transcribe it from crayon, and sippy cup stains, so if certain words or phrases don’t line up, I did the best I could. I hope that you enjoy reading this little tale as much as we enjoyed living it.

I want to start by introducing myself. My name is Nora, known around the office as Big Boss Bitch. I run an accounting firm for a major corporation and I don’t take shit from anyone. I’ve made men cower and women cry. Why am I telling you this? Because I go by another name. A name that doesn’t instill fear or respect. A name that is a mockery of my career, my success, and my independence.

Baby Girl.

How did I come by this name you may ask? Well, therein is the tale. A tale of how my life spiralled out of my control and I came to understand the freedom inherent in two little words.

I guess it started last year. I had just finished up a late night at the office securing a new client that would bring hundreds of millions into the firm over the next ten years. My take home bonus would be enough to retire off of. Not too shabby for someone who was in her early thirties, if I do say so myself. I had sent the rest of my team home for the night without so much as a good night. They didn’t earn it. They never do. While the interns had done a passable job of compiling all the relevant data, it fell on me to negotiate the terms of the contract.

I know what you're thinking. That’s some boring shit right there. All this bitch does is blah blah blah. And you would be right. At that time in my life, I didn’t answer to anyone or anything. Single, successful, and arrogant, I thought I was on top of the world. What few friends I had would only say they were my friends when they were around me. I was a snob; blatantly ignorant of my own misgivings and poor demeanor.

One of those few friends I had suggested one night that I really needed to get laid. Can you imagine that? Here I had everything a girl could want or need but it wasn’t good enough because I didn’t have a man in my life? As if. They wouldn’t relent though, even when I told them to drop it. They said that I needed to get out more, that there was no point in all I had accomplished if I had no one to share it with.

Sharing has never been my strong suit. With the current climate, I don’t need to share. And why would I weigh myself down with someone else when no one has done anything for me? But, they persisted and it was one Friday night out on the town that changed everything.

I hate dating. The awkwardness, the trivialities, the pathetic attempts to impress. All of it disgusts me. Namely the latter. No one impresses me. No one can; stop trying, thank you and good night. I hate dating so much that I avoid it if at all possible. The downside to being a collective of single, successful women is that no man can seem to measure up. And that’s before the bedroom, amiright? But we keep trying for some neurotic reason. As if some billionaire would be looking for his forever love in a speed dating cafe.

To be clear and honest, I wasn’t looking for anyone or anything, so for the sake of those involved that night, deal with it. I was just going through the motions.

The losers were in force that Friday night. In the few hours that I spent there, I had been propositioned for everything from a nice dinner to having my ass licked. Swear to God that actually happened. I was already checked out before the night got started and the few glasses of wine I’d had during the night didn’t help matters much. I went from being cruelly oblivious to messing with them, leading them on as the alcohol lowered my inhibitions.

I guess in my antics I must have made an impression with one of the drooling neanderthals. I didn’t notice him until he was three or four tables away in the rotation. My girlfriends were busy laughing and carrying on, slutting their way into phone number after phone number. I, however, hadn’t gotten a single number worthwhile and every one I did have lay crumpled at my feet on the floor. A few more numbskulls came and went, having figured out that I wasn’t remotely interested when he sat down across from me.

I had thought that I had made it abundantly clear that I wasn’t interested in any part of this, and was only here for the laughs. I’m not sure if he couldn’t take the hint or wasn’t paying attention but when he shook my hand and sat down, I could tell that something was different. I was out of wine and therefore, out of patience.

“Just spit it out and wrap it up. I don’t care who you are or where you're from or what you do.”

“As long as you love me?” He mouthed a few more words, which I don’t know because I wasn’t paying attention.

I stopped in my tracks. He was bold, I gave him that, but I was not impressed. It took me a moment for my addled brain to understand that he was joking and the all too familiar jingle of the Backstreet Boys tune played through my head. I scoffed at having fallen into such an obvious trap.

“That the best you got?” I asked him.

He glanced under the table at the discarded numbers on the floor and shook his head in disgust. At least, I took it as disgust.

“No.” He said sardonically. “I know a lost cause when I see one. You have yourself a wonderful night.”

My attitude erupted as it normally does when talked down to. “Like you stood a chance anyway, lip dick!”

He simply smiled. He was either used to being reminded of his inadequacies, or he liked being ridiculed, I couldn’t tell which.

“You can always tell those that are overcompensating by the way they address others and carry themselves.”

“I am not overcompensating!”

“Yet you see the need to argue and defend yourself as if you have been slighted by something. I merely noticed the amount of discarded numbers at your feet and know that any attempt I could make to give you my number would end up the same way. Instead of wasting my time, I’m going to go enjoy myself elsewhere. While you may think that we are all here to beg at you, in actuality, you need us more than we need you.”

“I don’t need you! I don’t need anyone!”

“Quite right, which is why you are alone and miserable. Your success and your wealth can’t buy happiness. It certainly could buy manners but why bother?”

“I’ll have you know-”

“Nothing. You will teach me nothing. Because you have nothing to teach. You have much to learn, but your mind is closed to the possibilities.”

Flustered and angry, I sputtered something drunken and incoherent, but he wouldn’t lament.

“Let me guess.” He said, gesturing to my friends gathering around me. “You are all successful, single women who’ve made their careers by stepping on or stepping over anyone and everyone that gets in your way. You think you are the queens of your own little worlds and revel in the concept of men begging you for a scrap of attention, when instead, you face the harsh realities that no one here or anywhere else is even remotely interested in you or anything you have to say. You are hollow, empty, vain little girls mindlessly convinced that you are somehow special and deserving of everything you want. That said, you are allowed to think and feel however you wish. The world wants to tell you that you are perfect in every way, go ahead and believe that, it’s your right, but don’t come crying to us when you can’t sleep at night.

“And with that, ladies, I bid you adieu, good night and sweet dreams, for in our dreams we are truly free.”

And like a typical coward, he was gone, retreating into the mockery of claps from the dateless virgins who had heard his little speech. My girls and I rolled our eyes and jeered at him as he left. We spent the rest of the night discussing among ourselves what life would be like if there were no men. I didn’t need one and certainly didn’t need the bullshit that I just sat through. It was my fault for having too much wine. I would have been able to cut his dickless tirade off before it even got started.

Pussies. The lot of them. I thought to myself. I have one of my own so why would I ever need another one?

Those were my sentiments as I got ready for bed in my lush condominium. I looked around at all the things I had. There wasn’t much. Who needs things when you have money? Money buys things and I had plenty of money. But if I didn’t need anything besides the necessities, why waste the money?

I tossed on my favorite nightie and slipped under the covers of my queen sized bed. With no pets or manchild, I didn’t need to share it with anything. I tucked a support pillow between my knees to support my joints and brought it up snug between my legs. It gave me a comforting feeling and ensured that I wouldn’t wake up with joint discomfort in the morning. I was already expecting a mild hangover which I would then take into work and make everyone else as miserable as I was. Perks of being the boss bitch.

Settling my thoughts and closing my eyes so that the room wasn’t moving, I thought about what that guy had said. I had already given him too much of my time but for some reason, I couldn’t get him out of my mind. He’d be gone by morning, like any other poor sap that thought they could entertain me. His last words echoed in my mind like a crying child unable to get a chocolate at the grocery store.

“...Good night and sweet dreams…”

A younger girl stared back at me through the mirror. How she got there and how she wore my face was beyond me. I was simply dressed with my hair done in curls. The summer dress I wore was covered in a sunflower print, falling to my knees. My socks came up near the rest of the way, covering my lower legs and the black Mary Jane shoes I wore shined like the sun outside. The details of the room were fuzzy at best and I was unable to look around. All I could see was the girl in the mirror and some of the objects behind her.

Daddy came into the room. I knew it was him in my heart and I was both scared and happy. Daddy had an air about him; one of grim determination. He stood behind me, towering over my short frame, and rested his hands on my shoulders. I couldn’t see his face through the mirror but the weight of his hands told me he was real.

“I’m very disappointed in you, Nora. Your mother told me what you did and the nasty things you said to that poor girl.”

“But Daddy-” I tried to say.

“But nothing. We didn’t raise you to behave like you are better than others who are less fortunate than us. We certainly didn’t raise you to speak in such a manner.”

“Daddy-”

“I don’t want to hear it, Nora. I don’t want to hear the same excuses you give everytime.” He said, taking me by the upper arm and pulling me towards the bed. “You always say that you are sorry, but I don’t believe you anymore.”

He sat down at the edge of the bed, his lap hanging over the empty air.

“I don’t want to do this but I have to teach you a lesson.”

I felt him pull my arm towards him and down, my body falling helplessly across his lap. I tried to protest, tried to plead and beg to avoid what was coming, but Daddy wouldn’t listen.

“Just know that I only do this to make you a better person. You will understand when you are older.”

I felt each stroke as his hand crossed my bottom. Daddy’s hands were hard and unforgiving, far worse than I remembered. I was screaming and crying within moments, writhing on Daddy’s lap in vain attempts to get free. He had one of my hands twisted behind my back and any attempts I made to block his strikes with the other one were pointless. His hand did not falter and I soon abandoned any hope of mercy or reprieve.

As quickly as it began, it was over. I was sobbing in pain and humiliation, my well done makeup now dual smears of product running down my face. My nose was running, my bottom was sore, and I was hiccuping from crying. Daddy stood me up and wiped the tears from my eyes. I couldn’t face him out of shame and sorrow. “Are you going to do that again?” I shook my head.

“Are you sure?”

I shook my head again.

“I don’t want to have to do that again, am I understood?” I nodded.

“I can’t hear your head rattle.”

I looked up at him but couldn’t see his face through the tears in my eyes. “Yes, Daddy.”

I awoke with a start, my alarm clock blaring. It had to have been going off for a while as it was fifteen minutes past my normal wakeup time. My head was pounding from the wine the night before and I was feeling rather disoriented. I scrambled out of bed and stood up, the first of many bad ideas today. I just about puked as the room spun in and out of focus. I sat down suddenly and felt a stinging burning sensation coming from my buttocks. Unsure if I was still asleep and dreaming, I reached back to feel my skin burning and sensitive. I stood up more slowly this time and checked again. The sensations were still there, more apparent now that I was paying attention to them. I walked uneasily to the bathroom, slipped out of my nightie, swearing that I had put a different one on than this one, and took a look at myself. My front looked great. Not to brag or anything but I still had a rocking body. Needed to shave though but not today.

I turned slowly around and was astonished by what I saw. My left cheek was red and in some places bruised. I could see fading marks that looked like hand prints. I held my own hand over them as best I could and found that my slender fingers could not have made the impressions left in my flesh.

Horrified, I turned around the other way and found similar damage on my other cheek. More so in fact as if I had been struck repeatedly on my right side versus my left. My right was far more tender than my left and I kept trying to remember what had happened and who had accosted me. The only thing I could think of was the dream. The one I had just woken up from.

The one where Daddy spanked me.

Thinking too much hurt and made the room spin. I tried to shake the uncertainty and fear from my mind. I had no idea what had happened and the thoughts of what could have happened made me nauseous. I got into the shower and quickly found that the normal temperature I was used to bathing at set my skin afire. I checked other parts of my to ensure that I hadn’t been assaulted or something. I didn’t know what had happened and didn’t know who to talk to. What could I say?

Showered and feeling a little better, I left the bathroom in a towel and walked about my bedroom. I lived alone, not sure if I’ve made that apparent, and once suitably dry, I pulled the towel off and used it on my hair, letting the rest of my body air dry. I tried as hard as I could to avoid sitting and even harder to not think about it.

Gingerly, I got dressed and let me tell you, trying to pull a pair of panties over a tender ass is no mean feat. I decided to wear one of my light summer dresses, letting panties be the tightest thing on my body. I looked at my phone and received yet another shock.

It was Monday!! Monday!! I had lost two days and the only thing I had to show for it was lost time and a lot of confusion. There was a fear growing. A dark, deep fear. It was only a seedling, but it was there. Had I really drunk so much that I lost track of two whole days?! What happened to me during that time?

Unable to find any answers and not knowing where to look, I changed into more appropriate work attire and put my fears away. Whatever was going on, it didn’t matter. I had business to conduct and my career wasn’t going to be put on hold for one bad weekend.

Life returned to normal. The pain and bruises faded and within a week, I had forgotten all about it. Weeks turned to months and when it did cross my mind, I wrote it off as just a bad dream. Funny thing about dreams, though, the important ones keep coming back.

It was in early spring. I was sitting in my office at the firm, finishing up the paperwork on another lucrative client when my phone rang. It was one of my friends that was with me that night I got black out drunk. I hadn’t talked to her since that night. It was typical of us. Career women doing career things with little time for others. She wanted to go out on the town again.

Although I had all but forgotten the dream and the loss of time that followed, I had an

uneasiness about the whole situation. That said, I was still Boss Bitch, yechh!, and I still wanted to have fun.

We went out as usual. Drank. Made merry. Yet for some reason ended up in the same speed dating cafe as last time. It was here that my uneasiness went into overdrive. I couldn’t quite explain why, even to myself, so I left it alone.

I sat at my table and anxiously waited for the night to be over. I sipped my wine, imbibing less than I had before. I don't know why. It hadn’t occurred to me that I was doing so deliberately. The night wore on and the list of rejects got longer and longer. My girlfriend was thoroughly enjoying herself, gathering number after number while I barely had any. It seemed as if they weren’t even interested in me and for the first time, I felt helpless. It was a strange feeling and it angered me.

“Well, well, well. Look who it is!” The face was unknown but the voice ripped through my memory. I couldn’t place where or when I'd heard it but it was unmistakable. The man with the voice sat down in front of me and I couldn't help but feel a tinge of shame.

“What’s this? No scathing comeback?” He said, half joking. “But maybe now is not the time? Perhaps there is more to our chance meeting than meets the eye.” “I...I remember you…” I stammered.

“Oh? And should I take that as a good thing? You seem to have returned to a place that you seem adverse to.”

To this day I can't explain why I suddenly started tripping over myself. The more and more I heard his voice, the more uncertain it made me. Not about him, but about myself. I don't know what made me this way or how he was the harbinger of it. All I knew was that something was different.

There was idle conversation. I was less prudish and rude, and he was less demeaning and narcissistic. When the buzzer rang and he moved on, I blurted out a request for his name. I wanted to ask for his number, but I also wasn’t about to come off as some dick deprived prom queen. (yechh!!) He smiled at me and for a moment I felt that he could be charming.

“What is in a name? A label? A description? Is that what it takes to know someone? To know others, you must first know yourself. Are you sure that you know yourself?”

“I…” I didn’t know what to say. For the first time that I could remember, I was sober and speechless. Again, I didn’t know how this was possible. I didn’t understand what was happening to me and it stuck in my mind throughout the rest of the night. I stayed out late with my friends that night. We went from the speed dating cafe to the night clubs

The night clubs. Let me tell you about night clubs. There is always an air of desperation and compromise at a night club. Or bar, same thing really. The longer the night goes on, the worse it gets. Most people may just want to have a good time. Shake their asses, bounce their tits, and try desperately to stand out among the countless others who see these social settings as a mating hole. The girls are the worst. And I say girls because in no way are these women, no matter how hard they act.

What happened to humankind? In nature, generally speaking, it is the male that seeks to court the female, usually with some form of public display. For a time, humans did the same thing. The man came to the woman, pursued her, won her, and cherished her. This skank ass hoes in nightclubs must have forgotten about all of that. Here, biology is reversed. It may look as if men are still pursuing women but you would be mistaken. These girls get all dolled up, dressed to the nines, hair all done, makeup perfect, with a new outfit and mani/ pedis to go out to the club in hope of finding that one guy who’s gonna rock her world. But herein is where nature collides with reality. She still wants to be selective. A trashy bimbo can pull name and number after name and number and she gets to decide which one she wants. Or does she? How often do these primadonna bitches get looked over and bypassed for being too high maintenance and too picky? The longer the night wears on, the more competitive the mating scene gets and the girl either has a choice. She can settle for whatever is left, or she can go home empty. (That’s funnier when you think about it.)

For guys, it’s a waiting game. Clean, and composed, they can wait out the night. Buy a few drinks here, throw out a few comments there, and keep their impatience to themselves. When the night wears on, they have their pick of the litter, and if they are unsuccessful at one spot, they have plenty of options around town. There is always someone willing to go home with them. Always.

You could say that it’s because of a woman’s standards. That’s a crock of shit. Flat out, no excuses. Women don’t have the standards they pretend to have. They like to think they do, but get a girl desperate enough and she’ll jump on the first hard-on that swings her way.

I saw exactly that, during the night, while I sat off to the side watching my friends embarrass themselves. I was nursing my second drink of the evening. Looking back I’d like to say that I made the effort on my own to drink less but at the moment, I felt uneasy drinking too much. I kept having thoughts about blacking out, the one thing besides waking up bruised that I could remember.

The night ended with disappointment. My friends went home with guys they met, probably to have disappointing attempts at coitus. I took a cab back to the office, one to retrieve my car, and two because going home made me feel uneasy. I loitered around my office for a bit, waiting for the alcohol to wear off. I was sitting on the couch in my office, fighting sleep, and thinking about what was going wrong in my life.

I thought I was happy. I looked around my office and the stacks of accolades that I had received from the board. I didn’t have any pictures of family or friends on my desk. My office seemed cold and not in a temperature way. It was sterile, uninviting, and almost clinical. Like a doctor’s office. From my couch, I even felt like I didn’t belong or was immediately on the defensive. I stood up and wobbled over to my private bathroom, looking at myself in the mirror.

“Get a grip of yourself. Why are you acting this way?” I said aloud.

I got no answer so I returned to the couch, still feeling the effects of the alcohol. I leaned back and closed my eyes, trying to get a grip on myself…

The world was bright again. I could hear myself crying. I sounded younger than before, like eight or nine. Last time I could swear that I was a teenager. For some reason I kept getting younger and younger each time.

I was standing in the kitchen. Daddy was nearby, I could hear him talk to himself, his voice unmistakable now, and the sense of dread was overwhelming.

“Nora? Come here.”

My legs were jelly as I walked towards his voice. Tears ran down my face and my bottom lip quivered.

“Yes, Daddy?”

“Do you know what happened? Specifically, why I am so upset?”

I wracked my brain but couldn’t remember within the confines of the moment, so I shook my head.

“How many times have I talked to you about your language? How you speak to others and in general is a reflection of the person you are. Using vulgar statements and cursing is inappropriate and rude. No one wants to talk to you if that’s how you are going to conduct yourself.”

“I understand.”

“I hope so, but that doesn’t excuse your behavior.” He said. He reached for something off the table he was sitting at. “Dirty words and dirty mouths need to be cleaned.” He showed me something creamy white in his hand. It was a bar of soap and upon that realization, my stomach dropped to the floor.

“Daddy no! I’ll never say a bad word again! I promise! I swear! I-”

“Enough. You may be able to bargain with your mother but you know as well as I do that if I have to get involved, it’s past the serious stage. Now, open your mouth.”

I tried to block out what happened, but it was impossible. Daddy stuck the bar of soap in my mouth, pressing up slightly on my jaw so that my teeth sunk into it and marched me to the nearest corner. Behind the cries and the attempts not to swallow, soapy bubbles ran down my face and onto the floor. Daddy went back to the table to read his newspaper and I stood in torment.

All I could taste was soap and no matter how hard I cried and whined, Daddy wouldn’t relent. I don’t know how much time had passed until another problem became more pressing.

I had to pee!

I tried looking at Daddy to get some form of sympathy but he wasn’t paying attention to me. The urge was bad enough that I was crossing my legs and doing a little dance, trying anything and everything to not think about anything wet.

It didn’t work. My eyes went wide and I choked on the bar in my mouth as I felt the hot urine start to run down my leg. It hit the floor with an ear piercing splash. I turned back to the corner just in time to hear Daddy’s chair slide away from the table and his footsteps echo on the floor.

I woke up gagging. The taste of soap lingered in my mouth. I was confused and disoriented as I sat forward, hacking and coughing. Saliva flowed from my mouth and I could feel chunks of something in my teeth. I was sitting in something cold and wet and my feet slapped against a puddle on the floor. As my eyes focused through the gagging and tears, I noticed that the floor had a dark yellow puddle forming at my feet. I leaned father forward to see the drip coming from the base of the couch.

Shocked and horrified, my mind raced as I tried to piece together what had happened to me. I gagged on the soapy taste again and used my fingernail to dig out a chunk of white creamy soap from my teeth. I choked on the realization, my stomach spasming, and a spurt of urine dribbled out of me.

Panicking, I lurched to my feet and was stumbling across my office to the bathroom when my office door swung open and my boss, the head of the board of directors, strood in. I nearly died from the embarrassment. I could feel his eyes slowly scan the room, focusing on the puddle on the floor and my unprofessional appearance.

He stopped walking and stared at me. He was never much of a talker and in a few words, he spoke volumes.

“My office. Ten minutes.” He spun on his heel and left my office, the door clicking shut quietly but feeling like a slam. I hurried to the bathroom and started picking chunks of soap out of my teeth, my mind racing and panic crushing my chest. I thankfully had a change of clothes, my office wear, that I had left after my shift on friday as I had changed into something more comfortable. I didn’t have a fresh pair of panties so I did what I could to clean myself, wrapping my wet clothes into a ball and leaving them on the bathroom floor. I picked and cleaned my teeth as best I could, brushing and rinsing as many times as I could to get the soap taste out of my mouth. I sprayed some perfume on my body and pinned my hair back into a ponytail. I couldn’t look at my couch, I couldn’t explain what had happened, or why it kept happening.

I took the long walk of shame, past all of the cubicles of my underlings and feeling the judgemental gaze of disappointment. Time and time again, it was my judgemental gaze that people had to be afraid of, but today, it was my turn to feel unbiased karma. I sat down outside my boss’ office while waiting to be summoned. The last time I was sitting here, I was riding the high of the latest mega deal that I had closed. Now, I was the deal. It was sobering and embarrassing. His secretary finally waved me inside and I braced myself for the worst.

“Nora? It’s good to see you. Come. Sit.” His tone was softer but there was a hint of disapproval in it.

“Thank you, sir.” I said, sitting.

“I’ll just be frank with you, as you have been so frank with this firm. I was appalled at what I saw in your office.”

“Sir, I apologise from the bottom of my heart and you have my personal guarantee that it will never happen again.”

“Good. I’m glad to hear that.” I started getting nervous. His tone and demeanor seemed so familiar. “However, such things can not go unnoticed and nor can we have anything that tarnishes the reputation of this firm.”

“Again, sir, my apologies.”

“That being said, you have done fantastic work for us. You are tireless and dedicated. One of our best asset managers to date.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“With that in mind and with the closing of your latest account, I’m recommending that you take some personal time. Lord knows that you’ve earned it.”

“I-I will consider it, sir.”

“Nora, look at me and hear what I’m saying. Take some personal time. It’s highly recommended.”

I knew then what he was getting at. He couldn’t just force me to take a leave of absence. I had to volunteer for it. And perhaps he was right. I had no idea what was happening to me and until I could figure it out, I was a liability to the firm, my career, and myself.

“I think I’ll do that, sir. Take some time off, I mean. Could be good to clear my mind.”

“That’s an excellent idea! You go ahead and take as much time as you need. Don’t worry about a thing, your office will be right as rain when you get back!”

“Thank you, sir. Perhaps I’ve been working too hard.”

“Happens to the best of us. I’ll put the call in to HR and you let me know how things progress.”

“Thank you, sir, for everything.”

“Certainly, my dear. After all, how do we know our limits if we don’t know ourselves?”

I gathered my clothes and my personal effects with his words ringing in my ears. Know myself? Why was that so familiar? I didn’t know and couldn’t tell. All I knew was I had to get home as fast as I could and hope to God that no one could smell my wet clothes. I suffered the walk of shame again on my way to the elevator and thankfully, had a solo ride to the car port.

Once I got home, I stripped down, tossed my wet clothes in the washing machine, and got in the shower. I let the hot water run over me as I contemplated what was happening to my life. Everything seemed to go wrong that first night at the speed dating. That guy. Whomever he was had done something to me. Everytime we met, something crazy happened to me. I had to find him!

I got out of the shower and wrapped a fuzzy robe around me. Normally, it would have been a sheer, sexy little number, but I was so emotional that I needed something comforting. I curled into a ball on my couch, trying to make sense of everything. Saddened to the point of near crying, I went into my kitchenette, poured myself a coffee cup of milk and put it in the microwave. I don’t know what possessed me to heat it up. I don’t know what made me put a straw in it and sip it like a child. All I knew was that it soothed me enough that I could stop the tears.

I felt lost. Spiraling out of control. What was just a fluke had repeated itself at my work. It couldn’t continue going on like this. I had to find that guy and get him to reverse whatever it was that he did to me. And most of all, I had to know why.

I had plenty of leave time. Six weeks worth in fact. I hoped that it wouldn’t take me that long to find him. Part of me doubted it. Part of me, the part that was so confused and emotional, somehow knew that it wouldn’t be too hard to find him.

I steeled myself during the week. I was hesitant to go to sleep every night, but I didn’t have a repeat of the first two nights. I talked myself up, reasserting control over my life and my body. No one would ever rattle me like that again!

I was a child again. Even younger this time. My adult mind could barely process what my four year old body looked like. Everything was small, soft, and smooth. I remembered my face from my school pictures so there was no mistaking who I was looking at. I was wearing a pair of footed pajamas that zipped up from the foot to my neck. It was unzipped all the way down to my knees. But that wasn’t the worst part. I could handle the childish footed pajamas. I could handle looking like a four year old even though I was in my thirties. What I couldn’t handle was the utterly degrading monstrosity taped around my waist.

I may have looked like a child again, but I wasn’t helpless. Why then was I wearing a diaper?! A diaper!!! And from the looks of it, it was wet. I wet my diaper! Was I some kind of baby?

The creek of the floor and the booming echo of Daddy’s voice meant only one thing. This nightmare wasn’t over. He spoke in that voice that haunted my consciousness for months now. “I’m sorry that it had to come to this, Nora. I thought that you were my big girl, but it’s clear that you aren’t ready to be out of diapers just yet.”

“But-”

“No buts, except yours, over here on this bed.”

“Do I hafta?”

“Do you want to stay in that wet diaper all day?”

“No. But do I hafta wear these?” I asked as he lifted me up onto the bed, laying me down.

“Sweetheart, you wet the bed every time you sleep. It doesn’t matter if you just take a nap or if you’re down for the night. I don’t see any other choice.” He unzipped my pajamas the rest of the way and pulled my little feet out of the footies.

“But I don’t wanna wear diapers!! I’m a big girl!!”

“A big girl, huh? Why would you want to be a big girl? What if Daddy wants you to stay his baby girl forever?” He asked, setting a clean diaper and wipes next to me on the bed.

“Forever? Why forever?”

“So I can always take care of you.”

“But I’m really an adult!! And this is all a bad dream!”

“But it doesn’t have to be…” He said, reaching for my diaper.

My bed was soaked. I was soaked, and the smell of drying pee was everywhere. I groggily stirred from my slumber wondering how many days had passed this time. My fuzzy bathrobe was balled up and clutched to my bare chest. I sat up and rubbed my eyes, reaching for my phone. It was Friday, three weeks after I’d gone on leave. I’d lost track of another two days. If it had significance, it was beyond me. Everything was foggy. The dreams were coming more often. It seemed that every other night I had another one. Vivid, recurring dreams of the faceless Daddy and how he made me his little girl. And every morning I woke up to wet sheets.

I had tried to find him at the cafe the past few Fridays but was unsuccessful. The more helpless and scared I became, the more frequently the dreams followed. Unable to explain them or muster the courage to reach out to anyone for help, I kept it to myself.

I cleaned up my bed. After the first few times of waking up wet, I covered my mattress with plastic to protect it as best as I could. Soaking up the cold liquid with towels, I put the entire mess in the washing machine. The machine and I were becoming very well acquainted. Then I showered, making sure to be shaven and clean every day.

There wasn’t much for me to do today. I will be trying the cafe again tonight in hopes that I can find him. Instead of being productive in furthering my career, I obsessed over my past. The man in my dreams was not my father. My father is a brilliant man that didn’t speak that way. Though my mother primarily raised me, my father was a beacon of joy in my childhood, pushing maturity and success in everything I did. He praised my maturity with his every breath. The man in my dreams was not my father. There was no possible way that these dreams were interpretations of my memories. No way at all.

The fateful night had finally fallen. Sounds poetic doesn’t it? I realize after rereading some of this that I did a lot of writing but not a lot of relating. It’s harder than it looks, I promise you that. To sit there with a crayon and write out everything from memory. Well, at least it started from memory. See, I went and did something smart at the start of this. I kept a journal. Sorry, diary. Girls don’t have journals. In it, I wrote down what I could remember from every dream and everything that happened to me after that. I figured that if I ever found the source of all of this, it would be useful in court or something. Really, it was tailor made for this exact thing. Figures right? I’d be the architect of my own demise. Anyway, back to that night.

He wasn’t hard to find. I heard him talking from half a dozen tables away. I steeled myself with each passing person until he got to me. I was calm, I was collected, and I was prepared to find the truth no matter what.

He didn’t seem to notice me at first. What? You didn’t! But when he finally sat down at my table and got a look at me, he smiled. The Big Boss Bi-.... The old me would have ripped right into him, wiping that grin off his face with a lawsuit or something. But this me. This me that I’d slowly come to be didn’t know how to stand up to him.

“And so, she returns.”

“Hi.”

“She speaks! Hello! How are you?”

“I’m...can we talk? Like, honestly talk?”

“Sure. I’d expect nothing more than honesty here.”

“Not here. Outside maybe?”

“Are you trying to come on to me?”

“No. I just want to talk to you in private.”

“Lead the way.”

We left the cafe and headed out into the cool night air. I didn’t know what to say or how to approach the situation and panic was eating at my soul.

“What did you do to me?!” I blurted out.

“Do? I didn’t do anything to you. I don’t even know who you are.”

“Yes, you do. You have to. Someone has to. I can’t take it anymore!” I cried out, almost on the verge of tears. He made me add that last part. I wasn’t crying, I swear.

“Take what?”

“The dreams! It’s almost every night I have the dreams and then I wake up and-” I sobbed. Okay, I was crying at this point. Sue me. This was hard.

“Dreams? Dreams have a habit of showing us our true desires.” “My true desire is to wet the bed?!”

As a note here, this conversation went on far too long and devolved into pointless finger waving and a tantrum. Yes, she had a tantrum. She will deny it all day long but I was there, I saw it happen. -Daddy

It was not a tantrum! Anyway, after trying to get him to admit that he’d done something to me, he managed to calm me down by buying me a hot chocolate. We sat down away from the speed daters and he finally opened up to me.

“Yes. I did something to you. Way back on that first speed date, I told you exactly what I

thought of you and your friends. I didn’t hold back and you took it to heart. That’s what's driving all of your dreams, a change of heart. You felt guilty for the way you acted and how you talked to people and it manifested into your dreams as punishments given out by me.”

“That doesn’t explain how I had bruises on my butt and soap in my teeth!”

“Doesn’t it? You lost two days worth of time. Clearly your mind blocked out the rest of what happened.”

“So what happened to me then? Did I spank myself and shove a bar of soap in my mouth?”

“No. I did those things to you. You don’t remember because I didn’t want you to.”

“You assaulted me?!”

“No. And I can prove it. What’s the first words I ever said to you?”

“I don’t kn….” I stopped, thinking back. I went over our first meeting, how insolent I was.

“You said As long as you love me.”

I froze and all at once all the memories from every missed day came flooding back. I had gone out with him that night and after a heated, drunken discussion, he had pulled me over his knee and spanked me. The other time, I had mouthed off to him and he had put soap in my mouth and stood me in the corner. Only these weren’t dreams of my childhood, these were actual events. He had soaped my mouth in my office at work, left me there to pee myself. He had put me in a-!!!!

“You put me in a diaper?!!!!

“I did.”

“Why!!”

“Stop shouting and I’ll tell you. I put you in a diaper because that’s what you needed. That’s what you still need.”

“I don’t need any such thing.”

“Really? Then why are you here? Every time you come here you are looking for me to either punish you, or pamper you.”

“I’ve only seen you three times.”

“Three times that you can remember.” He pulled out his phone and showed me one of his photo albums. In it were pictures of me in various baby-like outfits and diapers.

“I-I don’t understand.”

“You wanted my help. That first night when I asked you if you wanted a spanking for your behavior and you said yes. Since then, every time you get down on yourself, you come crawling back to me for help, and every single time, I help you. I take this powerful, successful, and arrogant woman and I make her my little baby girl. I diaper you, I feed you, I care for you, and I punish you as I see fit. And every time I do, you lose days of your life because this part of you, the part of you that’s in these pictures, is the real you. The happy you. You hate your life of solitude and success. You long for someone to take care of your every need and more importantly, you long for someone to love you.”

I was stunned into silence as I flipped through the photos. I really wish he would delete them but he won’t.

“You love me?” I finally said, putting the phone down on the latest picture from last night.

“Very much so. And I will continue to do so for as long as you’ll let me. I’ve seen a lot of changes in you. You are happier, more polite, respectful, and most of all, kind and caring. You’ve stopped drinking, stopped cursing, and stopped hanging out with those other women that can’t find happiness except at the expense of others.”

My mind raced, memory after memory flooding back. Conversations we had. Emotions I went through. He was there for all of it, by my side, not as some hidden boogeyman, but as a loving individual that showed endless patience with me. It was a tantrum. Not the first. Not the last.

I looked at the picture on his phone screen one more time. I was in a cute little dress, my hair in pigtails, and yes, a wet diaper. But the selfie showed more than just my appearance. His arms were around me, his head on my shoulder, and we were smiling. I remembered taking that picture last night and feeling content and loved in his arms. I wanted that again.

“What does this mean? What do we do?”

“I’ve thought a lot about that and I think I have a solution. If you want, you can move in with me, or we can get a new place, it doesn’t matter to me, and all of these moments captured in my phone can be yours for the rest of our lives.”

“What about my career?”

“Keep it. By day you can be the Big Boss Bitch. Your words, not mine, and don’t you dare repeat them. By night, you can be my sweet baby girl. Or I can walk away right now and you will never see me again.”

“But you will love me?”

“Always and forever.”

I sat there thinking about it. He was right, back at our first meeting. I was miserable and I didn’t want to go back to being miserable.

“What will it be, Nora? Are you willing to be my baby girl?”

All of my emotions flooded out into two words. Two words that I had been saying all this time but couldn’t remember. The two words of destiny.

“Yes, Daddy.”

Epilogue

So there you have it. My tale of two words. What happened to us after that night? Well, we found a new place to live in a spacious penthouse apartment that overlooked some of the best sights of the city. I went back to my job and continued to be a successful, albeit a changed boss. And we live by a routine built on rules. Every night when I get home from work, it’s straight to the bath to wash away the adult me and then into a diaper and baby clothes for the rest of the night. On weekends I am a happy baby from Friday after work until Monday morning, no matter what.

It was a hard adjustment to be put back in diapers nearly all of the time but Daddy helped me along the way to understand and embrace the new me. That doesn’t mean we don’t have our little bumps in the road, but as his newly minted wife and his treasured Baby Girl, I couldn’t be happier.

Daddy’s Rules

1. Daddy knows best. Trust and respect Daddy always.
2. Remember to use manners. Say “Please” and “Thank you”
3. Clean up after playtime
4. Bedtime is at 10 P.M. (11 on weekends)
5. No bad words. First offence is a warning, Second a spanking, Third mouth soaping
6. When going out, Daddy has final say on the outfit.
7. Respect yourself and your others.
8. Keep yourself clean and groomed. Take your vitamins daily.
9. Love yourself as Daddy loves you.
10. Cover Daddy with happiness and smiles daily.