"This one's a bit of a story-in-a-story. The plot is a romance novel... as written by a smut writer in a world where everyone is diapered."
The writer flexed her finger over her keyboard, a blank document open on the screen in front of her. She shifted in her diaper, as if to relieve discomfort, but the fresh diaper was perfectly taped, the discomfort was reeling in her mind- the phone call she had from her publisher moments before.
"Sally, no one's buying this alternate world, diaperless civilization crap," her editor had wheezed down the phone line.
"But it's got so many possibilities!" Sally pleaded, "it's based on real scientific hypothesis and without diapers, intimacy becomes so much more... frictionless!"
"Yeah, well, from my experience frictions what sells this romance novel crap," her editor said, his voice sounding more like sandpaper over gravel than human words, "look, unless you can turn in a nice, normal, DIAPERED romance novel, one that SELLS mind you, we're gonna have to drop you from the imprint. That's the harsh truth of it babe." And with that, he hung up.
Sally flexed her fingers one more time, images of a heroine floating through her mind. She would show him, she'd write the most main stream, popular, cookie cutter best seller going. Then, he couldn't turn her down. Then he'd see the value in her speculative diaperless-world romance.
Her fingers hit keys, she began to type:
DRAFT ONE
***
As I approached the large oak door, I twitchily smoothed out my blouse and straightened my skirt, checking surreptitiously that the waistband of my diaper was not peeking out.
Normally, my professional attire was my armour against nervousness, my veneer of authority. But the imposing figure of the DeWitt manor house, and the prospect of the man who had seconded himself inside, made my pencil skirt and off the rail jacket feel woefully inadequate.
As I was mustering up the courage to even begin thinking about how to knock on the door (or was there a bell? There must be a bell...) the door groaned open, to reveal a maid, demure and head bowed at the other side.
"Miss Penny? You are expected, please follow me." I did as she bade, and was instantly overwhelmed by the scale of the hallway. Impossibly high ceilings framed by oak beams that would feel more at home as a ship's mast than a house. So rather than take it all in at once, I returned my attention to the maid.
"The master is rarely in the habit of keeping guests, so I'm afraid his hospitality may not be as well practiced as it once was, of course if you desire anything, the house staff is at your command." Her voice was quiet and meek, yet perfectly clear and level, untouched by emotion and radiating subservience. Her dress too was that of a traditional maid, all black skirt, white dress and pinnafore. Something that even most of the oldest blooded aristocracy had foregone. I couldn't help but briefly inspect her rear and suspected she also wore the traditional multi-layered cloth diaper that maids once wore, so that their chores were not interrupted by personal time changing. I couldn't imagine they could possibly be more convenient that modern diapers, nor could I fathom how she could possibly walk so demurely with so much thick padding between her legs. I could barely stave of a waddle with a wet disposable, and yet she was practically walking toe to heel.
The labyrinth of hallways gave way to a grand staircase, with gilded banisters and dozens upon dozens of framed canvases: maps, landscapes, portraits. The frames themselves seemed to me worth more than I earned in a year, so I couldn't imagine the value of the paintings themselves. I took some particular joy in what must have been family portraits of the DeWitts from Victorian and even Edwardian times, back when it was the fashion for young boys to be skirted over bulky cloth diapers until they were ready to become men in societies eyes. Now showings ones legs is not the obscenity they considered it in the olden days, even adults forgo leg coverings entirely in warm weather. But the fashion was cute.
"Sorry," I piped up, remembering myself and my purpose halfway up the stairs, "what may I call you?"
"My name is Amanda, Miss Penny," replied the maid, not turning back, likely so she wouldn't trip over her skirts, "incidentally, we are nearly at your room."
The stairs gave way to another lavish corridor, and Amanda showed me a door with ornate brass doorknobs.
"Your room, Miss Penny," she announced as it swung open. The room was plain, but far from sparse. While I had been in many rooms with a desk, vanity, bed and single art piece (mainly hotel rooms), each piece was of such noticeable... quality. Quality was the only word I could think of.
I stepped into it. Touching the furnishings. The desk was oak, whereas I would guess the vanity was a different dark wood, its mirror surrounded by carvings of woodland creatures. It felt old, too. Not scuffed, just weathered by heritage.
"Dinner is to be served at eight sharp, a member of the house staff will come collect you then." Amanda spoke in unfaultering cadence that felt more polished than rehearsed, "Your bags arrived ahead of you. After dinner, you will be given a tour of the most relevant aspects of the manor to your stay, although it would be prudent to do a full tour at a later date. Fully stocked changing facilities can be accessed en-suite, full bath and shower two doors down to the right. If the stocked diapers are not to your liking, please let me know. Will there be anything else Miss Penny?"
"No, thank you Amanda. Will Mr DeWitt be at dinner?"
"Ah," Amanda's so far stoic face fell. "Mr DeWitt is unfortunately unavailable this evening."
"I see," I said, trying to mask blatant disappointment. Amanda stood still in the doorway even after my comment, so I followed up with a "that will be all thank you." Drawing more on my experience of period drama shows than anything else, but it seemed to satisfy Amanda who left with curtsy.
I flopped on the bed in despair, kicking off my pencil skirt to the floor to let my diaper breathe. I would need to go change soon, as it was sagging horribly, but I was too overwhelmed.
Through a connection, my boss had secured me a 5 day stay at Matthew DeWitts manor house. The same Mr DeWitt, who forsaking his lordly title, had contributed so heavily to environmental causes that people were calling him 'the great eco hero'. This was however the same Mr DeWitt who was so reclusive he was likened to Howard Hughes more than anyone else in the public eye.
"One interview, Pen!" my boss had said, trademark cigar in mouth. "One interview and we can boost our profile through the stratosphere!"
I know why he was pinning all his hopes on this, on me. We'd been in the red for months, magazine sales dropping with every issue.
But an interview with Mr Dewitt? It was a fools hope.
I squirmed on the sheets. Silk, actual silk. With no protective plastic sheet underneath, that's how you know he's rich. Defeated, I untaped my diaper and wandered over to find the en-suite changing facilities. With or without Mr DeWitt, I wasn't going to break decorum for dinner.
Even anticipating a formal affair, I was not expecting the full banqueting table for a dinner alone. A butler, with a prim moustache and an immaculately pressed suit (I expect disposable, no cloth diaper for him, his profile too trim) informed me of a three courses, and recommended wine pairings.
It was shortly after the first course that I gathered the courage to talk to the butler. As he stood and watched me ineptly eat a french onion soup, I figured I could ask some questions.
"Mr Dewitt... when is he expected back?" I asked, as he arrived with my plate of mains, which appeared to be partridge, a meal I had only once before at a very fancy restaurant. The butler wriggled his moustache pensively before replying in a voice that instantly conjured moth balls and marble busts in my mind.
"Mr DeWitt is in fact in his study, he is simply too busy with his work to attend. Although he sends full apologies."
Work seemed unlikely, although only thirty he was retired from all the foundations he had set up. I tried a different angle.
"And is he likely to be at breakfast tomorrow?"
"Again, his apologies, but it is Mr DeWitts custom to break fast in his chambers, a routine he does not wish to interrupt"
I thought for a moment.
"What does Mr Dewitt normally do after breakfast?" I asked, innocently as I could. The butler coughed, looking up at the ceiling as he replied, as if he were afraid that meeting my eyes would betray the guilt he had for divulging anything that may break his master's hermitic habits. Perhaps I had an ally in this after all.
"After breakfast it is Mr DeWitt's custom to stroll im the grounds, weather permitting, around the lavender patches while he..." the butler let out a small cough, before resuming "by which time, he has a bath drawn for him. After which he retires to the library to read the days papers."
This was it! My in! If I could catch him in the lavender patch, before he finished messing his morning diaper, I could get to him. I beamed my thanks at the butler and tucked into my dinner with renewed vigour and gusto.
The post-dinner barebones tour of the house turned out to include a lot. I started by earnestly trying to remember the libraries, studies, receiving rooms and dining halls. But paired with the onslaught of trivia, dates and anecdotes that came with it, my head began to spin and I returned to my room exhausted and more uncertain of the layout of the place anyway.
I was too exhausted to dig my nightie out from my luggage, or to change my damp diaper into a thicker night time one, I simply dropped the clothes of the day on the floor and crawled between the sheets, before succumbing to sleep.
Among the things I forgot to do before I slept was also to set myself any sort of alarm, as bird song sailed through the thin, single-glazed window of my room I sat bolt upright.
"Shit, the lavender patch."
My opportunity to even begin ingratiating myself with my absent host, and I might have just squandered it on beauty sleep.
I scrambled out of bed, I would have to economize. Diaper change could wait, it was swollen to near limit, but as long as I didn't sit down, i'd manage. Clothes: the first dress I could find rifling through my case that hid my diapers sag. Hair-a ponytail hides many sins. Breakfast- can wait. With all haste, I tried to remember where on earth the lavender patch was.
The gardens were easy enough to find, and after a few false starts (and a near fall, that would've unacceptably squished a saturated diaper past its limit) the lavender patch was easy enough to find by nose, once it overpowered my own diapers scent.
It really was a lavender patch, dozens of raised boxes created a grid of lavender ranging from floor to waist level. Wherever one looked, one beheld lavender, and one could certainly smell little else.
In the middle of it all was him.
He wasn't quite how I'd imagined.
He seemed so at odds with the stuffy, aristocratic air of the manor. His hair was long, slightly shaggy, with the first signs of grey. He wore satin pyjamas, a long dressing gown, and tasteful brown slippers. His diaper bulge was too prominent near the top for disposable, cloth then. Which would have been a sign of the ecologically conscientious once, but he himself had pioneered the technology to fully recycle disposables. And his eyes, tired, with bags a trust fund Dubai shopping spree would be jealous of. But so kind, so honest, so instantly disarming that the weak smile he cracked almost lost me completely in the gaze of his face, until a mercifully timed coffee mug to the lips broke her trance and my mind returned to my body, in the lavender patch.
"Miss Penny, one assumes?" His words were formal but his register much more relaxed, earthy like the aroma of coffee from his mug. He made the words sound casual.
"And you Mr DeWitt?" I retorted, trying my best to hide my waddle as I came closer.
"Please, call me Matthew. I abhor titles."
"Then I shall not resort to calling you Lord DeWitt, lest you abhor me all the more."
He didn't laugh, but those eyes, deep as the sky, twinkled at my joke.
"I don't abhor you at all Miss Penny, although I must admit my hosting has been pretty poor form thus far."
"Not at all," I ran my hands through a stray sprig of lavender, "although feel free to call me just Penny. I couldn't bare the thought of being referred to by my last name my whole career, so my nom de plume is my first name transposed."
"Aha!" he exclaimed, raising his mug in a mock toast that sprayed the nearest flower bed with flecks of coffee, "a kindred spirit then! To the end of formality, Penny. Would I correct in assuming that is your interview style, catch me off guard with a casual and disarming approach."
"I'll be frank Mr... Matthew. I'd be shocked to get any interview from you at all, given your reputation."
"And then what is the purpose of catching a man when he is at the mercy of routine and an easily angered digestive system?"
"Well I cannot say I wouldn't like one," I clutched the hem of her skirt girlishly, taking less care than I should've not to raise the hem, "I'll be honest my boss is pinning a lot on me getting one."
"Ah yes, Dicky's ailing publication," Matthew DeWitt mused, "Well, I'll be honest I've been avoiding such a thing not just because I have little desire to, but because ever since I've retired at such an early age I can think of little about me that would be engaging. An account of my daily routine would be a bore at best, embarrassment at worse."
"I disagree entirely, you are clearly the accomplished conversationalist. We just need to find your angle."
"Angle you say?" He stroked his unshaved morning stubble, as the crinkle of expanding plastic pants could faintly be heard. "All right Penny the journalist, you have three more days with me, if you can come to me with your angle, one that genuinely engages me, you've got your interview." With that, Matthew DeWitt walked away, as Penny resisted the urge to vicariously punch the air and holler. "Oh, and Miss Penny? You might want a change yourself. You're forming a bit of a puddle on the patio."
****
Sally paused, fingers frozen over the keyboard, noticing her own leak as she described her characters, a dark splodge forming on her office chair. The prudent, correct thing to do would be to clean the chair, prevent lingering stains and smells in her place of work. Instead, Sally hitched up her skirt, grabbed a second diaper and double layered up: she was an author on a mission, and a frivolity like changing wasn't going to interrupt her. She resumed:
***
I flushed red, impotently pulling on the front of my dress to hide which could not be hidden. Not that there was anyone to hide from, Matthew DeWitt seemed thoroughly unconcerned, walking nonchalantly back into the house. The bottom of my diaper now fully poking out from under the hem, I waddled undignified back to her room, dripping as I went.
When I next left my room, changed, refreshed and sporting a fetching new summer dress, I encountered Amelia the maid mopping the stairs.
"Hi Miss Penny," she said, sounding rather strained, "don't fret about it ma'am, it happens all the time."
"I suppose not to you, eh. You look padded enough to go days!"
"I... suppose I might ma'am," Amelia responded with short, shallow breaths punctuating her words.
"Are you ok Amelia?" I asked, ducking to catch Amelia's eye, which was fixed firmly on her mop.
"I'm... ugh..." the sound of a mess filling a diaper filled my ears for longer than I have ever recalled when messing herself. After which, Amelia let out a relieved exhale.
"Sorry ma'am, I think there was a part of my body reluctant to mess there. I don't get a change today until evening, and I've already got a bad bit of the rash from being messy too long earlier in the week."
"You're really not allowed to change? " I asked, aghast.
"Oh yes," Amelia responded, wiggling her hips to help the warm, mushy mess settle comfortably in her cloth diaper, before running her hand over her behind to check for unevenness. "We're to keep the traditions of the manor alive miss, that includes our diapering"
"But, that's awful. And I thought Mr DeWitt hated formality and what not?"
"He does for himself, but he feels the pressure of the house, the family legacy. He might be modern, but his dear old father was quite the traditionalist. I think he feels he'd be letting him down"
"And you're okay with that?"
"It's not ideal, but I can get an exception if my rash gets too much.Even when it gets cold, I'm normally too busy to notice until after my shift."
My lips drew askew, like an invisible drawstring had pulled them shut. "Look, Amelia. Don't try and insist that it'd be against code or whatever, but if you really need a diaper change, make an excuse to come to me and I'll simply say I insisted. No one can argue with that."
Amelia paused, as if thinking about all the ways that such a thing may still not go as planned before simply settling on, "that's very kind ma'am, I will bear that in mind," in her usual neutral tone.
Satisfied, Penny walked off, with new found appreciation of the gentle crinkle of her freshly still (mostly) dry diaper.
I had always loved libraries. Especially the old kind, the kind that felt like they lived the prestige of the hundreds of leather bound tomes, the obscure volumes, the legacy of it all.
But for now, my urge to run my fingers over gilded spines was paused, as I gazed at another imposing portrait of the DeWitt's.
Adult and child, Matthew and his father. A middle teen Matthew perhaps- looking as uneasy as all teenagers do, but with a looming shadow over his father over him... he practically wilted into the canvas.
Paintings... it was the detail I could never get over. The artist's dedication to capture the crease and curve of their skin, the stitches on clothes, the near imperceptible peak of a diaper waistband.
I looked again, waistband? As in disposable?. This Matthew could only be a 3 years away from his eco revolution in this painting at most. How could the traditionalist upbringing in cloth and deeply held environmentalist beliefs align with a detour into disposables such a short time before his ecological revolution? Then, of course, if he ever had affection for disposable diapers, why be in cloth again after solving the worlds recycling crisis?
Eventually, I reclined into a comfy chair, pulling some biography of a long dead DeWitt from the shelf to do some actual research. Yet, for as many pages as I attempted to scan and notes I attempted to take...the portrait of the younger Matthew stared down at me, challenging me to puzzle out the diaper habits of the man he'd now become.
I ended up losing track of time, so ended up waddling to dinner without a change, soaked diaper ballooning out, forcing me to sit with my knees spread apart (the skirt was just long enough to get away with it, but barely).
To my surprise, as I gingerly settled into my seat, automatically checking my precariously filled diaper for leaks, when I looked up I saw Matthew. He was gingerly re-arranging a napkin as we locked eyes. I didn't say anything, afraid I'd startle him as a hunter would spook a deer. He in return said nothing back, so we whiled away the time until our first course exchanging nothing but glances.
To my dismay, the first course arrived as a delicious broccoli and stilton soup. Brilliant, just what my diaper needed, more liquids.
Matthew clearly took my consternation as a sign I was displeased.
"Is it not to your liking Penny?"
"Oh, no, it's fine. My diaper is getting quite full, I was deciding whether I'd be concerned about leaks."
"Ah." He mouthed, giving no indication of whether I should risk it on his furniture. Either he trusted my judgment about the state of my diaper, or whether I leaked or not was of no consequence to him.
The first course passed with few comments and much silent spooning of soup, so as the empty bowls were cleared away and the second course brought out with suprising speed, I ventured a topic of conversation.
"Perhaps I should be jealous of your predilection for cloth, I hear it can have the capacity advantage?"
"Not really," Matthew shrugged, "and certainly not without ridiculous layering. I must admit that it presents few advantages at all these days outside of personal preference"
"Oh, then why does the genius who spear headed every solution to every problem disposables presented prefer cloth?"
He smiled wryly, the answer was clearly rehearsed
"The cloth? Old habit from my eco warrior days. The disposables were just a rebellious phase I grew out of."
"Or, the cloth was a resignation to the traditions of the house?" I ventured, wracking my brain for the most plausible of the theories I'd concocted while the portrait in the library leered down at me.
He laughed it off.
"No?" I pressed on, "Your maids are all in cloth, despite being a logistical nightmare."
"It's an affectation of the place- we are on occasion an open house, the public expect-"
"The public would have no idea whether your maids kept to a singular change a day, with no exception, nor would I expect they would have sympathy for the recurrent rash this archaic policy is inflicting on them"
"You're ... serious. I had no idea, really. I expect someone's over zealously keeping to the my guidelines on historical accuracy, I-"
"How could you not notice, Matthew."
"Excuse me?"
"The maids, they're in pain, braving it for days at a time, the same maid attending to you and your house. How could you not notice?"
"I-... what are you saying?"
"You need to open your eyes Matthew DeWitt, your past is your past, but you're letting your now, the real people now slip by."
With that, I stormed off.
It was a brave little indignant speech I'd given, and I was proud of myself for it. But my heart was pounding as I left the dining room and the nerves... well they all go to my stomach.
***
Sally paused, wiggling her fingers gleefully as they finished the sentence. While she'd loved writing her diaperless future sci-fi, she realized she'd missed writing these scenes, the diaper scenes. The sensual filling of the diaper. The chance to warm up the reader for the pay-off sex scenes with small chances to describe the warm, soft and tactile sensation around a heroine's intimate areas (and the chance to describe swelling bulges around her love interests.)
She was out of practice though, she hadn't had to write a scene like this for so long...
She ran her hands over the smooth outer plastic of her double diaper. It was full, yes, but nothing was more valuable for a writer than experience. She'd be messing her diaper soon anyway, why not enjoy it? Sally leant back in her chair and ever so slightly pushed. Instantly she could feel the expansion, the warmth. Gods it felt heavenly, the weight of it, the way it forced her legs apart to accommodate the size of it as it spread. The warmth spreading. The ever so slight cling. She kicked her legs in excitement, feeling a new wave of sensation as she sat back up, pressing again into the mush she'd just loaded.
Oh the possibilities! She launched back at her keyboard with renewed vigor, rocking back and forth with her hips as she did so.
***
I stood on the stairs, one hand clutching the hand rail, the other holding my poor tummy as the impact of what I'd said hit me. Matthew would hate me, I'd have to tell my boss I never got the interview because I'd started yelling at Matthew fucking Dewitt. Soon, the floodgates gave out and warm mush poured into my diaper. This was no firm load, nestled into the diaper's seat, it spread and filled my diaper, finding every untaken space before tangibly pushing out, straining at the leak guard.
I willed my leg to take a step up. Another wave of cramps held me in place as I feared the strained leak guards would soon give way. My insides felt empty and yet mess still found its way out of me, ballooning the back of my diaper. It shook precariously with every step, shifting with the momentum of every movement
It was in this sorry state that Amelia found me, tutting sympathetically before half leading, half-carrying me up the rest of the way.
I found myself by a changing table I had not seen before, as Amelia helped me up the side steps, gently lowering myself down, I felt the load press and move against me, warmth re-registering as my weight pressed and redistributed the mess around.
"Thankyou Amelia," I said weakly, grateful for the help and reaching for my tapes.
"Nonsense Ma'am, all part of a maids duty," she said chipperly, gathering wipes and a fresh diaper from stocked shelves around us.
I wanted to object, to send her away. She might be a maid but I'm far from the sort of person who has staff change their diapers. But I was far too weak to even nearly summon the will to tackle this particular change, so I lay back and let Amelia get to work."
She was startlingly efficient, I felt the cool contrast of wipe cleanse away the caked mess so soon into the change I almost gasped. She in turn was unphased, I know even changing my own diaper in this state would've been done with a bit of gingerness and a grimace.
"So, do you get much practice, y'know, changing other people?" I said, keen to find something that would while away the not-insignificant time dedicated to sorting me out.
"Not often for master DeWitt, if that's what you mean," she said as measured as always, "while part of our role, it's one he rarely invokes, valuing independence, I think. Mostly us maid change each other, the size of our cloth diapers makes changing ourselves unwieldy."
"Oh," I responded, then I got so lost in thought I completely forgot I was meant to be diffusing the awkwardness of being a guest and having someone else sort out my most challenging change in years.
Before I knew it, She was patting my fresh diaper as a signal of completeness. I gave it my customary wiggle before hopping off the changing table. I thanked Amelia sincerely but not effusively. I was tired. Too, too tired. The climb back to my room and into bed didn't really register as my body succumbed to sleep.
I was awake. 2AM and I was wide awake. The conversation with Matthew running in my head, the consequences of it all branching off until my thoughts resemble a tumbleweed.
It was no use. I threw off the covers, barely registering that divine movement of silk on skin. I slipped into my slippers, then, only in my nightie and diaper, I began to wander the dark halls of the DeWitt manor.
My antsy mood was soon suppressed by how creepy dark corridors and looming shadows are when you've encountered little else in your ten minutes of wandering. While I had developed a new appreciation for the cliches of horror films, I was keen to leave that for somewhere I could relax.
To my relief, the garden door was open and I stepped out into a warm, pleasant summer breeze and the scent of lavender.
I propped myself against a raised bed and breathed the night air. Another cliche validated, I could really feel the swirl of thoughts settle and calm as the gentle breeze carries my troubles away in the midst of the floral haze.
It was still, so little movement. In my bedroom I noticed every little flutter of the curtains but somehow, this felt calmer.
It was therefore very shocking when I heard muffled footsteps slowly approaching.
"Can't sleep either?" Matthew said, his voice low and gruff. He was dressed in a flannel pyjama top, with matching plaid cloth diaper bulging around his waist. He wore dark slippers and a dressing gown to complete his fashion ensemble. I gathered by the bags under his eyes and the clear night-thickness of his diaper that he too genuinely intended to sleep tonight. He leant against the raised lavender bed next to me, that same sweet breeze tousling locks of his hair.
I shook my head.
"A lot on my mind," I responded.
"Yeah, I get that. I get that a lot," he said wistfully. "Responsibility, expectation. Neither are conducive to a good night's sleep. The lavender helps." He added, after a pause, "at least it does for me. What do you think?"
"I'm enjoying it," I smiled sweetly up at him. He wasn't looking back down at me. I'm not sure if he was just being wistful, or if the amount of cleavage my nightwear showed was making him uncomfortable, but it was a dreamy look in his eyes.
"I'm sorry your stay hasn't really been what you probably hoped." He said
"I'm enjoying that too," I said back. This time he looked down at me, our eyes met. I could see the regret in his eyes, and I think I could see something in mine."
"Well, I'm sorry that you didn't get what you came for. That I can't provide that interview to save Dicky's publication. I'm just not..."
"I think your wonderful," I said, moving my hand on top of his in what I hoped was reassuring. "I know we haven't spent much time together but finding out about the man you are... I like him a whole lot."
He looked at me again, he moved his mouth as if to speak, but no words came out, the he did so again. I tilted my head up at him, as he leaned down to mine.
Our lips locked and he pulled me in so close I was nearly pulled off the ground entirely in his arms. I wrapped an arm around him in return as we kissed, passionate and fierce. He held my waist so tightly I could feel our diapers press in all the right places (and I wasn't above squirming ever so slightly as we embraced to feel them squish together). Eventually our kiss parted and he lowered me gently to the flat of my feet.
"I thought you came for an interview," he cracked a smile, and I adored it.
"I did, it just took me a while to find my angle."
"Oh?" Matthew said, "you found it?" I nodded in response. "Well, I'd love to hear it," he said, still holding my hand. I cleared my throat.
"You're a man of contradictions: your house staff are a relic of Victorian era reservedness, yet you chafe against formality. You find the way to fully recycle disposable diapers, yet forsake them for cloth. You permit a journalist into your house, yet you wish to do no interview. What exactly is your deal, Matthew?"
Matthew Dewitt paused, then looked intently, not at me, but somewhere far off.
"I am a pastiche of various hero's and popular characters. I am what the plot and female desire requires me to be to achieve the platonic ideal of marketable. I am not consistent because no consistency went into me. I am the hack creation of a writer more focused on mammalian bladder gene splicing specific than good writing. I am, for all intents and purposes, a malformed sham, a product of the sub par ideas that formed me. And you are simply the fantasy of a lone writer who wishes she was important enough to be carrying a company on her shoulders, delusions of importance and want from an insignificant cog in an unimportant industry."
***
Sally's fingers left her keyboard. It was dark, late. There was a chill in the air, contrasted by the uncomfortable itch of the cold mess that had been squished into her diaper hours ago. She stared at her writing, and her own insecurities stared back at her. She had foregone dignity, cleanliness and sleep to produce... this.
She closed the document, not bothering to save her progress, peeled herself from her desk chair and willed herself to bed. Each step was an effort of will, not to collapse on the floor and wallow. Not helped by the fact that her massive, loaded diaper impeded each movement. She should shower, but hell, did she even have the energy and self worth left to change?
Barely registering the habitual reach towards the light switch as she left the room, she closed the door behind her, the light from her abandoned computer screen left to illuminate the scene.
The writer flexed her finger over her keyboard, a blank document open on the screen in front of her. She shifted in her diaper, as if to relieve discomfort, but the fresh diaper was perfectly taped, the discomfort was reeling in her mind- the phone call she had from her publisher moments before.
"Sally, no one's buying this alternate world, diaperless civilization crap," her editor had wheezed down the phone line.
"But it's got so many possibilities!" Sally pleaded, "it's based on real scientific hypothesis and without diapers, intimacy becomes so much more... frictionless!"
"Yeah, well, from my experience frictions what sells this romance novel crap," her editor said, his voice sounding more like sandpaper over gravel than human words, "look, unless you can turn in a nice, normal, DIAPERED romance novel, one that SELLS mind you, we're gonna have to drop you from the imprint. That's the harsh truth of it babe." And with that, he hung up.
Sally flexed her fingers one more time, images of a heroine floating through her mind. She would show him, she'd write the most main stream, popular, cookie cutter best seller going. Then, he couldn't turn her down. Then he'd see the value in her speculative diaperless-world romance.
Her fingers hit keys, she began to type:
DRAFT ONE
***
As I approached the large oak door, I twitchily smoothed out my blouse and straightened my skirt, checking surreptitiously that the waistband of my diaper was not peeking out.
Normally, my professional attire was my armour against nervousness, my veneer of authority. But the imposing figure of the DeWitt manor house, and the prospect of the man who had seconded himself inside, made my pencil skirt and off the rail jacket feel woefully inadequate.
As I was mustering up the courage to even begin thinking about how to knock on the door (or was there a bell? There must be a bell...) the door groaned open, to reveal a maid, demure and head bowed at the other side.
"Miss Penny? You are expected, please follow me." I did as she bade, and was instantly overwhelmed by the scale of the hallway. Impossibly high ceilings framed by oak beams that would feel more at home as a ship's mast than a house. So rather than take it all in at once, I returned my attention to the maid.
"The master is rarely in the habit of keeping guests, so I'm afraid his hospitality may not be as well practiced as it once was, of course if you desire anything, the house staff is at your command." Her voice was quiet and meek, yet perfectly clear and level, untouched by emotion and radiating subservience. Her dress too was that of a traditional maid, all black skirt, white dress and pinnafore. Something that even most of the oldest blooded aristocracy had foregone. I couldn't help but briefly inspect her rear and suspected she also wore the traditional multi-layered cloth diaper that maids once wore, so that their chores were not interrupted by personal time changing. I couldn't imagine they could possibly be more convenient that modern diapers, nor could I fathom how she could possibly walk so demurely with so much thick padding between her legs. I could barely stave of a waddle with a wet disposable, and yet she was practically walking toe to heel.
The labyrinth of hallways gave way to a grand staircase, with gilded banisters and dozens upon dozens of framed canvases: maps, landscapes, portraits. The frames themselves seemed to me worth more than I earned in a year, so I couldn't imagine the value of the paintings themselves. I took some particular joy in what must have been family portraits of the DeWitts from Victorian and even Edwardian times, back when it was the fashion for young boys to be skirted over bulky cloth diapers until they were ready to become men in societies eyes. Now showings ones legs is not the obscenity they considered it in the olden days, even adults forgo leg coverings entirely in warm weather. But the fashion was cute.
"Sorry," I piped up, remembering myself and my purpose halfway up the stairs, "what may I call you?"
"My name is Amanda, Miss Penny," replied the maid, not turning back, likely so she wouldn't trip over her skirts, "incidentally, we are nearly at your room."
The stairs gave way to another lavish corridor, and Amanda showed me a door with ornate brass doorknobs.
"Your room, Miss Penny," she announced as it swung open. The room was plain, but far from sparse. While I had been in many rooms with a desk, vanity, bed and single art piece (mainly hotel rooms), each piece was of such noticeable... quality. Quality was the only word I could think of.
I stepped into it. Touching the furnishings. The desk was oak, whereas I would guess the vanity was a different dark wood, its mirror surrounded by carvings of woodland creatures. It felt old, too. Not scuffed, just weathered by heritage.
"Dinner is to be served at eight sharp, a member of the house staff will come collect you then." Amanda spoke in unfaultering cadence that felt more polished than rehearsed, "Your bags arrived ahead of you. After dinner, you will be given a tour of the most relevant aspects of the manor to your stay, although it would be prudent to do a full tour at a later date. Fully stocked changing facilities can be accessed en-suite, full bath and shower two doors down to the right. If the stocked diapers are not to your liking, please let me know. Will there be anything else Miss Penny?"
"No, thank you Amanda. Will Mr DeWitt be at dinner?"
"Ah," Amanda's so far stoic face fell. "Mr DeWitt is unfortunately unavailable this evening."
"I see," I said, trying to mask blatant disappointment. Amanda stood still in the doorway even after my comment, so I followed up with a "that will be all thank you." Drawing more on my experience of period drama shows than anything else, but it seemed to satisfy Amanda who left with curtsy.
I flopped on the bed in despair, kicking off my pencil skirt to the floor to let my diaper breathe. I would need to go change soon, as it was sagging horribly, but I was too overwhelmed.
Through a connection, my boss had secured me a 5 day stay at Matthew DeWitts manor house. The same Mr DeWitt, who forsaking his lordly title, had contributed so heavily to environmental causes that people were calling him 'the great eco hero'. This was however the same Mr DeWitt who was so reclusive he was likened to Howard Hughes more than anyone else in the public eye.
"One interview, Pen!" my boss had said, trademark cigar in mouth. "One interview and we can boost our profile through the stratosphere!"
I know why he was pinning all his hopes on this, on me. We'd been in the red for months, magazine sales dropping with every issue.
But an interview with Mr Dewitt? It was a fools hope.
I squirmed on the sheets. Silk, actual silk. With no protective plastic sheet underneath, that's how you know he's rich. Defeated, I untaped my diaper and wandered over to find the en-suite changing facilities. With or without Mr DeWitt, I wasn't going to break decorum for dinner.
Even anticipating a formal affair, I was not expecting the full banqueting table for a dinner alone. A butler, with a prim moustache and an immaculately pressed suit (I expect disposable, no cloth diaper for him, his profile too trim) informed me of a three courses, and recommended wine pairings.
It was shortly after the first course that I gathered the courage to talk to the butler. As he stood and watched me ineptly eat a french onion soup, I figured I could ask some questions.
"Mr Dewitt... when is he expected back?" I asked, as he arrived with my plate of mains, which appeared to be partridge, a meal I had only once before at a very fancy restaurant. The butler wriggled his moustache pensively before replying in a voice that instantly conjured moth balls and marble busts in my mind.
"Mr DeWitt is in fact in his study, he is simply too busy with his work to attend. Although he sends full apologies."
Work seemed unlikely, although only thirty he was retired from all the foundations he had set up. I tried a different angle.
"And is he likely to be at breakfast tomorrow?"
"Again, his apologies, but it is Mr DeWitts custom to break fast in his chambers, a routine he does not wish to interrupt"
I thought for a moment.
"What does Mr Dewitt normally do after breakfast?" I asked, innocently as I could. The butler coughed, looking up at the ceiling as he replied, as if he were afraid that meeting my eyes would betray the guilt he had for divulging anything that may break his master's hermitic habits. Perhaps I had an ally in this after all.
"After breakfast it is Mr DeWitt's custom to stroll im the grounds, weather permitting, around the lavender patches while he..." the butler let out a small cough, before resuming "by which time, he has a bath drawn for him. After which he retires to the library to read the days papers."
This was it! My in! If I could catch him in the lavender patch, before he finished messing his morning diaper, I could get to him. I beamed my thanks at the butler and tucked into my dinner with renewed vigour and gusto.
The post-dinner barebones tour of the house turned out to include a lot. I started by earnestly trying to remember the libraries, studies, receiving rooms and dining halls. But paired with the onslaught of trivia, dates and anecdotes that came with it, my head began to spin and I returned to my room exhausted and more uncertain of the layout of the place anyway.
I was too exhausted to dig my nightie out from my luggage, or to change my damp diaper into a thicker night time one, I simply dropped the clothes of the day on the floor and crawled between the sheets, before succumbing to sleep.
Among the things I forgot to do before I slept was also to set myself any sort of alarm, as bird song sailed through the thin, single-glazed window of my room I sat bolt upright.
"Shit, the lavender patch."
My opportunity to even begin ingratiating myself with my absent host, and I might have just squandered it on beauty sleep.
I scrambled out of bed, I would have to economize. Diaper change could wait, it was swollen to near limit, but as long as I didn't sit down, i'd manage. Clothes: the first dress I could find rifling through my case that hid my diapers sag. Hair-a ponytail hides many sins. Breakfast- can wait. With all haste, I tried to remember where on earth the lavender patch was.
The gardens were easy enough to find, and after a few false starts (and a near fall, that would've unacceptably squished a saturated diaper past its limit) the lavender patch was easy enough to find by nose, once it overpowered my own diapers scent.
It really was a lavender patch, dozens of raised boxes created a grid of lavender ranging from floor to waist level. Wherever one looked, one beheld lavender, and one could certainly smell little else.
In the middle of it all was him.
He wasn't quite how I'd imagined.
He seemed so at odds with the stuffy, aristocratic air of the manor. His hair was long, slightly shaggy, with the first signs of grey. He wore satin pyjamas, a long dressing gown, and tasteful brown slippers. His diaper bulge was too prominent near the top for disposable, cloth then. Which would have been a sign of the ecologically conscientious once, but he himself had pioneered the technology to fully recycle disposables. And his eyes, tired, with bags a trust fund Dubai shopping spree would be jealous of. But so kind, so honest, so instantly disarming that the weak smile he cracked almost lost me completely in the gaze of his face, until a mercifully timed coffee mug to the lips broke her trance and my mind returned to my body, in the lavender patch.
"Miss Penny, one assumes?" His words were formal but his register much more relaxed, earthy like the aroma of coffee from his mug. He made the words sound casual.
"And you Mr DeWitt?" I retorted, trying my best to hide my waddle as I came closer.
"Please, call me Matthew. I abhor titles."
"Then I shall not resort to calling you Lord DeWitt, lest you abhor me all the more."
He didn't laugh, but those eyes, deep as the sky, twinkled at my joke.
"I don't abhor you at all Miss Penny, although I must admit my hosting has been pretty poor form thus far."
"Not at all," I ran my hands through a stray sprig of lavender, "although feel free to call me just Penny. I couldn't bare the thought of being referred to by my last name my whole career, so my nom de plume is my first name transposed."
"Aha!" he exclaimed, raising his mug in a mock toast that sprayed the nearest flower bed with flecks of coffee, "a kindred spirit then! To the end of formality, Penny. Would I correct in assuming that is your interview style, catch me off guard with a casual and disarming approach."
"I'll be frank Mr... Matthew. I'd be shocked to get any interview from you at all, given your reputation."
"And then what is the purpose of catching a man when he is at the mercy of routine and an easily angered digestive system?"
"Well I cannot say I wouldn't like one," I clutched the hem of her skirt girlishly, taking less care than I should've not to raise the hem, "I'll be honest my boss is pinning a lot on me getting one."
"Ah yes, Dicky's ailing publication," Matthew DeWitt mused, "Well, I'll be honest I've been avoiding such a thing not just because I have little desire to, but because ever since I've retired at such an early age I can think of little about me that would be engaging. An account of my daily routine would be a bore at best, embarrassment at worse."
"I disagree entirely, you are clearly the accomplished conversationalist. We just need to find your angle."
"Angle you say?" He stroked his unshaved morning stubble, as the crinkle of expanding plastic pants could faintly be heard. "All right Penny the journalist, you have three more days with me, if you can come to me with your angle, one that genuinely engages me, you've got your interview." With that, Matthew DeWitt walked away, as Penny resisted the urge to vicariously punch the air and holler. "Oh, and Miss Penny? You might want a change yourself. You're forming a bit of a puddle on the patio."
****
Sally paused, fingers frozen over the keyboard, noticing her own leak as she described her characters, a dark splodge forming on her office chair. The prudent, correct thing to do would be to clean the chair, prevent lingering stains and smells in her place of work. Instead, Sally hitched up her skirt, grabbed a second diaper and double layered up: she was an author on a mission, and a frivolity like changing wasn't going to interrupt her. She resumed:
***
I flushed red, impotently pulling on the front of my dress to hide which could not be hidden. Not that there was anyone to hide from, Matthew DeWitt seemed thoroughly unconcerned, walking nonchalantly back into the house. The bottom of my diaper now fully poking out from under the hem, I waddled undignified back to her room, dripping as I went.
When I next left my room, changed, refreshed and sporting a fetching new summer dress, I encountered Amelia the maid mopping the stairs.
"Hi Miss Penny," she said, sounding rather strained, "don't fret about it ma'am, it happens all the time."
"I suppose not to you, eh. You look padded enough to go days!"
"I... suppose I might ma'am," Amelia responded with short, shallow breaths punctuating her words.
"Are you ok Amelia?" I asked, ducking to catch Amelia's eye, which was fixed firmly on her mop.
"I'm... ugh..." the sound of a mess filling a diaper filled my ears for longer than I have ever recalled when messing herself. After which, Amelia let out a relieved exhale.
"Sorry ma'am, I think there was a part of my body reluctant to mess there. I don't get a change today until evening, and I've already got a bad bit of the rash from being messy too long earlier in the week."
"You're really not allowed to change? " I asked, aghast.
"Oh yes," Amelia responded, wiggling her hips to help the warm, mushy mess settle comfortably in her cloth diaper, before running her hand over her behind to check for unevenness. "We're to keep the traditions of the manor alive miss, that includes our diapering"
"But, that's awful. And I thought Mr DeWitt hated formality and what not?"
"He does for himself, but he feels the pressure of the house, the family legacy. He might be modern, but his dear old father was quite the traditionalist. I think he feels he'd be letting him down"
"And you're okay with that?"
"It's not ideal, but I can get an exception if my rash gets too much.Even when it gets cold, I'm normally too busy to notice until after my shift."
My lips drew askew, like an invisible drawstring had pulled them shut. "Look, Amelia. Don't try and insist that it'd be against code or whatever, but if you really need a diaper change, make an excuse to come to me and I'll simply say I insisted. No one can argue with that."
Amelia paused, as if thinking about all the ways that such a thing may still not go as planned before simply settling on, "that's very kind ma'am, I will bear that in mind," in her usual neutral tone.
Satisfied, Penny walked off, with new found appreciation of the gentle crinkle of her freshly still (mostly) dry diaper.
I had always loved libraries. Especially the old kind, the kind that felt like they lived the prestige of the hundreds of leather bound tomes, the obscure volumes, the legacy of it all.
But for now, my urge to run my fingers over gilded spines was paused, as I gazed at another imposing portrait of the DeWitt's.
Adult and child, Matthew and his father. A middle teen Matthew perhaps- looking as uneasy as all teenagers do, but with a looming shadow over his father over him... he practically wilted into the canvas.
Paintings... it was the detail I could never get over. The artist's dedication to capture the crease and curve of their skin, the stitches on clothes, the near imperceptible peak of a diaper waistband.
I looked again, waistband? As in disposable?. This Matthew could only be a 3 years away from his eco revolution in this painting at most. How could the traditionalist upbringing in cloth and deeply held environmentalist beliefs align with a detour into disposables such a short time before his ecological revolution? Then, of course, if he ever had affection for disposable diapers, why be in cloth again after solving the worlds recycling crisis?
Eventually, I reclined into a comfy chair, pulling some biography of a long dead DeWitt from the shelf to do some actual research. Yet, for as many pages as I attempted to scan and notes I attempted to take...the portrait of the younger Matthew stared down at me, challenging me to puzzle out the diaper habits of the man he'd now become.
I ended up losing track of time, so ended up waddling to dinner without a change, soaked diaper ballooning out, forcing me to sit with my knees spread apart (the skirt was just long enough to get away with it, but barely).
To my surprise, as I gingerly settled into my seat, automatically checking my precariously filled diaper for leaks, when I looked up I saw Matthew. He was gingerly re-arranging a napkin as we locked eyes. I didn't say anything, afraid I'd startle him as a hunter would spook a deer. He in return said nothing back, so we whiled away the time until our first course exchanging nothing but glances.
To my dismay, the first course arrived as a delicious broccoli and stilton soup. Brilliant, just what my diaper needed, more liquids.
Matthew clearly took my consternation as a sign I was displeased.
"Is it not to your liking Penny?"
"Oh, no, it's fine. My diaper is getting quite full, I was deciding whether I'd be concerned about leaks."
"Ah." He mouthed, giving no indication of whether I should risk it on his furniture. Either he trusted my judgment about the state of my diaper, or whether I leaked or not was of no consequence to him.
The first course passed with few comments and much silent spooning of soup, so as the empty bowls were cleared away and the second course brought out with suprising speed, I ventured a topic of conversation.
"Perhaps I should be jealous of your predilection for cloth, I hear it can have the capacity advantage?"
"Not really," Matthew shrugged, "and certainly not without ridiculous layering. I must admit that it presents few advantages at all these days outside of personal preference"
"Oh, then why does the genius who spear headed every solution to every problem disposables presented prefer cloth?"
He smiled wryly, the answer was clearly rehearsed
"The cloth? Old habit from my eco warrior days. The disposables were just a rebellious phase I grew out of."
"Or, the cloth was a resignation to the traditions of the house?" I ventured, wracking my brain for the most plausible of the theories I'd concocted while the portrait in the library leered down at me.
He laughed it off.
"No?" I pressed on, "Your maids are all in cloth, despite being a logistical nightmare."
"It's an affectation of the place- we are on occasion an open house, the public expect-"
"The public would have no idea whether your maids kept to a singular change a day, with no exception, nor would I expect they would have sympathy for the recurrent rash this archaic policy is inflicting on them"
"You're ... serious. I had no idea, really. I expect someone's over zealously keeping to the my guidelines on historical accuracy, I-"
"How could you not notice, Matthew."
"Excuse me?"
"The maids, they're in pain, braving it for days at a time, the same maid attending to you and your house. How could you not notice?"
"I-... what are you saying?"
"You need to open your eyes Matthew DeWitt, your past is your past, but you're letting your now, the real people now slip by."
With that, I stormed off.
It was a brave little indignant speech I'd given, and I was proud of myself for it. But my heart was pounding as I left the dining room and the nerves... well they all go to my stomach.
***
Sally paused, wiggling her fingers gleefully as they finished the sentence. While she'd loved writing her diaperless future sci-fi, she realized she'd missed writing these scenes, the diaper scenes. The sensual filling of the diaper. The chance to warm up the reader for the pay-off sex scenes with small chances to describe the warm, soft and tactile sensation around a heroine's intimate areas (and the chance to describe swelling bulges around her love interests.)
She was out of practice though, she hadn't had to write a scene like this for so long...
She ran her hands over the smooth outer plastic of her double diaper. It was full, yes, but nothing was more valuable for a writer than experience. She'd be messing her diaper soon anyway, why not enjoy it? Sally leant back in her chair and ever so slightly pushed. Instantly she could feel the expansion, the warmth. Gods it felt heavenly, the weight of it, the way it forced her legs apart to accommodate the size of it as it spread. The warmth spreading. The ever so slight cling. She kicked her legs in excitement, feeling a new wave of sensation as she sat back up, pressing again into the mush she'd just loaded.
Oh the possibilities! She launched back at her keyboard with renewed vigor, rocking back and forth with her hips as she did so.
***
I stood on the stairs, one hand clutching the hand rail, the other holding my poor tummy as the impact of what I'd said hit me. Matthew would hate me, I'd have to tell my boss I never got the interview because I'd started yelling at Matthew fucking Dewitt. Soon, the floodgates gave out and warm mush poured into my diaper. This was no firm load, nestled into the diaper's seat, it spread and filled my diaper, finding every untaken space before tangibly pushing out, straining at the leak guard.
I willed my leg to take a step up. Another wave of cramps held me in place as I feared the strained leak guards would soon give way. My insides felt empty and yet mess still found its way out of me, ballooning the back of my diaper. It shook precariously with every step, shifting with the momentum of every movement
It was in this sorry state that Amelia found me, tutting sympathetically before half leading, half-carrying me up the rest of the way.
I found myself by a changing table I had not seen before, as Amelia helped me up the side steps, gently lowering myself down, I felt the load press and move against me, warmth re-registering as my weight pressed and redistributed the mess around.
"Thankyou Amelia," I said weakly, grateful for the help and reaching for my tapes.
"Nonsense Ma'am, all part of a maids duty," she said chipperly, gathering wipes and a fresh diaper from stocked shelves around us.
I wanted to object, to send her away. She might be a maid but I'm far from the sort of person who has staff change their diapers. But I was far too weak to even nearly summon the will to tackle this particular change, so I lay back and let Amelia get to work."
She was startlingly efficient, I felt the cool contrast of wipe cleanse away the caked mess so soon into the change I almost gasped. She in turn was unphased, I know even changing my own diaper in this state would've been done with a bit of gingerness and a grimace.
"So, do you get much practice, y'know, changing other people?" I said, keen to find something that would while away the not-insignificant time dedicated to sorting me out.
"Not often for master DeWitt, if that's what you mean," she said as measured as always, "while part of our role, it's one he rarely invokes, valuing independence, I think. Mostly us maid change each other, the size of our cloth diapers makes changing ourselves unwieldy."
"Oh," I responded, then I got so lost in thought I completely forgot I was meant to be diffusing the awkwardness of being a guest and having someone else sort out my most challenging change in years.
Before I knew it, She was patting my fresh diaper as a signal of completeness. I gave it my customary wiggle before hopping off the changing table. I thanked Amelia sincerely but not effusively. I was tired. Too, too tired. The climb back to my room and into bed didn't really register as my body succumbed to sleep.
I was awake. 2AM and I was wide awake. The conversation with Matthew running in my head, the consequences of it all branching off until my thoughts resemble a tumbleweed.
It was no use. I threw off the covers, barely registering that divine movement of silk on skin. I slipped into my slippers, then, only in my nightie and diaper, I began to wander the dark halls of the DeWitt manor.
My antsy mood was soon suppressed by how creepy dark corridors and looming shadows are when you've encountered little else in your ten minutes of wandering. While I had developed a new appreciation for the cliches of horror films, I was keen to leave that for somewhere I could relax.
To my relief, the garden door was open and I stepped out into a warm, pleasant summer breeze and the scent of lavender.
I propped myself against a raised bed and breathed the night air. Another cliche validated, I could really feel the swirl of thoughts settle and calm as the gentle breeze carries my troubles away in the midst of the floral haze.
It was still, so little movement. In my bedroom I noticed every little flutter of the curtains but somehow, this felt calmer.
It was therefore very shocking when I heard muffled footsteps slowly approaching.
"Can't sleep either?" Matthew said, his voice low and gruff. He was dressed in a flannel pyjama top, with matching plaid cloth diaper bulging around his waist. He wore dark slippers and a dressing gown to complete his fashion ensemble. I gathered by the bags under his eyes and the clear night-thickness of his diaper that he too genuinely intended to sleep tonight. He leant against the raised lavender bed next to me, that same sweet breeze tousling locks of his hair.
I shook my head.
"A lot on my mind," I responded.
"Yeah, I get that. I get that a lot," he said wistfully. "Responsibility, expectation. Neither are conducive to a good night's sleep. The lavender helps." He added, after a pause, "at least it does for me. What do you think?"
"I'm enjoying it," I smiled sweetly up at him. He wasn't looking back down at me. I'm not sure if he was just being wistful, or if the amount of cleavage my nightwear showed was making him uncomfortable, but it was a dreamy look in his eyes.
"I'm sorry your stay hasn't really been what you probably hoped." He said
"I'm enjoying that too," I said back. This time he looked down at me, our eyes met. I could see the regret in his eyes, and I think I could see something in mine."
"Well, I'm sorry that you didn't get what you came for. That I can't provide that interview to save Dicky's publication. I'm just not..."
"I think your wonderful," I said, moving my hand on top of his in what I hoped was reassuring. "I know we haven't spent much time together but finding out about the man you are... I like him a whole lot."
He looked at me again, he moved his mouth as if to speak, but no words came out, the he did so again. I tilted my head up at him, as he leaned down to mine.
Our lips locked and he pulled me in so close I was nearly pulled off the ground entirely in his arms. I wrapped an arm around him in return as we kissed, passionate and fierce. He held my waist so tightly I could feel our diapers press in all the right places (and I wasn't above squirming ever so slightly as we embraced to feel them squish together). Eventually our kiss parted and he lowered me gently to the flat of my feet.
"I thought you came for an interview," he cracked a smile, and I adored it.
"I did, it just took me a while to find my angle."
"Oh?" Matthew said, "you found it?" I nodded in response. "Well, I'd love to hear it," he said, still holding my hand. I cleared my throat.
"You're a man of contradictions: your house staff are a relic of Victorian era reservedness, yet you chafe against formality. You find the way to fully recycle disposable diapers, yet forsake them for cloth. You permit a journalist into your house, yet you wish to do no interview. What exactly is your deal, Matthew?"
Matthew Dewitt paused, then looked intently, not at me, but somewhere far off.
"I am a pastiche of various hero's and popular characters. I am what the plot and female desire requires me to be to achieve the platonic ideal of marketable. I am not consistent because no consistency went into me. I am the hack creation of a writer more focused on mammalian bladder gene splicing specific than good writing. I am, for all intents and purposes, a malformed sham, a product of the sub par ideas that formed me. And you are simply the fantasy of a lone writer who wishes she was important enough to be carrying a company on her shoulders, delusions of importance and want from an insignificant cog in an unimportant industry."
***
Sally's fingers left her keyboard. It was dark, late. There was a chill in the air, contrasted by the uncomfortable itch of the cold mess that had been squished into her diaper hours ago. She stared at her writing, and her own insecurities stared back at her. She had foregone dignity, cleanliness and sleep to produce... this.
She closed the document, not bothering to save her progress, peeled herself from her desk chair and willed herself to bed. Each step was an effort of will, not to collapse on the floor and wallow. Not helped by the fact that her massive, loaded diaper impeded each movement. She should shower, but hell, did she even have the energy and self worth left to change?
Barely registering the habitual reach towards the light switch as she left the room, she closed the door behind her, the light from her abandoned computer screen left to illuminate the scene.