Chapter Twenty-One

“A dirty martini for the lady,” Vivian declared as she handed me a large martini glass filled almost to the brim with a cloudy, green-tinted drink garnished with two olives speared on a glass pick. “You said you want something strong.”

“I did, thank you,” I sipped the drink. It was salty and delicious, but I would have preferred it dirtier; the small splash of olive brine in the drink did little to cut the taste of the vodka. But at least it went down smooth. And it was definitely a strong drink.

Don’t get too drunk.

I won’t, I just need some liquid courage.

I had come to Vivian’s prepared to wet myself again, but I didn’t want to wait until I was drunk this time. When I had an accident tonight, I didn’t want it to be able to be brushed off as a consequence of drinking too much. In fact, I had arrived with my bladder already starting to feel full to make sure I could do it before we had many drinks; Vivian’s mandate that I not drink until I was done handling a knife had been a convenient way to make sure that happened. But now my bladder was starting to truly ache. Faced with the prospect of having to pee my pants, my nerves were threatening to chicken out, so a little liquid courage was exactly what I needed.

This is going to set the tone for the whole week.

Good.

So, you’re sure about this?

Yes.

I wasn’t, not entirely, but I was going to do it anyway.

“So,” Vivian said as she walked over to the cutting board and got back to work on dinner, “what are you looking forward to the most this week?”

Getting to wear diapers and pull-ups most of the week; maybe getting put in a diaper by Vivian…

I made a thoughtful sound and took a sip of my drink to give myself time to think of things that didn’t involve diapers and wetting myself, “honestly? I think just getting to spend a lot of time with you,” I replied finally. “Oh, and the lake looks really nice, I’m looking forward to relaxing on the dock and maybe doing some swimming.”

“The lake might still be a bit cold this early in the spring,” Vivian replied, “but maybe we’ll get lucky.”

“Well, what are you looking forward to?” I asked.

She smirked and looked back at me, “the spending a lot of time with you thing sounded pretty good.” Her tone of voice brought a blush to my face. “The woman I’m renting the house from said there’s a lot of nice antique shops in the town nearby, I thought it might be fun to check those out, if that sounds interesting to you?”

“That could be fun,” I replied, “antiquing is basically just fancy and expensive thrifting, and I love going thrifting.”

Vivian laughed, “you’re not wrong, darling.” Vivian started adding the vegetables she had been chopping into a pan. She narrated what she was doing as she did, breaking the cooking process down into simple steps, but I was having trouble following along.

This is going to happen soon, are you sure about this?

Is this a really bad idea?

Maybe? But…

Gods, I want to do it.

I was sitting on one of the stools at the kitchen island, my legs tightly crossed and my bladder starting to truly ache. I was absently taking alternating sips of my water and my martini, chewing on my lip in between. Vivian was talking, explaining how to make spaghetti sauce, but between how badly I had to pee and how loudly I was internally panicking over what I was about to do, I wasn’t paying attention at all.

I want to do it; I want Vivian to think I have accidents.

You could just start wearing pull-ups and tell her that, you don’t have to be so dramatic about it.

I know, but…

But this way is hotter, and you want her to suggest you wear pull-ups. You want her to be Miss Vivian.

It sounds bad when you put it like that…

She doesn’t seem unwilling though. She suggested you wear pull-ups to bed in the first place.

She assumed I already wore them.

But she bought you a pack and then suggested it was a good idea when you told her you didn’t wear them.

And she suggest I wear them when drinking.

And told you to bring diapers for nighttime.

So far she’s seemed willing to play…that role…

Miss Vivian?

Maybe she’s even—

Don’t go there; only pain and disappointment lay that way.

“You must be thirsty,” Vivian said, snapping me back into reality as she picked up my now empty glass of water and carried it over to the fridge. “You look distracted, darling; is everything okay?”

“Yeah, sorry,” I replied, giving a weak smile. My bladder was practically throbbing. “Hey, um…” I started, but trailed off.

“Yes?” Vivian prompted as she returned with my glass of water. “Would you like another martini?” She nodded at my empty glass.

When did that happen?

“No, uh yes…maybe,” I shook my head as if to clear my thoughts manually, “what I mean is, or…what I was going to say was, uh, are you…” I bit my lip and looked away, blushing hard.

“Darling?” Vivian asked, her tone of voice mixed, as if she couldn’t decide whether to be concerned or amused. “What is it?”

Are you sure you’re okay with me having accidents and wearing pull-ups?

That’s what I was going to ask, but I knew I couldn’t ask that. It was dumb to even think of asking that.

Plus, if you asked, she’d probably be suspicious when you pee your pants in a few minutes.

What do I say instead? Quick!

“Darling?” Vivian repeated, sounding like she was leaning towards concern.

Pee your pants!

Yes, that was it!

“Uhm, sorry,” I gave a forced laugh as I bore down on my bladder, willing my body to release its content, “what I was saying was,” I continued, stalling for time, my body proving reluctant, “um, are you…”

It’s no good.

And it wasn’t. I had too much of a mental block; despite how badly I had to pee, I couldn’t force it out.

“Are you…going to do any writing while we’re on vacation?” I blurted out, a sudden burst of inspiration hitting me.

Vivian gave me a quizzical look, “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes, sorry,” I forced another weak laugh, “just, um, you know, my train of thought just…completely derailed,” it was such a feeble excuse, and Vivian knew it.

“Mmm,” she gave me an appraising look, as if she were trying to decide whether to believe me or not—or perhaps whether she was going to push the matter or not. “If you say so,” she said at last, albeit a little uncertainly.

“I’m fine, really,” I said, feeling a bit more composed and a bit more like I was selling the lie.

“Okay,” her reply had a hint of skepticism to it, but she seemed to be content to let the matter drop.

“So, are you?” I asked, eager to move the conversation along. “Planning to write, that is?”

“As a matter of fact,” Vivian smiled at me before turning back to the stove to stir her sauce, “I was, indeed, thinking of trying to get some writing done. Of course, that’s only if you won’t begrudge me terribly for taking some alone time?”

“Not at all,” I said cheerfully, “maybe I’ll try to get some writing done too.” It might be nice to get to sit out by the lake while I worked.

“Oh? Not working on your dissertation, I hope.”

“And why not?”

“Because, my little Lavender,” there was a playful sternness to her voice as she turned away from the stove and pointed the wooden spoon she had been stirring the sauce with at me, “you are on vacation. You have to give that brilliant little brain time to relax.”

I pouted playfully, “but you’re going to be writing.”

“Yes,” she smiled, clearly amused by my pouting, “but…it’s different…”

“How is it different?” I asked.

“Because it’s…” Vivian gestured vaguely in the air with the spoon, seemingly at a loss for how to justify the double standard. “Because mine is recreational writing,” she explained at last.

“What does that mean?” I prodded.

“It means, you know, writing that I do just for fun, that isn’t for a book or an essay or anything like that, just…for me, for my enjoyment.” She explained, seeming inexplicably self-conscious or embarrassed about writing for someone who was an award-winning author.

“Oh,” I said plainly, thrown off by how awkward she seemed to feel and, as a result, uncertain of how to respond. “Well, I think that’s really nice!” That seemed safe enough.

Vivian gave me a relieved smile, “thank you, Lavender. Sometimes, it’s just nice to indulge my hobby—because I do still consider writing a hobby—without having to worry about what anyone else will think of it, does that make sense?”

I nodded my head, suddenly understanding why Vivian had seemed so awkward; this was something deeply personal she was sharing. “Yeah, that make sense,” I said.

“Thank you, Lavender,” she smiled. “You know,” she suddenly gave a short but genuine laugh, “it’s funny, actually…do you know how I got started writing?”

“No,” I said, absolutely riveted now. My bladder was still aching, but it was not yet so urgent that I couldn’t push it to the back of my head. “How?”

“I used to write these…silly, stupid little stories and post them on these story forums on the internet,” she explained, nostalgia filling her voice. “Other people would post their stories, and we’d all comment on each other’s stories. Well, I’d hate to be forced to read one of my stories from those days today; I’m sure it would be atrocious. Back then, however, the point wasn’t for it to be good, it was to have fun.”

“Yeah,” I said, nodding enthusiastically, “that’s…kind of cute, honestly.”

“You think so?” Vivian laughed. “Those stories may have been terrible,” she continued, “but I kept doing it because I loved it, and, eventually, I got better.” She shrugged, “I hope so, anyway.”

“I think you’re a wonderful writer,” I gushed without thinking, then immediately blushed, embarrassed by how fan-girly it sounded. “I mean,” I scrambled to maintain some dignity, “I really respect your work.”

Totally nailed it.

Shut up.

Vivian smiled warmly, “Thank you, Lavender. I really respect your work as well.”

I blushed and bit my lip, “Thank you, Vivian.”

A long silence followed, but not an awkward one. Those words felt more momentous than their meanings would suggest, and they rested heavily but comfortably on the room. Vivian and I looked at each other, locking eyes for a moment, then simultaneously looked away. I was blushing, and I was certain she was too.

You’re going to ruin this really nice moment by pissing yourself.

I know, I know, I shouldn’t do it, right?

But you’ve come so far, do you really want to give up now?

“So, um,” I tentatively broke the silence, looking to distract myself from my predicament, “may…may I ask…what kinds of things you write?” I asked cautiously. “Like, when you write just for yourself?”

Vivian smiled and shrugged, “they’re stories…stories like the ones I used to write back then. Some are total fantasy…like, wish-fulfillment level of fantasy, you know? Some are more reality-based; some are even based on real events, albeit always embellished. Then there are others that are just silly little stories that pop in my head.”

“That sounds lovely,” I smiled, unsure what else to say.

“The sad part of this whole story,” Vivian continued unprompted, “is that these days no one else gets to see those stories. I used to love sharing them with the other people on those forums, but these days it all feels too…personal, you know? Especially since I’m Vivian Devereux, award-winning author,” she smiled a little sadly, “these stories can’t just be silly little stories, people expect…Literature.”

I nodded empathetically, “that sounds really frustrating, but I’m glad you still write them for yourself.”

She smiled at me, “one day, Lavender, I hope I can find someone to share them with.” Vivian set the wooden spoon she was still holding down on the counter and walked over to me. She cupped my face with one gentle hand and gazed into my eyes.

“Yeah?” I asked meekly, swallowing hard.

“Yeah,” Vivian smirked, then bent down and kissed me hard.

Oh please, you can’t piss yourself while making out a third time.

But Vivian broke the kiss off after only a few seconds. “If I’m being entirely honest,” she said playfully as she walked back to the stove, “I think I may have found someone to share them with, but we’ll have to see.”

I grinned, but internally I was starting to panic again. Brief though the kiss had been, it had startled me…and turned me on…and both things were making this more…difficult.

“Thank you for listening to me, Lavender,” Vivian said, oblivious to my plight. “It’s really nice to be able to share these kinds of things with you.”

“I really appreciate that you’re comfortable sharing them with me,” I replied earnestly. “And I’m really glad that you do.”

Vivian stirred the sauce, then lifted the spoon to her lips. “This sauce is really good, would you like to try some?” She held the spoon out in my direction.

“Sure!” But as soon as I shifted in my seat to start getting up, I knew I had a problem.