Chapter Twenty-Seven

The next morning, I awoke to an empty bed. I sat up, my diaper crinkling and squishing beneath me, and rubbed my eyes. Vivian was probably already up and had breakfast prepared. But as I shuffled sleepily out of the master bedroom, I heard the sound of typing coming from somewhere in the house. Following the sound, I quickly found Vivian posted up at a desk in one of the bedrooms with a typewriter of all things—the quintessential picture of the author.

“Morning,” I said softly from the doorway.

Vivian jumped a little in her seat before turning around, exhaling heavily, “Lavender, you scared me a little.”

“Sorry,” I smiled apologetically as I walked into the room and sat on the twin-sized bed. “Whatcha doing?”

“Writing,” Vivian said simply, gesturing to the typewriting, “I guess you could say inspiration hit. I couldn’t wait to get out of bed this morning and start writing, I haven’t even had breakfast yet,” she said the last part in a conspiratorial whisper.

“You’re not doing work, are you?” I asked, remembering how she had chided me for suggesting I might get some work done on our vacation.

Vivian giggled, “not at all, I promise.”

“Then let me make us some breakfast,” I said as I stood up, “and you keep writing, okay?”

“You’re going to make breakfast?” Vivian asked uncertainly, “Lavender, you’ve as much as admitted to me that you don’t know how to cook.”

I huffed. “I can toast a bagel and cut up some fruit! It’s not the fanciest breakfast, but…still…”

Vivian smiled appreciatively, “that sounds lovely, thank you.”

“Of course,” I smiled back at her then turned to the door, “one bagel and fruit, coming right up!”

“Oh, but Lavender?” Vivian called as I was walking out of the room, “You should probably change first.”

My face was suddenly very hot—I hadn’t even thought twice about walking around in my soaked diaper. “I was just about to do that!” I lied, then dashed out of the room and back to the master bedroom.

You’re getting a little too comfortable wearing wet padding around Vivian…

She doesn’t seem to care. Especially not after last night.

Last night…

I sighed dreamily as I ripped the tapes off my diaper and deposited it in the trashcan in the en suite bathroom. Last night had been magical.

Changed into a fresh pull-up, I made my way to the kitchen and whipped us up some breakfast—a toasted bagel with cream cheese for Vivian and one with hummus for me, plus some strawberries for both of us. Vivian took a break from writing to eat with me on the back patio. I was dying of curiosity about what Vivian was writing, but I refrained from asking about it, trusting Vivian to share it with me when and if she wanted. So, instead, we made small talk, mostly about our plans for the day—Vivian wanted to spend the day writing, so I was left to entertain myself.

When we finished breakfast, Vivian went back to her typewriter while I cleaned up our dishes. With everything cleaned up, I set about finding something to do.

I thought about curling up on the back patio with a book, or maybe even rowing out onto the lake and enjoying my book out in the early summer sun, but, instead, I found myself wandering through the house. I had given the place a quick once over when we had arrived, but now I was really looking through everything. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular, I was just bored and curious.

In the living room, I found a stash of board game, many of my childhood favorites amongst the title, and I made a mental note to bug Vivian to play some of them with me. I also found a collection of DVDs and books, the titles so eclectic it was clear that much of the collection had been accumulated from forgetful temporary tenants.

The rest of the house had very little of any real interest, and I was close to giving up my search entirely until I came across a bedroom that was very clearly intended for children. The room had a set of bunk beds and, I blushed to see, a crib and changing table.

At least the landlords thought to provide for families.

Beyond that, the room had a bookcase that was stuffed full of various children’s books, more board games, and toys of all sorts. A toy chest sat next to the bookcase and right in front of a window that looked out over the lake; it was also full of toys and stuffed animals. It was clear this collection was also at least supplemented by the leftovers of the countless families that had passed through this house.

And then I found the real jackpot.

Opening the folding closet doors, I found huge plastic containers absolutely full of Legos. My eyes went wide, and my face lit up.

It took me multiple trips to carry it all out into the living room, where I had a lot more floor space, but before long I had pulled out all the containers and had them set up in a semi-circle in the living room.

And so morning slid into afternoon; warm sunlight streamed through the living room windows, illuminating my playspace, and so gradually did it fade that I didn’t even notice I was squinting in the dark to see the Lego pieces. By the time the sun set, leaving the living room to be lit by only a single table lamp that did little to fight off the encroaching darkness, I had built myself a giant castle out of mismatched blocks, but there was something regal in its patchwork color palette.

I was just sitting back on my heels, admiring my work and decided what to build next, when bright light flooded the room. I cried out in surprise and squeezed my eyes shut behind my hands.

“Sorry,” Vivian said, “I should have warned you first.”

I blinked a few times to adjust to the light and looked over at Vivian, who was standing just inside the doorway by the light switch.

“You look like you’re having fun though.”

I couldn’t help but blush a little. Sure, Vivian changed my diaper, but she thought I couldn’t help that. But here she was, having just caught me in the middle of playing with children’s toys.

“Yeah,” I confirmed bashfully, “I haven’t played with Legos in…well, not since I was a little kid.” Which was true, but I had already promised myself to look into buying myself some Legos to play with at home.

“It’s a lovely castle,” Vivian said genuinely, then added, “Are you the princess?” With a bit of a teasing smile.

I wasn’t sure whether to laugh and play along or pout—different parts of me wanted to do both in equal measure. “Of course, I am,” I said finally with a huff, as if it was the dumbest question ever asked.

“Of course, you are,” Vivian repeated.

“How’s you writing going?” I asked after a moment of silence.

“It’s…going really well,” Vivian walked into the living room, skirting around my Lego bins, and sat down on the couch. “I…well, I’m sorry I left you alone all day to work on this,” she raised the stack of paper in her hand. It was the first time I had noticed she was holding it, and I couldn’t help but stare at it with intense curiosity.

“Is it…done?”

“No…yes? Maybe…it’s…well, it’s not the best thing I’ve ever written. It was a bit rushed, honestly, but I guess I just really wanted to get all my thoughts out as quickly as possible. So, I guess…maybe the rough draft is done? I don’t know if I’ll ever bother editing this one though.” Her tone of voice was subdued, as if she was exhausted, or maybe nervous. Was she just tired from writing all day?

“Is it…like the stories you used to write on those forums?” I asked, recalling the conversation we had just a couple days before in her kitchen.

She smiled, “Yeah, it is.”

“Did you have fun writing it?”

Her smiled faltered, “It was…difficult to write, if I’m being honest. But I think I needed to write it, and I feel better having done so.”

“Well,” I said, unsure of exactly how to react, “I guess that’s good?”

“It is,” she looked up at me and smiled. “Lavender, um…I’d like to share it with you?”

My heart skipped a beat; I had a sense of how important this was to her, how vulnerable she was being by even offering. “Are you sure?”

“No,” she laughed, “but…yes.”

She held out the bundle of papers, but I didn’t take it.

“I don’t want you to show me because you feel like you have to.”

“But I do have to,” Vivian said, “because I wrote this for you. And maybe writing it was a mistake, but I wrote it for you, and you have to read it. Just…please, don’t judge until you get to the end.”

“You wrote it for me?” I asked incredulously.

“To say things I need to say but can’t bring myself to say out loud.”

“That sounds…ominous,” I took a deep breath, “was…last night a mistake?”

“What? No!” Vivian shook her head emphatically. “No, it wasn’t a mistake. But…I’ve made other mistakes, Lavender, and after last night…I have to correct them. And I just hope…I just hope you won’t regret last night once I do. So…please, Lavender, I love you, I really do, and I want you to remember that as you read this, okay?”

I reached out and gently took the papers. “Okay,” I said simply, then added, “I love you too, and nothing that’s in these pages is going to change that.”

Vivian smiled weakly, “we’ll see.”

“Should I read it in private?”

“No,” Vivian said, “do it here. I…want to see how you react in the moment.”

“Okay,” nervously, I looked down at the pages in my hand, and started reading.

The story was about a professor, a doctoral advisor, who had invited their advisee to their home for dinner. She did it against it her best judgement; she knew it was a mistake, but she was so…enraptured with the young student. She was nervous that night, so she drank, and encouraged her student to do the same to cover for how nervous she was. And maybe, just maybe, if she was being honest with herself, because she was hoping someone would get drunk enough to make the first move. But then she awoke the next morning and lay in bed racked with guilt for how she had acted. Slowly, she peeled herself out of bed and made her way to the guest room, intending to the tell the girl, her student, that she was sorry, and that perhaps this had all been a mistake. But then…then she found her in a wet bed. She immediately went to comfort the girl, twisted up as she was between feeling guilty for putting the girl in this predicament and her…secret desires. The professor, you see, had always wanted a little girl of her own—not in a maternal way, but in a kinky way.

The professor fought with herself after that day: she wanted her student more than ever but she still knew it was wrong. Not to mention, she was racked with guilt for how her student’s bedwetting, something that must be so humiliating and shameful for her, was something so arousing to her. But, she reasoned with herself, she could get a small slice of her desires fulfilled just by being with a girl she was already enamored with and being kind and supportive about her condition—was that so underhanded?

I looked up at Vivian.

“No,” she said, “don’t say anything, just finish reading, okay?”

But I shook my head. I knew what was coming next, and I didn’t want to relive that, not as full of emotion as I was. I felt like I was about to burst in a fit of laughter or sobbing, I wasn’t sure which. Besides, I had read everything I needed to know.

“Lavender,” Vivian said, “please? Read it, for me?”

I shook my head again and looked up at her, smiling, tears forming in my eyes, “I faked the accidents,” I admitted, “or most of them, not the first one, the first time I wet the bad that is, that was a genuine accident, but after that…the rest of them? I either put myself in a position where I knew I was going to have an accident or outright did it on purpose, all because…because…all I’ve ever wanted was to be someone’s little girl.” I watched Vivian’s face transform with surprise and confusion and understanding and, finally, joy.

“Will you…be my little girl, Lavender?”

I nodded, tears rolling down my checks, “yes, of course.”