212.)

Blossom's advice about starting small and using vulnerable positions to Maria's advantage worked wonders. I spent the entire afternoon writing a scene where Judith, after too much deliberation, finally wet her pants. On purpose. I was so proud of it, because it almost seemed believable!

Maria took Judith to the bathroom after that and really riled her up. Kisses. Touching. Stripping off her clothes. A game, where Maria would give Judith what she wanted if Judith would give Maria what she wanted. It was all so perfect. Then, the coup de grâce.

"Ask me to put you in a diaper, and I'll make you cum."

It was the hottest thing I'd ever written, no contest. The pacing was swift, but deep. The words were pure fire. Everything was perfect.

And then I hit a snag.

I typed the same paragraph again and again. The good paragraph. The one about Maria touching Judith's diaper. The way it felt. The reasons it felt so good. But no matter how many times I did it, it sounded wrong. Hollow. Something was missing, and I couldn't figure out what. But I had to keep at it. What choice did I have? It had to be perfect. Academy Works had to be perfect.

Right?

Didn't it?

I looked up from my laptop; Blossom was sitting at the kitchen table. She was eating grapes and typing on her phone, wearing her pajama top and one of the black diapers that didn't fit quite right. Her big girl diaper. Not like the bunny ones I wore. Those were little girl diapers.

My mind whirled back to our roleplay from a few weeks ago. Of her on top of me. Of my hands between her legs. Of trying to reach under her bra cup, and her slapping my hand away. Of her walking out, and laying there on my own. A little girl who wasn't big enough to pleasure her girlfriend.

I took a deep breath and turned back to my laptop. I tried to type something, but my fingers didn't move. They sat softly on the keyboard, gently enough that the blinking line on my word document didn't click forward. The last few sentences that I'd written repeated in my head.

It didn't have to be rough. It didn't have to be fast. I had to find a rhythm that worked. I had to allow for empty space, for the moments of taking the padding off her sensitive areas, knowing that it would easily find its way back again.

I looked up at Blossom once more, sitting at the kitchen table. She left a grape between her lips so she could type on her phone with two hands. She adjusted herself, just a little, and I could hear her crinkle from across the room. I watched her, and she didn't even notice.

Then I looked past Blossom, out the large glass doorwall, at the empty beach. The curtains were partially drawn, for privacy, but I could see the waves in the distance. In and out.

My breathing. In and out.

Was I just turned on? Of course I was; this was the hottest thing I'd ever written. But I knew what lust felt like. It felt like a pull, like gravity. It felt like inevitability. It felt like my hand sliding up Blossom's bare stomach, under the cup of her bra. It felt like my hand sliding between my legs, against the front of my diaper.

But my hands never left the keyboard.

What would happen if… I just…

I closed my laptop. I waited, and I wondered.

I thought about the first time I came to the beach house, when I sat out on the back porch and looked at the waves. I thought about Valentine’s Day, a month ago, when Blossom left my front porch and I missed her so immediately. I thought about the look on her face when she bit into that rock-hard ice cream cookie sandwich. I thought about the slip of her tongue when she said she loved me for the first time, or when she accidentally kissed me with too much emotion. I thought about the smile on her lips when she fed me that bottle during our med play scene, like she had a secret she wanted to tell me. I thought about every single moment of my twenty-first birthday, creating possibilities where there weren't any.

It didn't feel like a pull, like gravity. It felt like a push, then a pull. Easy, gentle pushes. Easy, gentle pulls. Like the waves. Like breathing. Like flexing a muscle. A muscle I'd never used, but Blossom got it working. Through sheer persistence, patience, and love, she got me working.

It didn't have to be rough. It didn't have to be fast. I had to find a rhythm that worked. I had to allow for empty space, for room to make mistakes, room to fail over and over again, knowing that I could easily find my way back to her.

For a long time, I thought writing was the only thing I could do right. It was the only way I could prove that I wasn't worthless. If I made something beautiful, everyone would finally see some value in me. I would see some value in me too.

I never considered that any other part of me was valuable. I never thought that I was anything more than what I could offer people. I never imagined someone might be proud of me for no good reason. Why would they?

And then someone was.

I'd known for a while that I loved Blossom Brixley, but it wasn't until that moment that I realized how much it mattered.

How much love mattered.

So I got up from my spot on the sofa, where I had been writing Academy Works for the better part of five months, and toddled over to the kitchen table with a crinkle in every step. When Blossom looked up at me, I took her cheeks in my hands and kissed her on the lips.

"I don't want to write today," I said. "I want to be with you."

[End]