68.)

We set up the stools as if they were chairs. We only had four, so it wasn't a proper Academy A classroom, but it would have to do. I thought about changing my clothes, but honestly the blouse and jeans I was wearing were the nicest thing I'd brought with me. I knew we would do this scene this weekend, but I didn't consider bringing a spare outfit for it.

Finally, I stood with my back to the counter and looked at Blossom. Was she blushing?

"Okay... you ready?" I asked. My heart was racing. I was going to fuck this up so badly and I was picking at my fingers before I even realized it.

"Ready as can be!"

Blossom could tell that Amy was nervous; she was picking at her fingers, and so she took the girl's hands in hers and squeezed them firmly.

"You're gonna do great!"

"I'm sorry if I screw it up," I said, already accepting it as a foregone conclusion. I just wanted her to know that I was going to try, and when I failed, that still meant I tried. I didn't want her to hate me for ruining this for her.

"You couldn't possibly screw it up, even if you tried."

Blossom winked and took a step back, then walked back and sat up on one of the stools: legs spread a little, diaper on display.

She was ready!

I took a deep breath and tried to remember what the caregivers of Academy A sounded like. I knew one of them was a bit of an airhead, so I decided to pull from that resource; I didn't have to be perfect. Just stern. Demanding.

"Blossom," I said sharply, but sharp like a butter knife and not sharp like a guillotine. I wasn't all that dangerous, but you shouldn't let a kid play with my tone.

"Can you please tell us the answer to this problem?" I motioned to the counter, where, behind it, there wasn't a chalkboard. But in the Academy there would have been one. "Sixteen plus nine," I said aloud, since there wasn't an actual problem to solve.

Blossom cycled through the different Academies in her head and how they'd allow the Candies different levels of education. For example: in Academy T, Talita would not have known the answer. But in Academy K? Those Candies could all count just fine; they couldn't play jump rope if they couldn't count.

"Yes Miss!" Blossom began with a very eager and excited tone, as though being picked for the answer among all her imaginary classmates was the biggest gift in the world. "It's twenty…" she let the word hang, looking pained, and bit her lip. Then she answered it with all the questioning inflection of someone giving directions for defusing a bomb. "…five?"

"That's correct," I said cheerfully, and then with mock gravitas: "Good job, Blossom."

This was the moment Blossom had been waiting for… or, well, one of them. She had the opportunity to shine, and she quite literally did: she beamed in the biggest, happiest, proudest smile she could muster. And she was really good at smiling because she spent many years performing for crowds.

"Thank you Miss Moore! I did my best!"

I did three more fake math problems, never anything too dangerous for Blossom to mix up in either her real-world self or her roleplay self. She answered them nervously, but she always got them right. Each one was met with a compliment. First it was, "You're so smart." Then, "Such a bright young girl." And finally, "Good girl, Blossom."

I knew that the effects of the words weren't real, but I sure wouldn't have been able to tell from Blossom's acting. She shined so brightly with every compliment. All the while, she continued to shift uncomfortably on her stool. Even when she was distracted, not thinking about it, she was squirming. I took a deep breath and put on my strict voice again.

"Blossom."

Blossom's back straightened.

"Would you please come to the front of the room?"

Please? Did the teachers say please? Maybe I should have been more direct...

"Yes Miss Moore!"

Blossom slid down carefully off the stool - and even went above and beyond by adding a small dropped curtsy into the mix - before she hurried up to where her teacher was waiting for her.

Gosh, she was a good actress... I shook the anxiety from my head and pulled my fingers apart before I started making things worse. Once she was in front of me, I pointed to the countertop.

"Hands on the desk," I said, but the sternness in my tone had been obscured by uncertainty. I had to pull it together.

Blossom had learned a few things from spending her time in high school as a performer. For example: it always pays to reinforce and prop up your friends and teammates, because a united team is a strong team. So too, here, did she do her best to lead and reinforce Amy's efforts.

"Like this, Miss Moore?"

Blossom pressed her hands to the countertop, turned away, and bit her lip.

"If there is anything I can do better, Miss Moore, pretty please let me. I want to be good..."

Blossom was looking away from me. She faced into the kitchen, and I faced the imaginary audience. I looked at nobody in particular and then at the girl beside me, bent over. It felt so silly, so stupid. But Blossom couldn't see me anyway, right? She couldn't be sure nobody else was in the room.

"You're such a good student, Blossom," I said with a warmer tone, something a little less stern. It felt easier, so I rolled with it. "You've always impressed me. Your willingness to..."

I had to pause. When I wrote these scenes, the speech-giver never paused. When Blossom roleplayed that Matron, she didn't pause either. But I had to pause, because I needed a moment to think.

Did I ruin the moment?

You can ask later, I told myself. Remember what Lin said: don't make it worse. So I took a deep breath and tried again.

"You've always impressed me, Blossom. Your willingness to obey, to cooperate, to do whatever it takes to show you're truly a good girl. What would you do to prove it now? To me and all your classmates? Are you willing to do anything, to show us what a good girl you are?"

Blossom didn't let the skip in the beat break her stride, and she was immediate with her own response.

"Anything!"

Then she added:

"Anything you say, Miss Moore! I'm… I'm best when you tell me what to do. I don't know any better. Please let me try and impress you."

With a rush of brazen confidence, I reached over with my hand and touched the seat of Blossom's skirt. I clapped down on it softly, so it barely made a noise, but I could feel the thick padding underneath. One gentle pat. Then I grabbed the hem of her skirt and pulled it up, flashing the seat of her underwear and inspiring a rush of butterflies in me that would rival that of any thirteen year old boy in the same situation. But it wasn't any kind of underwear she wore under her skirt: it was the pristine white plastic of a diaper, a thick one, forcing her thighs apart.

I pulled the skirt up high, flipping it onto her back, so her diaper was on display to the class of no one, to the luckiest audience in the world.

Blossom Brixley, bent over her counter, dressed like a schoolgirl, diapered ass on display... suddenly I understood all those blushy bathhouse scenes in anime.

"Blos-"

My voice caught in my throat. My chest was pounding and I had to swallow to clear my throat. Then I had to take a breath, a deep and quiet one, just so I could speak again.

"Blossom..." I said again, quieter. I just had to get it out. Three words. Two, if I chickened out. One would even do the trick. But I was an overachiever. "Wet your diaper."

Blossom had been preparing for this since the moment she sat down on the stool, flexing her pelvic muscles to the point of failure and back, over and over, cockteasing her body to pee but never allowing it. When she was seated on the stool, her bladder wouldn't have let her follow through. When she stood up, perhaps it wouldn't have been able to be so defiant. By the time she'd walked up here to the front of the class, her loins were burning, her bladder was aching.

Blossom had about enough time to nod her head, to whimper a little bit. By the time she started to consider that she was an adult woman, in her family's holiday house, wearing a diaper sized for her, and about to wet it for a girl that had every reason in the world to hate her… well, the 'about to' disappeared from that description.

Her breath caught, and she choked a little, somehow caught off guard by the inevitable that she'd been anticipating, by the flood of heat and wetness between her legs, by the fact that once she started it… well, she didn't know that she could stop. She stammered some unintelligible noise again as she continued to flood her diaper for the very first time, as arousal smashed into shame and crashed into conflicting, burning need, and then the urge to fight or flight.

She was certain she was going to leak, that there was no way that this square of plastic and padding could keep up with the deluge she was unleashing upon it.

But when she stopped peeing, she hadn't leaked.

Her breathing was heavy, heaving in and out, sucking in air like it was too thick to fit inside of her. Her cheeks felt as warm as the inside of her diaper, and her knees threatened to give out from underneath her, as though the wet diaper paradoxically made her weigh more now than when she was dry.

And she wasn't dry anymore.

Not even close.

It lasted sixty seconds that felt like sixty minutes. The quiet, calm pause, air tingling with suspense like the moments before a lightning storm. Then a whimper from Blossom, a gasp, and... well, nothing for a moment. Then, I watched as a wobbly horizontal line crept up the seat of Blossom's diaper. It was darker below the line, with a tinge of yellow color, and clean white above it. The wetness expanded, crawling up her bottom, soaking higher and higher.

It sounded so anticlimactic in description. It sounded like there was almost no change at all, and truly, there wasn't. But I knew. I knew what happened, I knew what she'd done, and I knew all the things we both associated with wetting herself like that.

Blossom wet her diaper. She was irrevocably different. She had crossed a line she couldn't cross back over. She was as helpless as a little baby girl.

The line slowed down and stopped, and the soaked padding only went halfway up her backside. She had tried so hard to hold it, to prove she was a big girl, and the diaper treated her accident like any other. No leaks. She didn't even need a change. That diaper would easily take another wetting.

When she was done, my head was abuzz. My hands and arms felt heavy and far away, like I was pulling at strings like a puppeteer. And I felt so warm...

I don't know why, because I don't think a teacher at the Academy would have done it, but I reached down, cupping Blossom's diapered bottom, and pressed the seat of her diaper against her skin.

"Good girl," I stammered, but my persona had left me like a shadow.

I pulled my hand back a second later - honestly, it was only a second! - and I immediately looked at my feet. I tried to steady my breathing and put on a smile, but I felt like my masks were on the highest shelf and I was the littlest girl on the kitchen floor.

Why did she have to be... so... so sexy?

"Th-thank you, M-Miss Moore."

Blossom would have said that the stammering was put-on, that it was part of the act, but the whole process of being so vulnerable and doing what she'd done… doing it for Amy, and then having the little minx cupping and patting her wet diaper, pressing it against her skin? It left Blossom weak at the knees in every possible way. Every diaper story would talk about the threshold she'd crossed, and how she could never be an adult again.

And for the first time in her life, Blossom could actually understand why those scenes were written in such a way.

Her cheeks were so fucking red.

She was so… uncharacteristically timid.

And she… wanted to kiss Amy.

"Return to your seat..." I said, but it didn't sound like me. It felt automatic. I realized I was pulling at my fingers. Fuck. When Blossom stood up, I quickly tucked my hands behind my back to hold them together.

Blossom made sure that her walk was obvious. She made sure that the foreignness to these sensations was clear. But even if she hadn't tried to do so, she probably couldn't have avoided it. When she got back to her "seat", she turned and made eye contact with Amy. Blossom made sure to maintain that eye contact as, for the first time, she lifted herself up and sat down on the hard stool in a wet diaper.

Her heart was racing and her cheeks were scarlet. She expected it to feel like sitting on a wet towel or a sponge, or sitting on a box of cupcakes left on her driver's seat. But it wasn't anything like that; it was warm, and wet, and… actually felt really nice. Erotic in its own way, and also not at all.

Blossom Brixley could blush.