But somehow, I was still twelve years old

Hi everyone! Fair warning: this occupies a midpoint between diaper story and story story. I think you’ll enjoy it, but what do I know? [HR][/HR]

1. Thursday

[SIZE=12px]2. Friday[/SIZE] [SIZE=12px]3. Saturday[/SIZE] [SIZE=12px]4. Sunday[/SIZE] [SIZE=12px]5. Another time, Another place[/SIZE] [SIZE=12px]6. Monday[/SIZE] [SIZE=12px]7. Yesterday's tomorrow[/SIZE]

Re: But somehow, I was still twelve years old

But somehow, I was still twelve years old
by donbiki

Christie had a terrible crush. That must be where the word came from, Christie thought. Crushed. Like an aluminum can, or an insect.

The terrible crush started way back in sixth grade. Sixth grade was awful for Christie for lots of reasons, none of which she wanted to think about. At the time Christie had known a girl, Shelly, and Shelly had an older brother, Rob. Shelly’s brother was the only teenager Christie knew, so it was natural that, when things started happening, as things happen in sixth grade, that Christie started thinking about things, as girls tend to think about things in sixth grade.

These thoughts bubbled up warm and ticklish, but fluffy and all hypothetical. Rob was in ninth grade, and Christie was in sixth grade. They might as well be different species. Christie thought of Rob like she thought about winning a medal in Olympic pole vault, or joining the Spice Girls. It was just another milky what-if.

But one day — October 31st to pin it — Christie was in a pinch, and Rob saved her. Sixth grade was awful, and October 31st was sixth grade’s most awful day. Christie changed. She learned boys her age were hopeless, immature, awful, hateful, mean, terrible, cruel, stupid, useless, childish, and a million other things. And her thoughts about Rob grew less fluffy.

Now Christie was in ninth grade. She was fifteen, and he was eighteen. Before long, Rob would be graduating high school. Christie was being crushed.

Chapter 1: Interesting tastes

“What do you like about Rob anyway?”

“Well,” Christie said, thinking. “He has nice hair, and a car. He seems nice.”

“Lots of guys have cars, Christie,” said Becky. “Why not Bruce? He has hair. He’s nice.”

Christie dabbed a napkin into leftover catsup and fought a blush. Did Becky have to speak so loud?

“I dunno,” Christie managed. “He’s really mature…”

Becky and her were sitting alone in the cafeteria for fourth period lunch. The cafeteria was perfect for a tête-à-tête, Becky insisted, but Christie doubted it. There were dozens of kids crowded around, milling between tables while slurping milk cartons, some juniors waving to Becky. How was this private? Christie did her best to seem small.

Which was not hard.

“Look, this is all really sudden, Christie. I don’t see what’s so unique about Rob anyway. He’s a senior too…” she paused and furrowed her brow. “If you’re feeling adventurous, how about Craig? He asked you out last month, right? Or Stevie? The shy one who reads during lunch. I bet he’d be a good trial boyfriend.”

“Freshmen boys are too childish.”

“Hmmmm, and you’re one to speak? You, Christie? Have you even kissed anyone before?”

Christie blushed angrily at the ketchup.

Why did everyone have to take it like that? All the boys her age were immature. They dressed badly, they made stupid jokes, shot elastic bands at each other during class. They were perverted. They stared upstairs at girls’ skirts. Of course she never wanted to go out with them. How did that make her immature?

“And you’re not gunning for a senior just to seem more mature? More cool?”

“I’m sure!”

“Okay, okay, don’t bite my head off. Geez.” Becky idly flicked her makeup compact so it spun on the table. Whurr whurr whurr. “Then there’s Shelly… it could get super awkward. Like, you get rejected by Rob, and then what? ‘Hey, sup, wasn’t that humiliating. How about some Parcheesi?’”

Christie still visited Shelly’s house — and so Rob’s — about once or twice a month. Shelly kept a grand entourage of girlfriends, to which Christie had tagged along since grade school, and membership was Christie’s one major social calling card. This isn’t to say that Shelly didn’t like Christie. Shelly liked lots of people.

Becky opened her compact and adjusted her lashes in the mirror, probably because she didn’t want to look Christie in the eyes when she said:

“Christie girl, I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but, um. You know? I’m trying to think of how how to say this… Rob might be a tough catch for you…”

Christie blushed mournfully at the catchup.

“And… your social circle is, well. You know? There are other girls there interested in Rob, and things could get messy.”

Christie blushed shamefully at the catsup.

Couldn’t Becky tell? Christie knew all of this. She knew Rob was popular. Christie knew she didn’t have a chance. She knew that even trying could ruin her life. But pretty soon senior singles would start picking out prom dates, and then, a few months later, they would all be gone. Rob would disappear.

Becky observed Christie wavering, and then, as if to pull her back from the edge:

“Also, Christie. Robbie might not be as wonderful as you think.”


“Do you remember Cynthia?”

How could Christie forget Cynthia? She’d had to bite into her knuckles to keep from screaming when she saw Cynthia cuddling with Rob, holding hands with Rob, having Rob’s fingers in her hair…

“Well, I’ve talked to her before. And Robbie has… interesting tastes.”

“Interesting tastes?”

Becky’s eyes darted around evasively. She was wearing a hesitant smile. “Um…”


“Well, I don’t want to just out and say it…”

Becky’s eyes narrowed, and she looked at Christie with intensity. “You want tips on asking Rob out? Well okay. But you can’t tell anyone about this. Ever.”

“…. of course.”

“Swear it?”

“Swear it.”

Becky kept her glare fixed on Christie. She was leaning forward into the lunch table, pressing her makeup compact down so hard Christie thought it might crack. Christie had never seen Becky like this. But after a few seconds, Becky softened, seeming satisfied.

“I’ll text you it later,” she said. “Good luck…”

Chapter 2: All grown up

Christie managed to press the Send button, and then it was out of her hands.

This afternoon, Shelly was inviting her friends from Honors Physics to meet at her place. They hoped to get to work gossiping about likely Prom couples, and maybe plan their third semester science project if time allowed. Christie had to come today. First, whatever project they decided would probably land on her. And secondly, Christie wanted to get Shelly’s answer in person.

Her mom dropped her off at five, and Shelly’s friends were already sitting around on the living room carpet. All had their cellphones out. Samantha was talking excitedly about the new LG flipphone her parents had bought her, and everyone was entering her number into their contacts, and sending stupid gag texts , trying to make her laugh.

The laughter paused when everyone noticed her.

“Oh, hey Christie!” said Sam, waving. She smiled queasily, and averted her eyes. “Um, I was showing what my mom got me. Look at this! Would you like my number too?”

Everyone was smiling a very specific smile. Christie wasn’t dumb enough to miss the point.

“Hello, Sam. Wow, cool. Boy, I wish I had a cellphone…”

Shelly, who was sitting Indian-style by the TV, looked baffled, and started checking her phone. Becky, right next to her, was blushing and staring in fascination at the ceiling.

Oh shit, Christie thought, and started backpedaling: “Well, um, I don’t really have a cellphone. Mine’s, like, super old. It wouldn’t compatible with one like yours…”

Christie looked pointedly at Shelly, then gestured with her neck towards the kitchen. Shelly just smiled in confusion. And so, with everyone smiling that very specific smile, Christie was forced to unload her backpack and kneel down with the group.

Christie was careful not to sit too close to anyone, but not awkwardly far away either. In these situations, it was important to maintain the fiction that she was a member of the group, but you also couldn’t act needy.

Oh god, Shelly, please. Like, go to get a drink or something, she thought. Christie’s mom was running errands in the neighborhood, and Christie wanted to get Shelly’s answer and get out quickly.

But the group kept talking. Christie tried to subtly stare at Shelly, if that was even possible. To Christie’s horror, Shelly seemed to interpret these looks as Christie wanting to join in on the conversation.

“So what are you listening to lately?” Shelly prompted. “You still into Avril Lavigne?”

In that moment, Christie wanted to send Shelly an electric shock.

“Um, I don’t really listen to music anymore,” Christie lied. “I did kinda like her back 7th grade, but it seems really lame to me now.”

Any round of that specific smile washed over Christie.

The conversation turned to teen lit. This time, it was a sophomore named Sarah who tried to needle Christie in. “You read a lot Christie, don’t you? Have you read Twilight? I was curious about it.”

Christie was not stupid enough to fall for the trap.

“Yeah, but it was pretty dumb. Just wish fulfillment really. I think most of its fans are kinda naive, greasy forever-alone types who expect a hot guy to just drop in their lap.”

Christie allowed herself to smile at the perfect answer, but Sarah was not satisfied. “You know, my cousin kinda likes Twilight. I think she’s nice.”

Oh boy. That’s the problem with teenager conversations. If you admit to liking something, it’s ammunition against you. But if you try to act cool, suddenly you’re the bad guy.

“I didn’t mean it personally,” Christie said.

“Oh, okay. Sorry.”

“No problem.”

Christie stared hopelessly at Shelly. What was the point of all this? Couldn’t she tell what was going on? Christie didn’t know what to do with her eyes or hands. She felt like she’d entered the house splattered with mud and been forced to sit on the freshly-cleand carpet.

Normally she might pull out her cellphone and pretend to receive a text from Mom. But she couldn’t do that now, thanks to Sam’s stupid cellphone.

At that moment, a car rumbled into the driveway. The engine was cut, and the parking break was cranked, some boots scuffed around in the mudroom. Christie wished she could sink into the floor.

“Rob!” Shelly called, “I thought I said I was having friends over.”

“Darn, forgot about the fire codes,” Rob said. Then, to the tall, goofy-looking junior besides him: “You’ll have to sleep in the forest tonight, bud. Rules are rules.”

Sleep here?

Rob waved her off, laughing. “We’re just passing through, sis. Be out of here in no time,” he said. Then, wiping his boots, he climbed up the entranceway step and took stock of the scene. “Well hello ladies. I see science is progressing nicely.”

The group giggled. Some said hello. Rob smiled good-naturedly as he surveyed the room, and then, seeing Christie sitting stealthily in the back, he smiled more warmly.

Christie wanted to die.

Without further ado, Rob headed for the kitchen. Shelly went stalking after him. “Hey! You’re not supposed to track your boots into the house!”

While the group burst back into happy chatter, Christie squirmed on the carpet. Shelly had left for the kitchen. This would be Christie’s best opportunity to flag her down… but Christie really didn’t want to talk to Rob right now.

Christie had first come over to Shelly’s house in January of sixth grade, during the silent period. School had improved dramatically since October of that year, thanks in part to Rob. No one really talked to Christie. But she was fine with that, preferring to be alone anyway.

Then, out of nowhere, Shelly started inviting Christie to a sleepover with seven other girls. Needless to say, this was about the last thing Christie wanted to do, but Shelly pushed and pushed, and eventually Christie had succumbed.

Rob had smiled then much like he smiled today. Though he never said it explicitly, the smile was enough to tell Christie who was really behind the invitations.

Of course, Christie was not really welcome there. Even as the group changed with each school year, and most of the original members drifted off, this continued to be true. Everyone knew this.

Everyone except Rob.

Christie bit her lip, made her mind, and got up. She muttered something about the bathroom, and was relieved to find everyone was absorbed in conversation. Leaving the living room, she rounded into the hallway, took the third door, and charged into the kitchen.

Unfortunately, Shelly wasn’t there, and Rob was. He was holding an open half-gallon carton of milk.

“Long time, no see,” said Rob.

Christie tried her best to smile. “You shouldn’t drink milk straight from the container.”

“What are you, my sister?” he said, shaking his head. He gulped down the rest of the carton in one go. “Too late now! You should come over more often. Shelly could use another pair of eyes to keep me in line…”

Christie went to the sink and poured herself a glass of water, as if that had been her purpose in coming her. “I can’t, not every weekend. I have lots of other things to do.”

Rob snorted. “A boy, isn’t it? I can tell!”

Christie turned brick red. “It is not a boy! I– I just like to hang out some friends from band sometimes!”

“Uh-huh. One of them must be a boy. I can smell it.”

“I don’t smell like a boy! I don’t smell like anything!” Christie insisted, face burning. “It’s really just friends from band!”

Rob smiled devilishly, and shook a few last drop from the carton. “If you say so…”

“It is so!”

Christie put her hands on her hips. Rob seemed to enjoy her blush for a good five seconds. Then he frowned, tilted his head, and eyed her over. His gaze tickled nervously along her skin. Rob grew uncharacteristically pensive.

“You really have grown up,” he said.

“What?” Her heart jumped a little.

“No, it’s just… I was remembering the first time you came over here. You looked like a little mouse. Do you remember those pajamas? They must have been three sizes big."

“Is there a point to this story?” she asked, blushing.

“Not really,” he said. " You had freckles then. Yes, I remember. You turned into a strawberry when you realized no one else had a camping sleeper. And before bed, when you snuck up to my room…”

“—Don’t say it! Don’t say it! I don’t want to remember! Please!” Christie covered her ears and closed her eyes.

She quivered and tried not to think about it. Then she felt a hand on her shoulder.

She peeked open her eyes, and she found herself staring up at Rob’s goofy milk moustache, curled into a warm smile. “You really have grown up. You have such a great group of friends… just tell me if that boy treats you bad, okay?”

“There isn’t boy!”

“Fine, fine,” he said. “I’m just happy things have gone better than in middle school. I worried about you, you know.”

Rob squeezed Christie’s shoulder tightly and then — for the first time in three years — he reached out and mussed Christie’s hair. For one, very long moment, Christie tried hard not to cry.

Shelly barreled into the kitchen. “What are you doing, you perv!”

“Um? Touching Christie’s shoulder? Drinking milk?” Rob asked, sounding genuinely perplexed. But he did pull his hands back guiltily.

“You can’t just touch a girl’s shoulder,” Shelly said firmly, “And use a glass, you vandal!”

Rob sighed. “You see, Christie? I really do need more supervision.”

He winked at her as he left the room, leaving the empty milk carton on the counter. Shelly snorted and threw it in recycling. Meanwhile, Christie was squirming, a pit opening up in her stomach.

“Shelly, I—”

“Shh!” hissed Shelly, holding a finger up to her lips.

A gaggle of goodbyes murmured from the living room. Christie heard the front door thud shut, then an engine turn on in the driveway. As it started pulling away, Shelly turned to Christie conspiratorially.

“I don’t get it,” she said, “but why not? Sounds fun.”

“Get what? What’s fun?”

“You want to hook up with my brother, right?”

“I… yeah. You’re not… angry?”

Shelly looked puzzled. “Why would I be angry? Did you think I was in the market for him?” she said. Then: “And don’t worry. We’ll keep this hush-hush from the others if it doesn’t pan out. Just the two of us. Okay?”

Christie felt suddenly like someone had filled her with helium. Without thinking, She jumped at Shelly. Christie hugged her, giggling, rubbing cheeks, with butterflies dancing around in her chest.

In a few moments she would recover. In a few moments Christie would remember herself, would fall bashfully back, would knit her hands behind her back. But for one moment, for the first time in a month, in years maybe, everything was right in the world.

Christie received Becky’s text an hour later, while riding in the backseat of her mom’s car.

okay heres the skinny. rob has a thing for girls who wet
themselves and wear diapers. its called tbdl. check out
these stories for some tips: tinyurl.com/3ag40(;¬_¬)

wont blame you if you want to back out but
!!!LIPS SEALED!!!(>_< )[/INDENT]

She had to read it over a few times.

Re: But somehow, I was still twelve years old

This certainly has promise. The second paragraph of your notes should be cut. We want to find that out over the course of the story, not hear it in a handful of words. I nearly gave up reading on that point. I’m glad I gave it the chance.

Adding the index isn’t a bad idea, although with the standard practice of keeping one story per thread it isn’t required. If you maintain it, it should be ahead of the story in the initial post. Usually authors edit the thread title with the date of last addition.

Writing wise, this is very good. I didn’t catch any typos, and the grammar feels natural. That will take you a long way here.

Welcome to the forum. What I see here suggests you will fit right in.

Re: But somehow, I was still twelve years old

Hi ally, thanks for the feedback.

Yeah, I deleted that second paragraph… I meant it as a synopsis, but reading it again it did seem overly telling.

Personally, I love indexes! Often I start reading stories late, and when the writers take long breaks, I have to snail through the forum pages trying to find the next chapter. So I’d love to give a little convenience to readers… not that I intend to take long breaks, mind you. :wink:

Re: But somehow, I was still twelve years old

I mentioned this on another site, donbiki, but I think you need to extend your narrative. The piece has lots of promise, but in many places it reads almost like a script with somewhat elongated stage directions. Let your narration set the scene and keep your background alive while the dialogue is happening. (For example: once you have established a location, the people in it are always speaking in that location; this means that it would be appropriate in the narrative to mention elements from that room from time to time: she lost herself in the plants across the room or the stupid cat chose that precise moment to leap right in front of her or whatever. When you allow the setting to become more established and remain a living part of the piece, the whole thing pops more. Sometimes it can even become almost another character. Just a thought.

Re: But somehow, I was still twelve years old

I found the dialogue to be efficient and natural, I don’t think it necessarily needs more narration. It’s useful for building tension or wonder but for these quick conversations in a more down-to-earth story it might not necessarily add anything. The only part here I think could’ve benefited from it would’ve been when Christie was trying to get Shelly’s attention, shifting through her surroundings could’ve been used to build a sense of claustrophobia and a desire to escape in the reader.

Re: But somehow, I was still twelve years old

Instead of using the code tag for chats/texts, try this [noparse][chat]your chat/text log here[/chat][/noparse], that way it will still wordwrap properly on smaller screens and it won’t have that ugly Code: above it :slight_smile:

This is how it will show in the post:

[chat]your chat/text log here[/chat]

Re: But somehow, I was still twelve years old

And that is the reason we seek multiple opinions! :slight_smile:

Re: But somehow, I was still twelve years old

Thanks. BTW, Kerry was responding to a question about paragraph flow I asked on ADISC. :slight_smile:

In this story the ratio of dialogue to narration has split at 80/20 so far. I checked some fantasy stuff I’ve written, and interestingly the ratio there landed at 50/50. I think it changed for three reasons:

  1. The setting here is mundane, and the environment honestly doesn’t lend much to the story.
  2. The POV is third-person subjective. Christie is not explaining or describing things to the reader—I’ve actually deleted some paragraphs where I’ve caught myself doing that. So dialogue and “stage directions” are how I’m communicating things to the reader.
  3. The timescale is very short, so there aren’t many sections where Christie does things “over the course of a day”.

I’m not convinced that these are good reasons, but I may need some distance to see more clearly. I have read stuff I’ve enjoyed that’s dialogue-heavy. I agree the living room scene needs more atmosphere.

Anyway, I’ll have another 3000 word chunk on Thursday. Thanks everyone!

Re: But somehow, I was still twelve years old

Chapter 3: Somehow, still

Christie spent Thursday night in shock, puttering from one distraction to another. She cleaned her room. She ironed her hangables, refolded her foldables. She wiped down her desk, dusted it, arranged her pens and notebooks. She sorted her closet, vacuumed the carpet. She turned on the TV, put on a soap, and turned it off again. After rolling around in bed, she tried again, but then a Pampers Cruisers commercial came on, and Christie turned it off for good.

In then end, she opened up a Nora Roberts novel and read fifty pages without absorbing a word.

The world was ending for Christie.

rob has a thing for girls who wet themselves
and wear diapers. its called tbdl. check out these
stories for some tips: tinyurl.com/3ag40 (;¬_¬)

As she flipped the pages, details from reading earlier that evening turned in her mind. Teenagers sucking their thumbs and wetting their pants. Big sisters getting jealous of younger siblings and having toilet privileges revoked. Witches casting spells and reducing arrogant girls to pooping in pampers. There were hundreds of ‘TBDL’ stories online, enough to make her sick. And this was what Rob liked. It made Christie feel itchy all over, like she had a rash.

Christie would usually be studying on a night like tonight, even though it was a three day weekend. She had established an image for herself as the smart girl in class — she couldn’t be the pretty girl, the funny girl, or the popular girl, so she settled for the smart girl. She had to study hard to keep up appearances. But how could Christie study tonight? She couldn’t do anything tonight. Christie’s world was ending.

By the fifty-first page, Christie finally started to sink into the novel. The heroine was a witch, living a lonely life in modern day California. She was forced to live in secret, wiping away the memories of townsfolk who discovered her. No one would accept the witch for what she was. But then the hero appeared. He was kind and brave. He discovered the heroine was witch, but accepted her like no one else would.

Christie came upon a section where the hero was dreaming of raising a family with the witch, and tears burned in her eyes. She threw the book on the floor.

As if there was anyone like that in the world.

Christie had always imagined sex in a certain way. It would be passionate, intimate, and clean. Like a ritual of fidelity. She and her lover’s souls would become one in a perfect union, making Christie complete while allowing her to maintain dignity.

Why, of all things, did it have to be diapers? Why?

She tried to sort her feeling about it, about Rob liking pants-wetting and diapers, but everything was jumbled up in her mind. She kept thinking about sixth grade again — and that no good, awful halloween. She thought of all the boys snickering. They had been twelve, but in her memories they towered over her.

She decided that she hated this diaper stuff because it made Rob a pervert. Rob was lowered by base desires, would not see her for her soul, would not let her maintain her dignity, which she had fought so desperately to preserve, despite everything. And if Rob was a pervert, who could Christie marry who wouldn’t be? There was no one.

Christie yanked the cord of her bedlamp and lay in the dark. Her mind kept spinning, spinning, spinning. And then she felt the corners of her eyes burning up again.

Christie knew she was pathetic. She’d known it since he was a little girl, but especially since sixth-grade, she knew it deep down. She had no close friends. Everyone looked down on her. She’d never had a boyfriend. She wasn’t pretty, wasn’t funny, wasn’t even smart. Everyone knew she was pathetic, even if some girls sitting on the carpet pretended not to.

Lying in the dark, Christie decided she would try to accept this pathetic side of Rob. Because he had, when she was in sixth grade, accepted everything that was pathetic about her. This time, she would be the hero, and he would be the witch.

These thoughts soothed her. She had accepted Rob, and Rob had accepted her. There was symmetry, and this small connection — known only to her — warmed Christie deep inside.

This was an opportunity, too. She hadn’t bared her heart to Becky for nothing. Rob seemed to think of Christie like a kid cousin, and while it made her stomach churn, she had to do something to make him notice her. Something to set her apart. And what other choices did she had? Christie couldn’t be pretty, but she could wear diapers.

She didn’t have a clear plan yet. Maybe she’d buy a pack of them and have him ‘accidentally’ see them. Maybe she’d try to recreate one of the stories she’d read online… but no, that was too horrible. Her face started burning from even considering it.

Okay, maybe not the whole thing. Definitely not. But just a little bit. And then, once Rob noticed her, he would love Christie for herself, and she could dispense with the kinky stuff.

As she fell asleep, she glumly reviewed some of the diaper stories in her mind. It was all so disturbing. They always started with a girl wetting the bed. Then, slowly, the girl started losing control. The accidents would expand to the day. She would be humiliated. She would be forced to wear pullups ‘just in case’, but the accidents would come more and more frequently. Eventually she’d poop in the pullup, and would be forced to wear baby diapers. Someone else would have to change her. And then…

Christie fell asleep.

Christie dreamed she was in homeroom. The teacher hadn’t arrived, and so everyone was forming into groups here and there, talking excitedly. There was the jock group, the gamer group. There was Shelly’s group. They had bunched up one row left of Christie, with girls sitting on desktops and dangling their legs.

This was high school, but somehow Christie was still twelve years old.

The topic of Christie popped up, and group the hushed. Christie thought she felt the prickle of eyes on the back of her neck. Then the group started gossiping in whispers. Pretending not to notice, Christie kept reviewing her homework. At first the group gossiped quietly, just barely audible. But as the conversation continued, they forgot to be subtle and started to gossip more loudly. They voices grew.

Christie was paralysed by the fear. She was not afraid of what they were saying. Christie was afraid that, if the group kept getting louder, it would become obvious that she was just pretending not to notice.

Somewhat anticlimactically, Christie did not wet the bed that night.

She woke up at three o’clock with a pounding headache and cramps all over, and very thirsty. At first she thought she might be PMSing, but no, her period was three weeks away. She padded quietly downstairs for a glass of water.

Christie felt strangely relieved. During sleep, she had threshed out a positive about Rob being a pervert who liked diapers. It was gross, but there were actually positives. Rob had always been so much more mature then Christie, so much cooler, so much open and friendly. And Christie was nothing special. She always expected that, if she became Rob’s girlfriend, she would be coming as a beggar. But with this hidden side of Rob coming to light, she felt that it somehow balanced the scales. She could be the girl who loved him even though he was a pervert.

At her desk, Christie took out her old locking diary. She had stopped making entries three years ago, but it was still useful for this type of thing. She set to work.


She smiled at her alliteration.

Preference for cute girls, girlish attire. Mature or suggestive fashions (eg pencil skirts, deep v-blouses, eyeliner, lingerie) likely counterproductive. Interest in ‘roleplay’ as father/big-brother figure. Likes childish or ‘bubbly’ speech patterns. Fascination with involuntary elimination, incompetence in basic functions like eating, dressing, and hygiene; and with childish underwear.

Christie blushed as she finished the paragraph. She couldn’t bring herself to write “diapers”. When she tried real hard, she could bring herself to understand everything else, even the peeing bit. But what was so great about diapers? She bit the cap of her pen.


Friday: Secure necessary supplies. Meet with Shelly daily on pretense of finishing 3rd semester science project. As co-conspirator, Shelly will have Rob drive her here, lure him in. Will leave house for long stretches.

(Shelly need not know details below)

Initiate close physical contact. Smile. Spill drink on clothes, causing bra and panties to become visible. While in the kitchen, pretend to wet self. Cry if possible. Pretend to be at loss. Rob offers to help clean up. Undo skirt and go to shower before Shelly returns (<-- DO IT IN FRONT OF HIM!!!). Hug Rob and thank him.

Saturday: Wear necessary supplies. Accidentally reveal them. Admit to being ‘anxious’ around him. Cry if possible. Lament that Rob must think it disgusting. Rob admits he finds it cute. Hug Rob and admit to liking him. Become boyfriend and girlfriend.

Christie nodded at the plan. It provided enough stimulus to make Rob notice her. It didn’t require her to do anything embarrassing in public — or that Shelly would find out about. And as soon as it was over, she could probably dispense with the diapers. After all, she would no longer feel ‘anxious’ around Rob.

Now Christie had to make the plan work.

Chapter 4: Goodnites and printed skirts

Since she woke up early, Christie thought she would have plenty of time. In fact, she barely made it. For eight straight hours she prepared. She planned every detail, she researched and brainstormed. While Christie worked, her mind was abuzz, her lips would mouth cutesy lines, and her face would practice artless smiles and childish pouts. (‘Whoopsy!’, ‘Uh-oh’, ‘Please?’)

First off, she attended to her body. Christie raided her mom’s medicine cabinet for razors, creams, and waxes. She showered, moisturized, exfoliated. Then, with shaking hands, she agonizingly removed every follicle of hair below her neckline.

In diaper stories, the writer often pointed out that main characters were hairless. Maybe that added an extra level of immaturity, which Christie intuited was the point of all this. She definitely didn’t feel too mature while tugging waxing cloths off her privates. After the deed was done, Christie wasted a few minutes oggling herself in the mirror, thinking she looked absolutely ridiculous.

Next she practiced all sorts of situational contingencies. She did a dry run of the spilling-water-on-clothes plan—or a wet run, Christie supposed—and learned you needed a white blouse and a thin skirt to really make underwear pop. She practiced tickling a pillow (Christie was hoping she could provoke Rob into a tickling match). She checked a mirror while on hands-and-knees to reach under her study desk, finding the perfect posture to let the crotch peak out from under her skirt without it looking intentional.

Then Christie tackled the worst job. She put on sunglasses, sweats, and a hoodie and biked sixteen blocks down to Route 149, where there was a roadside convenience store. Christie liked to buy cokes there sometimes. Probably never again though.

It was still early, so the place was empty save for an irritable-looking cashier in her late twenties, notebook out as she tended the register. The woman was frowning and tapping stale pink fingernails metronomically on the counter. She kept her eyes locked on Christie for the entire ordeal.

Christie lingered in the grocery aisle, trying to work herself up to it. She flitted glances at the diaper shelf, trying to look without looking. The 70-125lb Goodnites pack seemed perfect, Christie thought, but she tried to convince herself that 5T Huggies Pullups might fit, if only for plausible deniability.

“We card here, you know” the cashier said curtly from behind the counter.

And then it turned on like a switch. Christie felt her chest grow hot, her stomach tighten and her hips and legs tense. She felt sick, out of place.

“Yes, I saw the sign,” Christie snapped, “‘We Card Under 30’. That’s what those black shapes on the yellow placard mean, if you were ever curious. Good luck with your GREs.”

The cashier’s face stiffened.

“Can I use your bathroom?”

“You have to buy something,” she said, with hatred in her voice.

“I’ll buy something.”

The cashier eyed her up and down. “Don’t lose the key.”

With the door safely locked behind her, Christie tugged down her sweats and inspected her underwear. They looked fine. They always looked fine. Christie lowered the sweats to her knees and sat down to pee, rubbing mournfully at her now-smooth venus mound as it streamed out. Christie stayed on the toilet much longer than necessary, wavering. She didn’t want to do this. She regretted her tough-girl act bitterly. Idiot, idiot, idiot, idiot. She wanted to leave right now, to go home, to run, to stick her tongue out on the way out the door.

But this was her last chance. Rob was the only boy Christie had ever loved. When she thought about it, Rob might be the only person Christie had ever loved. For Christie, the world was full of convienience store cashiers.

For three years Christie had justified keeping distance from Rob. There was still time, she reasoned. Still time for her to get braver, for her to grow up. But the years passed, and Christie hadn’t gotten braver, let alone had she grown up. Time had run out.

Breathing hard, Christie exited the bathroom. She strode to the diaper shelf, grabbed the L/XL Goodnites, and carried them with the key up to the register.

The cashier scanned the pack. With a twisted smile, she said, “That’ll be nineteen-ninety-five, dear.”

Christie fumbled a crumple of dollars from the sidepouch of her backpack and counted them clumsily on the counter. Her heart was pounding. She was blushing up to her ears.

“I’m sure you’ll grow out of it,” the cashier said with a syrupy voice, “But don’t take it out on others, dear.”

Christie shoved the Goodnites in her bag and ran out of the store.

Rob’s car rolled into the driveway around four.

Everything was ready. All the rooms were tidied, all the linens and towels washed and fluffed, all the windows cleaned and their curtains opened (except in the kitchen). The things Christie wanted hidden were hidden, and each nook and cranny smelled like Apple Spice Febreze.

“Hey girl!” Shelly greeted her at the door, waving her one free hand.

“Afternoon,” said Rob, “Where do I put these?”

Rob was looking dashing as ever, wearing that fleece-trim bomber jacket he’d bought last autumn. Christie liked how it brought out his shoulders. Shelly was dressing down in a hoodie and uggs. They were both carrying heavy paper bags. Christie didn’t know if the project needed that many supplies, but she suspected the bags were a ploy to get Rob in the house.

“By the study table in my room! Thanks sooooooo much!”

Christie bunched her hands behind her back and leaned slightly forward, which she hoped accentuated her figure and gave an impression of giddiness. Rob walked by, tilting his head to give her a glance. “You’re looking cute today,” he noted.

With that, Christie didn’t have to act giddy.

Christie was wearing a tight, cream-colored camisole that bared her shoulders, nailing a naive, defenseless appeal. Alone, the cami might have seemed forward, so she had layered over a thin wool cardigan, which could be stripped once Rob settled in. For down below, Christie had unearthed a layered print skirt from the the depths of her closet—last worn at age eleven, she was both excited and disturbed that it fit—and light gray leggings that made its shortness seem childish instead of racy.

She had applied makeup as stealthfully as she could, just primer and foundation. Little girls don’t wear makeup, after all. Her skin looked natural, smooth, milky, and fresh. As for her hair, she’d trimmed in layers and tousled with a spiral curl, yielding a playful style that looked like she’d just rolled out of bed. In reality, this style had taken forever.

“Come on, it’s over here!”

As Rob and Shelly entered her room, Christie was struck by the fear that she’d somehow forgotten to hide something embarrassing. But that was just paranoia. Her room was immaculate. She particularly admired the colorful pastel sheets and cheerful lion plushy she’d pulled out for the occasion.

Rob unloaded his bags on the carpet beside her bed. Then, after sniffing around curiously, he laughed. “Wow, it’s like someone murdered a Keebler Elf in here. Where are you hiding the body?”

Christie giggled nervously as Shelly leaned in to whisper, “Keep the environment neutral, so you’re the flashiest thing in it.

“Um, I’ll… open the windows.”

“Don’t bother. I’ll be out of here in a minute anyway,” said Rob. “So what’s the project?”

“Geez, do you ever listen to me?” Shelly said, then pulled a solderless breadboard out of her bag. “We’re making a 2-bit RAM circuit to demonstrate electric flow and Who’s-that-Guy’s Law. We’ve got LED lights for display.”

Great idea, Christie thought. After all…

“Ohm’s law,” Rob said. “Isn’t that a little advanced for ninth grade?”

“You think so? We covered a circuit diagram once in class…”

Rob blinked. Then he lowered his face into his palm. “A circuit diagram, Shelly?”

“Sure. What’s the problem?”

Rob was going to major in electrical engineering next year. He started to explain, fruitlessly, that computer memory was a great deal more complicated than lighting a bulb by hooking it to a battery. Shelly just stared blankly.

“I lost you at the part about registers,” said Shelly brightly, “but you sound like you know what you’re talking about! How about you give us hand?”

“How about you just make a NAND gate? I’m going home. Call Mom when you need a ride back, okay?”

As Rob turned to leave, Shelly shot a meaningful look at Christie.

Christie rushed forward and caught Rob’s arm, pulling it in towards her chest. It felt firm against her body. Rob looked back in surprise.

“I…” she said, trying to think of a lie. “Becky and Sam started the group poster yesterday… and everyone else is writing different sections of a 10 page report. The report is due Monday, and if we can’t finish our part of the project, I’ll…” Christie trailed off, trying to look forlorn.

She succeeded apparently, because Rob softened. He scratched his cheek. “I don’t suppose I have anything better to do…” he said. Then, with a pained look, he asked, “You do know about logic gates, right?”

Christie let go of Rob’s arm. Then the three of them — Christie, Rob, and Shelly — settled in around her study desk. (Shelly leaned over and complimented Christie’s puppy eyes.) Christie fetched a pitcher from the kitchen and filled it with water and then, placing it down, took the opportunity to remove her cardigan and tend it over the back of her chair. She pulled in right next to Rob.

Christie felt light, like she was floating, like feathers were tickling her skin. Her heart beat drum drum drum. She gulped down a glass of water, and then she refilled it and drank another.

The plan was set. Now she just had to carry it through.

Re: But somehow, I was still twelve years old ー New Ch.3-4 (15 Mar 2017)

Fun touch at the end, I’m taking a class in Circuit logic right now so I got a laugh out of that.

Re: But somehow, I was still twelve years old ー New Ch.3-4 (15 Mar 2017)

I’ve taken a liking to this story, Christie’s proving to be an interesting protagonist.

Re: But somehow, I was still twelve years old ー New Ch.3-4 (15 Mar 2017)

I studied CLO a few years ago. Hopefully I don’t botch the references!

That’s good to hear. I’ve tried to make Christie’s personality strong. In many ways she’s a trope. What’s interesting about her she doesn’t know, and what she knows she doesn’t think about.

Glad you enjoyed it.

Re: But somehow, I was still twelve years old ー New Ch.3-4 (15 Mar 2017)

Oh my goodness. You just went from a 6 to a 10 on this one. Great new section! Christie is becoming a really interesting character. I’m not at all sure she’s a trope: she’s more of an anti-trope, at least of ABDL stories. (She might be a trope of teen romance stories.) In this genre, what I find interesting about her is the way she deconstructs the tropes we see all the time, correctly judging them harshly, but for all of her book smarts lacks the understanding of human nature that would tell her that a person cannot change another person’s core. So she fights past the most embarrassing event in her past (still to be revealed but we can all guess what it was) in order to snag her man in her neat little scenario that takes only a weekend’s play acting, and anyone with a modicum of knowledge about psychology can tell that this just won’t work out that way. And that’s not a diaper story trope; it’s a life trope. Anyway: I’m suddenly loving this!

Re: But somehow, I was still twelve years old ー New Ch.3-4 (15 Mar 2017)

Chapter 5: Christie’s switch

“So SR latches really are clever little contraptions. Look here. In a normal circuit, you change the inputs, the output changes. But SR latches loop back in on themselves, keeping the same charge regardless. If you store zero, the SR latch will continue to output zero. Until you flip the switch, it’ll stay the same, even as the system around it changes.”

The room was hot, just like Christie had programmed the thermostat to make it. Leaning into Rob as his finger traced the diagram, Christie could smell his sweat, his clothes, the mint gum on his breath. She kept her bare shoulder lightly pressed against Rob’s shoulder. But it seemed Christie was only one getting distracted.

“Does that make sense?” Rob asked.

“Um, so they’re like merry-go-rounds?”

“SR latches?”

“Um, yes,” said Christie dumbly, reviewing the breadboard. “What’s the difference between a latch and a gate again?”

Rob leaned back, smiling. “Maybe we should take a break. Do you have more iced tea? We emptied that last pitcher in no time…”

“I’ll go get some!” enthused Christie. “Could you carry the board down to kitchen for me? It’s a little hot up here.”

“Sure. I was thinking of stretching my legs anyway.” Rob yawned and pushed off from the desk as Christie bounced out to the stairs.

It was 4:42 now, and they were alone. Shelly had made good her escape ten minutes earlier. Her phone had vibrated — probably a timed alarm, but she acted like it was a text. She’d acted flustered, said she needed to help Sam, who lived a mile or so away. Christie had lent Shelly her bike, and Rob had extracted a promise to return by six.

That left Christie seventy-eight minutes. Seventy-minutes to make an impact. Christie squeezed the folds of her skirt.

At first, Christie had harbored hope that subtle signals might win the day. She had squeezed his arm to her breasts, after all. Christie blushed even remembering that. She had squeaked her chair close to him, tugged at his shirt at difficult parts, brushed her skin against his. She had even tried the trick she’d practiced, dropping a pen and crawling under the table with her back arched just so.

But Rob showed no signs of noticing. He didn’t blush, stammer, or lose his place in the project. When she crawled under the table, he knelt down and searched with her.

Christie ground her teeth. She should have known better. She’d tried all sorts of subtle tricks in junior high, and he’d never batted an eye.

“Boy, my sister’s the worst, isn’t she?” Rob asked, setting down on the couch.

Carrying a tray with glasses of iced tea, Christie twisted her lips cutely.

“You’re always doing the hard parts, aren’t you? In these projects, I mean.”

“Oh, I don’t mind!” she said cheerfully.

Christie preferred working alone anyway. And it’s not like there was anyone else to pair with.

“Yeah, but still. You’re best friends, so…”

“Best friends?” Christie blurted out, and then grimaced. She’d forgotten her cutesy voice.

Rob looked confused. “You’re not?”

“Oh, no no no no. Shelly’s super! We’re, uh, real close. It’s just that, you know, I have other friends… and it’s kind of disrespectful to… you know?”

“Like that boy from band?” Rob said, grinning.

“I told you, there’s no boy!” Christie whined, and then remembered to try her childish pout.

“So what do you do with your band friends? Besides, you know, play in the band.”

Christie panicked. This conversation was moving in a bad direction. “Oh, not much. Just hang out.”

She broke up the topic by pouring iced tea. Frankly, iced tea was the last thing she wanted at the moment. She’d been drinking liquids at regular intervals for three straight hours, and her stomach was bursting.

Rob folded his arms behind his neck and contemplated the ceiling. “When I was in ninth grade, I hung out with a group that spent a lot in the woods, ATVing. And… other things on occasion.” He smiled sheepishly. “My friend Joe’s dad had a Yamaha and a Kawasaki. It was a lot of fun. Guess it’s kind of a guy thing, though.”

Christie pretended to sip iced tea in grateful silence. Until Rob continued: “So what do you tend to do? For hobbies, I mean.”

“Hobbies?” she stalled, mind racing. “I don’t really have any. I guess I’m a little boring…”

“There must be something.”

“Not really.”

Rob laughed. “Ah, come on. You’re always like a little clam with this stuff. Just fess up!”

And just like that, Christie was backed into a corner. She had no idea how to answer. She could give generic answers: “books”, “music”, or “TV”. But then there would be follow-up questions. What would she answer then? Would she answer “paranormal romance”, “pop punk”, and “cartoons”? That was an uncomfortable level of exposure. She could always lie, but what if there were MORE follow-up questions?

“Come on! I don’t bite!”

Her hips began to tighten. “Well…”

But then… oh yes, the Clumsy-Spill plan! This was the perfect moment! She wouldn’t even have to act rattled! Christie’s hand jumped out for her glass and…

… knocked it directly into Rob’s lap.

“Oh cr… oh my gosh!”

The ice tea landed with a slosh, soaking into Rob’s shirt and jeans. “Wait a second, I’ll…”

“No, it’s fine Christie, just–”

Leaping for a wad of napkins, Christie tripped on the coffee table. Pain shot up her knee. The table rang out with a thud, and Rob’s glass toppled. Ice tea raced in a film across the table, spilling off the edge, soaking the carpet and Rob’s sneakers.


Christie completely lost her head at this point. As soon as her hand found paper napkins, she was tearing out wads and blotting wherever the ice tea had landed. “Ohmigoshididntmeanthis iwasnttryingtospillitonyou, iwouldntdothatnotonpurpose iwasjustspillingonmyselfsoyoud…”

When Christie came to her senses, she was she kneeling down at Rob’s feet, vigorously rubbing a wad of paper towels onto his fly.

Christie’s hand stopped. So he wears boxers, a small part of her brain noted. Christie looked up. Her eyes met Rob’s. She stared at Rob. Rob stared at her. Christie started to blush. Christie looked down to her hand.

All at once, Christie yelped, bounced a foot into the air, and scrambled back like Rob’s jeans were covered in tarantulas.

Rob smiled and examined the furniture. “I didn’t mean to be intrusive,” he said, voice just a tad wobbly. “Wow, that must be the first time a girl’s thrown a drink at me. I always wanted to take it cold, without reacting, like in the movies.”

Christie covered her eyes and cradled her head like a child. How could Rob make jokes at a moment like this? Didn’t it bother him to have her touch… touch…! Christie wanted to die.

“Don’t worry, Christie. You have baking powder in the fridge, right? Just coat it on the carpet, and this shouldn’t leave any stains.”

Were there any nifty cleaning solutions for Christie? Could paper towels descend from above and soak HER up?

“O-okay. But your clothes, do you need…?” Christie trailed. What clothes could she give him? Only she and her mom lived here, and neither of their clothes would fit. Was this the end? Was Rob going home?

“No problem,” Rob said. “I had gym clothes in my backpack for a run. Could you help me clean up though? Just throw these in the sink and scrub some baking powder, please? Use warm water.”

Without warning, Rob kicked off his sneakers, stripped his shirt, undid his belt, pulled off his jeans, and handed everything in a messy pile to Christie. He stood in the middle of the living room in his wet boxers.

Christie clutched the pile dumbly to her chest, gawking. Rob grabbed his backpack by the front door and rounded into the hallway. The bathroom door opened and closed with a thump.

With all said and done, Operating Clumsy-Spill had literally backfired.

“He really doesn’t see me that way,” she whispered to herself. “Not even a little bit.”

She had spent an entire day scheming to fluster Rob, but the only one getting flustered was herself. Her clothes looked ridiculous. Her cutesy voice made her sound like an idiot. None of it was doing anything.

She set glumly to spot-treating Rob’s clothes in the sink, rinsing them under the warm tap and watching dirty water swirl into the drain. She scrubbed baking soda into stains, holding the fabric tight. She blushed as she worked. It felt somehow indecent, like she was intruding on his privacy. But that was stupid. Rob never got embarrassed over stuff like that.

Everything Christie had done seemed stupid. Even if the plan worked, what was the point? Rob bared himself easily — she suspected he’d even admit to the diaper stuff if she asked point blank — but Christie couldn’t tell him anything. She couldn’t even tell him what music she liked. Everything Christie did was an act.

But if she didn’t act, how could she get close to anyone? She continued washing, the same paradox as ever rolling around in her head.

Rob returned from the bathroom wearing nylon shorts and a varsity tee. He gave her a quip and a smile, and after borrowing the washing machine, he suggested they sit at the kitchen table to work on the circuit. This was convenient for Christie, so she agreed. They focused, connecting wires to nodes and checking the outputs. Rob seemed content to let questions about her hobbies and friends drop.

After a time, Christie looked up at the clock. It read 5:20. Her bladder was full to bursting, and she’d be cutting it close if she delayed much longer.

Here goes nothing, she thought. She closed her eyes and pushed.

And pushed.

“Christie, are you alright? You’re shaking…”

Christie flushed. How come nothing was happening? She hadn’t peed since early this morning. Since sixth grade, she’d never gone more than a few hours without going to the bathroom.

“I-I’m just feeling cold…”

“Really? It must be eighty degrees in here. You don’t have diabetes, do you? Are you dizzy?”

“Oh, no no no! If I just put on my sweater…” Christie said, reaching for the cardigan on the back of her chair. But then she reconsidered. “Actually, now that you mention it, I am feeling… mmm….!”

How hadn’t she thought of that? Being sick was the perfect setup! Didn’t sick people pee themselves all the time? She redoubled her efforts.

As Rob reached for her forehead, Christie closed her eyes. She squeezed her thighs and pushed. She tried to imagine pee streaming out, soaking her leggings and puddling on the floor. She thought of swimming in warm water, of sitting on the toilet. She tried visualizing her muscles relaxing, her bladder shrinking. She even pretended she was in diapers again, letting go and feeling them get warm and thick as she sat quietly in class. She tried to remember the cashier from this morning.

But nothing happened.

Rob’s face was painted with worry. “Christie, can you stand? Could you tell me your Mom’s number?”

In a last ditch effort, Christie leaned forward and, under the table, pressed her hands down into her pelvis. Her bladder screamed for relief. Groaning, Christie pushed with all her might.

“E-e-e-e…” Christie stammered, “Excuse me!”

She jumped up and bolted for the bathroom, leaving Rob sitting dumbfounded.

She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t do it. She slammed the bathroom door behind her, tugged her leggings down, and before she knew it she was sitting on the toilet, gushing pee like out of a firehose.

She couldn’t do it. She hadn’t even tried. Even as she’d been pushing, another half had been holding tight. She wasn’t brave enough to wet herself in front Rob. Even if he liked it, even if it meant becoming his girlfriend, even to win a million dollars, even to avoid public execution — she just wasn’t ready to be seen like that. Christie wasn’t strong enough to be seen as weak, let alone by Rob.

As the last drops dribbled out, Christie realized again how stupid she’d been. This whole plan existed because she wasn’t brave enough to ask Rob out. How could she possibly be brave enough to wet herself in front of him? Christie wanted to die.

After a few minutes, she headed glumly out of the bathroom. She tapped Rob with the door. He’d been standing there, his hand ready to knock when she came out.


“It’s nothing,” Christie said miserably. “I was just holding it, is all.”

Returning to the kitchen, Rob and Christie finished hooking the circuit with subdued efficiency. They talked, but only to debug, to double-check the jump wires. When Christie actually focused on the project, the work went smoothly. It was pleasantly all-consuming. Rob, maybe reading her mood, didn’t joke or needle, and after fifteen minutes, the SR latch was functioning correctly.

“Well look at that,” said Rob. “Perfect.”

The breadboard, once a mess of wires, now seemed an orderly thing. A few LEDs were straddled over the terminal strips on spindly legs, observing the inputs running into the latch. They blinked on and off by timer. The output LEDs stayed blank, however. As they’d intended, the latch was locked at 00.

Christie looked at nubby little switch that controlled the SR latch. It was flipped to CLOSED. As long as it was CLOSED, the stored value would remain the same. Christie found herself imagining there was a nub like that somewhere on her body. She imagined scratching the back of her head, adjusting her shoes, or rubbing the small of her back; and finding it there. She would tap her forehead and chuckle, thinking, how silly of me. How did I forget about this thing. Christie would flip the switch OPEN.

But there was no switch. Even if there were, she had no idea how to flip it.

“Why did you have to help me?” she whispered bitterly.

“Excuse me?”

Rob had his hand on the base of the breadboard, ready to disconnect the power supply. Christie did not look into his eyes, but kept staring that the blinking lights.

“I didn’t want your help,” she said, without really knowing why. “Why did you make me your charity case? Do you know how hard that was for me? I would’ve been fine on my own. Things would’ve been easier on my own.”

Rob blinked. “Uh, the circuit?”

Christie bit her lip. “But how could you possibly understand that? You can do anything. You’re strong, you don’t need help. You don’t know how hard it is to be helped. Everything’s so easy for you…!”

“Christie, calm down. You’re very smart, trust me, it’s just that you’re in ninth gr–”

“Yeah, aren’t helpless girls great? Girls who can’t do anything for themselves. Girls who need someone to handle their problems…”


“Girls who are clumsy, who cry, who get worked up nothing. Girls who can’t speak right, who can’t grow up, who feel awful all the time. Girls you can look down on! Aren’t they just great?”

Christie was choking on tears at this point. Leaning back in his chair, Rob was staring with eyes wide. He stared as if she was a stranger, an unknown fifteen-year-old girl who had broken into the house and was sitting in Christie’s chair. He didn’t seem to know what to do. His hand reached out toward her, but she batted it away.


“I’m sorry,” she said, shaking. “I don’t know what I’m saying.”

“Is it something I said?”

“It’s nothing to do with you,” she lied, wiping her eyes with her forearm. “Thanks for your help tonight. If you don’t mind, I’m tired. Tell Shelly I went to bed when she gets back.”

Without waiting for an answer, Christie cleared the table of glasses, grabbed her cardigan, and hurried to her room, closing the door behind her. Not bothering to undress, she lay face down on the bed. She buried her head in the pillow and calmed her breath. How would she finish the project on her own? she wondered. What would she tell Shelly tomorrow? How would she manage to avoid seeing Rob again for the next four months, when he went to college?

And was that really what she wanted? Christie reviewed what she’d done tonight. Manipulating Rob. Lying to Rob. Yelling at Rob. And now, keeping Rob away. Was that really what she wanted?

Why did nothing ever go right for Christie? Why did she always lie when she wanted to tell the truth, keep distance when she wanted to get close? Why did she get angry at kindness? Why did she hate people who helped her? Christie felt like she was emitting a kind of magnetic forcefield, a push-away field, a cloaking shield, the maintenance of which consumed all her energies. She had poured everything into the shield to protect herself, had let the field grow stronger and stronger. But after so many years, she no longer remembered how to turn it off.

Christie lied to everyone about everything. She concealed everything from everyone. Everything she said or did was fake. And she could not even imagine any other way to live.

With these and other problems rolling around in Christie’s mind, she fell gradually into a light, restless sleep.

Christie dreamed she was in homeroom again, and Shelly’s group was presenting their physics project. But somehow, Christie was still twelve years old.

The project was immensely complex, a maze of wires and lights, all tangled and flashing and beeping. Christie was a part of it, a little LED taped to her wrist. Sam was explaining that, with a D-Gate activated, their circuit would remain in stasis. Then, at the appointed moment, Shelly pulled out the control switch. “But if we flip this,” she said, “it will begin to accept new inputs!”

She flipped the switch. The LEDs kept blinking, blinking, blinking.

Christie woke groggily, twisting away from the drool on her pillow. What time is it? she thought, and looked around. The lights were on. She felt like she’d fallen asleep a couple of minutes ago. Her body felt weak, sticky all over.

It had been a couple of minutes, it seemed. The digital clock on her dresser read 5:58pm.

Christie wondered what had woken her up. She’d slept barely four hours in forty-eight, and she’d been hoping to sleep through till morning, when Rob, Shelly, and her memories would be at safe distance. But now Rob would still be here. Shelly would probably arrive back in a few minutes, Christie realized with dread. She decided to stay in her room and pretend to sleep.

But then Christie remembered the bags. Oh crap, she thought, the bags. They were still in her room, sitting by her desk, and Shelly and Rob would need to retrieve them. Christie cringed.

Could she tiptoe out and leave them outside her door? If Rob noticed her, she’d be forced to say goodbye to Shelly. But if she was really quiet…

Christie rolled over on her sheets. It was only then that she noticed.

The front of her printed skirt was warm, sticky, and wet. Her panties clung to her skin. When she sat upright, she felt her bottom damping, and her bed made the sound of water being wrung from a sponge. Christie’s heart started to race, and sweat formed on her brow. There was no way…

A light knock sounded. “Christie, are you awake?” came a quiet voice from her bedroom door. It was Rob.

Christie’s throat was locked, her lungs paralyzed. She couldn’t breathe. How could this be happening? This was impossible. She was in high school now. Christie tried to say something, but her voice gurgled out indistinctly.

“Shelly’s back. I’m coming in,” the voice said, and door creaked open.

And just like, Rob walked into Christie’s room. He found her sitting on her bed in her printed skirt, knees to chest, clothes and sheets soaked, staring at him with wide eyes.

Christie’s lips began to quiver.

Re: But somehow, I was still twelve years old ー New Ch.5 (22 Mar 2017)

Although it would seem more natural for Shelly, not Rob, to go into Christie’s room to retrieve their things, you once again have a wonderful and thoroughly enjoyable character study going on. I like that she just can’t do what she had primed herself to do: not giving in even to the trope you set up is a nice touch. But then there is the Sudden Bedwetting Syndrome… Well, hey: I suppose she is at least extremely emotionally overwrought. :slight_smile:

Re: But somehow, I was still twelve years old ー New Ch.5 (22 Mar 2017)

SBS is tricky. I plan to justify it more in future chapters, but I suspect stories like this will always require some suspension of disbelief. :confused:

I just hope I didn’t take too long leading into traditional genre elements. Usually characters in these stories are (a) *BDLs, (b) submissive to a higher authority, or (c) incontinent as part of the premise. None of these really apply to Christie, so getting her in diapers takes some doing.

Also, while character studies and trope subversions are fine and dandy, I am writing a diaper story. Things will pick up from here on out.

Re: But somehow, I was still twelve years old ー New Ch.5 (22 Mar 2017)

I really like how you used the SR latch (a rather technical object) as a tool for metaphor. The irony of electronics and writing being so intrinsically unrelated is definitely exploited well, and the imagery is very vivid.

Rob was said to be in 9th grade, right? A lot of the stuff he mentions in this previous chapter (SR latches, logic gates, etc) is something that, unless he were extremely dedicated and intelligent, he would not know about most likely. As an Electrical and Computer engineering student myself, we didn’t learn about digital logic until Sophomore year of college. And most people didn’t fully grasp the difference between a latch and a flip-flop (I assume this is what you meant instead of latch vs gate?) until early Junior year. Do you plan to reconcile this in the future? While it is entirely plausible, I feel it should at least be worth exploring the amount of time he’s put into learning this material on his own.

Re: But somehow, I was still twelve years old ー New Ch.5 (22 Mar 2017)


Christie and Shelly are in 9th grade; Rob’s in 12th. So Rob is older – if Christie’s relationship with him seems assymetrical, that may be why. I slipped in that Rob was planning to major in electrical engineering to imply he’s taken HS electives in circuits. Maybe I should clarify and re-mention some of these details…

BTW Christie asked about “latches vs gates” because she wasn’t paying attention when Rob explained the “gate” on an SR latch. It was a nonsensical question that made Rob realize she was drifting, making him propose a break. :smiley:

I expect most readers will breeze through it as technobabble, but I am trying to make it technical accurate. When I learned this stuff, “flip flop” and “latch” were taught as interchangeable. I’m glad you liked the metaphor. I stumbled on it quite accidentally, but I’ve grown fond of it and hope non-geek readers get it. :slight_smile:

Re: But somehow, I was still twelve years old ー New Ch.5 (22 Mar 2017)

[QUOTE=donbiki;68294]SBS is tricky. I plan to justify it more in future chapters, but I suspect stories like this will always require some suspension of disbelief. :confused:

I just hope I didn’t take too long leading into traditional genre elements. Usually characters in these stories are (a) *BDLs, (b) submissive to a higher authority, or (c) incontinent as part of the premise. None of these really apply to Christie, so getting her in diapers takes some doing.

Also, while character studies and trope subversions are fine and dandy, I am writing a diaper story. Things will pick up from here on out.[/QUOTE]

I think the fact that you spent time building Christie’s character before indulging in any notable tropes is wonderful. So trope away; you’ve earned it.