So this is a different start to a story that I am still trying to tell. As far as feedback goes I’d love to hear if you like the change in structure and tone between the two characters voices. It’s a bit jolting, and a bit disjointed, but I’m trying something a little more ambitious this time.
if you don’t feel like giving more exacting criticism or feedback, it’s always nice to hear that you are enjoying reading it.
“How did it get so late so soon?”
- Dr. Seuss
How long is a moment?
It’s a good question, maybe even right question.
I, for I only speak from my own experience, have known endless moment and painfully brief moments.
I have felt hugs with crying loved ones stretch into an odd place, a place of mutual powerlessness, of my ability to soothe and theirs to recover.
I have seen and felt that split second after screaming, after yelling the most hateful, cuttings you can imagine, things that my demons whisper to me in quiet moments. Then you sober from your rage and you see who you’ve yelled at, the person who you were trying to destroy, and in that moment you learn, you feel, you understand that you are not a person. You are a monster wearing a human suit, and you have to tread carefully or the stitching will rip.
Both of these moments are similar to the that feeling of falling while with a foot on the ground that happens when you misjudge that distance of the last stair on a staircase. Your foot drifting in the air, the surprise till your foot finally hits the floor, sending a tremendous shock through your bones and rattling the teeth in your mouth.
From the split second that they start you know how these moments end but it’s still a shock every time.
The one moment I can’t forget however, is the first time I pulled her diaper on. Not the whole process, but the split second of pulling the front tight and the tapes closed. I can hear, even now, the rustle of the plastic, the smell of the baby powder, the heavy drumming of my heart in my chest, the scritch of the tapes, the blush that rises in her cheeks even with her eyes closed. That smile on her face, anxious and exited, somehow small and big at the same time, stuck precisely between joyous and timid, far too overwhelmed to decide.
I have no earthly idea how long it lasted, that smile.
You could tell me that it never ended and I would believe you.
You could tell me that it never happened and I would believe you.
But I get ahead of myself, lost in my own thoughts, let’s begin at the beginning and end at the ending.
Sophia always wore short sleeve shirts.
Always. It never matter how cold it got, and truthfully it was always at least a little cold most of the year in Chicago, but some rituals have more importance then comfort.
She would wear jackets of course, she wasn’t a masochist, but as soon as humanly possible that jacket would be off and her almost spindly arms would be on display. And really they weren’t spindly, they just only had right angles, no curves at all.
They fit her figure, mainly because all of her angles seemed to be right angles, if other curvy figures like Marilyn Monroe seemed to be molded out of clay, spun into existence on some cosmic potters wheel, then Sophia had been hewn from marble. An angular right angled nose that was affixed above an angular right angle chin. It made her look vaguely lupine, and hungry, like she was always in need of a good meal or was always about to bolt from the room and find the deepest forest in a hundred miles.
It gave her a look like a casual caress could cut deep.
I always thought it looked fucking good on her. But we all have different tastes don’t we.
Well, I know this reads more like poetry than it does writing, but I will say I try not to get carried away, try to be honest, try to tell it like how it really happened.
Like my mother always told the story of the first time she met my father, and she says that after looking at him once she told a nearby friend that, “she was going to marry that man.”
So I’ll admit that it runs in my blood, getting carried away, but about meeting her that first time in a coffee shop I’ll say this. I wanted to fuck her from the first moment I saw her. Not make love, but FUCK, loudly and angrily and forever. I wanted her to quiver at the thought of my cock or my fingers or my tongue. I wanted to shrink our existence to a bubble, just big enough for my bed, that would still seem an infinite space, that a mere inch would be a vast, cold, and intolerable distance between us.
But the first time she spoke, I knew I would dream about her that night, and the night after that, and the night after that, and so on for eternity. But it wasn’t love at first glance. It was more than something that tame, it was fascination and lust.
So you could say that I liked her.
Sophie walks in to the coffee shop. “It is a nice place,” she thinks, “but I guess thats just a way of saying that there is nothing else interesting about it.” She’s right, its a local place, not a chain, but frankly, boring. Which is good, she needs a boring place today. Something not particularly interesting or busy. Sophie has been here roughly 6 times or so, and only because the line at the Starbucks a few blocks down had an intimidatingly long line. Each and every time the coffee place has been quiet, but not quiet enough that you could overhear the other customers.
“So this is definitely the perfect place to meet Jack for the first time.”
Sophie wasn’t particularly worried about Jack being some kind of weirdo, “Well, actually, I know exactly what kind of weirdo he is, the kind of weirdo that likes to wipe piss off the bottom of women pretending to be babies. Which works well with my kind of weirdness, because I really, really want to the that baby.”
She had started chatting with him online, or rather he had messaged her on Fetlife, and his profile picture wasn’t a penis so she had decided to message him him back. She liked him, and he seemed to like her. That was enough for now, to be honest. It wasn’t a love at first profile view, or love first day spent stalking him online thing, but he met her criteria. He was employed, lived by himself, and he lived relatively close by. That’s it.
He seemed smart, he seemed kinda of funny, and he said he was tall. His profile picture was decent enough, and he didn’t seem like a total freak. That was really what she needed right now. “I don’t want to be using him but the truth is I’m 24 and the only time I’ve worn a diaper is in a locked room by myself. That’s gotta change.”
Sophie needs know exactly how important ‘this’ is, “No, not just ‘this’, wearing a diaper and pissing myself is what ‘this’ is.” She needs to know how much she needs the fetish.
She hates it at times, really hates it. Not in the way a child hates broccoli or anything so simple. She hates it the way an alcoholic hates the liquor that is killing them. Most of the time she’s okay, but that last time she was with Scott, when they were exhausted in bed together after they had made love or fucked, she can’t remember which now, there was a moment, a quiet moment of exhaustion and warmth, when they were in each other arms and she thought that maybe just maybe they were in love and suddenly boom. ABDL porn played in her head, waves and waves of everything she’s ever seen, the stories she’s loved and the pictures that have disgusted her, they all start playing on a loop inside her head.
And she’s getting turned on and she getting disgusted and she getting horny and angry, and she wants to fuck Scott and again and she wants to tell him everything and she wants to call him daddy and she wants to scream, endlessly, mindlessly, scream her throat raw till it bleeds and bleeds and bleeds and she drowns in her own blood.
Sophie broke up with Scott the next day.
Then someone pulls out a chair across the room, at another table and Sophie jolts back into the present. For a moment at least. She looks down at her hands, realizes that she is holding her cup of coffee so tightly her knuckles are turning white, and relaxes. She takes another sip of her coffee and waits.
She got to the coffee shop about 30 odd minutes before they were supposed to meet. After a long day of boring work, she figures that arriving early will let her settle in and relax before meeting with Jack. She wants to give at least a decent first impression, she knows she will be nervous as hell, and that Jack will be too. Or he will if he was telling the truth about this being the first time he has met up with another AB/DL in person.
“I mean, how much can I really trust what he said about himself online?”, She thinks. Jack seemed like an okay guy, but maybe he was a good guy who liked to chop up women and eat them. Which Sophie might have even been okay with if he looked anything like Mads Mikkelson.
But Sophie had played it safe, she had gotten a friend to call her later that night to check up on her. She had spent two hours last night figuring out who it would be and was surprised to find out it was actually kind of fun.
“It was interesting, because who do you call for that? Your best friend? That seems unfair kinda, like to put them through that emotional wringer, when they really, really care about you. If you call your parents then they are gonna ask to many awkward questions, that I don’t care to answer.”
Sophie calmed herself by imagining how that phone call would go.
"No mom, I’m not worried specifically about this guy murdering me, I’m just trying to be safe. No everyone my age dates online, this is just what we do now.
I’m getting tired of answering this question mom, I’m not going on a date with the Simmons kid.
Because he smells like embalming fluid.
No I’m fully aware of how much money a mortician makes.
It’s a fine profession! I’ve got nothing against morticians, I just don’t want the same hands that touch dead bodies to touch me.
Are you gonna check in or not?
But Sophie didn’t want to worry her mother so that name was crossed off the list.
"Plus she would panic and call early and I’d have to explain to the cops that I’m just a sister trying to get a tall dark man to baby me. You know a little loving after making me feel little by walking over ever so slowly, leaning over me and pulling back my diaper and murmuring, “Looks like daddies little girl is a poopy. Are you daddies little poopy princess?” I’d begin furiously nursing on my pacifier and shake my head no, while staring into his eyes and then, suddenly, he’d lift me into his arms, which would mush my own stinky, filthy mess into my bottom and then I shudder, overwhelmed with pleasure and disgust, and he’d whisper, “It’s okay princess daddies gonna make it all go away” and then….
Fuck, I can’t do this right now in the middle of a fucking coffee shop. Focus Sophie, focus. Let him be to charm you. Don’t do his work for him before hand. Christ.
That’s really fucking hot though…"
So Sophie decided to call Rachel. She didn’t ask any weird questions, just said yes. Sophie has done the same for her. Rachel’s a good sort, very reliable.
“Fuck I wonder if she likes this diaper stuff too. The odds are impossible but still… Nah, she probably into something more mainstream like S&M, light spanking that shit. God I wish my life was that easy.”
Yet again the sound of a chair scraping along the floor jolts Sophie into the present, and she startles, almost falling out of her seat. Then she slaps a hand down on the table to steady herself, and realizes that that the sound of her hand against the table is the loudest sound in the coffee shop since she got here. She wants to check if other people are looking at her but settles on just checking her watch. 15 minutes to go. She’s got time to calm down, to pull it together. She’s got time.
So does she really need to be worried about Jack being a killer? Sophie knows he’s not an asshole, assholes give themselves away quickly, they just can’t seem to cover up that smell of rectum that seeps off them, even online. But did she go over the top getting someone to call in and check on her?
“I know that he’s not a killer, but thats the point behind a psycho. If they were that easy to find out, from just chatting online, then they would be locked up right? So doesn’t that mean that only the really sloppy killers get caught? Shit I gotta write this down.”
Sophie pulls out a note book and jots something down.
There is some portion of the population that is psycho killers.
The obvious ones get caught early
Therefore, the only psycho killer you are likely to meet are the ones really good at seeming cool.
“Whacha you writing there?” a voice rumbles from across the table. Someone has sat down across from her. Someone tall, with a beard closely cropped beard, and an ever so slightly crooked nose.
“Fuck! Is that… Fuck. It’s Him. It’s Jack.” Sophie can tell because Jack’s taken off his jacket and she can see the bottom of a sunflower tattoo on his upper arm.
“Nothing… just…nothing.” She murmurs, half to herself. “Fuck girl! Come up with something better than that! Do you want this to start with a conversation about him possibly being a murderer?”
Jack relaxes into the seat across from her, “Are you sure? It seemed important. You were focusing so much that your tongue was sticking out. Can I see it?”
“FUUUUUUCCCCCCKKKKKKK!!” Sophie screams mentally, trying to come up with an excuse, anything to stop her from doing what she does instead.
Which is slide it across the table to him, slowly, and every inch feels like a mile feels like a marathon feels like a light year. Then he picks it up and reads it.
A cold clarity comes over her, like falling through the ice on a lake, it seeps up from her feet and in a heartbeat its invisible waterline is playing at the back of Sophie’s scalp. A new record for her, and probably most of her generation, dumped before even saying a complete sentence.
After studying the grain of the wood of the table, of doing anything but making eye contact, Sophie can’t resist and looks up. Jack seems lost in thought, and he is chewing slightly at a fingernail. He looks good, or at least, his face sits well together, deep brown eyes, almost hazel and bags underneath his eyes that say he has never been a deep sleeper.
“This is good, but doesn’t really apply to our situation does it? It’s a fine start but… let me add some something.” He says it so flatly that Sophie can’t tell whether or not he is joking.
He extends his hand for a pen, which she wordlessly passes over to him, then he proceeds to write. He doesn’t stick out his tongue, which Sophie has just learned is something she does, but he does seem to shut his eyes every few seconds, and look up and to the right, and he looks a little like Sophie’s old basset hound trying to catch a scent.
After a minute or so he slides the paper back across to her.
If I were a psycho killer, I would be much likely to be successful if I was intelligent and devilishly good looking. Lucky for you I am neither.
This is a first date, of sorts, and you probably have a friend who is going to call you later just to be safe. That plus the online paper trail, makes tonight a particularly bad night to murder you and eat your liver with “kidney beans and a nice chianti.”
You are far too cute to eat. And I don’t play with my food.
Therefore, because logic, you are safe with me. For at least tonight. Probably. Maybe. Even odds at least.
Then he drew a smiley face.
“So what’s good? Never been in here. They got coffee right? I don’t want to get the caffeine jitters but I hope we got exciting evening ahead of us. And I don’t have any coffee back at my place, just wine. It is a nice chianti though…”
Sophie doesn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. “At least I know for sure he’s got a sense of humor.”
I am an oily car salesman of nonsense. For instance, whats your favorite dinosaur? the penguin is the correct answer, as well as the answer to what is your favorite animal, bird or vaguely sentient thing.
But more than that, odd thoughts run rampant, and often unchecked through the wrinkles of my brain, what if, maybe just maybe, that time of the day on a Sunday when you are having a perfectly fine day, a day truly indistinguishable from the other 15 Sundays before that, but you find that 3 beers wont cut it, or that you’ve taken entirely too many baths that day, that feeling that creeps up, slow and sudden, that feeling that you want to scream, what if, maybe just maybe, you weren’t alone in that feeling?
What if ever person on the planet feels that feeling simultaneously, that person you want to fuck, that person you want to be, that person who wants to be you, that person you will never understand, what if, maybe just maybe, for that 3 tenths of the flap of a humming birds wings, every person just screamed, just screamed, not of anger, or rage or sadness or happiness. But a scream of communion.
What possible evil could you see coming from that? I only see good things, like a two for one day at your local pizzeria or discount prices on fishnets.
So next time that happens, do the world a favor, just scream. Who knows what could happen?