Moments updated 3/29/16

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.

Jacks addendum

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?

Re: Moments

I won’t lie to you, my friend, I liked the last version of this you posted better. There’s something off-putting about announcing whose head I’m in ahead of time, and the subtlety is lost in this version.

Re: Moments

any more specificity in your critique? and which version btw

Re: Moments

I remember a version where the only AB references in the “begin at the beginning” part were in subtle verbal sparring between the two, and there was a great deal more internal dialogue. Also, we didn’t even know their names at the end of it. I found it alluring, inspiring irresistible curiosity. I wanted more of that story, as jarring and jolting as the narrative was.

In Sophie’s “passages”, you switch to third person, which kinda defeats the entire purpose of it being “her” passage. Why not first person, as you did with Jack? And the narrative. God, the narrative is so elegant when we’re sitting comfortably in Jack’s head, but so clumsy when you shift gears and “watch” Sophie’s head from a distance. The details are fuzzy. I’m not feeling her as intensely as I feel him. I almost don’t care about Sophie for want of the poetry going on in Jack’s brain.

Re: Moments

First and foremost, thanks for the feedback! I need it if I have any chance of growing as a writer.

Secondly, if I follow you, you enjoy jacks portion, but are frustrated by Sophies.

Now is it strictly the difference in writing style,?

Because I do intend to maintain a fairly large gulf between both characters. In both voice and perspective. I won’t give away the game, but I do have my reasons for that decision.

Could you do me a favor and give me your impressions of both characters at the moment? There is more to be revealed but I’d like to know if I’m conveying them effectively.


1 Like

Re: Moments

After seeing the comments I went and looked up the earlier version, and have to say that overall I like the earlier version better. The earlier version seems to maintain the quiet reflection mood much better than this one. Some of the wording and actions in the earlier one don’t seem as natural as this version, though.

I agree that naming whose viewpoint isn’t really needed, especially if you maintain the first person/third person distinction. Even if you move to all first person, a simple break will likely be enough to show the change. One book I’ve read has no fewer than three viewpoints it keeps changing randomly between, and it manages perfectly well with just making each viewpoint segment a fairly short chapter. It is in third person, though, so names show up more frequently than in first person.

Either way you continue, I’m enjoying this one and will keep reading - a complement right there, since I only follow about a third of the stories being written.

Re: Moments updated 3/22/16


“So I’m pleased as can be to finally meet ya.” Jack does seem pleased, smiling easily, and a least a little smugly.

“Shoot where are my manners, I’m Jack.” He extends a meaty hand across the table, but stopped midway, and continues speaking, “Actually I’m Jack Allison Martin.” His hand then continues it’s journey across the table.

Sophie reaches out and grasps his hand with hers, and instead of introducing herself, she can’t resist, “Allison?” She asks.

“Your name is Allison? Not Sophie?” Jack responds, smiling even more smugly. His hands are rough, well callused. He doesn’t let go.

“Did you fib online when you said your first name was Sophie?” Jack jokes

“No, I’m just startled by a man name Allison with rough hands”, Sophie responds.

"That’s not the first time I’ve heard that. I actually like to clear the air with the middle name. I throw it out there and if the other person makes a joke I know that there is at least the chance of us being honest with each other.

"So if I didn’t say anything I’m a liar?

“No, you wouldn’t be a liar. You’d be worse. You’d be pointlessly polite.”

It then grows quiet, and the air fills with the tension that only first dates and executions have.

“So um… did you find the place okay?” Sophie asks.

“Sure I’ve been in here once or twice, but really only when the Starbucks line was too long down the block.”

“Same here! I keep telling myself I’m going to get off caffeine but then I wake up after watching something all night on Netflix or something.”

“Do you watch a lot of Netflix then?”

“Yes and no. I mean, yes I actually can’t get to sleep for shit most nights, but when I do sleep I could sleep for the full eight hours. So I watch a lot of Netflix I guess.”

“T.V. shows?”

“Some, but mostly documentaries. It’s not even about the material, its about the rhythm of a speaking voice.” Sophie plays with the coffee between her hands, wafting the steam between her fingers, luxuriating in the warmth.

“That must make for some interesting dreams.”

“No, not really, or I guess, more to the point, I don’t dream. Or if I do I can’t remember it. But I’m not going to keep talking about myself, I feel like I’ve earned a question or two.”

“Fire away, I’d say I’m an open book by I’m not made of paper.” Another smile from Jack, oddly and easily stretching across his face.

"You are getting closer and closer to actually being funny. But to my question. Why me?

“Why you what?”

“Why did you message me? I barely had anything on the profile. Just really where I lived and some of my interests and that’s it.”

“Honest answer?”

“I’m not particularly interested in lies. I’m sure I get enough of that in an average day to last me a lifetime.”

“It was you picture. The one of you on beach. So many people have pictures of themselves wearing, well you know,” he looks around the coffee shop, not sure if its quiet enough to say the ‘D word’, “Or they have warm smiles that have obviously been practiced for job interviews. Yours was different.”

“That’s all your going to give me?”

“I mean, well fuck. You looked lonely, and strong. What can I say? It was just you staring out a window, but the set of your shoulders, the way your hair was… you looked, you looked angry I guess. Or more defiant.”

“That’s a good word, defiant. I don’t know if I’ve ever heard someone say that out loud, it’s probably a word I’ve only read up till now.”

“Are you making fun of me?”

“No, I’m being ‘defiant’.” Sophie makes sure to put air quotes around the word. She can be funny also.

Jack laughs, and continues talking, “I really don’t even know what I’m talking about. I love that picture, but maybe you just picked the first thing that didn’t have your face in it on your computer. Just something with mist in it.”

Sophie takes a deep breath and debates furiously asking the next question. Common sense doesn’t win out today.

“Do you want to hear the story behind that picture?” Sophie asks.

“Very much so.”

"So, maybe about halfway through college, I guess it would have to be halfway, I was about 20, my dad decided all the kids had to take a trip abroad. I don’t know why he did, he just gets like that sometimes, decides suddenly that this one thing is the best thing to do. Like diets and stuff like that.

So, anyway, we all have to pick some abroad trip for over the summer, me and my two sisters. They pick Ireland and Greece, and I didn’t pick anything. I looked at plenty of stuff, but I just couldn’t make a decision. This is supposed to be my “experience” of the world. Like I’m going to be 54 or something, chatting with my grandchildren and I’ll talk about that magical summer where I went to wherever and how it changed everything, and so on."

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but it seems like you felt like you had to pick the highlight of your life right now,” Jack interjects.

“Fucking aye.” Sophie thumps the table with a fist, that jostles the coffee cups. Again she realizes that is without a doubt the loudest sound in this coffee shop all day. She wants to look around to she who is staring at her,but fights, and fights hard and just settles looking Jack deep in the eyes. He’s got his chin resting on his hands and his head is slightly tilted as he looks at her. Sophie realizes that the slight angle of his head makes it so that his nose looks straight, that he is somehow compensating a crooked nose with a crooked face.

"So I’m freaking out, the deadline for a dozen different summer trips have come and gone until its just two left. Either I can to a Lama farm in the mountains of Peru or I can go to Burma, Myanmar I mean, and study Buddhism.

“Where’s Burma again? Or is it Myanmar?”

“Myanmar, Burma was the name of the country when it was a British colony. They gave it back after World War Two I think. As far as where, I don’t know of the top of my head, between india and Thailand I guess. It’s around there somewhere.”

“But you did go with Burma, or Myanmar.”

"How did you guess?

“The prayer beads around your neck.”

“Wow, I didn’t even… I guess I’ve been wearing these so long I didn’t realize…”

“Sorry for interrupting, I’d like to hear the story. I feel like its getting to the good part.”

“No it’s fine. I’m really telling the long version of the story. You want to keep hearing the story?”

“Yeah, no I do. I’m interested in Buddhism, and I want to hear if you got your ‘life changing experience’.”

"Well I’m glad you like it. So, I get to Burma, there is only like 9 other kids on the trip and we are there for only a month and half or so. So it’s gonna be a busy trip. We never spent more than five days in the same place, you know tried to see as much of the country as we could. We land in the capital, spend a day or two there and then we are out to the country to see old temples. And they are breathtaking, some of them are almost 800 years old. But I’m not happy yet.

Each time we leave a temple I’m thinking, ‘Am I changed yet, am I better, more thoughtful person’. And each tim the answer is no, I haven’t found like a moment of clarity, or religious thing or anything like that."

Sophie realizes that she’s been staring down at her coffee for the while talking and looks up again, and finds that Jack is sitting the exact same way, attentively listening. He looks ‘The Thinker’, that sculpture almost, but somehow you can tell the focus is outward instead of inward.

“So it’s two weeks in,” Sophie continues “and we are studying mediation at this monastery high up in the mountains, and staying with families in the village around the monastery.”

“Did you know any of the language, any, what language do they speak there?”

"Myanma is the language mostly, but to answer the question, no. It’s a hard language and we didn’t learn anything past like, what a toddler knows, like bathroom and stuff like that.

So I’m at the monastery and one day, as I’m climbing the steps to the meditation room, my knee just gives out. Just dislocates. Pop. And then I’m tumbling down the stairs.

“Oh fuck.”

“Well yeah. Oh fuck. We are days away from any doctor, and the pain isn’t that crazy, the knee just swells up like a grapefruit and I can’t put any weight on it. But one of the guides, Tom, he’s a big guy and he carries me around for the next day or two and after that he gives me this walking stick he has to keep my weight off the knee.”

“That’s it? You didn’t go to the doctor?”

"Yes, but that happened later. Much later in fact. Till then I just dealt with it. It hurt, but I dealt with it. And I kept studying, and getting better at meditation, we all were. One day, the last day I spent the almost eight hours meditating, focusing on my breathing, just in and out. It was very peaceful. I felt after that, like I understood something, that while I couldn’t explain to you right now, that something about the world just made sense. On the way back to the village I thought, ‘I am changed, I will be proud of this story when I tell my grandkids’.

But that night, well that night I was sleeping on the floor, like I had for the past couple of days, and the family I’m staying with, well the son slips into my room. And before I know it he’s on top of me, and he trying to undress me and pull down his own pants."

“What the fuck.”

“That’s not the best part,” Sophie smiles, and the smile has blood, and iron in it. Equal parts.

"I grabbed the walking stick and I hit him, hard and somehow it hit him straight in the balls. Bam. He fell over immediately and then his father burst into the room. Well even though I can’t speak any of the language, he sees whats going on pretty much immediately and he grabs the walking stick from my hands.

It was a nice walking stick, some kind of aluminum metal, light and strong. Well the dad just starts beating him with it. And at first I’m like ‘good, teach the little fucker a lesson’. But he keep going, and going. And the son, he’s just curled up in a ball, crying and this metal sound, this vibrating noise and I realize the dad has knocked half of one of the kids tooth off. The dad stops for a moment and then pulls the son’s shirt of and I see just this fucking tapestry of bruises. Some of them new, from right now. But some of them are green and purple and I realize that everyday when I’ve walking up the monastery steps, to study and learn to meditate, to purify my spirit, that this father has been beating the shit out of his kid. Every single day."

“What did you do?”

"I let him beat the kid. He wasn’t a rapist anymore, though, not after he started crying. Then he was just a kid.

The strangest thing was that after he drug the kid away, he left with walking stick and returned it after washing the blood of it. And that was that."

“Did you tell the guides or something?”

"No. I didn’t really know what to say. Tell them that I’d almost been raped or that I saw I kid beaten half to death. I figure that I was in shock.

“So it’s the next day, and the group leaves on foot but me and a guide ride in the back of a pick up truck down the mountain. And it’s so quiet, and there is just the mist along the road that’s so thick you can’t see more then twenty feet in any direction. The guide took that picture when I was staring out the back of the truck, into the fog, into the mist.”

“Fucking hell. Did you talk to a therapist or your family about that?”

"No, I didn’t. I mean, fuck I don’t know what to say about it. I’m sorry that I unloaded that on you, it’s just, you were right. About the picture, about being defiant. Most people thought it was just a picture of a good time. I guess you saw something of the truth.

“Shit I didn’t mean to tell you this story. This is unfair to you.”

“No that’s fine. It’s cool. I mean I asked right. Can I give you a hug?” Jack sounds so careful when he says that, so delicate. Like his words might hurt her somehow.

Sophie doesn’t know this, but as she had told the story, as she gotten lost in the memory, something about her had got smaller and smaller. She didn’t slump down in her chair or curl up, she was just tiny. Somehow.

“Sure, that would be nice.” Sophie says it, and it’s flat, almost toneless except for that small lump in her throat that breaks and her voice cracks on the last word.

Jack stands up, and picks up the chair as he did so, so it’s feet doesn’t scrape against the linoleum floor. He walks around the table and half lifts from under her armpits and out of her seat.

He holds her tight against her chest and she realizes that her head only reaches up to his chest. She can here the thumping of his heartbeat, steady and deep.

“It’s okay little one,” Jack whispers, “Daddy is here.”


People think that time is like sand. And they couldn’t be more wrong. Time doesn’t drift by, like a lazy river of seconds or simply spill through your fingers like grains of sand, falling ever downward and on for eternity.

Time cuts, and it cuts deep, like shards of glass. Each fragmented second, or minute or hour its own little shard, cupped in your hands, spilling from your fingers and slicing away at flesh and blood and life.

So, naturally, we are all masochists in a way, because while we don’t like all the little fragments, or the scars they give us, but damned if we don’t treasure some of them. The scar from the hours spent at the dmv or in traffic or just on the toilet shitting, they just seem like a waste of the scarred real estate of your skin, of your life. But that first ice cream or the first blow job, both creamy delicacies, how interesting the pain was when that glassy moment sliced up your thumb. It was sharp, it was real, truly painfully real. A moment like that will leave a scar that you covet forever. A type of pain you want to investigate, revisit endlessly in patchwork pattern of scars that grows dimmer and dimmer as you clutch tighter and tighter and time cuts deeper and deeper leaving longer and longer scars.

Isn’t interesting how you can only revisit the scar? Interesting how that moment is lost forever leaving only that pale line inflicted your memory, in your flesh.

That’s the other mistake people make, memory. They think there is some carefully organized file cabinet or hard drive just filling up with the images and sounds of life they have lived when that couldn’t be farther from the truth.

All they are really doing is studying their hands, their scars, the tiny indent where that piece of time cut away. And the scar stretches and warps as it gets older, gets covered by fresher, more vivid scars. Till all thats left is the story they tell themselves about how they got that scar, how they got that memory. It can be a good story, filled with adventure, danger, excitement, love and, rarely, heartbreak.

But it’s never a true story.

My deepest scars, are from Sophie, because I held tightest to those moments, I stretched each second as long as I could. The pain was…perfect. But the tighter I held the more I bled and the slicker my fingers grew with the scent of iron and my own death.

Then she was gone.

Oddly, those wounds never quite close. That might even be what love is.

Re: Moments updated 3/22/16

Okay readers who may or may not be following this story. I’ve gotten another ten pages drafted our of this story. I’m working through it, as normal, but I am experiencing some rather severe doubt.

I can’t tell whether or not its any good… Really I can’t. That’s never been a problem for me, but this time I’m trying new things, trying to stretch my capacities as a writer.

But I need feedback. I need to know if I’m wandering off into the wilderness and only managing to entertain myself with this story.

I’m usually pretty comfortable with that… But I hope that’s not what I’m doing with this story,

And I’ll anticipate some comments that I might recieve, with the best intentions of course, about not caring about feedback or just write the story you want to tell. I’ll grant you that, but I, at this particular moment at least, need to know if I’m being remotely effective at the story I want to tell.

Thanks to all who patiently read my plea.

Stay padded my freinds!

Re: Moments updated 3/22/16

I’d meant to reply to this earlier. Blame yourself for writing something so deep I had to find time to reread it before responding. :slight_smile:

The first part is good, and has me interested. The part that really got me is the last section, Jack’s. The images you conjure are so vivid and striking. Reading it I suspect that you have done some research on how memory works. I’m still not sure about referring to the good memories as a form of pain, though I can see why.

For me so far in this story it is the meta-reflections, if you will, that I find most interesting, with the rest of the story as context for understanding them.

It is that last section, more than anything else that has me looking to see where this goes.

Re: Moments updated 3/22/16

If it helps any, I can tell you that most of your readers have been users who haven’t been logged in, so they can’t reply. :slight_smile: As much as I’d love to do so, there really isn’t a way to allow guests to reply that wouldn’t make the admins’ lives a living hell or you’d probably be getting more responses.

Re: Moments updated 3/22/16


I really appreciate all the feedback and support.

It’s actually been extremely helpful in my writing motivation.

The only obstacles now are my attention span, my ambition (or lack thereof) and how late the liquor stores are open around me.

Actually scratch that last one… That’s probably the only thing keeping me writing.

Re: Moments updated 3/29/16

First Date continued….


It was a good hug, and Sophie enjoys herself. Stuck in his arms and stuck somewhere between confusion and joy. And shame of course. She feels the eyes of every single patron of the coffee shop staring at her. She feels their judgment even through Jacks bulky arms wrapped around her.

Considering that, it’s miraculous that the hug lasts as long as it does, every second she wants to pull away, but can’t remove her head from his chest and the hypnotic, devouring beat of his heart.

She wants to stay there.

But she can’t.

Instead, she pulls away, and dries her eyes from tears that may or may not be there, and says, “So I don’t really know what to do after this, do you?”.

Jack smiles down at her and replies “Well I guess it doesn’t have to be weird if we both decide it’s not weird. If we just decide it’s honest.”

“I didn’t really want to talk about this five minutes in to the first date.” She says. The shame of it, of the stupidity of opening up to a stranger stays with her.

“Yeah I get that, things just come tumbling out your mouth sometimes. It happens.”

“So you do that too?” She can’t help but let hope drift into tone.

“No, I’m not a weirdo, so I know better I guess.” Jack says it so flatly, that only his widening smile gives him away.

“Fuck off.” She hugs him again, and the words are muffled in his shirt.

But Jack’s not done yet, “I want to use the word defiant here, but that’s tainted now, so I’ll just settle for feisty. You are feisty.”

The shirt also muffles her laugh.

She pulls out his t shirt to look up at his still smiling face, “Can we leave? I feel like everyone is looking at us.”

“They are.” She starts for a moment, resisting the temptation to run for the door. “Don’t worry,” Jack says, “I’ve been flipping them the bird for the last two minutes. You’ve been too busy with setting up base camp in my shirt to tell.”

Another laugh from Sophie, but she pulls him by his hand outside.

“You sure?,” Jack says as they leave the coffee shop, “Remember I might have a murder van waiting right outside for you.”

Sophie is not going to let herself be outdone “I’ll just make sure to walk you by mine first. It’s nice, its got bluetooth. That way I can call in riddles to the police about the identity of the “Chicago Startler” as I go.”

She sees the confused look on Jacks face and explains, “My victims all die from heart attacks. So the press has dubbed me the ‘Chicago Startler’.”

Jack catches on pretty quick, "Ooooo, good alias. Mines the ‘Windy City Dreamer’. Or at least that’s what I wanted it to be. But you make one mistake and you are the “Chicago dog fucker”.

Sophie laughs again, but then her attention pulls inwards trying to work something out.

It’s quiet for a beat, but again Jack can’t resist, “Your tongue is sticking out again.”

Sophie ignores him and says, "You are clearly a misunderstood genius. The world will weep when you assume your final form as the “Pet-orast”.

Jack lets out a half grunt snort laugh noise. it sounds like a pig being strangled. Then he says, “Boooooooo.”

“Come on not even an A for effort?”

“Truthfully I had to fight off the urge to ask you to ravish me right here on the street. You are such a charmer.”

They start walking down the street together. Both of them are just following the other person, but neither of them know where they are going. It doesn’t really matter.

“Not usually, but I guess I trust you. I’m not trying to get heavy all over again but why do I trust you.”

“Isn’t obvious?”

“Not to me.”

“It’s the same reason I trust you. You know my secret and I know yours. Everything else is small shit compared to the well, you know.” Jack doesn’t say it.

Sophie does. After checking to make sure no one is in earshot.

“The diapers?”

He blushes, and she gets a rush from saying it out loud and getting him to blush. Which makes her blush

“Yes, that. We were born into- or I don’t fucking know- grew into the same club. It’s got a pretty exclusive membership so I’ll teach you the secret handshake later. After I get someone to teach it to me.”

“So this really is also your first time meeting another, well, AB/DL?”

“Yes. You seem surprised. Why is that?”

“I don’t know. I mean I assumed a dude wold be less intimidated by the scene. That they couldn’t resist.”

“Let me restate that in non-bullshit talk,” Jack says, then he speaks in a joking falsetto voice imitating her, “Wouldn’t your boner pull you into the fetish like a hotdog down a black hole?’ is that what you meant to say?”

She breaks down into a fit of giggles. “You summed it up pretty good there. So yes,” Sophie puts on her own joking deep voice, “that’s what I meant to say.”

“Welp I got love and hate to relieve the pressure,” Jack says, and he holds up his hands.

Sophie stares at him in confusion.

“I was too scared to get that tattooed, on my knuckles,” Jack explains, “I got the arm, I had to get the arm, but I couldn’t go for the knuckles. That might hurt!”

“Why did you get the tattoo?”

“This?” Jack pulls up his shirt sleeve to show the sun flower with a skull in the center.

“No, the other tattoo you don’t have,” Sophie says dryly.

“Good point. I said you were feisty, didn’t I?”

Jack takes a breath before answering, debating which answer he is going to give. “Well, I got the tattoo, for a reason, and a good one. I liked it.”

“Do you honestly think I’m going to let you get away that answer?” Sophie asks.


Sophie just stops walking with him. Jack walks a few feet before realizing he has left her behind.

“Really?” Jack asks.

“I’ll also hold my breath till I pass out if I need too,” Sophie says. She feels like a bratty spoiled child saying it. And is surprised how much she likes feeling that way.

Jack walks back to her, taking his time. He doesn’t look angry, but something about him looks coiled, ready to spring into action. He walks a measured even pace, but time seems both quick and slow to Sophie, and he is right there in front of her, so close, looking down at her. She can feel the heat radiating of him. His face is stern, but his eyes are still smiling.

He places a hand, a very heavy hand, on her shoulders and says, “Don’t think I won’t spank you right here, even without a safe word.”

Sophie’s answer comes to her so quickly, and goes so quickly out of her mouth that she doesn’t even have to think about it. So she is just as surprised as Jack when she says, “Don’t think I wouldn’t enjoy it.”

His eyes sparkle, and he laughs deeply and hugs her, which is good for Sophie, he can’t see how she has deeply she is blushing. They start walking together again.

Sophie won’t let it go though.

“Don’t dodge the question, why did you get the tattoo?”

“Are you really gonna hold my feet to the fire on this one?”

“Consider all your little porky toes sizzling away.”

Jack seems lost in thought again, and then settles on saying, “It’s a reminder.”

“Is that all you are gonna give me?” Sophie asks

“Fine, have you ever laughed instead of cried when you stubbed your toe?”

“What?” Sophie asks, puzzled.

“Just answer the question please.”

“I mean, I guess so.”

“Then just call it that. It’s a reminder to laugh.”

“Now we are gonna go to a movie if you have no objections.” Jack says, his voice rumbling a little deeper with the finality of his decision.

“If I did?”

“I can carry you the block or two to the theatre.”


“Hard decision?”

“Just thinking about whether or not I want to be carried or walk.”

“It’s a revival theatre. They are playing Young Frankenstein.”

Jack watches her vanish, running into the distance. When she getting almost out of earshot, he shouts, “It’s the other way!”

Sophie instantly turns around and starts running back toward him a furious pace. She is in decent shape, but even then she is out of breath when she reaches him and says, “I’ll still beat you there.”

They split the cost of the tickets and popcorn.

Sophie wouldn’t have it any other way.

I can’t place that first moment, that first moment I knew I was different, that I was magnetically attracted by diapers. I truly don’t know, but the truth is I live in ignorance of large parts of my childhood, they seem to blotted out of my memory, which is truly a blessing from what I can gather.
Although this is a departure from the topic, dear reader, isn’t it interesting how as adults we have to reconstruct our childhoods. Account from the difference in memory to the reality of what was, as best we can find.
So I began my scientific study, trying to excavate my own past, to lift glimmering truths out of the darkness of what was and what might have been. An archeologist looks for fossils, for the remains of an animate, proud and dominate creature that roamed the world supreme. I looked for the fossilized remnants of pain.
At 6 or so I might have seen my first example of regression, on a kids show I cannot prove existed.
At 8 or so I tried, and successfully fought of the urge to kill myself.
At 12 I discovered AB/DL while looking online for the world record of the oldest child in diapers.
At 14 or so I discovered masturbation, while rubbing myself wildly in a diaper made out of towels.

This was the moment that I discovered that I was lonely. Truthfully, before then I knew I was different, but in what way I couldn’t have told you if my life depended on it. But suddenly, after cumming ferociously into that first diaper, I knew. I knew what I was, and at that same moment of painful, true release I knew I was more or less alone.
It’s an odd realization, truthfully, and I’m not sure many people know the feeling, or at least, know it as deeply, as truthfully as we do. Perhaps the others with fetishes despised as ours have an inkling, but then, people have to know what we are before they can even hate us.

And so few do.
So, at birth, or some time soon after, I was dropped down a well. Into the darkness. Alone, and utterly so. But I didn’t even have the concept, or even the words to let me know that the pain I felt, the chill in my bones, was not how people lived.
I screamed on occasion, when desperation grew thick, like the mud I was mired in, but nothing heard. The walls of the well didn’t care. The mud didn’t care. The remnants of water, fouled with my own waste, didn’t care.
But some lucky day, some odd freak occurrence, the sun was just bright enough, and the clouds just clear enough, that I could see light, that I felt warmth the first time. But I had grown translucent and thin in that darkness. And that first time, the light burned, and I burrowed deep into the mud to escape it. And I did for a time.

But a lazy beam of light wandered down, and it didn’t leave.

It’s name was Sophie.

The First Kiss

“The decision to kiss for the first time is the most crucial in any love story. It changes the relationship more strongly than even the final surrender; because this kiss already has within it that surrender.”
-Emil Ludwig


Jack insists on walking Sophie home. Sophie lets him. It’s a quiet walk, mostly, no words said to spoil a cold night with only each other for warmth.

For awhile they have the awkward gait of all young couples, trying to work out how to move forward and still be as close as possible. Eventually, though without any words shared, they discover that if Jack slows down, he can wrap his arm across Sophie’s shoulders and hold her hand, and she only has to take two steps to his one.

It’s warm there for her, an the wind doesn’t bite as fiercely with Jack there to absorb the brunt of it. His hand dwarfs her’s. His rough fingers tickle hers until she opens her fist, accepting his embrace.

He begins to hum, almost tunelessly, and it sounds similar to the purring of a big cat to Sophie, nestled up into his heat, her head buzzing with the sound of him.

When they reach her apartment building, she is sad.

He walks her to the front step, but he refuses to leave just yet. He insists on walking her to her apartment door. Sophie unlocks the front door, and turns around as she says, “Well I had a good…”
Before she can finish, Jack leans down for a kiss and it’s the only thing that takes no first attempts. They kiss like naturals, like puzzle pieces fitting together. Sparks fill her closed eyelids. Beard hairs tickle her face. His hands caress her hips and hers lock around his back.

"I’ll see you soon, " Jack says. Sophie knows it’s not a promise, but a fact. Simple and straightforward, as if he’s already discovered the way to her heart.

When she closed the door, all she could think was “What the fuck did I just do?”




Why? Couldn’t I have met her when I was less ragged, when was more of me to share? She will explore me, discover every inch of me and discover I am too small for her. That I cannot keep the cold at bay.

Why? Why couldn’t I have wrapped her into my ams, suffocating her with me, till only my name and scent was all she could remember. Till it was enough. Till I was all there ever was.

Why? Why will I spend the rest of my life humming love songs, quietly, but always, to keep the shrill sound of the silence of their obscene absence at bay.

Why Me? Don’t you know better?

I am the dark thing you dreamed about after ever fairy tale, after every warning to mind your mother, to honor your father. I am the nightmare, the nameless void that you awoke screaming from.

I have such big teeth, such painfully jagged, bloody teeth that not matter how careful I kiss, I will eat you my dear. I will devour you, one meaty, painful bite at a time. You will spend your numbered days screaming, in pain or in pleasure, until there is nothing left of you.


But don’t leave. Please, please don’t leave,

me alone.

Never alone.