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AN HOMAGE TO VINCENT VEGA

 

SCENE 26:

 

BLOWOUT

 

“All ashore that's going ashore,” Vickie murmured as the elevator groaned to a halt.  The door opened with a grudging squeak.

 

Ever the gentleman, Ian exited last, all but falling into the arms of still another Scandinavian bombshell-- blonde, blue-eyed, a robust chest, and towering a good three inches over his own five foot ten inch frame.  He thought that a Viking battle ax would not have looked out of place in either of her hands, one of which was currently outstretched in his direction.

 

“Hi, Ian!  It's nice to meet you at last!  I'm Heidi … Heidi Freymiller.”

 

Ian shook hands, admired the glistening teeth behind the dazzling smile, and wondered who the hell she was.

 

“Heidi is second shift charge nurse on three,” Rita explained.  “She's double shifting to cover for Sarah while she's up north.”

 

“And don't worry about Heidi falling under your spell,” Vickie teased.  “She's a happily married mother of two little boys who love to play soldiers when they're not playing cops and robbers.”

 

Heidi stole a glance at Ian's well diapered crotch, the telltale bulge unmistakable to any nurse working a post-surgical ward.  For his own part, Ian was wondering when and where the seam on his overburdened trousers would split, baring his canvas underwear for the whole world to see.  Pulling his zipper up had proven quite the challenge.

 

“Have you spoken with her since she left?”

 

“No, not since she dropped me off at the office on Wednesday morning.  We … uh … we didn't part on the best of terms.”

 

Rita and Vickie exchanged sharp glances.  It was obvious to both that Ian wasn't lying, which meant that he had no memory of the events leading up to his seizure.  Vickie made a mental note to add this to the list of items that she wanted to explore with Princess Poopy Pants.

 

“Except I did talk to her, didn't I?”  Ian was looking at Rita, needing confirmation, his voice very, very soft.

“Yes.”  She reached out to grasp his arm, wanting somehow to comfort him.  “Yes, you did.”  Her own voice equally soft.

 

“Hypnagogic hallucination,” Vickie whispered to Heidi; “his heart rate soared.  “Extensive memory loss … we're still mapping it.”

 

“So the code 2222?”

 

Vickie simply nodded.

 

“Does Sarah know?”

 

“She was on the telephone.  It was something she said that triggered the event.”

 

“Oh, dear God!  No!  That poor woman!  And you, Ian.  How are you holding up?”

 

“Reasonably well, considering that yesterday's gone.  The whole of it.  Marge put me to bed early Thursday evening, and the next thing I knew it was Saturday morning.  But Rita says that I was on the phone with Sarah on Friday morning, and she was pressuring me to make a decision about something-- and down I went.  It makes sense because I hate making decisions.  Ask me whether it's partly sunny or partly cloudy, and I'll break out in a sweat.”

 

“But … but … Manny will want you to decide between Vickie and Sarah, and to do it in front of a cafeteria filled with people who have money riding on your answer!  Talk about pressure!”

 

“Actually, I don't think that will be a problem.”  Ian's grin was positively malicious.  “Unless, of course, I pass out between here and the cafeteria from sheer hunger.  Heidi, would you believe it?  Apart from one pickle, I haven't had a damned thing to eat since Wednesday night-- except for God only knows how much breast milk served up in who knows how many pink baby bottles!  So, when we get to the cafeteria?  Stand aside, because I am going to make John Belushi look like an amateur!”

 

.  .  .  .

 

“So, what's all this about breast milk?”  Bringing up the rear, Heidi had leaned forward to whisper in Ian's ear.

 

“I'm training for the breast milk Olympics,” Ian whispered back.  “That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.”

 

The cafeteria was physically enormous, but with its high ceilings, colorful frescoes and brace of windows overlooking an adjoining patio, it was bright and far more cheerful than the drab institutional facilities that had awaited him in Japan and Hawaii.  Yokosuka and Tripler had taken nine months out of his life.  His first visit to the cafeteria in Japan had been in a wheelchair, but he had walked out of the hospital on crutches.  He had left Tripler on his own two feet, albeit with a cane in hand.  It was still hanging on a coat rack behind his office door; its twin dangled from a hook in the entryway closet of his apartment.

 

It had taken Ian less than ten days to come to terms with the diapers, in no small part because there had been so many nurses to take on the job of changing him.  Some had been coldly professional, but others had been warm and caring, and a few had clearly enjoyed mothering him.  A pragmatist at heart, Ian accepted the reality of being incontinent, and simply got on with it.

 

Being crippled was another matter altogether.  Physical therapy had got him out of the wheelchair, and exercise kept him on his feet, but he had long since reached the upper limit of his mobility.  On a good day, he could take eighteen hundred pain-free steps.  At twenty-one hundred, the pain was so bad that he was reduced to precisely three choices: sit down, fall down, or use the cane.  And he hated the cane with a deep and burning passion.  He had spent years trying to increase his range, convinced that this was a mountain he could climb if he just tried harder.  And it had all been for naught.

 

On a bad day, the horizon of his world was reduced to fifteen hundred steps.  And so he knew what lay fifteen hundred steps beyond his office or apartment door.  He had chosen his apartment with care, calculating that it was some twelve hundred steps from the nearest supermarket.  He could walk there, use the grocery cart as a walker, and then walk home.  The only variable was the weight in his grocery bags … some trips were more problematic than others. 

 

And Vickie wanted Princess Poopy Pants to crawl around on the floor like a baby?  There were times when crawling was the only way he could even move!

 

Scanning the room, Ian didn't know whether he should be relieved or disappointed that less than half of the seats were occupied.  Still, their quartet was clearly the center of attention, and the usual chit-chat had died the moment they walked in.  Once again, however, Ian was impressed with the military precision of Rita's planning.  She was directly ahead of him, taking point.  Heidi was protecting his rear, and Vickie, while outside the line, was protecting his left flank.  Reaching out, Ian grabbed a plate of green jello; he considered it a good omen that it had been cut into the same square that Belushi had snagged in the student cafeteria.  Indeed, for a long moment he thought about doing a Bluto, but the atmospherics just didn't feel right.  Shrugging, he set it neatly in one corner of his tray, and moved on.

 

The mashed potatoes and green beans were a no brainer, and there was no way to resist a bowl of cranberry sauce, but Ian stared hard at the meat loaf even as the food server behind the counter stared hard at him.  It was a mutual staring contest, and in the end the meat loaf prevailed.  But only because he was so damned hungry.

 

Dessert saved the day.  He had been expecting the usual mushy pumpkin concoction, but to his delight he had a choice of pecan pie and crème brulee-- and nestled squarely in between was an iced bowl filled to overflowing with fresh whipped cream!  Four desserts later, and having left a sizable dent in the mountain of whipped cream, Ian was just about ready to grab a seat and get down to the serious business of filling his tummy.

 

Got the bill and Rita paid it …

 

But first he needed to thank Rita, who had whipped out her wallet and paid for his lunch before he could even reach into his back pocket.

 

Ian put his tray on the table, and then reached out to hug Rita close.  He whispered his thanks into her ear.  Then, he pulled back, but just far enough to look her squarely in the eye.

 

Time stopped, the moment lingering.  Rita was clearly waiting for him to do something, but what?  Ian's brain was trapped in the romantic no man's land bordered by “almost sure” on the one hand and “not completely sure” on the other.  But he trusted Vickie, and her marching orders were crystal clear:

 

Do not think for a moment that you are going to leave Rita on the outside looking in.

 

“Thank you.  For everything you've done for me … for Don ... for Phil.  There are no words ...”

 

Ian leaned in to kiss Rita on the lips, a polite peck shared between friends.  Only ...

 

Rita kissed him back, not at all sure why, still second guessing herself, but just wanting to do it-- and do it in front of an audience gone deathly silent, knowing that this was not the performance that they had paid good money to see.

 

When Ian sat, Rita at his side, he looked up to see Vickie directly opposite.  She had a twinkle in her eyes, a huge grin on her lips, and a spoon filled with cranberry sauce in her hand.  Wordlessly, she waved it slowly in front of his eyes, and he speared it between his teeth, slowly licking it clean. 

    

Impulsively, he ran two fingers through the mashed potatoes, and offered them to her in trade.

 

Vickie laughed with delight, admiring the clever way in which he was returning her Thanksgiving favor in front of an audience very much in the know.  She leaned across the table, opened wide, and began to suck hungrily on his fingers, gambling that everyone in the room knew exactly what she really wanted to be sucking.

 

Eyes closed, Ian began to purr like a contented kitten.  The atmosphere was charged with sexual energy-- enough, he reckoned, to power an entire city block.

 

The Hotel California!  How does the lyric go? “We are all just prisoners here of our own device ...”

 

“Welcome to the Hotel California,” he hummed, extricating his fingers from Vickie's mouth and picking up his knife and fork, an impromptu pair of batons …

 

“Such a lovely place, such a lovely face ...”  Ian was staring hard at Vickie.

 

Vickie, Rita and Heidi burst out laughing.  All three joined in ... 

 

                        Plenty of room at the Hotel California

                   Any time of year

                   You can find it here …

 

Cheers and clapping erupted at the tables nearby.  The hospital was vast, but the community tightly knit.  Even the jerks appreciated the seventh floor's penchant for self-mockery.

 

Still wary of the meat loaf, Ian polished off the jello and then dove into the green beans and mashed potatoes, but he paused periodically to allow Vickie to spoon feed him still more cranberry sauce.  Along the way, Rita had to wipe his chin with a napkin, which brought a twinkle to Heidi's eye.  The whole scene reminded her of the high chair wars in her kitchen, and she wondered if Rita and Vickie knew that they were treating Ian like a great, big toddler.  He was clearly oblivious, not so much eating his food as attacking it.  And the way he was eyeing the whipped cream!  Would Rita slap his hand away if he abandoned his meal in favor of dessert? Would she scold him?  And where was his diaper bag?  Sarah had made it clear that her boyfriend was incontinent, and there was no mistaking the enormous bulge in his pants, both fore and aft.  Why weren't they prepared for the inevitable?  Right then and there, Heidi decided that she would have a heart to heart talk with the three of them about the realities of leaks and blow outs.  Ian would have plenty of both, and they needed to take his care more seriously.  When it came to diapers, there was no place for wishful thinking.

 

Why wait?

 

“Where's his diaper bag?”  Watching Ian wolf down his food, and thinking about the breast milk, Heidi had a pretty good idea how this meal would end.

 

“We change him in the ward.”  Vickie was still playfully teasing her big baby with a spoonful of cranberry sauce.

 

“Hello?  Girlfriend, we're not in the ward.  If you've been giving him breast milk?  The way he's eating right now?  Trust me … you're heading for the blowout to end all blowouts!”

 

Taking a deep breath, and offering a silent prayer to the meat loaf gods, Ian finally cut a piece off the end and shoveled it into his mouth.  He grimaced, then choked it down.  Dry and crumbly … not enough ketchup … no oregano …

 

Wouldn't even qualify as a Lurp, and there were eight of those kicking around in the bush.  Still …

 

Ian soldiered on, masking the hideous taste of the meat loaf with a makeshift relish of green beans and mashed potatoes, the gravy doing service above and beyond the call of duty.  He persevered, got through it, and turned his attention to his prized desserts.  The crème brulee called out to him the way the Sirens had called out to Odysseus, driving him mad with desire.  Saigon … Vientiane … Phnom Phen … Algiers … Paris … Montreal … the genius of Francois Massialot had traveled far, and Ian had shadowed his footsteps.  The Headhunters lived rough in the mountains and jungle, but he made sure that they dined well in their base camps.

 

Ian savored each bite of his treat, carefully doling out the whipped cream.  He worked his way through the twin slices of pecan pie (not bad, but he had had better), and was just settling in to enjoy his second round of crème brulee when Manny Cepeda slid into a chair beside Heidi.

 

.  .  .  .

 

“Ian, this is Manny Cepeda, who heads Building Services.  Manny … Major Ian Grady, who has been helping us with a couple of troubled vets in our ward.”  Rita had decided to minimize the introductions.  She knew that Ian had an ace up his sleeve, but she had no idea what he was planning.

It's an honor to meet you, Major.”  Manny extended his hand, and the two men shook.  “And from what I'm hearing, you've had a spectacular impact on the seventh floor!”

 

Ian frowned slightly.  There was more than one way to interpret Manny's comment, but he decided to be diplomatic.  “I'm glad to be of help, but I'll leave it to Rita to determine whether we're making any progress.”  Ian resumed spooning whipped cream onto his fourth and final dessert.  He was debating getting a couple more to take back to the ward-- anything to offset the godawful breast milk that he now felt obligated to drink without complaint.  He had made this bargain with Rita, and he fully intended to live up to his end of the agreement.

 

Girl, you have got to get a grip!  He gives you a polite peck, and you kiss him hard in return?  In front of the whole, damned cafeteria?  Why didn't you just shove your tongue down his throat and be done with it?  What the hell is the matter with you?

 

“Ian is being far too modest,” Rita protested.  “We've had breakthroughs with both patients.  Neither would have happened without him.  His fluency in Vietnamese, never mind Khmer and Lao, gives us a weapon that up till now has never been in the arsenal.  The possibilities are staggering.”

 

Am I in love with him?  What other reason could I have for asking the three of them to move in with me?  This is Minneapolis, not Paris!  In this burg, a sophisticate is someone who has a pepper shaker on the dining room table alongside the salt!  If the people in this room knew what we're planning, they'd think we're all certifiable!

 

“I was actually thinking of Doctor Robinson here.”  Manny, who was a full generation older than the three nurses, smiled paternally at Vickie.  “Victoria, when you walked in?  I swear, you looked like you were walking on air.  I have never seen you look so happy.  Being in love agrees with you.”

 

You think she's happy now?  Wait until I get this freaking diaper cover unlocked!

 

“And has love stolen its way into your heart, Major?  Do you love Victoria?”

 

“I do.”  Ian reached out to clasp Vickie's hand.  He had read somewhere that the newly-in-love were always supposed to hold hands in public.

 

Besides, holding hands is a hell of a lot more fun than holding hand grenades ... 

 

And then there's the breast feeding … I want to nurse him so bad that it hurts!  Is this my biological clock ticking?  At thirty-four, I'm definitely vulnerable to a smart, good-looking guy who's not only diaper dependent but needs someone to change him.  And he definitely likes being babied … so I get all the perks without going through thirty-eight weeks of hell to earn them!

 

Ian, I need sex!!!  And I want to fuck you so bad that it hurts!  But who do I want to fuck?  Major Grady, the bad assed soldier, or Princess Poopy Pants, the innocent virgin?  I'm thirty-three, and would definitely like to get it on with a virgin, but I am not, repeat not, going to put up with the angst of some horny sixteen year old!

 

“So you cannot be the soldier with whom Heidi's colleague, Sarah Haikkonen, has fallen in love.”

 

“Oh, no.  Sarah and I are very much in love.  I am hoping and praying that, when she gets back from the U.P., she will ask me to marry her.  I am looking forward to becoming Doctor Ian Grady-Haikkonen.”  Ian congratulated himself on getting all this nonsense out with a straight face.

 

Manny recoiled, utterly confused.  “I don't understand.  You just said that you love Victoria ...”

 

“I do … with all my heart.  And I also love Sarah with all my heart.”

 

“But that's impossible!  You can't love two women with all your heart!!”

 

“Why not?  Manny, I have a good friend in Karachi … you know, Pakistan?  He's a devout Muslim, has four wives, and loves them all-- and I daresay he does so with all his heart.  Where does it say that we only get to love one woman at a time?  Oh, that's right … we live in a country where first cousins can marry in California, but if they move to Nevada, the marriage will be annulled and they can be put in jail for incest.  Wonderful.”

 

“So, where … where are you going to live?”

 

“Oh, Sarah, Vickie and I all have to give notice that we're vacating our apartments, not later than the end of the year.  We're all moving in with Rita.”

 

“WITH RITA?”  Manny's voice croaked, and Ian reckoned that his eyes had swollen to about twice their normal size.  “DO YOU LOVE HER, TOO?”

 

And there's today's “Oh, shit” moment, Rita sighed.  Best to put my game face back on and tough it out.

 

“We definitely have feelings for one another,”  Ian agreed as he let go of Vickie's hand to reach out for Rita's, “but I've been so busy falling in love with Sarah and Vickie that there's been no time to work through them.  And then there's my seizure, or whatever you call it-- you know, that code 2222?  That was me.  Anyway, I'm hoping that we can spend some quiet time together later next week.”

 

“Thursday would work well for me,” Rita offered.  She began rubbing the top of Ian's hand with her thumb.  But she glared at Vickie, who was once again grinning ear to ear even as she continued humming her favorite parts of The Hotel California.

 

“And we need to find time next weekend,” Ian continued, “to sit down and figure out how much house on Lake Minnetonka our combined incomes will buy.  Communal living doth have its advantages!”

 

Heidi was laughing so hard that she was on the verge of peeing her pants.  The incredulous look on Manny Cepeda's face was priceless, and the cafeteria had gone so quiet that you could have heard a pin drop!

 

This is WAY better than Candid Camera!  Ian is a comic genius!  Move over, Groucho!!

 

“Now, Manny … about that pool that you've got going ...”

 

“You know about that?”  Manny's voice was strangled.

 

“Sure.  But I'm curious.  Do you know what a field bet is?”

 

“Of course.  At the window, you tell the guy that you want to bet on every horse in the field except Joe Schmoe.  If the odds are right, it's a good way to lay off the favorite.”  Manny was inordinately proud of his betting skills.

 

“Yeah, I like to do it at the dog races.  So, didn't anyone try to bet the field?”

 

“Nah.  Everyone laid a straight bet on Vickie or Sarah.  The punters here ain't that sophisticated.”

 

“Wow!  Imagine.  Just one person could have walked off with the whole purse.  What did it come to, anyway?”

 

 “Firty-seven grand and change.”

 

Ian whistled.  He was genuinely impressed.  “So, what are you gonna do?”

 

Manny shrugged his shoulders.  “Call it a draw, I guess.  Nobody gets nothin', end of story.”

 

“Seems fair.  Hey Manny … did you know that I'm incontinent, bladder and bowel both?”

 

“Yeah … and Major … I just wanna say that we all know what happened out there.  No one in this room's gonna make fun of you.  I promise you that.”

 

“Sit tight while I finish off this dessert.”  Ian had managed to snatch a few bites of his last crème brulee while he and Manny jousted.  He gulped down the rest, and slapped his stomach with a contented sigh.

 

“How about we start a pool on what happens when I stand up and walk away from the table?  What are the odds that I'm going to make a dump in my pants in the first thirty seconds?”

 

Now it was Manny's turn to laugh.  “One to one would be a sucker bet!  I'd put the odds of you holding out that long at seven to one against!”

 

Ian stood up, and reached out to shake Manny Cepeda's hand.

 

“Good call!  I think I'm having the blowout to end all blowouts!  You got kids?”

 

“Four … and eleven grandchildren … three of 'em still in diapers.  Seen my fair share of blowouts.”

 

Manny climbed to his feet, wished the ladies well, and walked away.   Behind him, Ian was surveying the room.  Nodding heads, hurried whispers, and the occasional pointed stare aimed in his general direction now seemed to be the order of the day.  The Hotel California indeed.

 

Inordinately proud of his contribution to the seventh floor's scandalous reputation, Ian gallantly helped Rita to her feet.  He was eyeballing the dessert counter when she put a fist in the small of his back, shook her head, and pointed him in the direction of the exit.

 

So like a toddler, Heidi grinned.

 

Ian sighed theatrically, and bowed his head in surrender.  Diaper sagging, pants straining, he waddled on his way.

 

Hi ho, hi, ho, off to the ward we go ...

 

SCENE 27:

 

LULLABIES

 

“Spread 'em, Princess!  That's right!  Now, bend over and grab your ankles … I want to see your butt crack in all its glory!”

 

Ian was back in the hydrotherapy chamber.

 

He was completely nude.

 

He was standing over the grate.

 

And Vickie was in the process of hosing him down.

 

“I swear, Princess, if blowouts were an Olympic event, you'd be in the finals!  That was the dirtiest, stinkiest diaper that I have ever seen!  And poor Rita had to take it off!  And what about the elevator?  My God!  We had to send an orderly out with a floral spray to go head to head with your gift to the masses!  So now, we have an elevator that smells like lavender scented shit!  Lucky us!”

 

Vickie was in what Ian called her mood to tease.  He adored this side of her personality.  The taunting … the humiliation … it was really turning him on.

 

And it showed.

 

“Baby, do you now understand why it was such a bad idea to have a big meal on top of all the breast milk that we've fed you?  This blowout was inevitable-- and it won't stop with just one diaper.  Heidi says that we should expect two … maybe three more.  If you want to endear yourself to the staff, I assure you that this is not the way to go about it.”

 

Rita was perched on the stool, supervising the cleanup.  Taking John Lessing's instructions literally, she had allowed Vickie to watch Ian's diaper change, but not to participate.  Still, she wanted Vickie to have some fun-- a reward, as it were, for her brilliant performance in the cafeteria.

 

Anyone with half a brain would have walked away swearing that Victoria Robinson is head over heels in love-- but they would have also walked away swearing that Vickie is still Vickie, and that the Hotel California is still the Hotel California.  As for my own performance …

 

So Rita's instructions had been simple:

 

You can hose him down.

 

You can tease him mercilessly.

 

You can whisper sweet nothings in his ear.

 

But you cannot touch him until his cock is once more locked securely away.

 

And to judge from what I'm looking at, Ian loves it all.  The more Vic teases him about his dirty diaper, the harder he gets.  The more openly we treat him like a baby, the harder he gets.

 

“Aunt Rita, have I earned a re … a reward?”  Bent over, with his legs spread, staring at the floor, Ian had started to blubber, the Princess Poopy Pants side of his personality now close to the surface.

 

“Yes, baby,” Rita cooed, “because you did well in the cafeteria.  You charmed Heidi, and you bonded with Manny.  You convinced everyone that you are in love with Vicki and Sarah both, and you made it seem so natural.  In the process, you got Manny out of a bad jam, and you even had the courage to reveal your feelings for me.  So, a reward is very much in order, and I'm going to give it to you myself.”

 

“Do I get to watch?”  Vickie tossed Ian a bar of soap, and ordered him to get to it.  She glanced up at the camera, and noted with relief that it was dead.  She had never done a threesome with Rita, and she was keen to study her friend's technique.  The knowledge would surely come in handy in the future.

 

“If you wish, but I want you to get his baby dress to the dry cleaner's before they close.  If they can't do a rush job, then go buy him another one.  We have neglected his layette for far too long.”

 

Ian groaned out loud.  He had hoped that the baby girl routine was in his rear view mirror.

 

“Don't look so sad, Princess; it's all part of your therapy.”  Ian was busy soaping his privates, and Vickie was equally busy evaluating his progress.  She preferred baby oil, but it was good to know that Ian was satisfied with simple soap and water.  “Besides, we all think that Princess Poopy Pants is simply adorable.  Now, if we can just learn how to bring her out into the open, she will spend a lot of time playing with her mommy and her aunties.”

 

“Aunt Vickie, I want her to take over because it looks like the only way that I'll ever put this nightmare behind me.  There must be a trigger … THERE MUST BE!” 

 

“For a time, we thought it was the pacifier.”  The desperation in Ian's voice made Rita's heart ache.  “In my office, before the, uh … the hallucination, you picked up the pacifier and sucked it.  When you did so the Major's eyes, which constantly dart from one object to the next, began to recede.  Your eyes became less focused … more dreamy?  It's the Princess who's behind those eyes, an innocent baby girl who looks out at the world with trust and love.  We want her as much as you do.”

 

“Then let's try the pacifier again, only give it more time.”

 

“We will, baby; I promise you, we will.  But there's something else that we want to try … tonight, when you're asleep.  And no … don't ask.  We want it to be a surprise.”

 

Rita left her perch, grabbed a towel, and began to dry Ian off.  When she was done, she led him over to the changing table.  He laid down, but raised his hips so that Rita could slide a fresh diaper beneath him.  Vickie watched quietly as her friend began to rub baby oil in his diaper area.  Rita's fingers were long, and her motions sensuous.  She was in no hurry, and not at all upset by Vickie's presence; this was, after all, their shared future.  In time, sensing that he was near, she brought the diaper up to capture the explosive climax as his body went completely limp.

 

Kissing him lightly on the lips, Rita pinned Ian's diaper firmly in place.  After he recovered enough to help, she was able to slide the baby pants into place, and then the canvas diaper cover.  When the lock clicked home, their baby was once more in chastity.

 

Vickie gave Rita a quiet thumb's up.  Both knew that their patient was increasingly conditioned to regard sex as a reward, and spankings as a punishment.  It would take time to unlock the mystery, but they fervently hoped that Bian's tape would get them more than halfway there when the sun rose on Sunday morning.

 

.  .  .  .

 

EARLIER

 

As soon as Candy left the office to attend to Ian's bath and promised reward, Rita held up her hand to silence Vickie, then picked up the phone.  She dialed the ER, and asked for Bian.  The conversation was brief, everything prearranged in the short but explosive conversation that had followed upon the Thanksgiving hoorah.

 

“Candy will take her time with Ian, maybe buy us an hour.  Marge will join us shortly to confirm that Candy is going strictly by the book.  When Candy's ready, I'll dispatch Marge to visit Phillips, and in an amazing coincidence the video feed from the hydrotherapy chamber will be interrupted.  Then Bian will be coming up to make a recording for us that might be of use in Ian's treatment.  I hope so, because it looks to me like we are fast running out of options.”

 

Vickie shook her head, her frustration evident.  “If there's a trigger, we're missing it.  And without a trigger, I can't control the transition from Major to Princess, and vice-versa.  Anything I do without a trigger has the potential to cause another hallucination.”

 

“I know, I know!”  Rita rubbed her eyes; she was tired, and she was equally frustrated.     “Before he left on Thursday, Amos was kind enough to let me record a bunch of Vietnamese phrases that he thought might be useful.  I want Ian to come in this afternoon and do the same thing.  Tomorrow I want him to sit down and edit both tapes, maybe mix in some sound effects-- give me a finished product that John and I can run by Glenn Albright.  It will take hours.”

 

“Rita, I don't like where this is going.”  Vickie was visibly uneasy.  “We're using him … oh, hell, who am I kidding?  WE ARE EXPLOITING HIM.  It's to the point where we are even trying to make money off of him!  And right now we are giving him nothing in return.  I need something to work with!”

 

“That's where Bian comes in.  She's going to record what Ian heard that last night in Hue-- the night he died.”

 

.  .  .  .

 

Rita led Ian over to the desk, and noted with satisfaction that there were precious few blue books left for him to grade.  An hour or two at the most, and then she would summon him to her office to do the recording.

 

Baby dress in hand, Vickie was en route to the dry cleaners.  Her next stop would be the shop where she would start buying items for Ian's layette, with a pink, one-piece footed sleeper her highest priority.  He would be wearing it when one of the nurses put him in his crib for the night.  After dropping it off at the hospital, Vickie planned to rush home and grab some shuteye.  If things went well, she would be up all night.

 

Nothing new there, especially on Saturdays; but on the other hand, sharing a crib with the guy I love will be a novelty!

 

Rita kissed Ian on the cheek, and left him to get on with it.  Two small speakers would get the job done, but she needed to get them out of stores and arrange for an orderly to leave them in the bathroom of room eleven while Ian was in her office.  Once he was soundly asleep, Vickie would get everything quietly hooked up.

 

They were going to transport Ian back to the night of February the sixth, nineteen sixty-eight.

 

.  .  .  .

 

EARLIER

 

“WHAT?”  Vickie bolted out of her chair, her eyes wide with shock.  “Died?  Rita … WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?”  Vickie simply couldn't credit what she was hearing.

 

“He died.”  There was no way to sugarcoat the truth, and Vickie and Sarah both needed to hear it.  “And what scares me is that this isn't the trauma that he's keeping at bay.”

 

“But what … how?  DOES HE KNOW?”  Vickie's voice was strangled, the words literally choking in her mouth.

 

“His shoulder wound was bad, Vickie, and the doctors and nurses who fled the hospital to take refuge in the American compound had nothing to work with.  The few medical supplies on hand-- just First Aid kits, really-- had long since been used up.  He was bleeding badly, and they had nothing sterile to use as a compress … no gauze pads … nothing.  So, they were down to … down to cracking open shell casings and packing the powder into the wound ...”

 

“Oh, God, no!  NO!!!”

 

“And then they lit it.  It worked, but there was no anesthetic … unless you count the vodka and gin, which Ian declined.  He wasn't the only patient that night, and he wanted the booze to go to those with greater need.”

 

“No!!  No!!  No!!” Vickie sank back into the chair, and clasped her arms across her chest.  It was hard to breathe; she felt like she was drowning.

 

“Bian spent the night on the floor, cradling him in her arms hour after hour.  They had to restart his heart a half dozen times, the old-fashioned way.  They snipped a wire, stripped the insulation, plugged it into a wall socket, and gave him the jolt.  Bian says … she says that in the end he smelled like roast meat.  And now we know what the scarring on his chest is all about.”

 

Tears began to trickle down Vickie's cheek, and she made no attempt to wipe them away.    The pain that Ian endured was far beyond the reach of her imagination, but the pain in Rita's voice, the numb monotone in which she was speaking, gripped her heart.

 

“All night long, she cradled him, and she sang to him … Vietnamese lullabies.  It was the only thing she had to ward off the pain.  When he screamed, she sang louder-- and at some point he regressed … sought refuge in infancy.  His vocabulary in the end was reduced to one word ...”

 

“Mama.”

 

“Mama,” Rita agreed.

 

“And that's where this all began-- our little baby Ian.”  Despairing, Vickie shook her head in resignation.  “Bian is his mother, Rita; in every way that matters, she is his mother.  I can't undo that, and even if I could, I wouldn't try.  I'm sorry.”

 

“Well, thank God, you won't have to.  Vic, HE DOESN'T KNOW!  Bian is adamant about that.  He was unconscious when they put him on the chopper, and the medical report that went with him was in Vietnamese.  What are the odds that the MASH team ever saw it, never mind had someone on the premises who could actually read it?”

 

“Transference,” Vickie concluded.  “That's your theory, isn't it?  The trauma regressed him to infancy, and he's never been able to let go of his refuge.  He doesn't know what happened, but the pieces are all locked away in his subconscious, just waiting for a therapist to come along and tie them all neatly together.  Gee, thanks.”

 

The bitterness in Vickie's voice shook Rita hard.  “Do you want off his case,” she hastily replied.  “I can transfer him to Becky or Candy, or wait until Sarah returns ...”

 

“No.  As you just pointed out, this is only a way station, not the end of the line.  I have to do this.”

 

“Good.  And I'm sorry, but you are going to be pulling an all nighter.  You are going to be taking Bian's place, and I do mean that in the most literal sense; it may well come to crawling into the crib and cradling him.  The goal is to lock the Princess Poopy Pants personality permanently into place, and fashion a trigger to summon her to the surface on an as needs basis.   There's your tool.”

 

“Got any ideas about the trigger?”

 

Rita grinned, a heavy burden finally lifting from her shoulders.  “The three of us are going to be learning a bit of Vietnamese.”

 

Vickie arched her eyebrows, bidding her friend to continue.

 

“A lullaby, Vic … the same lullaby that Bian sang to him hour after hour on that terrible night … the same lullaby that you and Ian will be hearing once he falls asleep.  Now, put your poker face on.  When we walk in the door, we focus on Hue; we get him to talk about what he experienced, what he remembers.  Get him actively thinking about it.  But under no circumstances are you to disclose that he died.  I want there to be no mistake about this: UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES.  We keep that card in reserve because we can only play it once, and I pray to God that we never have to play it at all!”

 

“Bian ...”

 

“She won't say a word; she knows better.  You, me, Bian, and Sarah.  It stops there.  It has to, because now he's family.  Do you want him to live in perpetual dread of coming here, worrying about some stupid Resident charging up to him and demanding that he relive his near death experiences one more time?  For God's sake, Vic!  He died six times that night!  Six times!!”

 

“Jesus.”  Vickie put a hand over her eyes and shook her head.  “So, tonight I get him to relive the regression, take Bian's place, and use love to ease the pain.”

 

“Cauterize it.  Not ease it … cauterize it.  For Bian's sake, never mind Ian's.  It's all sitting there, Vic, just like you said … sitting there inside his mind.  If he were ever to connect all the dots ...” 

 

“I get it, all right?  I get it!!”  Vickie thought it through-- thought it through to the end.

 

“Rita, if this works?  You do understand that you and Sarah will have to go through this as well, don't you?”

 

Rita merely nodded.  There was really nothing to say.

 

.  .  .  .

 

All things considered, Ian mused, this has been one of the longest and most bizarre days of my life.  If it doesn't top Budapest, it sure comes close …

 

If he had been keeping a diary, Ian decided that Candy would have earned a whole paragraph in her own right.  There was such tenderness in her eyes when she was cradling him in her arms and feeding him his seemingly endless bottles of breast milk.  The bath rivaled anything that he had experienced in Japan, and the hand job had left him so weak in the knees that he had needed her help just to crawl out of the tub.  The torrent of mushy poop that he had promptly expelled all over the floor was a detail best omitted.

 

The rest of the page belonged to Vickie and Rita.

 

To Doctors Robinson and Stevenson … 

 

Ian had to keep reminding himself that Rita and Vickie were both seasoned professionals, eight years of residency already sliding well into the past.  And he trusted both of them at all times to keep his best interests firmly in mind.  Vickie's spanking was as much a therapeutic tool as Candy's reward, and he was fully on board with the program.  Rita's sudden, unexplained love affair with breast milk and pickles, in contrast, was another matter altogether.  Hence the painstaking negotiation to get some real food into his stomach, which led to his rendezvous in the cafeteria with Manny Cepeda, the capo di tutti capi of the hospital underworld.  Rita had assured him that all was now quiet on that particular front.

 

And so Ian had come back to room eleven, to enjoy Rita's reward and to polish off the last few exams still scattered across the desk.  Vickie had departed with his vomit stained baby dress in hand, gleefully promising to return with new additions to his infantile wardrobe.  And she had been true to her word.  Three new baby dresses were hanging at the foot of his crib.  He had three genuine onesies (white with pink cartoon characters) to help his canvas diaper cover ward off diaper sag (in reality, his diapers weren't going anywhere), and Reiko had come along to get him ready for bed, zipping him into a pink footed sleeper that locked at the back of his neck, then the mittens that rendered his hands useless.  He had finished the day as he began it, on the floor, his head this time cradled in Reiko's arms, drinking bottle after bottle of breast milk-- four in all, guaranteeing him both a wet and messy night.

 

Yes, it had been a very long day, and Ian was looking forward to retreating into his crib to enjoy a well earned rest.  The lack of restraints both surprised and vaguely disappointed him, but he took it for granted that it had something to do with the surprise that Rita had promised him in his sleep.  He hoped that it was a reward of the usual kind for the hard work that he had put in after finishing his exams.  It had taken hours to review and edit the recording of Amos' rather colorful catalog of Vietnamese expressions, to which he had added a second and much longer recording of his own.  He had promised Rita that, however long it took, he would spend Sunday merging the two recordings into a cohesive whole, and work with a technician to add special effects in the background.  And yes, he would be honored to join Rita and John Lessing for lunch at the Faculty Club, and help make the pitch to Glenn Albright. 

 

The more rewards, the better.  

 

.  .  .  .

 

“How long has it been?”

 

It was shortly after midnight, and Rita was laying the diaper out on the changing table in the outer ward.  Peering over Julie Neymar's shoulder, she had confirmed that Ian was sound asleep.  They were good to go.

 

Taking off her clothes, Vickie paused to give it a moment's thought.

 

“Ward McKinney.  That would be what … four or five years ago?”

 

“Ah, the good old days, when we were young and oh, so impressionable.”

 

“When we were giving our all for the mental health cause,” Vickie laughed.

 

“Up you go,” Rita said as she pointed at the diaper, which was identical to the one that Ian and the other patients were wearing.  “Do you want me to powder you?”

 

Vickie hoisted herself onto the table, and stretched out over the diaper.

 

“No,” she decided.  “It would send the wrong message.  I just wish that I was wearing whatever scent Bian had on that night.”

 

“Sorry, but we're fresh out of barley water.  How about baby oil?  You may be wearing that diaper for the next seven hours, and I don't want you to get a rash.”

 

“I'll risk it.  The only thing I want him to smell on my skin is the breast milk.”

 

“Then let's get your diapee on,” Rita giggled as she pulled it up and pinned it firmly into place, four pins in all.

 

Vickie gave her a sour look.

 

“Now lift your hips so that I can get your widdle baby pants where they belong,” Rita teased.

 

Vickie doubled down on sour, but she complied nonetheless.

 

“And now for your diaper cover.”  Rita was waving it in Vickie's face.

 

“Just don't lose the key,” Vickie muttered when the lock clicked home.

 

“I'll leave it in Marge's locker.  I'm sure that she'll just love changing you when she comes in for her shift.”

 

“Get real.  You know how much she despises me.  She'll flush it down the toilet.”

 

“Then try hard not to go poopies, Sweetie Pie.  Oh, yes, you are such a sweet widdle baby, yes you are!”  Rita couldn't resist blowing raspberry kisses all over her colleague's exposed tummy.

 

Other than her now well diapered bottom, Vickie was completely nude.  She was ticklish, and responded helplessly to Rita's caresses.

 

“Ready for your breast milk massage?” Rita wanted to enjoy these moments to the max because she knew that, sooner or later, Vickie would be returning the favor, and paying her back in her own coin.

 

“Just be professional, okay?  I mean it, Rita; seriously, do not get me aroused!”

 

“You don't think Bian was emitting pheromones that night?”

 

“That's the question, isn't it?”  Rita and Vickie were now getting down to the nitty gritty.    They were both reasonably certain that Ian's memories of his repeated death and resurrection would be tactile in nature.  However, there was no way to guess what was in the hormonal cocktail that he had inhaled during the long hours that Bian had cradled him in her arms.  They had accordingly decided to play it safe, and use the smell of breast milk to connect to the infant who had been born that night.  If it could be used as a trigger to summon Princess Poopy Pants, so much the better.

 

Rita began carefully pouring breast milk across Vickie's chest.  Methodically, she rubbed it into the tissue, taking especial care to saturate her areolae.  If things went according to plan, Vickie would be applying the finishing touch to her nipples just before crawling into the crib and cradling Ian to her chest.

 

Standing up, Vickie donned a loose-fitting shirt and buttoned it up.  She had taken care to select a garment with large buttons; she would be working in the dark, in a very cramped space.

 

It remained only for the two of them quietly to enter room eleven, set up the twin speakers, and start the tape.  Rita retreated to Julie's office, where she would try and get some sleep on the couch.  For her part, Vickie pulled up the chair where she had delivered Ian's most recent spanking.  Her eyes rested on the man she loved, whose peaceful sleep she hoped to shatter.

 

.  .  .  .

 

                   Con cò bé bé …

 

                   Nó đậu cành tre

                   Đi không hỏi mẹ

                   Biết đi đường nào

                   Khi đi em hỏi

                   Khi về em chào

                   Miệng em chúm chím

                   Mẹ có yêu không nào

 

With the two speakers outside the crib but still within inches of Ian's head, Vickie chose to keep the volume on the endlessly looping tape turned low.  She wanted the eight lines of the nursery rhyme to be a whisper in his mind, something calling out to him softly through the darkness. 

 

And she could tell from his steadily increasing restlessness that the lyric was gradually penetrating.  At first, it astonished her that the lilting flow of the Vietnamese rhyme was exactly the same as Itsy Bitsy Spider, a tune so deeply embedded in her own memory that she could summon it at will.  But the more she thought about it, the more it made sense: parents worldwide had for centuries been employing singsong verse to ease overtired and fussy babies to sleep.  The nursery rhyme was the ideal instrument to induce theta waves in the very young.

 

At midnight, Ian had been in the delta state of deep, restorative sleep; Vickie wanted him to be in theta, and approaching alpha.  He would be ready when he began to vocalize.

 

And at two in the morning, Vickie herself was hard at work.  Bian had translated the rhyme, but it made no sense to her in either language.  So she had decided to go with memorizing the first and last lines-- the little stork, and the simple question poised to it at the end:

 

                   Do you love your mommy?

 

Vickie knew how Ian would answer the question, but she wanted the answer to come when she was in the crib, cradling him in her arms, and whispering the question into his ear.  She was taking Bian's place, and she wanted Princess Poopy Pants to take the Major's.  In effect, she was doubling down on the transference that Bian had inadvertently achieved more than a decade earlier.

 

And as is always the case, the best laid plans …

 

Vickie was running on caffeine, and the caffeine was running through her.  She had been schooled to let her urine dribble into the diaper in this situation rather than holding it-- after all, there was always a chance that the sturdy fabric would be overwhelmed by a single, long burst of pee.  It sounded good in theory, but she had been releasing pee at roughly fifteen minute intervals for the last two hours, and the once dry diaper was now progressing nicely from damp to wet, with a promise of being soaked in the not too distant future.  She was uncomfortable, and getting more so with each wetting.  The wet diaper was also disturbing her concentration, making it more and more difficult for her to rehearse the two lines that she would need to deliver flawlessly once inside the crib.

 

“Mama.”

 

Vickie looked up, not quite sure whether it was Ian, or her own imagination.

 

“Mama.”

 

In the crib, eyes tightly shut and his forehead knotted up in obvious pain, Ian rolled toward her, one arm outstretched in a blind search for comfort.

 

“Mama … mama.”  Ian was visibly struggling to get the words out.

 

Watching the video feed in her office, Julie Neymar, the third shift charge nurse, got up and walked over to the couch.  She leaned down, and began to shake Rita by the shoulder.

 

Rita came instantly awake.  Wordlessly, she climbed to her feet, and the two nurses returned to the desk to watch another high risk therapeutic gambit play out.

 

.  .  .  .

 

“Con cò bé bé,” Vickie whispered, praying that she wasn't reducing the words to unintelligible gibberish.  “Mẹ có yêu không nào?”  She reached out to turn off the tape recorder.

 

“Mama,” Ian whimpered, the pain seeping into his troubled dreams.  His shoulder was on fire, and he smelled roasted flesh.

 

“Does Princess Poopy Pants love her mommy?  Mẹ có yêu không nào?”  Vickie's warm breath carried her words  deep into Ian's brain, into the muddle of his thoughts.  She unfastened the buttons on her shirt, opened one of the bottles of breast milk lying near his head, and began to daub the rich milk onto her nipples.  When she was finished, she prepared the bottle for Ian to suck, gambling that he would move on to her breasts once she climbed into the crib.

 

“Mama … hurt, Mama … hurt bad ...”  Ian was sobbing even in his sleep, still struggling to get the words out from the broken place deep inside his mind.

 

“Con cò bé bé,” Vickie whispered again; “does Princess Poopy Pants love her mommy?”

 

“Wuv mama.”

 

“And mommy loves her Princess Poopy Pants soooo much!  And she wants to hold her Princess in her arms soooo much!  Does Princess Poopy Pants want her mommy to hold her?”

 

“Pwese, Mama … hurt … hurt so much ...”

 

Vickie nudged Ian to slide deeper into the crib, and then she climbed in.  Still on her hands and knees, she pulled the sliding panel up and listened for it to lock into place.  It did so with a resounding click, effectively imprisoning her until someone released them both come the morning.  Stretching out, she lay on her side and reached for Ian with her free hand, encouraging him to nestle his head in the crook of her arm.  She wanted him to sense the beating of her heart, and inhale the breast milk that scented her nipples and areolae.

 

Ian came to her willingly, and as if guided by some instinct buried deep in his psyche, his head came to rest with his mouth mere inches from her right breast, the nipple protruding, now rock hard.

 

Vickie ran her fingers gently through his tousled hair, soothing him.

 

“Con cò bé bé; does Princess Poopy Pants love her mommy?”  Vickie's tone was soft and seductive, as beguiling as a Siren's.

 

“Prin … sess wuv mama … wuv … mama”

 

 “And mommy loves her Princess Poopy Pants soooo much!”

 

Vickie kept at it, trying to install a mantra that would allow them to reach out to the Princess and summon her at will, but using the two Vietnamese triggers to make it unlikely in the extreme that anyone would ever summon her by mistake.  For his part, Ian proved an amazingly cooperative subject, content to remain in the borderland between alpha and theta rhythms.

 

On the illuminated face of Vickie's watch, the hands swept past three in the morning, and then four.  Her voice never rose above a hushed whisper, and her hands never stopped comforting her baby girl.  Gentle but loving circles in the small of her back, a maternal pat on her diapered bottom, fingers running through her hair, and finally, a badly damaged shoulder gently massaged.

 

Ian whimpered in pain.  Every time that her thumb pressed one particular spot, he whimpered.

 

And he called out for his mama.

 

“Come to mama,” she finally whispered.  “Let mama take the pain away.”

 

She guided Ian to her breast, and Princess Poopy Pants latched on.  The engorged nipple and the rosy areola welcomed her questing tongue, and then disappeared into her mouth, the infant in her dream state lapping up the breast milk that had dried across Vickie's chest. her hands and knees, she pulled the sliding panel up and listened for it to lock into place.

 

Vickie's body was on fire, a molten stream flowing slowly from her breast to her clitoris, and from there lapping the shore of her G spot.  A long, uncontrolled torrent of pee poured out of her bladder as she orgasmed, and then orgasmed again.  In one moment, her diaper went from wet to soaking, and her climax was so incredibly intense that she had to struggle to keep getting the words out, to keep whispering her promise to the Princess, that together they would make all her pain go away.  Blindly, Vickie's hand groped behind her head, feeling for the waiting bottle of breast milk, finding it.  But easing the Princess away from her breast, away from the one place where she was truly safe, breaking a physical bond that Vickie wanted to last forever, proved no easy task.

 

Eyes still closed, Ian nursed on his bottles, first one and then the others.  When he was finished, Vickie rubbed his back, and was pleased to get a loud burp for her efforts.  As her baby drifted down into a deeper and now untroubled sleep, Vickie hugged her tight, and gradually drifted off to a land of dreams that she had never entered before.

 

SCENE 28:

 

THE DIAPERED NURSE

 

Vickie's eyelids fluttered as she slowly came awake.  A deep wave of contentment washed over her as she realized that Ian was still cradled in her arm, his mouth slightly agape and still mere inches from her nipple.  It had gone soft during the night, but she sensed that it was rapidly hardening, her body fighting to override her brain, wanting her baby once again to latch on.

 

Sensations that she had never experienced before were coursing through her body.  Her brain was telling her that what she was feeling was mere chemistry, endorphins flooding her nervous system.  Asserting itself, her brain was coldly reminding Vickie that she was the hive queen, and that over the years she had awakened to find many a man sharing her bed, a predator's prey.

 

Her body wasn't having it.  Her body simply wasn't interested in the rationalized gibberish that her brain was pumping out.  It had taken on a life of its own, and it was ordering her not only to embrace her feelings but to revel in them.  And she was not about to disagree.

 

Running a fingernail gently along his cheek, Vickie shifted her position just enough to position her nipple so that it was grazing Ian's mouth.  He was still sleeping, but would millions upon millions of years of instinct take hold?  After all these hours, could he still smell the rich milk that perfumed her breast?

 

Ian latched on.  His mouth opened wide, trying to engulf the whole of her teat, and he began to suckle in the natural rhythm wired into the DNA of every mammal.

 

Eyes closed, fully embracing the warmth that had taken hold of her body, Vickie was living in the moment, time a concept without meaning.  Her brain was instructing her to reinforce the trigger phrase, and her body agreed, but in service of its own agenda.  Just as Ian was both an infant child and the man who soon would be her lover, so she must become mother as well as female lover.  The trigger needed to work not just for one, but for both.

 

.  .  .  .

 

“What do you think?  Should we disturb them?”

 

It was half past eight, and technically Julie Neymar's shift had ended ninety minutes earlier.  But in this as in so many other things, the Hotel California marched to the beat of its very own drum.  Rita was still asleep on the couch, and Julie was not about to fold up her tent and go home-- not in the middle of a therapeutic gambit that she had last witnessed four years earlier.  It was obvious that Ian was deeply responsive to Vickie's suggestions, but there was no sure way to measure the reinforcement required both to lock in the Princess Poopy Pants personality and the trigger.

 

“No,” Marge decided.  “Reiko, please warm another four bottles of breast milk, and take them to her … but quietly … very, very quietly.”  She hastily scribbled a note for Reiko to hand Vickie along with the milk.

 

                   HOW IS YOUR DIAPER HOLDING UP?

 

Giving it further thought, she added a second message:

 

                   REINFORCEMENT AT YOUR DISCRETION.  TO END SESSION,

                   POINT CLINCHED FIST AT CAMERA.

 

“Let's give her more time,” Marge announced.  “As much as she wants.  What I want to know is whether Ian will drink the breast milk without complaint.  It's the only way I can think of to get a quick read on the Princess Poopy Pants implant.”

 

.  .  .  .

 

Reiko eased her way into the room.  She was barefooted, not wanting to risk the possibility of even the slightest sound awakening Ian.  She handed the pad to Vickie, but reached into the crib to deposit the baby bottles on the pillow above Ian's head.

 

                   SOAKED.  BM MINUTES AWAY.  NO BIGGIE.

 

Knowing how outraged Marge would be when she observed what her archrival was planning, Vickie cryptically added:

 

          POST BA BAS, WILL ATTEMPT TO INSTALL TRIGGER FOR                          MAJOR/PROF.  CLINCHED FIST ENDS SESSION.

 

Waiting until Reiko crept out of the room, Vickie slowly pushed Ian away from her teat. She was delighted to see that he did not want to let go, and equally delighted to discover that he now welcomed his ba ba even in his sleep.  When he was finished, as she had done hours before, Vickie rubbed his back, winning another large burp for her efforts.  She then slowly removed his mittens, wanting his hands to be free, before unlocking his sleeper, and unzipping it down to his waist.  She wanted her hands to be free as well.

 

And throughout, she kept drilling the simple phrase into his brain …

 

“Con cò bé bé; does Princess Poopy Pants love her mommy?”

 

.  .  .  .

 

“We may need to clean the crib with a wet vac,” Reiko noted with a grin.  “It looks like their diapers gave up the fight hours ago, and you won't believe how bad Ian stinks.  Even by the standards of this ward, whoever gets the short straw deserves danger pay!”

 

“To judge from her note, someone's going to be dealing with two stinkpots, not just one.”  Marge handed Vickie's note to Julie, who read it and passed it on.  Quiet laughter filled the room, no one wanting to wake Rita, who had had a long night with another long day awaiting.

 

“She looks angelic.”  Candy was watching the video feed from room eleven.  Vickie was supporting Ian's head in the crook of one arm while holding the baby bottle to his lips.  One of his hands was curled into a tight fist, which rested on her shoulder.  Her features, clearly visible on the video feed, radiated maternal tenderness.

 

“Con cò bé bé; does Princess Poopy Pants love her mommy?”  Over and over again.

 

“She may actually pull this off,” Marge agreed.  “And if she does, I'm going to recommend that Sarah and Rita also pull all nighters … give Ian three mommies for the price of one.  Long-term, he needs to see all three of them with the same eyes.”

 

“I'm all for it,” Candy blurted out, “but I want to be the one who puts Rita in diapers!”

 

“Sorry,” Marge retorted, “but you'll have to pay for the privilege; it's going up for auction.  The only remaining question is whether we restrict bidding to the Hotel California or let every nurse in the hospital in on it.  The same thing with Sarah … restrict it to three and seven, or throw it open to all concerned.”

 

“Either way,” Reiko mused, “I think we should let Manny Cepeda take charge.  We need to do something to get back in his good graces, and my sources are telling me that he really likes Ian.  He was overheard telling one of the higher ups that Ian's the kind of officer that a soldier wants in command when going into battle.”

 

“Was Manny in the service?”  Candy was having a hard time imagining Manny Cepeda in uniform.

 

“The Marines … he saw combat in Korea.  He's a decorated veteran.”

 

“Only to come home, zip his lip, and not say a word to anyone … another guy hiding behind a wall.”  Dealing with combat veterans was far and away the most frustrating part of Marge's job; she well understood why Sarah had fled the VA.  “Hey, how did you find out?”

 

“It's something that Vickie taught me,” Reiko smirked.  “Wherever you work, make friends with someone who has access to personnel files!”

 

“Hey, guys, check this out,” Julie cut in.  On the video feed, Ian had finished his bottles, and Vickie was now rubbing circles on his back.  “It looks like she's trying to burp her big baby.”

 

                   BURP

 

“Aww … he's beyond cute!”  At that moment, Candy would have cheerfully exchanged places with Vickie, soaking wet diaper and all.  She had nieces and nephews, and had changed many a baby diaper.  Caring for babies always caused her maternal juices to flow, and Ian's vulnerabilities were having the same effect.

 

“Now let's see what she has in mind for triggering his adult personality,” Marge interjected.

 

Everybody gathered around to peer over Julie's shoulder and eavesdrop on the drama unfolding in room eleven.  Vickie was taking her time removing Ian's mittens, after which she methodically unzipped his sleeper, giving her access to his diaper cover.

 

.  .  .  .

 

 

“Con cò bé bé; does Princess Poopy Pants love her mommy?”  Vickie was speaking in a normal tone of voice for the first time in hours, but when Ian didn't stir, she opted to tickle him instead.  Everyone on the staff had tickling patients down to an art form, no matter how they were dressed.

 

With his eyes still tightly shut, Ian began waving his free arm in a vain attempt to ward her off.

 

“Con cò bé bé; does Princess Poopy Pants love her mommy?”  Vickie kept at it, wanting Ian not only to wake up but to give her some indication of how he was responding to the trigger.

 

“Wuv mama …”

 

“Mama?”  There was hesitation in his voice, clear uncertainty.  Coming awake, Ian could not remember where he was or what he had been doing.  Instead, he remembered pain-- but at some point it had faded away.  The broken place in his mind no longer hurt.

 

“Good morning, Sleepyhead!  Does Princess Poopy Pants love her mommy?”

 

“Mama.”  Coming fully awake, eyes finally wide open, Ian's face lit with joy.  Aunt Vickie was in his crib!  Was she his mommy?  Was it her beautiful voice, her lullaby, that had filled his dreams?

 

“Mommy's here, Princess, and she loves you sooo much!  Does Princess Poopy Pants love her mommy?”  Still cradling her big baby, Vickie draped her free arm across his back, hugging him close.

 

“I wuv you, mama … sooo much!”

 

He's fully regressed … close to pre-verbal.  But who is he?  WHO IS HE?”

 

“Does my baby have a name?”

 

Ian frowned, trying to remember, but it was hard.  And then it came to him …

 

“PRINCESS POOPY PANTS,” he cried triumphantly.

 

.  .  .  .

 

“PRINCESS POOPY PANTS!”

 

Around Julie, the room erupted with cheers-- cheers loud enough to wake Rita from a fitful sleep.

 

Sitting up, running her fingers through tangled hair.

 

“What did I miss,” she grumbled.

 

“Vickie's done it!  She's done it!”  Candy was absolutely elated.  “Ian identifies as Princess Poopy Pants!  He responds to the trigger!”

 

.  .  .  .

 

“I love you, Ian … I love you sooo much!”

 

There was no preamble, and no warning.  Vickie was gazing into the Princess' eyes … eyes that were awash with love and trust.  A young child's innocent eyes.  She leaned over, stared at him, then kissed him hard, using her tongue to force his mouth open, invading him once again.  Fingernails trailing down his now exposed spine, she began to toy with the waist band of his diaper cover.  She knew that her fingers drove him wild.

 

She sensed his confusion, but she also sensed the exact moment of his resolve … the exact moment when he kissed her back, his tongue now dueling with hers.  She opened eyes that had drifted shut, wanting only to feel him with her tongue.

 

And Ian was there, studying her, his expression at first questioning, then accepting, then joyous.

 

And Vickie fell in love all over again because no man had ever looked at her quite this way, with such raw, unrehearsed emotion.  His love was so palpable that, for a brief moment, she wondered if she could reach up and snatch it out of the air.

 

“Of all the cribs in all the towns in all the world, she crawls into mine.”  Ian's hand drifted down Vickie's body, her breasts fully exposed, the shirt crumbled beneath her.  It came to rest on her diaper cover, and a light push was all that it took for Ian to confirm that she was heavily diapered, and very, very wet.

 

“Good morning, Sweetheart; and yep, I'm soaked.  Now, if you'll just give me a moment ...”

 

Vickie scrunched up her face, and the next thing Ian heard was a loud, wet fart.  “Ah,” she said, “at last.  That feels so good!”

 

Ian didn't need to ask, not with the noxious odor that suddenly invaded their realm.  He gently tapped her butt, imagining the poop busily rearranging itself inside her diaper in response to his touch.

 

“Now we both stink.” she laughed.  “We're equal opportunity stinkpots!”

 

Ian reached up to grasp her by the chin, pull her close, and kiss her all over again. 

 

“I love you, Victoria Robinson, and for the life of me, I cannot imagine a universe in which I do not love you.”

 

Vickie leaned down to rest her forehead on his.  “I could stay like this forever,” she confessed, “wet and poopy diapers and all.  But you promised Rita that you would spend the day working on the recording, which will definitely earn you another reward!  So, baths for the both of us, then I'll feed the Princess her ba bas, after which the Major can get to work.”

 

“And will you be wearing a diaper the rest of the day?”

 

“No, baby, just when I'm sharing your crib.  But take heart.  Soon, very soon, you'll wake up to find Sarah or Rita in your crib, nicely diapered, soaking wet, and maybe just as poopy as we are.  Your mommies all want to share this time with you.”

 

“I don't understand,”

 

“No.  But the Princess does.”

 

Vickie raised a clinched fist, and waved it at the camera.

 

.  .  .  .

 

Candy couldn't resist rubbing it in because, privately, she thought that Marge's by the book attitude was just an excuse for not taking chances.  It wasn't that she was a jerk in Sarah's sense of the word, but she was a jerk nevertheless. 

 

“Marge, refresh my memory.  I don't recall French kissing serving as a trigger in the chapter that the textbooks devote to Multiple Personality Disorder.  Do you think Vickie should write an article on the subject?”

 

“Only if she wants to lose her job,” Marge sniffed.

 

“But the results?  Spectacular!  And it's common sense.  What could more reliably trigger an adult male personality than having a beautiful woman play tonguesies inside the guy's mouth?”

 

“And if there's no 'beautiful woman' in the therapist's chair?  What then?”

 

“Maybe his receptionist,” Julie offered hopefully.

 

“Enough already,” Rita growled.  “Marge, you do the honors.  Take them both to hydrotherapy and clean them up … but one at a time, starting with Ian.  I want him back under lock and key before you deal with Vickie.  But let him stay and watch.”

 

“Good Lord!  Why?  They're both in heat!”

 

“Precisely.  When you're finished with Vickie and she's properly dressed, she'll take him back to eleven, plank his butt on the floor, and then try and wade through all of those hormones to reach Princess Poopy Pants.  If she's successful … if she can get him to drink his ba bas without complaint … then Sarah and I will take turns reinforcing Vickie's trigger.  Once it is reliably locked in place, this battle will be more than half won.”

 

.  .  .  .

 

“All right, you two, it's time to rise and shine.  There's a bath in both of your immediate futures, but alas, you'll be bathing separately.  Ian, use the pull rope.  Vickie, do you need help, or can you get your squishy butt out of there without assistance?”

 

Marge stepped on the treadle, and lowered the side of the crib.

 

“We'll manage, thank you.”  Vickie was all sweetness and light, and not about to let Marge ruin her day.  She kept her game face on as she eased out of the crib, feeling the poop in her diaper rearrange itself as she slid onto her feet.  She turned instantly to help Ian, whose own diaper was in far worse shape.  Helping to steady him on his feet, she hugged him close.  Then she freed his arms from the sleeper, dropped to the floor, and finished undressing him.  Keeping them at arm's length, Marge dispatched both the sleeper and Vickie's pee stained shirt straight into a hamper for soiled clothing.

 

Entering the six digit code, Marge unlocked the door and pointedly held it open.  Hastily donning a hospital gown that she had earlier left on the changing table, Vickie went first, but once in the corridor she reached out to clasp Ian's hand.  She led him down the hallway at a leisurely pace, but once inside the hydrochamber, directed him to stand over the drain while going herself to sit on the stool.  Vickie had seen Marge in action, and she knew that Ian was going to get the no nonsense, by the book treatment.  He would be stripped, hosed down, tossed a bar of soap, and then directed to take a soak in the tub.  At bath's end, Marge would throw him a towel, and after he finished drying off, put him on the changing table, a clean diaper and baby pants prefacing his return to enforced chastity.  Then it would be Vickie's turn.

 

And so it went, and with far less teasing than Vickie was expecting.  She stepped out of the tub, grabbed the towel from Marge's outstretched hand, and dried off.  When she finished, she looked around for her clothes, only to find Marge gesturing in the direction of the changing table.  There was a diaper spread out waiting for her.

 

“Where are my clothes?”  Vickie kept it short and to the point.

 

“Your top went into the hamper.  Perhaps you didn't notice, but everything the two of you were wearing was covered in feces and urine.”

 

“I have fresh clothes in my locker.”

 

“Fine.  Then a few minutes in a diaper won't be a big deal.  Let's get you dressed; you can get the key to your diaper cover from Rita, and change in the locker room.”

 

“Or you could run out, collect my stuff, and bring it back to me.”

 

“Sorry.  I”m scheduled to work with Don Phillips this morning, and you have already thrown me two hours behind schedule.  So, up you go.”  Marge patted the top of the changing table.

 

“Fine.”  Vickie hopped up on the table without further ado, and stretched out on the diaper.  She lifted her hips so that Marge could position it correctly, and waited.  To her surprise, however, Marge walked across the room and pulled a jar of rash cream and a canister of baby powder out of an overhead bin.  Returning, she ordered Vickie to bend her knees and pull them back to her tummy, exposing her rear end.

 

“Is this really necessary?”  Vickie couldn't keep her impatience out of her voice.

 

Ignoring her, Marge systematically rubbed the cream all over her bottom, then doused it liberally with baby powder.  Pushing on Vickie's knees to lower them, she ordered her to spread her legs.  Marge applied an even heavier layer of the barrier cream to Vickie's nether region, then followed up with another round of baby powder.

 

“It is,” Marge finally responded.  “Look, let's face facts.  You and I disagree professionally, and neither one of us is particularly fond of the other.  But right now you are in my care, and I will not have you come down with a diaper rash on my watch.  Now, I am going to pin your diaper in place, and then we are going to finish up with a clean pair of baby pants and a new diaper cover.  A locked diaper cover.  You can wear the same gown,, but like Ian's, it's going to be zipped and locked.  Rita wants you to take Ian back to eleven, get Princess Poopy Pants to take over, and feed her four bottles of breast milk.  If you can pull this off, then Rita and Sarah will take their turns in Ian's crib.  If you need more time to set the trigger, Rita will presumably give it to you.  Either way, when you are finished she wants the two of you to report to her office.  She'll decide whether or not to keep you in diapers.”

 

“News to me,” Vickie shrugged.

 

“It shouldn't be.  Vickie, you have been playing fast and loose with your professional responsibilities ever since Ian walked into your life, and you are straining Rita's ability to cover for you.  Case in point: using a French kiss as a trigger.  Granted, it worked … but it should have been the court of last resort, not the first.  You are behaving … both of you are behaving … like a pair of lovesick teenagers.  Rita ordered me to bathe you separately because she knows … we all know what is going to happen when Ian's diaper cover finally comes off.  As it is, the only way to guarantee that he doesn't service you orally is to keep both of you under lock and key.  Don't be surprised if she decides to do just that.”

 

“Thanks for the heads up, Marge.”  Vickie's tone was excruciatingly polite.  “Perhaps one day I'll be able to return the favor.”

 

“I'm sure,” Marge grinned.  “Now, let's finish getting you dressed, and then both of us can get back to work.”

 

Leading Ian back to room eleven, Vickie now looked like any other patient in the secure ward.

 

.  .  .  .

 

Lying on the floor, her back propped against the changing table, Vickie patted a spot next to her.  Ian happily dropped to his knees, then spread out.  He ended up with his head resting on her tummy.

 

Vickie ran her fingers through his hair, reminding herself for the umpteenth time that he badly needed a haircut.  There was a barber shop on the premises, and it was open on Sunday.  Vickie debated asking Rita for permission to take Ian for a trim,, but first she would have to find out what the deal was with Rita and her diapers.  If Marge was telling the truth, the odds were good that Rita wouldn't let the two of them go anywhere unsupervised without both being locked in their makeshift chastity belts.

 

But was she telling the truth?  As she continued absentmindedly to run her fingers through Ian's hair, Vickie's thoughts ranged beyond Rita to Sarah.  Two women in love with the same man, who loved each of them in return.  He would marry one, but share his bed with both, and no doubt with Rita as well.  Incontinence and a locking diaper cover would keep Ian on the straight and narrow, but how would Sarah insure that her partners remained faithful?  Would she settle for promises, or demand a more tangible guarantee?

 

Vickie winced.  The more she thought about it, the more obvious the answer became.  She was already wearing what amounted to a canvas clad guarantee; it only remained for Sarah to insist on being in sole possession of the key.  Could she do her job if she was returned to diapers 24/7?  The answer was clearly yes.  It might be uncomfortable, it might even be humiliating, but it was certainly doable.

 

Cutting to the chase, Vickie acknowledged that there was really only one issue in play: how much was she willing to endure to share her life with the man she loved-- the only man whom she had ever loved?

 

Looking down on Ian, continuing to run her fingers through his hair, Vickie only had to pose the question to see the answer.

 

.  .  .  .

 

In the aftermath, Vickie decided that, on the whole, the session had gone about as planned, maybe even a bit better.  It had helped that Ian had chosen, laying his head on her tummy, to face her.  His eyes were watching her, but perhaps he did not realize that she was both watching him in return and gauging his reactions to her commands.  If they were lovesick teenagers, as Marge had suggested, it was also the case that they were patient and therapist.

 

“Con cò bé bé; does Princess Poopy Pants love her mommy?”

 

Vickie's tone was nonchalant, her fingers never pausing as they continued to dance across his scalp.  The relaxation technique was used in massage parlors worldwide, and Ian had enjoyed it on many occasions in many countries.  It was very effective.

 

She repeated the trigger phrase.

 

Watching, she could see the confusion begin to assail his mind, his eyes beginning to cloud over, losing their sharp focus.  Ian's reaction mirrored what Rita had observed in her office, when he slipped the pacifier into his mouth and began to suckle. 

 

Repeating the phrase a third time, and watching it take hold, Vickie made a mental note to slip Ian a pacifier in tandem with the trigger phrase.

 

“Mommy's here, Princess, and she loves you sooo much!  Does Princess Poopy Pants love her mommy?”

 

 “I wuv mommy,” the Princess shrieked “I wuv my mommy!”

 

“Does my baby have a name?”

 

Ian frowned, but only for a moment.

 

“PRINCESS POOPY PANTS,” he cried, his voice at once both more high pitched and more childlike than it had been just sixty seconds earlier.

 

“Good girl!  Princess Poopy Pants is such a good baby, and mommy loves her sooo much!  Do you want your ba bas, hmm?”

 

In response, Ian simply opened his mouth wide.  Vickie had to turn to cradle him in her arm, but he latched onto the bottle without complaint.  One became four, his eyes never leaving her, eyes trusting and so full of love.

 

When he was finished, she burped him once more, Ian's response to her touch becoming more and more autonomic.

 

And to hell with Marge … to hell with all of them …

 

She kissed him hard on the lips, forcing them open, once more penetrating his mouth with her tongue, driving it deep into him, brutally pushing his own tongue out of the way.

 

Ian surfaced quickly, this response also becoming more efficient with repetition.  He rolled to bring her on top, and opened his mouth wide, all but begging her to ravish him with her tongue.

 

Vickie was in heaven, a dominant ready instantly to comply with the demands of her submissive.  Their mutual appointment with Rita could wait a little longer.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

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