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AN HOMAGE TO VINCENT VEGA

 

SCENE 35:

 

JULIA TWINKLETOES

 

“Oh, God, this is beyond heavenly,” Priscilla moaned.  Eyes firmly shut, she was rolling the baklava around in her mouth, trying to give all of her taste buds a fighting chance.  “Frida's outdone herself!”

 

“There's an entire tray in the kitchen,” Julia remarked.  “Leftovers from the usual Spanos Thanksgiving bash.  You can take the whole tray if you like.”

 

“I like, but my waistline says no, no, no … my waistline and my uniform!”

 

“You can give it to the guys at the station,” her father suggested.  Sergeant Herb Canon had put in twenty three years with the police department.  He had walked the beat, driven a patrol car, and was now riding a desk.  Administrative work had made a mockery of his once rock hard tummy.  “It goes great with ouzo,” he added helpfully.

 

“No, Dad, you're wrong.  Ian says that you serve ouzo with black olives and grilled octopus, preferably on a moonlit night in the shadows of the Lycabettus.  He prefers the baklava in Istanbul, with one of those teeny tiny cups of Turkish coffee … what do you call them?”

 

“Demitasse,” Julia put in.

 

“That's it,” she exclaimed; “served medium sweet somewhere on the Bosporus, just like James Bond in From Russia with Love.”

 

“A new boyfriend?”  Herb's ears had picked up.  His daughter was closing in on thirty, and didn't have a boyfriend, never mind a husband.  He was getting worried about the sands of time, knowing how swiftly the hour glass turned over.

 

“I wish,” Priscilla sighed.  “Professor Grady is a newbie, just a couple of years older than me.  He's in East Asian Languages, and despite the diapers, he's the hottest commodity on campus.  The scalp hunters are going crazy!  But he's already been taken off the market.”

 

“Diapers?”  Now it was Julia whose ears perked up.  “What's this about diapers?”

 

“He was in Viet Nam, Mom, and he was badly wounded.  He has to wear diapers all the time … he needs them.  But he's engaged to a nurse, and they're moving in with two other nurses, so he's got a lot of help.  I met one of them this afternoon … Doctor Robinson.  She's really nice, and she's gorgeous in a Sandra Dee kind of way.  Standing side by side, she makes Suzie Marshall look like a worn out tramp.  Anyway, they're throwing a party on Saturday night, and I'm going … but then, so is Suzie.  Vickie and Suzie were both Pi Iota Sigma, and heated rivals.  It wouldn't surprise me if we end up with blood spattering the walls in Rita's living room.”

 

“Rita?”  Now Herb was really paying attention. “Are we talking about Doctor Rita Stevenson?  The psych ward?”

 

Priscilla pulled a piece of scratch paper out of her pocket.  Confirming the name, she nodded.  “I'm not sure, but Vickie definitely works there.  Ian is her patient.”

 

“Rita is the senior charge nurse in the ward,” Herb explained to his wife.  “She has given expert testimony on the Department's behalf many times.  She's highly respected.”

 

“Pris, it sounds like you have quite a story to tell.  It's not every day that you show up for dinner singing the praises of a young, hotshot professor one minute, and then casually adding that he's a psychiatric patient the next.  Why don't you lay it out for us?” Julia looked expectantly at her daughter.

 

“I've just got bits and pieces, Mom, but it sounds more like two stories than one.  In the first story, Ian's this poorly paid, first year professor just doing his job, and all of a sudden the corporate headhunters get a sniff that there's this new guy in town who speaks dozens of foreign languages.”

 

“Blood in the water,” Julia observed.  It was easy to see where this part of the story was going.  The Twin Cities were home to some of the largest international corporations in North America.

 

“Well put,” Priscilla agreed.  “The first one showed up for his afternoon office hour, and there's probably more on the way.  Normally, he would be left to fend for himself, but on Saturday morning the Chief got a call at home from a professor who apparently oversees the psych ward at the hospital.”

 

“John Lessing,” Herb supplied, glancing at his wife.  “A very heavy hitter.  We get a piece of the action, but he's done a lot of profile work for the FBI.  Serial killers are his specialty.  He's a good man to know.”

 

“Anyway, it turns out that Ian had some kind of seizure in Rita's office on Friday morning, and it really shook the staff.  It sounds like he blacks out when he's under pressure, so I'm there to run interference when the headhunters show up.  The Chief says it's an open-ended assignment, and that on campus I have to stick to him like glue.  And now I have to contend with Suzie Marshall, who's flooding the corridor with coeds to keep the headhunters at bay.  She setting me up, Dad … asked me for a ride back to the sorority house, took me out for a drink when I went off shift … she's playing nice, collecting IOU's.”

 

“Trading favors is a big part of police work.  You do something for me, I do something for you.  And you don't even have to keep score-- rest assured that Marshall will do so for you.”

 

“Are you and Suzie riding together on Saturday night?”

 

“I'm not sure, Mom.  I'm going with Amy … Ian's secretary.  She's another nice lady.”

 

“It would be worth your while to collect Suzie along the way.”

 

Priscilla looked at her mother, a blank expression on her face.  She clearly wasn't getting the picture.

 

“If she gets drunk, you will get her safely home ...”

 

“A favor for a favor,” Herb laughed.

 

.  .  .  .

 

“Does Princess Poopy Pants love her mommy?  Mẹ có yêu không nào?”

 

Still cradling Ian in one arm while rubbing lazy circles on his tummy with the other, Vickie was maintaining steady eye contact.  The breast milk made it easy for her to overwhelm his senses of taste and smell, and her maternal touch and voice were hypnotic.  But she wanted control of all five senses, and vision was proving a challenge.  She calculated that getting literally in his face would be the best tactic.

 

“Prin … sess wuv mama,” Ian cried, reaching up for her, both arms awkwardly extended.

 

The deeply infantile gesture gladdened Vickie's heart.  Ian was a therapist's dream come true.  His determination to work with her to tear down the wall, and his unyielding faith in her ability to make it happen, was a combination so potent that it was opening unexpected doorways into his psyche-- doorways that took her breath away.

 

“And mommy loves her Princess Poopy Pants soooo much!  Yes, she does!  Yes, she does!  Yes, she does!  Does Princess Poopy Pants love her ba bas?”

 

“Ba ba, mama … ba ba!!”  The Princess began sucking her thumb.  She was still hungry, and she wanted to suck.

 

Vickie wasn't at all sure of the age at which Princess Poopy Pants was functioning, and for that matter she wasn't at all sure of the age that she should be trying to lock down.  On the one hand, she needed the infant to be helpless, dependent, and trusting.  But she also needed her to be both verbal and capable of conceptualizing.  Above all, it was vital for the Princess to grasp that spankings were punishments, and that punishments would always be forthcoming when she was naughty and uncooperative.  The contradiction between dependence and cooperation was easy to see, but the solution had so far eluded her.

 

“Baby, do you remember Mama's turkey drumstick?”

 

“Dwum … tick,” Ian giggled.  “Cwan … bear!”

 

“That's right, Princess!  And later auntie Marge put you to bed in your crib ...”

 

“Ba bas,” Ian cut in.  “I had ba bas!  I wuv ba bas!”

 

“And you had such a good sleep.  In the morning, did you have more ba bas?”

 

“Uh huh.  Auntie Candy gave me lots of ba bas.  I wuv ba bas!”

 

“And did you get to see auntie Rita?”

 

“Uh huh.”  Ian was visibly tensing.

 

She remembers.  God, she remembers!”

 

“Did you have a good time in auntie Rita's office?”

 

“Hurt, Mama … bad hurt.”  The Princess was shaking her head, tears leaking from her eyes.  Remembering.

 

“Who … no, what hurt you, baby?”  Vickie corrected herself instantly.  The phone call with Sarah was a dead end.  She needed to get inside Major Grady's head.  “Tell Mama, baby; what hurt you?”

 

“Scary,” the Princess whispered. She buried her head in Vickie's bosom, trying to hide.

 

“Was Major Grady hurt?  Did you see him fall down in auntie Rita's office?  Was he hurt?”

 

“Uh huh.  Hurt bad, Mama … scary bad.” 

 

The Princess was whimpering, but her hand shot out to rub the wound on her left thigh.  The round had carved a path through the meat, blowing away a large chunk, the hideous scar papered over by a successful skin graft in one of the surgical procedures that Ian had undergone in Japan or Hawaii.

 

Flashback!  It's got to be a flashback!  Sarah was painting him into a corner, forcing him to make a decision, and his subconscious countered by hurling him back to his last battlefield.  We know he was badly wounded … his fourth Purple Heart … nine months of surgeries and rehab … and on Friday morning the Princess was there!  God, when he collapsed she was inside his mind, eavesdropping!  Is she touching the first wound?  It can't be the last, the one that made him incontinent.  But how could he have fought on?  The pain must have been … no, wait!  Adrenaline!  The adrenaline surge would have bought him what?  Three, four extra minutes?  An eternity on the battlefield.  Did you somehow get back on your feet, still in command?  Oh, God, Ian!  My poor baby!

 

Vickie covered the Princess' hand with her own.  “Tell Mama, baby … did it hurt bad?”

 

“Bad hurt, Mama,” the Princess sobbed.  “Bad hurt.”

 

Smoke was beginning to blanket the battlefield, the Cobras buzzing like angry hornets, but all of their fire directed at the tree line because he had never input the coordinates for the rice paddies on their right flank.  And now he couldn't see shit … not from his knees.  Using his M-16 as a crutch, Street Racer struggled to his feet and somehow managed to move, his left leg a dead weight that he could only drag along behind him.  But he was moving, that was the important thing.

 

“Sierra three to Zulu three,” he screamed, hoping that Cobra leader would catch his squawk.  “Sierra three to Sierra eight … Zulu three to Zulu eight … torch it!”

 

Street Racer glanced back over his shoulder, quickly assessing his left flank.  Nothing would be getting through the wall of flame and the roiling, oily smoke that was consuming the ridge line.  Nothing.  It was time, he decided, to boogie.  He let go of the M-16, needing both hands to signal the evac order, the LZ already marked.  He wanted to close down their left flank, relying on Grissom and his platoon to serve as a trip wire on their rear.  As always, his teams would play leapfrog, closing in a circle that would draw ever tighter around the LZ, carrying their wounded in the classic fireman's lift … and sometimes dragging or carrying their dead.  For his company, it was the Eleventh Commandment-- no one gets left behind.  Whole, wounded, or in a body bag …

 

everyone goes home.

 

Vickie felt like she was being torn in two.  Ian was literally shaking in her hands, the Princess clearly replaying Ian's last battle in her childlike mind.  The therapist knew that this was the path Ian must travel, knew that she should be pushing the little girl to give voice to the nightmare in which she was now trapped.  But she couldn't do it, and it wasn't because John Lessing had warned her not to trigger another hallucination unless Ian was in a controlled environment.  In this moment, and in this place, she simply couldn't bear to inflict still more pain upon the man she loved.

 

Minh would have to wait.

 

Vickie had no anesthetic to offer Ian, nothing tangible with which to ease his pain.  And so she took refuge in the one thing she thought might help.  Still cradling him, his head resting against her beating heart, she sang to him.

 

Her favorite lullaby. 

 

And that is how Sarah found them when she walked through the door.

 

.  .  .  .

 

The telephone rang as Priscilla was clearing the table.  She answered it before either of her parents could get up.

 

“Oh, hi, Uncle Andrew; do you want to talk with Mom?  She's right here.”  Pris held out the phone, wondering even as she did so what Andrew Jones could possibly want with Julia at this time of the night.  For the firm of Aardvark, Platypus, and Twinkletoes, Attorneys at Law, the last six weeks of the year were a financial train wreck, with income typically reduced to the rent that the trio collected from the three businesses leasing most of the floor space in their building.  The law office shared the second floor with an insurance agent; down at street level, a delicatessen and dry cleaner's did a booming business year round, thanks to the building's location.  It was directly opposite the main entrance to one of the largest hospitals in the state, and thanks to a brief conversation between Herb and a City Councilman, a crosswalk not only bridged the gap but also came equipped with on demand traffic signals.  Doctors and nurses desperate for a pastrami on rye were not to be delayed as they rushed to and fro, and blood stains were the house specialty at the adjacent dry cleaner's.

 

“Is everything arranged?”  Julia was cradling the phone against her shoulder as she opened a drawer and took out a city directory.  She had already earmarked the page for   the industrial zone in the northwestern suburbs.  “Uh huh … good.  The delivery truck will leave the premises at ten after eight, and follow the route I laid out for you.  Once it reaches the main highway, the driver will follow the same route he always does on Tuesdays.  Now, give me the first dozen addresses.”

 

Slowly and methodically, Andrew did so, running through the list a second time to make sure that Julia hadn't missed one.  She hadn't.

 

“Right, I'll ease out behind him somewhere along the way.  Changing his approach to the main highway may or may not throw them off the trail; it all depends on how many vehicles they have staking out the area.  But if they're there, I'll sniff them out.”

 

Julia hung up the phone, and gestured for Priscilla to sit while she poured coffee for three.  Returning to the table, Julia added cream to her cup, knowing that her husband and daughter would both take it black.

 

“You mentioned that this Professor Grady of yours wears diapers,” Julia remarked over the top of her cup.  “I've just been hired by Lullaby Adult Diaper Service.  It seems that last week someone was following their delivery truck around the Cities, stealing the bundles of clean diapers that the driver was leaving on doorsteps.  The enterprising thieves have put a sizable dent in the service's inventory, which means in their bottom line.  The proprietor is most unhappy, and the proprietor is one Spats Belmondo.  He wants his diapers back, tout suite.”

 

“Mom, that's an amazing coincidence!  Ian is one of their customers; he gets his diapers delivered to his apartment on Wednesday afternoons.  He told me that his fiancee wanted him to cancel the service this morning and use hospital diapers instead, but he just couldn't bring himself to do it … not over the telephone.  He says that the lady who runs the service has been very considerate, so he thinks that the least he can do is go out there  late tomorrow afternoon and tell her in person.”

 

“Hmm.  When do you think he would show up?”

 

“Well, he has office hours until three, so … maybe … three thirty?  A little later?  It all depends on his ride.”

 

“He doesn't drive?”

 

“His car's down for the count.  Vickie will drive over from the hospital to pick him up.”

 

“I see.”  Deep in thought, Julia began absent mindedly chewing on a knuckle.  “Right,” she finally said, “here's what we're going to do.  I want you to confirm that your gallant, young professor will indeed be making the trip out to Lullaby tomorrow afternoon.  Second, find out if he will have his diapers in tow, or will be leaving them outside his door for the service to pick up on Wednesday.  Either way, I'll be there to greet him, so it would be best for you to tag along and make the introductions.  FYI, he won't be canceling his service-- at least, not this week.”

 

“Mom?”  Priscilla couldn't see what her mother had in mind.

 

“Bait, Dear … bait.  Come Wednesday afternoon, the good professor and I are going to use his diapers as bait.”

 

.  .  .  .

 

“She's sleeping,”

 

“The Princess?”

 

Vickie nodded.  “It's been a hard night.  She has his memories.  The deeper I probe, the more trauma I'm uncovering.  It took me almost an hour to calm her enough to get her to sleep.”

 

“I thought you'd be hungry, so I stopped for take-out.  You good with Chinese?”

 

“Fong's?”

 

“What else?”

 

“I'm starved.  Sarah, this is taking a lot out of me … emotionally, I mean.  I never would have guessed that in the process of tearing down Ian's wall, my own would crumble to dust.  I looked at that photo … I sat in the parking lot, and I really looked at it.  And then I  started to cry.  The tears wouldn't stop, but I didn't want them to.  They were a way to inventory all the mistakes that I've made in my life.  And here I sit ...”

 

Vickie leaned forward, and gently kissed the crown of Ian's head.

 

“I'm good at my job, and by any measure, I'm a success.  But it's not enough, not any more.  Ian's the trapdoor that's opened beneath my feet.  Falling in love has led me to some very hard truths, starting with the now screamingly obvious fact that we can't have it all.  None of us.  We have to make choices, and we have to be prepared to live with them.  So, tomorrow I'm going to march my butt down to the lab and let Linda run the tests.  And if I can have a baby, I want Ian to give me one.  I want to start a family.”

 

Vickie looked up at Sarah, belatedly embarrassed that she had bared her soul to a close friend coming off a twelve hour shift, a friend who would soon marry the man she was cradling in her arms, the man whose child she wanted to bring into the world.

 

“You mad?”

 

Sarah simply shook her head, and bent down to put the bags of Chinese food on the floor.  “I'll get plates” she muttered, as she turned toward the kitchen.

 

“Grab a couple of beers, will you?  Ian's frig is well stocked … and have you peeked in the broom closet?  Rita's pantry will soon be overflowing!”

 

“Do you want to take care of your diaper first,” Sarah asked as she knelt down with a precarious grip on plates, silverware, and two cold beers.

 

“Later.  Right now, I just want to eat, and enjoy your company.  I missed you.”

 

“Same here … and for the record?  The photo also hit me hard.  The only difference is that I already knew that my life was a mess-- a quiet mess, mind you, not the truly spectacular, show stopping performance that you were putting on.  The whole hospital is having a ball watching you bob and weave way up there on the high wire ...”

 

With Vickie tenaciously cradling Ian, Sarah took it upon herself to load up their plates.  On impulse, she took a spoonful of sweet and sour pork and waved it in front of Vickie's face.  “Here comes the airplane,” she grinned; “open the hangar door!”

 

Vickie obliged with a smile.  A little rice, and then she wanted Sarah to have a go at the lemon chicken.

 

“You should know that Rita has already run the tests,” Sarah went on, “and will get the results tomorrow.  The hospital's in a frenzy, and to judge from all the knowing looks that I got en route to the parking garage, I'm guessing that the results of Ian's sperm test have also gone public.  Need I add that Manny Cepeda was lying in wait when I got off the elevator?  He pressed me on our plans, and ever the gentleman, he wants the three of us to give him our blessing before he starts a pool.”

 

“Roughly translated, what you're saying is that he doesn't want Estrellita to rip him a new one!”  Vickie and Sarah both knew who wore the pants in that particular household.

 

“There is that,” Sarah smiled.  She loaded the spoon with rice, Vickie already opening wide.  She quickly followed with broccoli and red peppers, and then the lemon chicken.

 

Vickie was in Cantonese heaven.

 

“So, tomorrow,” Sarah went on, “what do you say that we boldly go where no nurses have gone before, and pay a visit to the lab before heading to lunch?  I'll call Linda in the morning, and set it up.”

 

“Works for me,” Vickie got out between mouthfuls, “and could I have more lemon sauce on the chicken, please?”

 

“Such a demanding child,” Sarah sighed theatrically.  “You do realize that our reputation will be toast, don't you?”  She made sure that the next bite of chicken was drowning in the lemon sauce.

 

“Don't try to talk with your mouth full,” she admonished as she continued to feed Vickie.  For her part, Vickie was absolutely determined to lick the spoon clean.

 

“We have a reputation,” she countered, her eyes wide and innocent.  “I'm shocked, I tell you, truly shocked.”

 

“Sarah,” Vickie went on, her tone turning serious, “am I hearing this right?  Are you also planning on having a baby?”

 

“I am,” she confirmed, “and like you, I want Ian to be the father … which means that things are going to get complicated.”

 

“Not for the two of us,” Vickie objected.  “I've already explained the facts of life to Ian.  He'll be just one more of your babies, except that you will never allow him to grow up.  And I'll ...”

 

“Also be one of my babies,” Sarah cut in.  She was looking pointedly at Vickie's waist, the thick diaper lurking beneath the locked canvas cover all too obvious.  She wasn't sure whether Vickie had disrobed for Ian's benefit, or for hers.

 

“I was about to say that, day to day, I would be his wife,” Vickie gulped.

 

“Maybe so,” Sarah conceded, “but you will also be my baby.  It's obvious that you want me to keep you in diapers; why don't you just admit it?”

 

“I want you to keep me on the straight and narrow.  Don't let me do something stupid that hurts Ian, and jeopardizes our friendship.  You're the adult in the room, Sarah; I'm still the same, reckless, do anything on a dare cheerleader that I was fifteen years ago.  Like I told you this afternoon before Rita joined us: keep me on a tight leash, at least until I'm pregnant.  If diapers are your instrument of choice, so be it.”

  

“So, you want someone to take control of your life, but only in the short term?  Ian can't do it and Rita won't, so that leaves me.  I'll ask you again: do you want me to keep you in diapers, or should we put our heads together and come up with a different way to keep you chaste?”

 

“Yes, please,” Vickie whispered, hanging her head in shame.

 

“Yes, please … what?”  Sarah was relentless

 

“Yes, please, keep me in diapers,” Vickie whimpered.  “Everywhere but at work.  Please don't make me wear diapers at work.”

 

“I won't, so long as you don't do something scandalous.  If you do, then as I told you this afternoon, all bets are off.  Now, enjoy the beer because from now on the three of us are going to dial the booze way back, and if we start lactating, we are going to cut it out altogether.  We are not going to donate contaminated milk to the milk bank, only to have it thrown back in our faces.  None of us need that kind of public humiliation.”

 

Vickie took a long pull from the ice cold can, noting that she was drinking a Mexican beer with which she was completely unfamiliar.  It was good and refreshing, and she idly wondered where Ian had found it, and how, absent a car, he had managed to get it home.  She also wondered how long it would take for Sarah to move beyond diapering her to bottle feeding her.  Indeed, she was amazed that Sarah hadn't already done so.  After all, if the diapers effectively restrained her promiscuity, breast milk in quantity would similarly put the brakes on her lifelong love affair with alcoholic beverages.  Her mother's fruit cake had always been an alcoholic wonder, and she had sneaked her first swallow of what mom coquettishly called “sipping whiskey” when she was four.  Vickie had long since moved way beyond the 70 and 80 proof spirits that had made her so popular with the sophisticated set in elementary school and junior high, but for old times sake she still occasionally sipped a glass of Southern Comfort or Crown Royal.  Her stubborn insistence that the Canadian whiskey, properly served over ice, was actually worth drinking had soured more than one potential date on the 494 strip.

 

Chewing on another piece of the lemony chicken, Vickie gave thought to her future.  If no one could have it all, was it at least possible to have half of everything?  Could she share juice with her children in the afternoon, and chilled vodka martinis with her friends in the evening?  Could she read bedtime stories out loud, and then become the passionate lover that Ian deserved?  Could she be a loving and attentive parent, and at the same time a competent therapist?  Where would half be good enough, and where would half be an admission of failure?

 

Vickie had a great deal on her mind as Sarah handed her a pillow, which she gently slipped under Ian's head.  Emotionally exhausted, their baby was still sound asleep.

 

After washing the few dishes, Vickie adjourned to the bedroom, the time for her diaper change now at hand.  For her part, Sarah was attentive but methodical, carefully keeping both her feelings and her suspicions under wraps.  She suspected that Vickie needed what therapists called a “do over”-- a second chance at life.  Diaper dependency was a good place to start, but it was only a start.  Sarah had brought eight bottles of breast milk from the office, but only half of them were intended for Ian.  She was going to warm up four bottles, waken the Princess, and after changing her and getting her into bed, feed her two while tapping into the lullabies stored away in her own memories.  Once the Princess went back to sleep, her hands encased in heavy mittens, Vickie would be sharing her bed, the impenetrable diaper covers further guaranteeing that there would be no hanky panky in the wee, small hours.  Sarah would offer to feed Vickie two bottles of her own, but it would be up to her to decide whether or not to nurse.  Either way, Sarah would be going downstairs to sleep in her own bed.  She fervently hoped that, when she came back upstairs, there would be two babies awakening in the dark, predawn hours of Tuesday morning, two babies hungry for the bottles of breast milk still lying in wait on a refrigerator shelf.       

 

SCENE 36:

 

THE LADY HEADHUNTER

 

Sarah gently shook Vickie's shoulder, knowing that she was a light sleeper and would come instantly awake.

 

“Good morning, baby” she whispered, not wanting to wake the Princess, who was still sucking on the pacifier Sarah had slipped into her mouth as she was falling asleep.

 

“Good morning, Mommy,” Vickie whispered in return, more than happy to indulge Sarah's little fantasy.  She had seen the disappointment in Sarah's face when she declined the bottles of breast milk hours earlier, but she was still relieved to see that Sarah was not pressing the issue.

 

“Let's get you out of your diaper,” Sarah continued, keeping her voice low.  “Do you want to clean up here, or at home?  At least, I'm guessing that you want to go home and change.”

 

“I do.  And speaking of change … are you just changing my diaper, or giving me my panties back?”

 

“You get your big girl underwear back until the end of your shift … unless, of course, you want me to diaper you.  I'd like that …  I worry about you, Vic, because at times you are your own worst enemy.  For my own peace of mind, I would much prefer to keep you diapered 24/7.”

 

“Oh, you'll probably get your wish soon enough,” Vickie grinned.  “Just not today.  Nope.  Release me from bondage, and I'll do a quick wipe, get dressed, and be on my way.”

 

Got time for a quickie, so I'm having a play date with my wand as soon as I get home ...

 

Vickie glanced over at Ian, and noted that the Princess was still peacefully asleep.

 

“She is simply adorable, and I love the pacifier.  It really soothes her … our little baby girl.”

 

“The baby dresses and onesies you picked out are so infantile.  I love them, and can't wait to see her wearing them.  But we need to get her booties; those boat shoes that she wears in the ward simply aren't cutting it.”

 

“Already on it.  I have his shoe size, and there's a store not all that far from here that sells ballet slippers.  I was thinking of getting him pairs that are color coordinated with his baby dresses.”  Vickie softly chuckled.  “I was planning to have Ian model his new line of clothing on Saturday night, but with all the new faces, Rita's living room is going to get a tad crowded.  Another day, perhaps.”

 

“I hate to get her up,” Sarah sighed, “but it's time, and I want you to be here to guide me through it.”  She took the key to Vickie's diaper cover out of her pocket, and unlocked it, but she abstained from undressing her.  She had deliberately chosen not to ask her friend whether she was wet or poopy-- she was sure that over time this would become routine, but she also knew that, if at all possible, in the beginning Vickie should be brought along slowly.  For now, it was best to let her attend to her needs in private.

 

“Do you remember the triggers?”

 

Sarah nodded.

 

“Then get you butt into bed, and take her in your arms.  Repeat the code phrase while tickling her-- just keep in mind that it is the Princess who will be waking up, and she thinks of you as her mommy.  An aggressive French kiss will summon the Major, who will also think of you as his mommy, yet at the same time see you as the woman he loves.  It's complicated terrain, Sarah, because he's happy to be your baby, but he also wants to make love to you.  Shaping this relationship to your satisfaction is going to take time and effort.”

 

“Mom drafted a D/s contract for us to sign.  I'm going to use it as the foundation for our relationship.”

 

“A D/s contract?  That's wild!  I can't wait to read it!  But right now … get your butt in bed, and cradle your little baby girl.  Let here feel you love... hear it in your voice.”

 

Sarah was quick to comply, sliding into bed behind the Princess, and hugging her close.  When she was settled, she began whispering in her ear while running her fingernails over the Princess' vulnerable tummy.

 

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

 

The Princess began waving her heavily mittened hands in the air in a vain attempt to ward off the tickling.

 

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

 

“Wuv mama,,” the Princess soon responded, her eyelids fluttering as she slowly came awake.

 

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

 

“Mommy!  I wuv you, Mommy!”  Ian rolled over, his arms reaching out to hug her, and to be hugged in return.

 

“Good morning, sleepyhead!  Now, let Mommy take off your mittens so that you can hug Mommy properly, and then I'll feed you your ba bas and see to your dirty diapee.  Do you want your ba ba”

 

“Yeth, Mommy, please … I wuv my ba bas!”

 

Vickie waited until Sarah was nursing the Princess, and then quietly retired to the bathroom.  Her diaper was very wet, the bedwetting episode the first that she had experienced since age seven-- and it wasn't until she was nine that her parents had finally put an end to her nightime diapers and baby pants.  Sleepovers had been a nightmare, and she had never forgotten the humiliation that she had suffered on the playground as late as the seventh grade, when the bullies were still calling her Little Miss Pissy Pants.  As she quickly cleaned herself with a washcloth snatched from Ian's bathroom closet, she feared that more such episodes would persuade Sarah that she needed diapers for real.

 

And if I have a baby?  Talk about fitting the profile for permanent postpartum incontinence!

 

As she finished dressing, Vickie heard a loud burp emanating from the bedroom.  She stood in the doorway, and watched quietly as Sarah rolled on top of the Princess, gazed lovingly into her eyes, and began to kiss her.  The kisses quickly became invasive, Sarah driving her tongue deep into the Princess' mouth.  In a matter of seconds, the flailing arms of the baby girl gave way to the knowing hands of a man exploring flesh and bone, the two lovers kissing passionately.

 

Vickie turned away, quietly opened the door, and slipped out of Ian's apartment.  Dawn was still more than ninety minutes away.  Her wet diaper, now safely housed in one of the plastic bags that had become all the rage at her favorite grocery store, would disappear into the pile of patient diapers in the ward.

 

.  .  .  .

 

“Okay, it's time for you to brush your teeth, shave, and shower.  “I'll make the bed, and lay out your diaper.  Anything in particular that you would like to wear?”

 

“Hmm … let's go with the brown trousers that Rita just bought.  Light green shirt with a dark green tie, dark brown sport coat, socks and shoes.  And speaking of diapers ...”

 

“Yes, baby?”

 

“Mommy, I didn't call the diaper service yesterday.  The lady who runs the office has been very kind, and canceling the service over the phone seems like a lousy thing to do.  So, I'd like to bundle up the clean diapers and haul them and the dirties out to the office this afternoon and drop them off in person.  I want Harriet to know that I am not unhappy with the service, just taking advantage of a much cheaper alternative.  Could we take the diapers with us, and put them in aunt Vickie's car?  She could drive me out to the office on the way home.”

 

“Of course, baby, and thank you for being so thoughtful.  It pleases me that you are as considerate to others as you are to your mommies; still, it was naughty of you to make this decision without my approval … very naughty.  Now, can you brush your teeth, or do you need your mommy to do it for you?”

 

.  .  .  .

 

“Good morning, Professor.  Clark Carswell, Corporate International Recruiting, or CIRC for short.  I know that you have a class coming up at eight, but I just wanted to stop by and introduce myself.  I'm hoping that you can give me more of your time once your class is over.”

 

Ian had just finished recording the grades for his Korean course, the blue books now safely stuffed in his briefcase.  He would be returning them at the end of class-- normally a harrowing experience, but not with this group.  His students were the pick of the litter, and he did not grade on a curve.  It frankly surprised him that two of the papers  had proven average at best.

 

Clark Carswell was a well dressed man somewhere in his forties, with blonde hair that was artfully beginning to gray.  Ian judged his winter coat to be a name brand with a price tag north of three hundred dollars, in contrast to his own well worn, somewhat stained refugee from a rack at Goodwill.

 

“It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Carswell,” Ian said with a broad smile as he held out his hand.  “Have you met Officer Canon?”  Ian was happy to see that Amy had supplied Priscilla with a chair.  While the local fire code frowned on cluttered corridors, departments hard pressed for physical space routinely ignored the fine print.

 

Ian winked at Pris; he intended to have some fun with this one.  “And I can give you a few minutes of my time right now.  I do not want to ruin my reputation for never showing up for anything on time.  First off, how did you hear about me?”

 

“My firm represents a hospital in Saint Paul, which desperately needs someone in Patient Relations with your language skills.  I daresay that every hospital administrator in the Cities has heard of the fine work that you are doing down the street.  Have you been compensated for it?”

 

“Well, they are supplying me with free diapers, and members of the staff routinely change me when I'm wet or messy.  Can you recommend an accountant?  I need someone to tell me whether this is income that I have to declare.”

 

“Diapers,” Carswell stuttered; “I don't understand.”

 

“I'm totally incontinent, Mr. Carswell, as in both bladder and bowel.  Courtesy of being shot to pieces in Viet Nam.  I go through about a dozen adult diapers a day, so I'm grateful for all the help that I'm receiving.”

 

“I see,” the recruiter said as he nodded in understanding.  “A position at a hospital … a well compensated, responsible position … sounds like a very good fit for you.  And we do have other clients … international corporations … and they pay very, very well for individuals with the kind of skill set that you command.  Their benefits packages could easily be tailored to ease the financial burden of your disability.”

 

“Count me interested, Mr. Carswell,” Ian said as he stepped inside the office to grab his briefcase.  “And here, let me give you a copy of my resume, complete with the telephone number of my fiancee.  She's a charge nurse in the hospital where I've been helping out, and I wouldn't dream of  doing anything as important as changing jobs without her input.  So, you need to give her a call, and set up an appointment.  If you pass muster with Sarah, she'll arrange a group interview with Rita and Vickie, who will continue to be my common law wives after Sarah and I tie the knot.”

 

“Your what,” Carswell gagged, not sure whether he had heard Professor Grady correctly.

 

“I'm a practicing Muslim, Mr. Carswell-- and please do not step on my prayer rug when you come into my office.  At present, I have three common law wives, but I'm in the market for a fourth.  Officer Canon here is a candidate, along with my secretary, Miss Reynolds.  And then there's Suzie and Harriet-- four candidates in all, and they will be interviewed on Saturday night at Rita's townhome, which is where the four of us live.  I wouldn't be surprised if Sarah invites you and the other recruiters reaching out to me to stop by and make your pitch when we're all gathered in one place.  Would Saturday night work for you?”

 

“Umm … uh … I would have to check my calendar … can't say off the top of my head.”

 

“That's understandable,” Ian replied with a sympathetic smile.  “In any event, I hope that  any firm that you think would be a good fit doesn't mind the bright light of publicity.  You see, the four of us believe rather strongly in polygamy and polyandry, so once Sarah and I are married here, Vickie and I will be married in Vegas, and then we're going to bring a civil suit against the state to annul the statute criminalizing bigamy.  I have quite a few friends in the Middle East … very wealthy friends … who are ready to underwrite the cost of taking our case all the way to the US Supreme Court.  We are confident of victory, although the more traditional elements of our society will doubtless be outraged.”

 

“I … I … I don't know what to say,” Carswell stuttered.

 

“That's quite all right,” Ian smiled in return.  “Now, I really must be off to class, but if you're patient, I might be able to fit you in during office hours, at either ten or two.  Of course, students come first, and I seem to be terribly popular-- in fact, Officer Canon is here to keep the peace.  The Department frowns upon coeds trying to decide who was here first by starting a brawl in the corridor.  Personally, I find it all wonderfully entertaining, but my colleagues in the adjoining offices aren't so easily amused.”

 

“And I must be off as well, Professor, though I look forward to meeting with you again.”

 

Carswell all but ran down the corridor, hoping to have the elevator to himself as he descended into the relative sanity of the cold, winter air.

 

When he was gone, Priscilla burst out laughing.  “Ian, do you have any idea how dull this campus was before you arrived on the scene?  I swear, that poor man almost had a stroke!”

 

“What are the odds that we'll see him during office hours?”

 

“Close to zero would be my guess.  But you should still call Sarah … at least, leave her a message.”

 

“You may get a call from Mister Clark Carswell of Corporate International Recruiting, or CIRC for short?”

 

“Something like that.”

 

“Should I remind her that we're a Muslim household currently in search of a fourth wife?”

 

“That part I would advise you to handle delicately.  After all, she might take you seriously.”

 

Ian sighed deeply.  “Pris, did I ever tell you that one of my ten maxims for successfully negotiating life's more treacherous currents is to the effect that one wife is too many, but four are not enough?”

 

“No, Ian, you have yet to share any of your pearls of wisdom with me.”

 

“And just think.  You can attend my classes and absorb all of the wisdom that I impart, and you don't have to pay tuition for the privilege.  Isn't life great?”

 

.  .  .  .

 

“So, what do you think we should do first, the diapers or the lab?”  Sarah had called Vickie as soon as she got to her station.  She knew that Vickie had groups at both nine and ten thirty.  The therapy for alcoholics was unceasing.

 

“Let's switch the diapers first,” Vickie suggested.  “We might have a better chance of reaching the lab without drawing attention to ourselves if we're coming from the parking ramp.”

 

“Meet you there at ten after, and I'll schedule the lab for twenty after.  That should give us just enough time to grab something in the cafeteria and make a run for it.”  Sarah hung up, and returned to wading her way through the mountain of third shift reports on the patients in her post-surgical ward.

 

.  .  .  .

 

Priscilla closed and locked the office door, insuring their privacy.  “Okay, first things, first,” she announced.  “Let's check your diapers.  And is Korean table etiquette really as complicated as you made it sound in your lecture?”

 

Ian took off his jacket, and hung it up.  A few seconds later, and his trousers were around his ankles.  “It is.  But the real problem is that, by and large, Americans don't have a ritual for dining at the table, and fast food is making things a whole lot worse.  When they travel overseas, the so-called ugly American is getting more ugly by the year.”

 

Priscilla used the key to unlock his diaper cover, loosened it, and stuck a finger inside one of the thigh bands of his baby pants.  She wiggled her finger inside the diaper, and quickly ascertained that he was wet, but not overly so.  Deciding not to change him, she quickly slid his diaper cover back into place and relocked it.

 

“You're good for now, but I'll change you just before your office hour.”

 

“Works for me,” Ian muttered as he pulled up his pants and refastened them.

 

“Do you ever get tired of this … the diaper checks, the changing?  It all seems so intrusive.”

 

Ian gave it a moment's thought before answering.  “I try to keep it in perspective.  I could have died out there, or come home in a wheelchair.  I could be doing insulin injections day in and day out.  There are a lot worse things than being in diapers, especially when you consider that I don't even have to change myself or deal with the messes anymore.  One way to look at it is that I'm being pampered to the nth possible degree.  Sure, I get teased day in and day out for being a big baby, and Sarah is actually pretty serious about treating me as such, but good natured teasing is just another form of attention.  What guy doesn't like being the center of attention when he's got a large circle of beautiful, intelligent and caring women gathered round?”

 

“I see what you mean.  And do you enjoy the view, down there on the floor, when I'm kneeling over you … changing your diaper?”

 

“I do,” Ian smiled; “it's a very nice view.”

 

“I'm glad, because I enjoy babying you.  I'm really looking forward to bottle feeding you.  But seriously … what goes through your mind when Sarah is babying you for real? You're not a baby, not by any stretch of the imagination.  The whole thing seems ridiculous.”

 

“True enough, but the first thing to be said is that it makes Sarah happy to treat me as a baby, and the hit to my sense of self-respect isn't hard enough to deny her the pleasure.  And I do get something out of it.  Pris, Sarah is my shelter from the storm.  She keeps me safe, and believe me, I really, really need her to protect me.  This game that we're playing with the recruiters?  It's just a way of shifting onto her shoulders something that I can't do for myself.  She's the woman that I … well, one of the women that I love … but at the same time she is also my mommy.  It's hard to explain, but I'm the baby who will soon be her husband, and she's the mommy who will soon be my wife.  It's all quite real, not simply role playing.”

 

“And Vickie?”

 

“She's my therapist, and in that capacity treats me as Princess Poopy Pants in sessions, and the rest of the time as … well … me.  But we are also deeply in love and, believe me, Princess Poopy Pants does not have a place in the relationship, although she may be eavesdropping on the goings on.  I have no contact with her, so I leave it to Vickie to fill me in on what I need to know.”

 

“Multiple personalities!  As far as I know, you are the only person I've ever met who fits the bill, and it astonishes me that you are so casual about it.  Doesn't it bother you to share your body with a separate personality that you can't even contact?”

 

“The gaps in my memories bother me big time, but Vickie and Rita are good about plugging the holes, so at least I'm not left to guess whether I ate breakfast this morning or not.  But it's getting easier for me to cope with the gaps because I know that I'm in such good hands.  Now, skedaddle, Officer Canon.  I'm returning another set of exams this afternoon, and I need a few minutes to record the grades.  I'm yours at nine thirty sharp!

 

.  .  .  .

 

“Good morning, Wendy … and no, Monica hasn't been complaining about your diapers.  I wanted to talk with you about something else.”  Suzie lazily gestured for Wendy to take a seat.

 

“Your Japanese friend in the Alpha house, Marilyn something or other?”

 

“Marilyn Matsumora,”

 

“That's right … Marilyn Matsumora.  Do you happen to know if we have Japanese sisters in any of the other houses?”

 

“Not that I know of, but if it's important, I can check with Marilyn.  I see her every day; she eats lunch in the Student Union with about twenty other Japanese students.”

 

“How many girls, would you guess?”

 

Wendy frowned in thought.  “At least a dozen … maybe a few more.  For sure, the girls outnumber the boys.”

 

“Excellent,” Suzie said as she clapped her hands in delight.  “I have an idea for how you can repay Professor Grady for his kindness, but it has to be today, so time is of the essence.” 

 

As she explained her plan, the grin on Wendy Stafford's face got bigger and bigger.  Sisters hated early morning classes with a passion, and the Alpha house was only a few doors away, so Wendy was confident that she could get a hold of Marilyn before she left for the day.

 

Twenty minutes later, Wendy was back to give Suzie the thumbs up.  Marilyn would spread the word, and get things organized at noon.  For her part, Suzie decided to stop by and see Diaper Butt at the start of his office hours.  She wanted to make sure that the other houses were doing their bit to protect him from the poachers, but she also wanted to let him know about the surprise that she was planning for his Japanese class.  She was frankly curious to discover how many of the young, corporate types populating his courses were ready, willing, and available.

 

.  .  .  .

 

“I could get used to this,” Priscilla sighed; “cradling you in my arms, feeding you your bottles … I'll say it again-- it's very peaceful.”

 

In response, Ian reached up to grasp her arm, knowing that the infantile gesture would please her.  But he never stopped sucking on the teat, and pulling the warm breast milk into his mouth.  He finished the first bottle, and then the second.  He was delighted when Priscilla then eased his head over her shoulder and began gently patting his back.  It was taking less and less effort on his part to respond with a very satisfying burp.

 

“Now, let's see whether you're poopy.”  Priscilla unlocked his diaper cover and slid it down to his ankles.  His vinyl baby pants quickly followed, and then she efficiently unpinned his diaper and peeked inside.

 

“Yep, you're poopy.  Let's get you cleaned up and into a nice, dry diaper.”  Ian lifted his hips, and Priscilla slid the soiled diaper out far enough that she could use the clean edge to begin the process.  She followed with a few baby wipes, which went into the trash seconds before she rolled up the used diaper and deposited it in his pail.  The heavily scented deodorizer disk in the lid masked the odor escaping the pail itself, which she closed as quickly as possible.  Sliding a fresh diaper under his bottom, she liberally applied baby powder both front and rear before tightly pinning the fabric around his waist and thighs.  Finally, she ordered him to stand so that she could slide his baby pants and canvas diaper cover back into place.  The latter locked with an audible click. 

 

From start to finish, Priscilla guessed that it had taken her about three minutes to change

him.  Ian's office hours would start in even less time.

 

“You're getting good at this,” he commented as he hastily pulled his trousers up and cinched the belt.  He was still putting his shoes on when Priscilla opened the door.

 

The corridor was crowded, but Priscilla was not especially surprised to see that Suzie Marshall was first in line.

 

.  .  .  .

 

At precisely ten o'clock, Candy casually strolled into the lab.  Linda was expecting her, and silently handed over a sealed white envelope.  Candy pocketed the results of Rita's fertility test, and nonchalantly headed back to the seventh floor.  Senior staff were all conducting groups or working with individual patients.  No one paid attention when she strolled into Rita's office and slid the envelope underneath the blotter on Rita's desk.  It would be waiting for her when she returned to the ward after a very long day in the county courthouse.

 

.  .  .  .

 

Ian stuck his head out his office door, and looked around.  He instantly spotted a somewhat older, well dressed business woman whom he took for another headhunter, but there was a wall of a dozen coeds separating them.  Suzie Marshall had come through for him again.

 

And speaking of Suzie Marshall …

 

“Good morning, Miss Marshall!  It's good to see you again!”  Suzie was dressed in the style that fashion designers called casual elegant, giving Ian ample opportunity to admire her trim waist, mile long legs, and imposing bust line.  The dark blue dress made her blonde hair look like it was on fire, and her red lipstick was a yawning trap waiting to swallow any man whole.

 

Ian audibly gulped.  Suzie Marshall was stacked … the real deal … the whole enchilada. No wonder she had been crowned Sorority Queen in her senior year.  Suzie Marshall was a one woman parade, and for the moment at least, he was her chosen spectator.

 

“Good morning, Professor!”  Suzie's smile was radiant, her teeth a gleaming white.  They actually sparkled in the light cast by the bulb overhead.  “I just wanted to advise you that I'm planning to sit in on your afternoon class, and I've arranged a treat for your male students.  May we speak in private for a moment?”

 

“Mais oui, Madame, mais oui!”  Ian stood aside, gesturing gracefully for her to enter.

 

“Merci, Monsieur le Professeur,” Suzie replied in impeccable French.  She had spent nine weeks in Paris in the summer between her junior and senior years, honing the skills that she would unleash on the English Department in her remorseless pursuit of the Sorority Queen's crown.

 

Priscilla diplomatically closed the office door behind them.

 

Ian gestured for Suzie to sit, but he chose to remain standing, gambling that she would cross one leg over the other.

 

The gamble paid off.  At a glance, Ian could see that Suzie was not wearing panties.

 

“Are you still planning to walk the guys through a conversation with Japanese girls looking for an American boyfriend at a Tokyo McDonald's?”

 

“I am,” Ian agreed.

 

“Well, Wendy Stafford has come up with an interesting way to repay your kindness to her.  As it happens, she's friends with a Japanese girl named Marilyn Matsumora, in the Alpha house.  To make a long story short, about twenty Japanese students get together for lunch every day in the Student Union, most of them female.  Wendy and Marilyn are going to recruit a dozen or so to drop by your class this afternoon, so your young corporate climbers will have a chance to practice for real.”

 

“Wow!  Suzie, what can I say?  Double wow!!  What a brilliant idea!  Now, can you come up with a couple of Japanese guys to pair off with the two young ladies in the class-- both of whom are excellent students?”

 

“I can't promise, but I'll drop by the Student Union at twelve sharp and see what I can arrange.”

 

“And thanks for flooding the corridor with coeds.  I had to beat one recruiter off with a stick when I got here this morning … a Clark Carswell from Corporate something or other.”

 

“Corporate International Recruiting?  Impeccably dressed?  Oozing insincerity out of every pore of his body?”

 

“I take it you know him.  Bad news?”

 

“The worst.  In contrast, the lady who's quietly waiting out there?”  Suzie nodded in the direction of the corridor.  “Her name is Marilyn Marsden, and she actually has a decent reputation … apparently goes the extra mile to find the best fit for her clients.  If you ever decide to switch careers, I'd give Recruitment Services International a call.”

 

“Thanks for the tip; I don't expect to hear from Clarkie boy again, but I'll treat her gently.”

 

“How did you get rid of him?”

 

“Told him that I was a devout Muslim with three common law wives, and currently in the market for a fourth.  Your name came up in that part of the conversation.  He took off like he'd been shot out of a cannon.”

 

Suzie burst out laughing.  “Ian, you have got to be one of a kind!  And diapers or no diapers, I don't understand why someone hasn't got around to scalping you!”

 

“I keep a low profile.”

 

“Yeah, sure.  Well, for the record?  When you get around to looking for a fourth girlfriend, I'd like to toss my hat into the ring.  Whatever Vickie Robinson can do for you, I flat out guarantee that I can do it better!”

 

.  .  .  .

 

Peeking his head out the door for the second time, Ian was happy to see that the corridor was still awash with coeds.  The young ladies were standing upright, leaning against the walls, and even sitting on the floor.  “Right,” he grinned, “who's here to get a copy of my world famous kimchee recipe?”  Stealing a glance out of the corner of his eye, Ian could see that Priscilla was struggling hard not to burst out laughing.  The blank looks on the faces of the assembled coeds was priceless.

 

“How about you, Miss Marsden … or is it Missus?”

 

“Missus.”

 

“Do your taste buds yearn for bulgogi and homemade kimchee?  If the answer is yes, then you may enter my lair.”

 

“Actually, I prefer bibimbap, but homemade kimchee is always a treat.”

 

“Welcome,” Ian exclaimed as he kicked the door shut with his foot.  “And have a copy of my resume,” he added as he grabbed one off the stack atop the filing cabinet nearest the door.  “At least, I'm assuming that you're here to look me over for some corporation or other.”

 

“I am, but I'm not here to make a pitch.  What I would like to do is attend your afternoon class, and then talk afterwards.  Would that be all right?”

 

“The more the merrier-- and today's class should be a lot of fun!”

 

.  .  .  .

 

“Pee-ew,” Sarah exclaimed as she waved her arms in a vain attempt to banish the foul odor escaping her trunk.  “Remind me not to leave Ian's dirty diapers in the car for hours on end!”  She lifted the two heavy bags out, and dragged them over to Vickie's vehicle.

 

“After his first blowout in the cafeteria,” Vickie laughed, “we had to send an orderly out to fumigate one of the elevators.   It ended up smelling like lavender scented shit!  Seeing the writing on the wall, Rita immediately went out and bought a box of those pine smelling thingies that people hang on their rear view mirrors.  Here, let me give you a couple.”  Vickie grabbed several from her own trunk and tossed them over.

 

“Lesson learned,” Sarah conceded.  “When dealing with babies of any age, a mother has to be proactive!  Now, ready to run the gauntlet?”

 

“Can't keep Linda waiting,” Vickie shrugged.  “We might as well get it over with.”

 

Arm in arm, each of them convinced that hers was an appointment with destiny, Sarah and Vickie headed to the lab.

 

.  .  .  .

 

“Good afternoon, all.  Before we gaijin start lining up to order our imaginary Big Macs in Tokyo, I'd like to introduce a guest who's gone the extra mile to make this a memorable experience for all of you.  Please welcome Miss Suzie Marshall, the den mother of the Pi Iota Sigma sorority chapter.”

 

“Good afternoon, everyone,” Suzie said as she got up from her front row seat and turned to grace the students with a dazzling smile.  Ian noted with amusement that male eyes were on stalks all over the room, and not a few jaws were agape.  He winked at Priscilla, who was standing in the doorway at the back of the room.  Voluptuous indeed.

 

“Fraternities and sororities have a well deserved reputation for throwing wild parties … and yes, the toga parties have been known to get out of hand.”  Suzie also winked at Priscilla.  “But on campus we also like to help out whenever we can.  Case in point … Officer Canon, if you will do the honors.”

 

Priscilla opened the door, and a dozen Japanese students filed in. two of them the young men whom Ian had requested-- and whom Suzie was now delivering.  The students lined up in front of the blackboard, facing the class; a certain amount of giggling ensued as some of the girls whispered to one another in their native language.

 

“Okay,” Ian clapped, “here's what we're going to do.”  He walked over to an easel, and removed the cover.  A large photographic copy of a McDonald's menu in Japanese characters was suddenly visible to all.  “Two of our young ladies are going to stand in front of the menu and talk about what they feel like eating.”

 

Ian looked back over his shoulder, and two of the girls walked over to the easel.

 

“Now, we need two gaijin to join them.  Any volunteers?”

 

Hands shot up all over the room, and Ian chose two students at random.  “Remember to be polite,” he advised, “but let the conversation go wherever it will.  You don't need to shout for us to hear you, but keeping in mind that this is a group exercise, if you need help … just shout out!”

 

The hour passed swiftly, with the students switching out every five minutes.  He was glad to see that his two female students interacted well with the pair of young Japanese men, and he was not at all surprised when several slips of paper changed hands, each no doubt harboring a name and telephone number.  He had yet to introduce any of his students to the concept of The Long Haired Dictionary, but in his experience classrooms were not where language instruction really took hold.

 

When Ian and Marilyn left the room, Priscilla and Suzie stayed on.  For both, a class that continued without interruption after the bell was a new experience, but then so was chaperoning young men and women born and raised in cultures worlds apart.

 

.  .  .  .

 

“So,” Ian offered as they slowly walked back to his office, “if you have questions that the resume doesn't address, please fire away.”

 

“I see that you were in the service.  Is your … disability combat related?”

 

“You're referring to my well padded rear end,” he asked with a smile.

 

“I am.”

 

“My last mission ended badly.  There's a shell fragment lodged in my spine that can't be removed.  It's left me incontinent, both bladder and bowel.”

 

“Does it affect your ability to travel?”

 

“No, not at all.  To the contrary, since leaving the service I have traveled a great deal.”

 

“Then let me blunt.  There are four large corporations in the Cities that would hire you simply on my recommendation.  I can guarantee you a starting salary of seventy two thousand dollars per annum, with benefits and incentive driven bonuses that realistically put the floor at one twenty five.  These four are household names … and there are three others far less well known that would offer you a similar package.  But after what I just saw in that classroom, no one with a conscience would try and take you away from teaching.  You are where you belong-- but at what salary?”

 

“Seventeen thousand.”

 

“That's obscene!  So, here's what I propose.  You let me run your resume by all seven, with my recommendation that they hire you on the spot, sight unseen, before somebody else leaps in and snaps you up.  We get concrete offers, and then we go to your Chair and turn this into a retention case.  Every Dean on this campus has money squirreled away to fend off this kind of raid.  No, no one is going to come close to what you would command on the outside, but we can definitely get you a big raise, and if it takes the form of a long-term research grant, it won't even be taxable!”

 

“That's the tactic that my department secretary wants me to use, and Amy knows her way around this joint.  I don't.”

 

“Welcome every recruiter who shows up with open arms, Professor; the more the merrier!”

 

“Call me Ian.  I never use my titles except to put snooty waiters and maitre d's in their place.”

 

“And I'm Marilyn.”

 

“It's nice to meet you, but it's also kind of funny.”

 

“How so?”

 

One of Suzie's pledges reached out to a girl in another sorority, also Marilyn by name.  Wendy and Marilyn are the geniuses who organized the Japanese troupe who descended on my class.  And it's Suzie and her coed friends who are keeping the more aggressive recruiters at bay.”

 

“There have been others?”

 

“You're the third.  I sent the first two straight to meet my fiancee; it's Sarah who wears the pants in our household, and she's the one to whom you need to sell your plan.  But I'll support it, so I'd like to introduce you personally.  She's a charge nurse in the post-surgical ward over yonder, so if you can hang on until my office hours end at three, we can drive over together.  However, I can't stay; Vickie and I have to rush out to the diaper service before they close.”

 

“Vickie?”

 

“One of my girlfriends.  Between final exams and the three of us moving in with Rita, the next couple of weeks are going to be hectic.”

 

“And Rita is …?”

 

“Also my girlfriend … at least, I think she's my girlfriend.”

 

“But you're not sure?”

 

“Nope, although we're going to have a heart to heart talk sometime on Thursday … see if we can work it out.  And then there's Suzie, who also wants to become my girlfriend, but Suzie and Vickie are arch rivals from their sorority days, so that's iffy.  Which leaves Amy and Priscilla … uh, Officer Canon … who change my diapers for me when I'm on campus.  Anyway, everybody is going to be at Rita's house on Saturday night, and the question of my future will be high on the list of things up for discussion.  If you and Sarah hit it off, she might invite you to come along and join the fun.”

 

“Professor Grady,” Marilyn laughed, “you are definitely not your run of the mill, stodgy old university professor.  And I really do like homemade kimchee!”

 

SCENE 37:

 

DEEP DOO-DOO

 

When the bell struck two, Ian stuck his head out the door, and was relieved to see that everything appeared normal-- if normal included a police officer sitting in a chair to keep order, twenty odd coeds camping out in the corridor, and three well dressed businessmen conversing quietly among themselves while their eyes hungrily devoured the appetizing young flesh set out before them.

 

Grabbing three copies of his resume, Ian asked the coeds to pass them on to the trio of headhunters.  Once they were in hand, he advised them to give Sarah a call and set up an interview, whether singly or collectively.  He then turned his attention to the coed closest to hand, and invited her into his office.

 

The script turned over at five minute intervals.  After the customary introduction, Ian  thanked the young woman for taking the time to help out, and complimented her on her appearance.  After a certain amount of hemming and hawing, the conversation invariably turned to the subject of his diapers in general, and their impact on his love life in particular.  He soon discovered that there was now a bounty on his scalp, so the threat of being pooped on while in flagrante delictu was no longer an effective deterrent.  Rather than break a long string of hearts, Ian chose to bob and weave, handing out resume after resume, and encouraging the young lovelies to call Sarah, his very, very open-minded girlfriend, to make the necessary arrangements.  The bolder spirits made it abundantly clear that they wanted to have a threesome, and Ian made it just as abundantly clear that, if Sarah was willing, he too was ready to rock and roll.

 

Only one of the sorority girls deviated from the script-- a reserved yet photogenic blonde with the improbable name of Tippi Anne Bjornsen.

 

.  .  .  .

 

In the beginning, Sarah wondered what the heck was going on.  It wasn't until the fourth call that she lost her temper.  In a span of less than twenty minutes, four coeds had telephoned seeking permission to sleep with Professor Grady.  Three of them signaled that they would love to make it a threesome.  All four had made it clear that the Professor, far and away the coolest guy on the whole faculty, diapers or no diapers, was the catch of the year.  Sarah was seething when she slammed the door to her office, picked up the phone, and dialed his campus number.

 

“Professor Grady,” Ian began.

 

“Ian, what the hell is going on over there,” Sarah interrupted.  “I've had four calls in the last twenty minutes from coeds who want to sleep with you; all four seem to be under the impression that they need my permission to do so, and three of them even expect me to participate.  So I repeat: what the hell is going on over there?”

 

“Sorry, Sarah, but this is the downside of Suzie Marshall's plan to protect me from the headhunters … which, by the way, is working splendidly.  I have fobbed off three more in the last half hour.  Have any of them phoned you?”

 

“No!  And I'm getting tired of dealing with your fan club.  Put a stop to it!”

 

“How?  The easy way would be to give them what they want.  Is that what you expect me to do?  In which case, I'll need the key to my chastity belt.”

 

“Hell will freeze over first!  And when I get home … Mister, you are going straight over my knee!”

 

“Huh?  Sarah, have I misunderstood the terms of our relationship?  I thought that you were making all of my decisions for me, and particularly the ones involving our social life.  Unless I'm very much mistaken, I would be in the wrong, and would be earning a spanking, if I did not bow to you in this matter.  If you want me to deal with this or any other problem on my own … well, how am I supposed to know when I should defer to you, and when I should act on my own authority?”

 

Ian winked at Tippi, who had been eavesdropping on his half of the conversation.  A reserved yet photogenic blonde, she powerfully reminded him of the late Inger Stevens at the start of her acting career.  While the conversation was obviously making her uncomfortable, Ian was having the time of his life.  He relished the opportunity bluntly to remind Sarah that the decision to become his Dominant would inevitably have a few awkward and unhappy consequences.

 

“I expect you to exercise your imagination,” Sarah fumed.  “You know damned well that I'm not sharing you with your students.  Behave accordingly!”

 

“Thank you, Mommy.  Oh, and I should mention that after office hours I'll be driving over with one of the headhunters, a lady named Marilyn Marsden.  She's a recruiter, but Suzie says that we should take her seriously, so I want to make the introductions in person.  Marilyn has a game plan that echoes what Amy has been recommending.  Can you spare her a few minutes?”

 

“Anything for you, Dear,” Sarah sarcastically replied.  “And when I'm diapering her, I'll be sure to let Vickie know that we are now taking orders from Suzie Marshall.  I'm sure that she'll be thrilled.”

 

“Mommy, I like Suzie, and she likes me.  In fact, she wants to become my latest girlfriend.  Do we have room for one more?”

 

“Arrgh,” Sarah screamed as she slammed the phone down.

 

.  .  .  .

 

“Well, that was fun,” Ian cheerfully observed as he shifted his attention back to Tippi.  “Sarah … the lady on the other end of the phone?  She's my fiancee, and in our relationship she leads and I follow, but if you'll pardon the pun, we're still working out the kinks.”

 

“And she really spanks you?”

 

“She does.”

 

“And are you really wearing a chastity belt?”

 

“Not really,” he chuckled.  It's actually a canvas diaper cover that prevents my underwear, if you want to call it that, from ending up around my knees.  But it locks and I don't have the key, so in a manner of speaking ...”

 

“So, it's true then … I mean, what I'm hearing all over campus … you know, from girls who volunteer as candy stripers at the hospital?  That you're this great, big war hero who volunteers his time to help troubled vets, despite having problems of your own.  Is that why you call her Mommy … because she changes your diapers?”

 

“That's part of it,” Ian agreed; “a bit of pretending makes things less awkward, and a great deal less embarrassing.”  He leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his neck, thinking about it.  “But it's only part, not the whole.  I have a problem making decisions because I tend to overthink things, but Sarah is just the opposite.  I'm an academic who walks around with his head in the clouds, forever chasing his own tail, while she's a practical nurse who just gets on with it.  This is so much a part of who we are as a couple that calling her mommy seems natural to me.  And I'm pretty sure that at times she regards me as an overgrown toddler, hence the occasional spanking.”

 

“Do you like it … I mean … when she spanks you?  I spanked my last boyfriend, and he really got off on it.”

 

“Nope.  When she spanks me, it hurts.  Again, she's a nurse, so she knows how to make it hurt … and it does.”

 

“I still don't understand.  I mean … like, you must have killed a lot of people out there, so why do you put up with it?  The candy stripers keep saying that everybody likes you, so why don't you go with someone who treats you better?”

 

“Now that,” Ian nodded, “is a very good question, and it goes to the heart of what makes a relationship succeed or fail.  People who don't care about you will tell you what you want to hear just to get you off their backs.  But someone who loves you?  He'll take a deep breath, look you in the eye, and tell you straight out that you're wrong or making a mistake, and why.  I love Sarah, but more than that, I trust her.  She doesn't lie to me, and even when I think she's wrong, I know with absolute certainty that she has what's best for me in mind … that she's looking after me.  Trust won't survive a big lie, Tippi, and over time even little lies will add up.  No relationship survives a loss of trust, so when you're sure that a guy is lying to you, it's time to move on.”

 

“And now there's a bounty on your head, but you're wearing what amounts to a chastity belt and of course you don't have the key.  What a shame.”

 

Ian handed her a copy of his resume from the stack on the corner of his desk.  “You could always call her,” he suggested.

 

“Would it do any good?”

 

“Not really.”

 

“I didn't think so … because if you were my boyfriend, I wouldn't share you with anybody!”

 

Tippi put Ian's resume back on the stack, and got up to leave, but she paused with her hand on the doorknob.  “When I came here today,” she said over her shoulder, “I didn't understand how any woman could be so desperate that she would willingly sleep with a guy who's disabled … reduced to wearing diapers.  But now?  Now I think that this Sarah of yours might be the luckiest woman on Earth.”

 

.  .  .  .

 

Julia glanced at the clock, and winced.  It would be at least another thirty to sixty minutes before Priscilla showed up at the diaper service with her young professor and his doctor in tow.  And that meant that there was time to peruse a few more personnel files.

 

Julia had carefully examined seven files in the last ninety minutes, the oldest (and dustiest) dating back a full ten years in time.  Lullaby's files were in very good order, and so far none of them were in the least suspicious.  Every payroll check-- and Spats Belmondo's office managers had carefully bundled every, single check in chronological order-- had been promptly deposited into a checking account at a local bank.  The Social Security numbers all traced to Minnesota and the Dakotas.  If there was a paid saboteur in this bunch, he had covered his tracks well.

 

Julia hated files, even more than she hated stakeouts.  But above all she hated being played for a fool, which is the way her morning had gone.  She had hung back when the delivery truck left the warehouse, hoping that someone would be right on its tail.  No such luck.  She had passed the driver out on the highway, and reconnoitered stop after scheduled stop, paying especial attention to the ones that had been hit the week before.  She had gradually expanded her search radius, hoping to spot the exhaust of a running engine or someone sitting behind the wheel for no apparent reason.  And she had seen nothing.  Indeed, the only unusual thing to happen all morning was an encounter with a pair of very well dressed college aged girls at a Mickey D's, where she had stopped to grab coffee and a bite to eat.  They had looked badly out of place in a working class neighborhood, and had behaved so suspiciously that she had gone to the trouble of taking down their license plate and calling Herb to run the registration through the DMV.  Herb had got back to her on her car phone, confirming that the vehicle belonged to nineteen year old Tippi Anne Bjornsen of New Ulm, Minnesota.  College kids for sure, Julia concluded … probably trying to score drugs in a neighborhood where they stood out like a sore thumb.

 

And then, returning to her car after comparing notes over lunch with the guy driving the van, Julia got the bad news: for the second week in a row, someone had stolen a week's worth of clean diapers off the front porch of the twelfth stop-- a home in an upscale district that she had patrolled before the truck arrived, and which she had revisited a second time, doubling back after the delivery on the off chance that someone had fingered her somewhere along the route.

 

It was pretty damned obvious that someone had spotted her, and was rubbing her nose in it: the only diapers stolen from any of the morning stops were taken from the property that she had gone to the most elaborate lengths to protect.

 

.  .  .  .

 

Priscilla gently knocked on the door, and then opened it to admit Marilyn.

 

“Did I time it right,” she asked, as Ian got up and walked around his desk to shake her hand.

“If the competition has cleared out, you did indeed.”  Ian went on to explain that no less than three recruiters had shown up for his office hours, only to be held at bay by the platoon of sorority sisters effectively guarding his premises.

 

“Well, the coast is clear for the moment … who were they, by the way?”

 

“Don't know.  I sent resumes their way, and urged them to talk with Sarah.  Whether they do or don't is not my concern.  Anyway, let's hit the front office.  I'll introduce you to Amy, who's the department watchdog looking out for my interests.  Like I said earlier, it sounds like the two of you are on the same page when it comes to charting my future.  Why don't you take a minute to run your plan by her while Priscilla changes my diaper.  When Vickie shows up, we can head out.”

 

Since Ian's office was literally around the corner from Amy's, less than thirty seconds later he was knocking on her open door.  She welcomed him with a smile.

 

“Got a minute or two?”

 

“Of course.  How's it going out there?”

 

“Officer Canon's got everything under control, and Suzie's Amazon battalion is definitely making my life more interesting.  Anyway, Marilyn, I'd like you to meet Amy Reynolds, our department secretary; Amy, this is Marilyn Marsden of Recruitment Services International.  She has a plan that I want Sarah to hear, but I thought that it would be a good idea to let her run it by you first.  If you can tweak it, so much the better.”

 

Returning to his office, Ian found Priscilla inside preparing for his next diaper change.  His changing mat was already on the floor, so he nonchalantly kicked off his shoes, dropped his trousers, and laid down.  The ritual had become so routine that he really didn't think about it anymore, and it was rapidly becoming second nature for Priscilla as well.  They made a good team.

 

Ian was tucking his shirt in and Priscilla was dealing with the diaper pail when Vickie knocked.  She was right on schedule, and he swept her into his arms and kissed her passionately.  But his hand crept inside her winter coat, and in short order he confirmed that she was once again heavily diapered.

 

“Sarah's really pissed,” he whispered.  “I'm sorry that she's taking it out on you.”

 

“She isn't,” Vickie whispered in return.  “But I will admit that whatever silly game you are playing over here is driving her up the wall.  She's seeing kinky coeds in her soup.”

 

“Can I help it that young women find me so attractive?”

 

“They just want to scalp you.”

 

“I beg to differ.  Masculine charm and a poopy diaper are an irresistible combination, or so I've been repeatedly told.  Or maybe it's just a sorority thing.  Tell me, Doctor Robinson, back in the day ...”

 

Vickie kissed him hard, while her hand walked smoothly down his spine to pat his well padded butt.  She loved Ian's good natured sense of humor, and being teased really turned her on.

 

“Back in the day,” he went on, “were you just a kinky, little sorority slut?”

 

'Oh, I was … I was … I confess it.  To spank or be spanked, that was the question!”

 

“Enough, already,” Priscilla snorted.  “Ian, do you want to tell Doctor Robinson about your blossoming relationship with the lady headhunter?”

 

“WHAT,” Vickie cried theatrically, “have you taken still another paramour?  Be still, my heart!!”

 

“Oh, please,” Ian sighed.  “Marilyn and Amy are fine tuning a plan that looks promising, and Sarah has agreed to listen to what Marilyn has to say.  So, we'll drive over and I'll make the introductions … except that I don't know where on the third floor she actually works, and it's a big hospital.  So, could you … uh … tag along … maybe lead the way?”

 

“Meaning that you want me to run interference for you,” Vickie smirked.

 

“Well, that too.”

 

“And I'm hitching a ride with you to the diaper service,” Priscilla cut in.  Would either of you like to know why?” 

 

“I'm game,” Ian laughed.  “Tell me, Officer Canon: why would you want to accompany us to the diaper service?”

 

“To introduce you to my mother, who needs your help to crack a case she's working on.”   

 

“Oh, this ought to be good,” Vickie chortled.

 

“Someone's been following one of the diaper trucks all over town, and stealing diapers left out in the open for the clients to collect when they get home.  The owner wants his diapers back, and when I mentioned to Mom that you are one of their customers, she came up with a plan that involves you.”

 

“O … kay.  Do you, uh, happen to know what she wants me to do?”

 

“Nothing risky.  She simply wants you to have the service drop off your order tomorrow afternoon as usual.  If someone is jolly on the spot to steal your diapers, she plans to follow them and recover all of the stolen merchandise.”

 

A huge grin spread across Ian's features.  Opening one of his desk drawers, he removed a small metal box, and a thin disc about the size of a quarter.  He handed them to Priscilla.  “What we have here,” he explained, “is an electronic homing device that emits a continuous signal that can only be picked up by this receiver.  The receiver has an inbuilt modulator that responds directly to the signal-- move away from the homing device, and the signal fades.  As you get closer, the beeping becomes more and more rapid, and when you have arrived at the source, it becomes continuous.  So, all your mom has to do is sew this little doohickey into one of my diapers, and technology will do the rest.”

 

Priscilla and Vickie looked at one another, the same question on both their minds.  It was Priscilla who said it out loud.

 

“Uh … Ian … would you care to explain what a state-of-the-art electronic tracking device is doing in your desk drawer?”

 

“Okay, okay, I confess!  When I was a kid, I built a model railroad.  When I was fifteen, I was fine tuning engines and racing for pink slips.  And today I'm a gadget freak.  There's a store in Chicago that gives me a hard on every time I walk through the door.  That's where this neat, little toy comes from.  I have several more goodies from the same shop if you're interested.”

 

“Boys and their toys,” Vickie sighed.  Like so many women, Vickie was convinced that the only difference between grown men and little boys was the price of their toys.

 

“So, what do you say, Pris.  Do you want to pass it on to your mother, or not?”

 

“Yes, definitely … thieves get religion real quick when you confront them with physical evidence.  This will help Mom big time.”

 

“Then, let's collect Marilyn.  I'll ride over to the hospital with her, and catch up with you two in the lobby.”

 

.  .  .  .

 

At the hospital, Ian formally introduced Vickie and Marilyn to one another, and then pulled Vickie aside for a hurried conference.  “What do you think of Priscilla,” he asked straight out.  An outrageous idea had come to him during the brief drive over from his office.

 

“I like her,” Vickie admitted.  “On the job she's cool, calm, and collected, but she needs a boyfriend, and preferably one she can mother a bit.  Looking after you, changing your diapers and feeding you your ba bas … you've triggered her maternal urges!”

 

“I do have that effect on women, don't I,” Ian grinned, still keeping his voice down.  “So, how would you like to play matchmaker?”

 

“Who do you have in mind?”

 

“Another troubled vet … a guy who would definitely benefit by having a girlfriend who's steady as a rock on the one hand, and nurturing on the other.”

 

“Still waiting ...”

 

“Amos.  From where I'm standing, they look like a match made in heaven.”

 

Vickie's face lit up in surprise, and then, remembering how lost Amos had looked in the cafeteria just yesterday, with delight.

 

“Ian … my God … you're right!  Why didn't I see it?  She's stable … unflappable … and a police officer is someone to whom Amos can relate, someone he can respect.  But she's also maternal … she's perfect for him!”

 

“So, how do we play it?”

 

“Leave it to me,” Vickie crowed.  “Now, let's get our troops upstairs.  Mommy Sarah awaits!”

 

Rejoining the others, Vickie led their quartet through the warren of corridors that ended in an elevator that would carry them to the third floor.

 

Ian fervently hoped that it was close to Sarah's office.  He was counting steps, and as the number mounted, he was getting more and more worried.  He had never used the cane in Vickie's presence, or Sarah's, and he had deliberately chosen not to bring it with him to the hospital.  He did not know how the two women whom he so loved would react if they discovered how disabled he really was.  Rationally, he knew that he could not hide the truth much longer, but not for the first time he was gambling that he could finesse the situation well enough to buy another day.

 

.  .  .  .

 

Sarah was seething.  Sitting at her desk, fingers drumming, she was trying to concentrate on her work, and getting nowhere.  She knew enough about the world of BDSM to understand that Ian was topping from the bottom, and she intended to put a stop to it.  She had been easy going, ready to compromise, and he had taken advantage of her at every opportunity.  Tonight, it stopped.  Tonight, when she got home, he was going over her knee, and she was going to do exactly what she had promised Rita-- spank the shit out of him.  Tonight, she was going to acquaint him with the paddle; tonight, he would learn that she meant business when she said that she would take total control of his life, and only the paddle would punish him sufficiently for flaunting the rules that she had put in place to wean him off of alcohol.  He was going to drink breast milk, damn it, rivers of breast milk, and he was going to become the sweet and obedient baby that she envisaged.  She would paddle him tonight.  She would spank him tomorrow night for defying her order to cancel his diaper service.  And she would paddle him again on Thursday night for the crappy way that he was treating both her and the coeds protecting him from the headhunters.

 

And as for Vickie … she would be going home tonight, her heavy diaper securely locked in place.  Let her poop and piss herself all night long, and let her come crawling into the office in the morning, begging for a diaper change.  Sarah was convinced that Pom Poms Girl was enabling Ian's rebelliousness, and undermining her authority.  It was time to put Vickie in her place as well, and a diaper that doubled as a chastity belt would do the job quite nicely.  For a start.  What Vickie really needed to curb her appetite for sex and booze was the modern equivalent of an old fashioned Scold's Bridle.  A feeding gag that could be strapped in place and then locked would work, and Sarah mentally added it to the list of devices that she would need to bring both Ian and Vickie permanently to heel.

 

Sarah was done playing nice.  Tonight, both of her babies were going to discover just how strict their mommy could be.

 

 

 

 

 

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