an-awful-brat

[an-awful-brat]

MIX TAPE

Your partner was so sweet, putting together this playlist for you.

You're rarely without your headphones--the hi-def, noise-cancelling ones they surprised you with for your birthday--at home these days, except when you're spending time with them. You listen to something to relax, sing along to your favorite songs to pass the time, and even when you're busy you use them for background noise to help you focus while you study or work or do chores. The one problem is that you were using them so constantly now that you quickly burned through your go-to artists and albums. You'd been having trouble finding new stuff that clicked.

So, the playlist really was the most thoughtful gift you could have imagined. It's huge, too, hundreds upon hundreds of tracks. Some you recognize, old favorites of yours woven in between tracks your partner had turned you onto. Most, though, are completely unfamiliar. That's not a surprise, knowing your partner, though. And they look so peached as you scroll through the list, that you'd have trusted them regardless. They smile down at you, pressing a kiss to your forehead as they slip the 'phones over your ears and watch you press shuffle.

A few minutes later, you shoot them an utterly content grin when they look back over at you from where they're busy on their laptop. On the other end of the couch, you're bopping along to an infectious beat, idly drumming your hands on a cushion pulled across your lap. It's cheesy, but knowing that they picked out each song just for you leaves you warm all over and makes it so much easier to lose yourself in the rhythm and the music's swell.

Then, your phone flips over to the next track, and synths fade away into the steady, even, peaceful wash of the ocean over the beach of your mind, and....

....

"Can you lift up for me just a bit, hon?"

You blink, hard and heavy, as you come back to reality. You read your partner's lips more than you really hear them. They're standing over you, as you lay stretched out atop something soft and cushioned on their bed. The world's soundtrack now is dreamy and distantly familiar, calling: Show me all your favorite things, show you all mine, too--

You must have zoned out. You give your head a little shake, and they smile as you roll your knees towards your chest for them. The baby wipes are cool and welcome against the clammy, warm damp on your bottom. They pat at your hip to signal for you to settle back down, and you squirm shyly as you feel your next diaper coming warm and snug up between your legs.

You could do this on your own, but it's kind of them, wanting to help with all the trouble you've been having lately.

....

You don't bother switching your player to anything else anytime soon. The playlist is so vast that there's never any need, really. Tracks you know circle back just often enough that you don't feel the urge to wander back towards the familiar, and everything else is new and fresh and perfectly curated. You gush over dinner about how much you love it, and your partner all but glows before they take you back to the bedroom to help you into your pajamas.

You have plenty of time to enjoy it over the next few days. It's reading period for exams, and so you're parked at your desk or on the couch most of the day, textbooks at your nose and your 'phones constantly in place, nodding along. You nestle an absorbent pad beneath you on the furniture, just in case. You can't remember when your partner suggested those exactly, but they'd been a good idea.

Your partner gives you a quick pat on the head before they head out for the day, and you blow them a kiss, as the playlist dances over to a faint piano melody and a soothing, loving voice, too distant to make out.

....

"H-ah... h-h-ahh--"

It's six p.m. It's six p.m., and the puppypad underneath you is yellowed and stained, and you're listening to the blood pound in your ears and your breath come in hitching pants and your diapers rustle as they grind, over and over, down onto the cushions beneath you. Your seat is heavy and waterlogged. You are, distantly, aware that you smell. You needed a shower hours ago. You needed a change hours ago. You must have been too busy studying to take a break, though in the moment you're not sure what you were reviewing that was so important. Off to one side, your laptop sits abandoned, long since gone into sleep mode. Your 'phones are singing a pitchy chorus: I'm a spoiled little brat, and--

"Oh, sorry! Am I interrupting...?"

You realize you're not alone only when your partner taps you gently on your shoulder. Their smile down at you is gentle, bemused, but quizzical. You feel your cheeks flare, as you look down at yourself, skyclad save for the swollen, swampy brief overloaded between your legs.

You bite your lip hard, give a little shake of your head, and buck forward one more time, shuddering as climax finally shatters through you.

"I think we should get you into the bath, baby," they tell you, pressing a kiss to the edge of your ear as they slip your headphones free for the first time all day. You feel almost naked without them, but, adrift in the afterglow, you hardly care.

....

"Do you have everything, hon?"

You hover in the doorway of your partner's bedroom and stare back at them in silence, trying not to tear up. You think so...? They'd helped you wash up this morning, put your bedpad in the laundry, and gotten you into a fresh diaper and protective cover, just in case. And they'd packed spares in your bookbag and tucked your laptop and charger in with them. You had your phone and your keys and your student ID--

But it's exam day, and you can't help but feel like you're forgetting something important. You'd thought you were in good shape with your classes, but it feels like the weekend passed all in a blur. The study schedule you'd outlined for yourself is a random mess of blanks and half-finished chapters. You must have just not had time to get through everything.

"...think so...?" you meep, looking down anxiously at your untied shoes. Your partner gives you a reassuring smile and strides over to wrap you up in their warm, safe embrace. They rub at your back for a moment before stooping to do your laces for you.

"There. All good to go," they declare, straightening back up and giving you an affectionate pat on the rump. "Oh, just one more thing--"

They lean around you, retrieving your headphones from where they were charging on a nearby dresser. Ducking in for a quick kiss, they nestle them down around your ears. The world muffles a little, and you feel yourself relax, leaning in to steal another peck across their lips. Without thinking, you slip your phone out of one pocket and pull up your player app. Your thumb presses shuffle and then migrates, unthinking, in between your lips. You suckle in time to the beat.

"You're going to do great," you watch your partner say, as they see you off to the door, one arm curled about your hips. "See you tonight, baby."

You keep nursing as you toddle out the door, waddling down the stairs and off towards campus. You rock in place a little to the music as you pause at a crosswalk.

The track changes.

In the distance, the tide comes in.

You tell yourself they must be right.

....

[an-awful-brat]

Bad Influence (I)

"Hey...so, are you, like, going to the dance on Friday?"

Martin only distantly registered the question, whispered across the library table. His calculus textbook lay sprawled open in front of him, a sheet of looseleaf tucked across one page. The single problem he'd jotted down at the start of the period, to maintain the illusion that he was using study hall for its intended purpose, sat there lonely and entirely unloved.

"I mean, I know going looks super lame," Allie pressed on, from the seat beside him. "All, 'Look at me, I'm in 14th grade and still go to parties with my homeroom teacher and the fucking gym coach as chaperones.'"

"Mmn," said Martin, nodding along almost imperceptibly.

"But, like, everyone says that, and then if you don't at least show up it looks like you couldn't find anyone to go with, or like you think you're too cool to be seen here after classes. Like, remember Stacey last year?"

"Yeah, totally--"

That echo trailed off into silence, awkward at first, then ominous.

"Oh my god, Martin, are you even fucking listening to me right now?" Allie hissed, jerking her chair closer to all but snarl into his ear. "What are you even staring at over..."

Busted. Martin flinched, hastily dropping his gaze back down to the differential equation he'd been neglecting for the better part of an hour now. Allie's glare held on him for a long beat, then rose to follow the line of sight her best friend had been sitting, fixated on, for the bulk of that time. It was a straight shot to the far corner of the library and the one table sat that far back in the stacks...

"Martin, you've gotta be fucking kidding me."

With its single occupant, staring out the window while alternately laving his tongue over and sucking away at a cherry-red lollipop. The sucker almost matched the crimson fringe dyed into his pitch black hair. That, in turn, was almost the only hint of color in the young man's outfit, all-black, denim shortalls and a cropped, black t-shirt--

At least, that was, if one ignored the good inch or two of solid, white plastic jutting up the small of his back, towards his shortalls' straps.

"Him, seriously? I know you have, like, nightmare taste, but Candy?"

"I was just--"

Martin started, feeling his cheeks begin to singe. Then he paused and let out a sigh, whatever denial he had been fumbling for dropping away. He and Allie had been inseparable since primary school, and somewhere around Grade 7 or 8 that'd had the unfortunate side-effect of making her immune to his bullshit.

"He's not that bad," he muttered instead, his own voice hushing as he huddled in at his friend's side. "He puts on a show about having a chip on his shoulder with the teachers, but if you talk to him on his own..."

"Oh, yeah, if you get him in between ISS and the nurse's office." Allie rolled her eyes with enough force to kill a man. "You heard what he did in Ms. Cameron's French class on Monday, right?"

Martin winced. He had. Anyway, he'd heard the story going around, as he'd waited for the bus after last period. If that was to be believed, Candy--"Caeden Cain" was how he appeared on attendance roll, but it was common knowledge he wouldn't answer to anything else--hadn't shown up for his first period, "Remedial Toilet-Training Readiness," at all. Then, at the start of Ms. Cameron's second-period French Lit course, he had waddled in at the last minute looking a sight: Black shorts sagging, their seat bulging almost down to his knees, damp stains already marking the curve of each thigh in slowly expanding crescents.

The local gossips couldn't agree whether Ms. Cameron had tried to stop him at the door or only come over after one of his deskmates complained. But it was universally acknowledged that Candy had strutted right to his assigned seat and dropped all his weight down into it with a small, almost proud smile. Likewise, the story of how he'd responded when Ms. Cameron gently asked if he needed to go see the nurses about something went one way and one way only:

"Non, madame, je me sens bien," Candy had said, and then lit into a stage whisper, giving a furtive, sideways nod to one of his classmates. "Mais, entre nous, ça sent comme si quelqu'un ici avait chié dans son pantalon!"

He hadn't been in study hall that afternoon, nor the day after, and Martin had spent the latter period in a silent state of panic. Not that he and Candy had ever really spoken before, but...the other boy showed up to play Magic after class sporadically, with the group that gathered in Mr. King's room after hours most days. And Martin had thought about talking to him, before or after, almost since the first appearance he'd put in, right after his transfer back in spring of Grade 13.

He had thought about it a lot.

"It's not like he's the only kid who's ever done that in class," he sulked. "Remind me why you're retaking Remedial Training II this semester?"

Allie scowled.

"Oh my god. That is not the same thing. That's not even in the same universe. You know it isn't! I swear, just because you got out of trainers in ninth grade doesn't mean you have to be such a fucking little prick about it--"

"I'm just saying," Martin interjected, nudging an elbow into his friend's ribs. "I'm allowed to think he's cute still, right?"

"Jesus. Are you, like, into that? Or is it just like a 'No, I can change him' sort of thing? ...'Cause I guarantee you, he sure as shit doesn't do it himself."

"I. Just. Think. He's. Cute."

Allie edged her seat back, putting a polite distance between them once again. She stared back at him, one eyebrow raised, looking him up and down.

"Okay, so go ask him out, then."

"Allie."

"No, if it's no big deal, stop being a little creep about it, and go ask if he wants to go to the dance on Friday."

"You know he's not going to go for that."

"Mmhm, and I know the last time you asked someone on a 'normal' first date by yourself, my mom had to call both your parents to come pick you up early. So, c'mon. Either put your mouth where your little dick is or shut up."

"Gross--"

That didn't stop the nasty glower Allie had trained on him. Martin fidgeted, glancing back to where the subject of their debate sat, swirling the rounded tip of his sucker across his poked-out tongue.

"...screw you," he mumbled. "You know what? Fine."

And, before Allie could retort, he pushed back from his chair and marched off towards the stacks like Sydney Carton going to Madame Guillotine.

"Um. Hey, Candy."

Martin's voice had stopped cracking roughly a decade prior, but somehow it relapsed, just then. He had strolled, ever-so-casual, back to the table Candy was seated at, half-circling around to rest a hand on the spine of the chair opposite him.

The boy looked up his way, and Martin felt his mouth go dry.

"Hey, 'Marty,'" Candy echoed, leaning forward in his seat. From this angle, his t-shirt sported a silver logo, no doubt from some band, in a violent, illegible scrawl. He smiled coolly, then unfolded his hands in front of him.

"What's up?"

Martin could feel his bone structure trying to shrink itself down several inches, then. No one had called him "Marty" without a sarcastic edge to it since kindergaten--present company, plainly, included. Candy's smirk was small and patient, angled up at him, but nevertheless sharp in an unyielding way.

God, this was just a suicide mission, wasn't it? He'd known that coming over here, he supposed. If he wiped out as spectacularly as expected, at least Allie would have to partly share the blame, this way. But, still: He'd imagined this going differently, in the daydreams he'd been indulging right before she'd interrupted.

It wasn't fair, really. There wasn't any reason they couldn't get along. If the rumor mill was to be believed, Candy had transferred back in Grade 13 after his parents moved down from Portland. The most common story was that he'd had a full scholarship to some private, West Coast uni's computer science program, but hadn't been able to get a waiver for their Secure Continence requirement--

It wasn't that surprising that he had an attitude about it. And it wasn't like half the kids in their year didn't have some story about compromising life plans for public, tertiary education.

Martin swallowed hard.

"Um, right. S-so...my friend and I were wondering if you wanted to go to the Grade 14 dance this Friday?"

Candy batted his eyes up at him, then back towards the library entrance. Martin froze as they landed on Allie, where she sat practically craned over the full length of the table he'd decamped from, staring directly their way.

"So...is your friend asking me out? I don't like girls, sorry." A glib shrug. A wider smirk. "Cooties, you know how it is."

"N-no! I mean--that's not--" Jesus, this was pathetic. He was going to asphyxiate before he even got the words out. "I was hoping maybe you'd go with me?"

"Oh."

Candy plucked his lolly free from his lips. His head canted to one side, while he swirled its thin, white stick contemplatively in-hand. Martin sucked in a deep breath, bracing for a follow-up retort meant to cut him the rest of the way down to size.

"Yeah, okay."

"...um." Wait. "What?"

The other boy brushed back his black-and-red bangs with one palm, grinning wickedly now. He shrugged, taking in the jittery young man in front of him.

"Sure. Just piss your pants."

"What?"

"I said," Candy answered, cheerful, sitting up straight in his seat. "I'll go out with you this Friday if you'll piss your pants. Right here and now. I'll even let you choose where you pick me up and where we go after. Totally your call."

Martin gaped back at him. Mutely, he dragged out the wooden chair he'd latched onto and dropped down into it. Candy thrust his sucker back between his lips and leaned in. One cheek poked out, rounded, as he concluded:

"What d'you say?"

Martin blinked hard. Once, then twice. His shoulders hefted into a shrug, fighting to pretend this was still a normal, rational conversation.

"But, um, I'm...you know. I'm potty-trained."

"Oh, I know!" Candy nodded brightly. "You'd probably make a big mess, huh?"

"...right, exactly."

A good ten seconds passed in silence, save for the soft, wet sound of Candy rolling his sucker to the opposite cheek.

"So, are you gonna do it or not?"

"Candy. Come on, if I did that I'd be right back in remedial classes with--"

"Oh, no, I get it." Candy interjected, thrusting out the palm of his hand like a "Stop!" signal. His smile, Martin couldn't help but think, had turned actively cutting im the space of a few words.

"That's fine. You two have fun on Friday, 'kay...?"

And he waved one arm in a dramatic sweep, back the way from which Martin had come. Martin stared back at him, his chin drooping towards his feet. He felt like an idiot. Worse than that: He felt like he'd somehow managed not just to get himself rejected but to tread on Candy's feelings in the process.

"...hold on a second."

Martin could barely get his voice above a whisper, then. That was for the best: Although they were far back to one corner of the library, out past the stacks their entire study hall, plus the usual library stragglers, filled just about every table out to the main doors. In the enforced quiet, every sound felt like it threatened to carry dangerously far.

Candy, for his part, just popped his sucker free again and watched him--silent and now openly expectant.

Martin sucked in a deep breath. He couldn’t think about it if he was going to do it. Any second now, his brain was going to catch up with him, and he would lock up, nerves and tongue and bladder all. But he also hadn't done this any time in recent memory. There'd been that one time in Grade 10, when he'd gone down to the wire on his Algebra II midterm and had to shield his jeans' front with his backpack on the way out of class, but other that that...

That memory, though, seemed to flip a switch. As he parted his legs underneath the table, Martin could feel the same niggling, insistent pressure that'd built up inside him then. He tried to force himself to relax, to let that urge build into a need--only for every muscle in him to tense, seeming to freeze again at the last second.

"Here, wanna lolly?"

That question jolted Martin back to reality from his focus on his own interoception. To his surprise, he found himself blinking down at a red sucker prodding right up almost to his lips, Candy watching like a shark on the other end. Only after his mouth had opened and closed around it did it dawn on Martin that its cherry surface was already slick, and that Candy was no longer twirling a sweet-stick in between his fingers. Twenty different thoughts all collided in a pile-up on the way between his mind and mouth--

And then that was it. Relief, sudden and hot, let loose across the front of his jeans in a spurt, then a spray. Martin had only meant to make himself go a little, enough to let Candy rub his nose in it and claim victory. Already, though, that spray had turned into a stream, and as Martin clasped his knees together and one hand between his legs it showed no sign of stopping. Urine saturated the denim at his crotch, then down his thighs, then began to pool in the slight incline of the seat underneath him.

Until, inevitably, it overflowed, pitterpattering down to the linoleum floor below in a steadily expanding pool.

"Huh," Candy said, pushing his seat back to stand, to take in the full extent of the damage. Martin stared back, unable to bring himself to look. He was shivering in place, almost splashing in his seat. Candy's sucker was still pressed against the curve of his tongue.

"See you Friday, I guess."

And, with that, the boy grabbed his backpack and made a beeline for the front desk, practically skipping the entire way.

"Hey, Miss Sherman, Marty had an accident!"

[an-awful-brat]

Unaccompanied, In Diapers

"And will you be traveling with a caregiver today?"

The attendant behind the check-in kiosk does not raise her eyes from the screen of her terminal as she asks that question. Her tone is unmistakably tired; the line of impatient, shuffling customers snaking out behind you explains that well enough. Still, your stomach sinks at both the question and the weariness weighing it down.

"Um, no," you answer, after clearing your throat. "It's just me today."

"Do you have a doctor's certification that your incontinence is physiological in origin and not the result of insecure toilet-training?"

"Umm. No, I don't."

You wonder miserably whether she clocked you walking up to the kiosk or if there's some alert attached to the travel information she's staring down at. You've had airlines miss it in the past or only catch on after you'd headed through security, so the latter seems unlikely? But you'd thought that, freshly-changed and bundled under your winter coat, it wouldn't be so easy to notice, either.

"Alright, hold out your left hand, please."

For the space of a breath, you consider protesting, insisting that there's been some mistake. You've read online that this works sometimes--but, in the end, you bite your tongue. You can already feel the dozens of sets of eyes behind you boring into your back. You don't want to make a scene. Not over this. Anyway, you're pretty sure that advice is meant for airlines a little more upscale than the bargain-bin tickets you're flying on here.

So, you stick out your hand, and without missing a beat the woman loops a purple, paper wristband around it, cinching it on tight. You can see the bold-text, black lettering staring up at you, next to a barcode:

UID

"I need an escort for a UID traveler in Terminal E, kiosk 2," the attendant's already relaying into a walkie-talkie. When she does finally look up to acknowledge you, it's with a flicker of evident impatience to find you still standing there. "Step to one side and wait for someone to come get you, please. Next!"

You shuffle off to a thin corridor of open space between kiosks, trying not to look back towards the line behind you. One by one, you avoid the gaze of the travelers that follow as they briefly stop at the desk and then sweep past for security, while you stand there shifting your weight anxiously back and forth.

The man who arrives to retrieve you sports a yellow vest and an expression infinitely more sour than the attendant who summoned him.

"UID, Gate E7?"

You nod, forcibly suppressing a wince, and without another word he clasps your hand firmly in his.

"This way. Watch your step."

It is a short walk back towards security. The one advantage to this arrangement is that he guides you to the far side of the endless lines of travelers milling along there. A security officer stationed by the far wall stops you both just long enough to scan your wristband and ID and then waves you onwards.

"Are you going to need changed before you're inspected?"

You can't say the trade-off really seems worth it, though. Rather than an X-Ray and body scanner, the roped-off corridor you're led down terminates in an unmarked door which the man ushers you through. Within, a pair of additional guards stand waiting near a cool, metallic table. A small stack of travel bins sits to one side of the thing; a trio of waist-high diaper pails flank the wall adjacent. The room smells overwhelmingly of disinfectant and industrial-strength, artificial "Fresh Air" scent.

"I asked if you need a diaper change before they pat you down," your escort repeats, before you can finish steeling yourself for what's next. The words come slower and louder this time, as if he doesn’t trust you to follow them otherwise.

"Er, sorry--"

You shake your head on nervous impulse. Only after do you squeeze your thighs together a bit, feeling the cushy material squish back against you, freshly warm. You don't think you're wet enough to need to worry? But you find yourself regretting the hasty answer all the same. It'll be an hour-and-a-half before your flight boards and then two or more before you touch down.

"Alright, then, bottoms, belt, and shoes off, please, and then approach the table."

He slips the backpack you're hoisting over one shoulder free without asking permission, handing it off to one of the guards. Mercifully, though, he at least lets you undress yourself after: You unfurl your coat, kick off your shoes, and then wriggle hurriedly out of your jeans. Without the snug denim to support it, your diaper's softly swollen front droops between your thighs.

Taking a deep breath, you boost yourself onto the table. Directly after, the guard not busy rifling through your things steps forward and gives you an appraising nod:

"Arms up, legs apart. Hold still."

You oblige. The pat-down that follows is brief and business-like. The guard swiftly checks your sides, your chest, and the incline of your back. Then, a palm cups directly across the crotch of your diaper. It gives a single, disinterested squeeze to the warm SAP it finds, and then circles around to pull back the rear waistband of the brief. Your cheeks, which have stayed steadily pink for what seems like an hour now, sear red as the officer takes a quick peek down into its slightly yellowed seat.

"Good to go," the guard announces to your escort. Your carry-on, apparently, has also passed muster, as it's now tucked back over one of his shoulders. Under the same arm, he carries a large, Zip-Loc bag housing your belt and now neatly-folded jeans. In his hands, he's peeling the plastic packaging free from something shiny and purple, a near-match for the shade of your wristband.

"Step in," he says, once he's gotten the thing free. Unfolding it, you can see the logo of your airline for the day printed in repeating font, just below the waistband of the vinyl pants you're being offered. Or, well: Given. You've read about UID travelers trying to talk their way out of these, too, but in your experience they've never been optional.

And so you step in. The stretchy material comes up high and snug between your legs. Your escort brushes your shirt upwards over your stomach to get them nestled just so, their top cresting right above your navel.

"Do not remove your protective pants while in the terminal or on your flight. Understand? If you need changed before you reach your final destination, let an attendant know promptly. If you interfere with your protective pants or diaper while in the terminal, you'll need to be escorted back through the security changing area. If you refuse to cooperate with these policies, we reserve the right to deny you further service. Any questions?"

You give a single, mute shake of your head. That seems to be sufficient: A moment later, after you've thrust your toes back into your sneakers, he takes you by the hand once more and ushers you out a door opposite the one you came in through.

You emerge directly into the flow of foot traffic in the terminal. One second, it's only you, your visibly bored chaperone, and the two security officers; the next you're being tugged along to the side of a thronging crowd, all hustling their way towards their gate or loitering in the direction of food, booze, or coffee.

You find yourself huddling at your escort's side, wishing you could shrink yourself to fit his silhouette, as you waddle along with him. Probably you won't be the only UID passenger on your flight, but at this particular moment your eyes fail to catch a single other pair of vinyl pants matching your own in the crowd. More than once while you scan for one, you meet the stare of some passerby arching an eyebrow or smirking, unrestrained, at the sight of you being led along like a wayward child.

"Alright," your escort announces finally, stopping in front of a sliding pair of glass doors. A swipe of a card dangling from a lanyard at this neck sends them whirring open. "This is the UID lounge area. Someone will come and get you when your flight begins boarding. Until then, we ask that you not leave the lounge unaccompanied by a designated escort."

You've heard that some lounges like this are quite nice, all things considered--all cozy seating, video games, and relative peace away from the terminal crowds. This one, however, is more consistent with your experience: It looks like a small and questionably funded daycare. Several low tables. are spaced around the room with plastic seating, each chair sporting a disposable seat-mat. The tables themselves are strewn with juvenile activity and coloring books and young adult (at best) reading material. Each seat also bears a tablet with the airline's logo glowing across its front page, above the words: "UID - Entertainment, Refreshment, & Care Services."

Here, at least, you're not alone. Each of the tables has one or two occupants in much the same situation as you: A college-aged, young woman awkwardly leaned over her tablet; a man nearer to middle-age draping a beige jacket over his bare legs; a frazzled-looking gentleman in herringbone suit, tie, and violet vinyl pants chewing his lip while he traces a crayon through a line-maze.

Your escort leads you to the least-occupied of the stations and waits expectantly for you to choose a seat. You drop into a space far as possible from your closest neighbor. The attendant nods. He does not offer you your backpack or the bag with your adult bottoms back. Those will be dropped off at the lounge's front station, to be relayed to your attendant onto your flight.

"You can order food and drink through your tablet there. If you need an adult's assistance before your flight boards, you can use the 'call' button on the bottom there, too. Use that button if you need your diaper checked or need to leave the lounge for any reason."

Slumping your shoulders, you pick up the tablet in front of you obediently and note the helpfully color-coded, purple "call" icon at the bottom of every page. Stepping back, your escort sizes you up one final time and, seemingly convinced you aren't planning on bolting soon as his back is turned, pivots back for the door.

"Thank you for your cooperation, and have a safe and dry flight," he intones woodenly. You can practically see the corporate training script that parting slogan came from flickering before your mind's eyes.

"Yeah, thanks--" you murmur weakly, but before the words are out he's already gone. You scoot lower in your seat, trying to find a comfortable pose against the plastic. Even with your diaper's heavy padding, it's a losing battle.

You end up opting to slump your weight back against your tailbone as you fixate down on the tablet, tabbing through the lounge menu. You'd passed easily a dozen restaurant outlets on your way here, but none of their offerings appear on the photo-illustrated pages. Instead, the options begin and end with chicken nuggets (real or vegan imitation, dinosaur or non-), grilled cheese, butter noodles, and similar fare. There is a beer and wine menu, blessedly, but the plastic sip-mug that each drink is pictured in leaves you less than eager to start imbibing early. Somehow, you think, it'd feel less childish just admitting the maturity level you were stranded at here and ordering an apple juice.

That's what you do, finally. When it arrives, some indeterminate amount of time later, you're bent over a coloring book, filling out a sunflower in daffodil-yellow. The tip of your off-hand's thumb is prodded into your mouth. You absent-mindedly accept it and raise the spout to your lips, when you feel an ominous pressure in the pit of your tummy.

It's not the kind of pressure you can do anything about. It's not a warning of trouble to come. There's nothing for it but to let out a resigned grunt and hunch forward, weight shifting onto the tips of your toes, as the rear of your diaper fills and expands all at once. Your vinyl pants do nothing to constrain the heavy sag at your rear this makes for, as you finish up. Neither do they muffle the undignified noise of your body releasing. They do, however, hold in the odor that would otherwise follow with admirable ease. And when you finally give in and settle back in your now snug and mushy seat, they save you from having to grope fretfully at your waistband for fear of a blow-out.

The young woman sitting across the table spares you a look that is semi-sympathetic but softly irritated, all the same. You can tell from the way she's sitting that she's likely far from dry herself, but nowhere near the predicament that you're now seated in. Her gaze says, unsubtly judgmental: This is why they don't let us off on our own.

You bat your eyes down towards the "call" button along your tablet's toolbar, then back up at the clock in the corner. It's 10:45 a.m. Your fingertip hovers over the violet icon, hesitating.

Another hour and change before boarding.