The Good Samaritan

A variation on the classic parable.

Finding William

Friday night I’d had a late dinner in Vegas. It was almost 11:00 when I turned onto Amboy Road toward 29 Palms. As I drove through Sheep Hole Pass, mud on the highway told me we’d had recent flash flooding. I slowed down – the road is unlit and prone to washouts. I didn’t want to overdrive my lights. Rounding a curve I saw a little campfire ahead. Actually, a car was burning just off the road. Slowing, I saw skid marks in the mud leading to a 3’ washout on the right. A girl was trying to crawl from the car, but seemed hung up on the window. I ran and pulled her away.

“Is there was anyone else in the car?”

She shook her head. As she did, the gas tank exploded with a surprising bang – throwing debris and burning gasoline in all directions. The girl’s legs seemed broken. I tried calling 911, but the cell reception on Amboy is spotty at best. I’d take her myself. She screamed then fainted when I picked her up.

I set a flare before the washout and started for the hospital. The only one in 29 Palms is the Naval Hospital, but I was sure they’d take an emergency case, so I drove there. They came out with a gurney and wheeled her in – still out cold. I parked and called 911 about the washout and the car fire. Finally, I went in and waited to give my statement. While I was telling the deputy what I’d seen, she got a call saying the fire was out. The car was a burnt out shell that would be cleared Monday.

The deputy left and I was collecting my purse and coat when a woman with a clipboard stopped me. She insisted that I take responsibility because the patient had been given morphine and couldn’t sign any forms. I said I didn’t even know her, but signed as “friend.” I went home, had a rum and coke, and went to bed.

The next morning about 11:00 I got a call from the hospital asking me to pick my friend up. I tried to explain, but the discharge planner said it would save a her from the bureaucratic nightmare of discharging an indigent civilian from a military hospital. She seemed a nice person, so I relented. I’d just take her to one of the motels in town.

“He’ll need some shorts because his jeans were cut off when he was treated and he can’t wear long pants over his casts.”

He? His? Surely, not. Maybe she’d never met the young woman and was confused. Now 29 Palms is not the fashion capital of the world. We only have a couple of small dressmaker’s shops. Coming up with shorts on an hour’s notice wouldn’t be easy in July, but in February, it’s impossible. My shorts would be huge on her.

My sister Sandy, 13, was continually fighting with our mom over styles. She’d “accidentally” leave anything she considered juvenile at my house at the end of her visits. As a result, my guest room held a collection of shortalls, cutesy dresses and infantile shorts Sandy had “forgotten.” I chose blue sailor shorts with white piping and two rows of brass buttons as the best of awful alternatives.

I got to the hospital about 11:30. My first surprise was that the discharge planner was not mistaken. The person I’d brought in was indeed a man – one named William Mannette. I went to his room. His legs were in casts, his face and arms battered by the airbags, his hands bandaged and he was zonked out on pain killers. I knew I couldn’t take him to a motel and dump him. He’d never be able to care for himself. They say no good deed goes unpunished.

I’m not fond of men. It’s not that I’m a lesbian, but I’ve had enough bad – make that horrible – experiences to avoid them. Still, this one seemed safe enough. I’m 5’ 11”, 160 (OK, a bit more) and he looked to be 5’ 5”, 115. Anyway, I’d had no difficulty lifting him the night before. So I figured I’d have no problem dealing with any trouble he might make even if he was sound of limb – which he definitely was not. He could stay in Sandy’s room. I’d get Juanita (my part-time maid) to take care of him for a day or two, by then his family would come for him. I’d taken in stay cats as a child. How different could this be?

As I looked at him I could see why I’d taken him for a woman in the dark. Not only was he small, but his facial contours were quite feminine. He wore an inexpensive woman’s sports watch, diamond or zirc studs in his ears and shoulder length blond hair. Even now, battered and bruised as he was, he looked like a flat-chested young lady.

The nurse was trying to wake him. “William you have a visitor.”

“A visitor??”

“Yes. Hi. I’m Lindsey James – the lady that brought you in last night.”

“Not just brought me in, but saved my life. Thank you! Thank you!” He struggled to sit up and held out bandaged hand for me to shake. He winced when I grasped it.

“I just did what anyone would do. Don’t worry about it.”

“I don’t know how to repay you.”

“You don’t have to. Look, they asked me to come and collect you. You can’t stay here – it’s a Navy hospital and they don’t take civilians except for emergencies. Besides you don’t need to be in the hospital any more. They asked me to bring a pair of shorts. I did the best I could – there wasn’t time to buy any. I hope you don’t mind wearing a pair my sister left. I promise not to laugh.” I handed a paper bag with the shorts to the nurse. “I’ll get my car and meet you out front.”

The nurse stopped me. “Ms. James, Lindsey, before you get your car, you need to meet with the discharge planner for instructions.” I met with nurse Crotchet – no that wasn’t her real name. She went over the points of care like a German officer issuing orders. William would: (1) have to stay in bed for three days, and start exercising his legs in 2 weeks; (2) “we” could use a bed pan or incontinence pants (she recommended the latter unless there was a trained nurse on duty); (3) he would be unable to use crutches for some time because he had no good leg to put weight on; (4) he needed lots of fluids to help the kidneys deal with pain medication and a high calcium diet, etc., etc. I signed saying I’d been informed and received printed pages.

When they helped him into my car, I almost couldn’t help laughing. Between the sailor shorts and the bulky diaper he was obviously wearing, he looked like an overgrown toddler. Luckily I kept my composure. They gave me a bag with his things and a prescription for painkillers. I drove to the pharmacy, then my place. My house isn’t exactly handicapped accessible. I had to carry him up ten or so steps and over the threshold like a blushing bride.

I’d tried talking to him as I drove, but he kept nodding off. Now I sat him on the sofa and told him we needed to talk. Did he have any relatives to come and get him? His mother’s sister lived in Indonesia with her husband who worked for an oil company. Friends? Not that would come for him. I was stuck with him.

He hated to mention it, but he had to go to the “potty.” “Potty?” Really, “potty”? Come on! Anyway, I put him on an office chair and wheeled him to the “potty.” There I had to take down his shorts and loosen his diaper. Thankfully, it was clean and dry. I admit it. I checked him out – without staring. He wasn’t huge, or tiny either. I helped him onto the seat. I was going to tell him to call me when he was done, but he could not sit without his casts being supported. I sat on the floor and held them. I’m not sure which of us was more embarrassed. Later I found a crate to rest his feet on.

After he’d “gone potty,” I tried calling Juanita. She was visiting relatives and wouldn’t be back until Thursday. So much for plan A. I guessed I was plan B. It wasn’t that I had somewhere to go. I’d just finished a gig in Vegas and didn’t have to go again until the following week. Mostly I worked from home over the net. (I’m a cyber security consultant.) So I could care for William until he could hobble around on his own.

I helped him into bed, and asked if he was hungry. He wasn’t. I gave him a pain pill instead. I relaxed until he woke about 6:00. I wheeled him to the “potty,” put his bottom on it, his feet on the crate, and left him to it. After, I helped with his diaper and decided leaving his shorts off was more practical. I replaced the sailor shorts and his turtleneck with a unicorn nitie Sandy had never worn. The turtleneck needed washing anyway.

As I changed him, I noticed a complete lack of muscle tone. Though he was little over 100 pounds, a fair amount of his weight was fat. Little wonder that he’d had such a hard time getting out of his car. His arms were soft and feminine, and his chest quite flabby. He seemed very self-conscious about his body and relieved to have it covered – even by a girlish nitie.

I poured pre-mixed salad and nuked potpies for dinner. He had a hard time eating the pie with a fork, so I broke it up and gave him a tablespoon. Watching him spilling food down his front reinforced the toddler image I’d formed earlier. I put a bib on my mental shopping list. I had a well-deserved Chablis, and had him drink two large glasses of water, per instructions. I started Breech on the DVD, but he soon fell asleep. After the movie, I wheeled him back to bed and told him not to wake me to take him “potty.” I was too tired. He should feel free to use his diaper. I have to admit that I was a bit angry at being imposed upon, and not very sympathetic.

Running off the Road

I had been working as a bus boy and waiter in Las Vegas for a couple years when the economy fell apart and I lost my job. Maybe I could have found another. Some people think I am cute, and that can open doors in Vegas, but I didn’t like what was on the other side of them. Stacy, my apartment mate, knew I was tired of Vegas life and had a cousin who was a maitre d’ in Palm Springs. There was a job for me if I could get there by Saturday. So, I packed up my old Toyota and took off reluctantly after a tearful farewell. (Stacy is so emotional, and her crying is contagious.)

I left late and took the shortest route. The map showed a secondary road leading south from the I-15 through Joshua Tree National Park to the I-10 east of Palm Springs. I planned to stay in Twentynine Palms, see the park in the morning and arrive Saturday afternoon. The weather was mild for February, so I put the windows down a little and let the wind blow through my hair. (I usually wear my hair in a ponytail, but I like to take it down when I’m alone.)

I was almost dozing off from monotony when suddenly, half the road was gone in front of me. I braked, but the pavement was slick with mud. I spun, skidded into the hole, bounced off the road, and slammed against something hard. The airbags banged into me. Recovering my senses, I saw a flickering light from under the car. The floorboard was heating up and smoking. I loosened my seat belt, but the door was jammed. As I pushed against it, I felt a horrid pain in both legs. The driver’s window was broken. I got most of its glass out with my elbow and fist. I cut my hands, but managed to pull my body out. I was in agony as my feet caught on the frame. I had to get away or I’d be dead at 23. It was one of those dreams where you know where to go, but can’t seem to get there. Meanwhile, a car and a pickup drove by without stopping.

Finally, a car did stop and a lady ran toward me. She grabbed my arms and pulled me to the road. She asked if there was anyone else in the car. I shook my head no. Just then I heard an explosion. Flaming gas engulfed my car and the surrounding scrub. She tried calling an ambulance, but there was no cell service. She asked if she could drive me to the hospital. I nodded. She picked me up. It hurt so much I screamed, then passed out.

I woke up in the hospital. I had an IV in my arm and the doctor was wrapping one of my legs. I tried to talk, but I could only mumble. The doctor said I’d had an accident and broke both legs, but that I should be fine once they mended. I vaguely remember being moved. The next thing I knew a nurse was waking me for breakfast. I sipped a bit of coffee, then fell asleep until the nurse woke me to tell me I had a visitor – the lady who brought me in. I knew she did more than that – she saved my life.

The lady’s name was Lindsey James. She was 28 – a tall, athletic brunette. Her face was more handsome than pretty, but still feminine. Her hair was close cropped. She wore tennis shoes, jeans and a man’s shirt that pulled across her full breasts. Diamond studs in her ears and a mannish watch were her only jewelry. Since she’d brought me in, they had asked her to pick me up. I thanked her the best I could. I owed her my life. She had a bag of her sister’s shorts with her and apologized as she handed them to the nurse. Then she left to get her car.

I was about to be really embarrassed. They had me on a catheter. When the nurse took it out (ouch) she put a bulky diaper on me. She took a pair of sailor shorts with brass buttons out of the bag Ms. James had brought. When I saw them I knew why Ms. James had apologized – they were styled for a 9-year old girl. Pulling them up over my diaper, the nurse admired her handiwork. “You look sooo cute I could eat you up, honey.”

She took a few minutes to brush my hair – that felt good – then took me out in a wheelchair. An orderly helped her put me in Ms. James’ car and I was off. Ms. James tried to converse, but I kept nodding off. We stopped at a drug store, then drove out of town on a dirt road.

Her house is on a small hill on the border of Joshua Tree. It is a four-bedroom adobe with a carport. Steps lead from it to her door. She is so strong, she just picked me up and carried me in her arms. I mention that because it made me fell small, weak and dependent. As we crossed the threshold, I pictured a groom carrying his bride – but I was the bride – another blow to the masculine self-image I’d been trying to nurture.

She put me on the sofa and asked who could come to get me. I had to tell her there was no one. I had a few friends in Vegas, but except for Stacy none were close, and Stacy’s SO was moving in as I moved out. Realizing how alone I was made me want to cry, but I saved it for when I was by myself.

Meanwhile, the urge to go potty was growing. I did not want to use the diaper, so I asked Ms. James to take me. It was really embarrassing for both of us and unpleasant for Ms. James to be exposed to the smell. She was so nice to me – she held my feet up so I could sit and cleaned me because I could not use the TP with my hands bandaged. After, she tucked me in to bed.

I woke in time for dinner. Ms. James put me on the potty again, but this time she had a box to put my feet on and left me too it. She suggested that I not wear the sailor shorts as getting them on and off was a pain. I had to agree. She took off the turtleneck I was wearing and put me in a unicorn nitie. It was even more embarrassing than the sailor shorts. Still, she did not laugh at me, but treated it as a normal thing to wear.

She is a lovely person, but one thing she is not good at is cooking. For dinner we had premixed salad greens and microwaved chicken potpies. I told her how yummy it was, but decided to make her a good dinner as soon as I could. She had me drink two big glasses of water with dinner because the instructions said to.

After dinner we started watching a movie, but I fell asleep. She put me to bed. I was so sleepy I forgot to ask to go potty. She was tired and asked that I not wake her – use my diaper if I needed to. So far I had not. About 11:30 I woke up needing to potty. I tried to hold it. I couldn’t. Wetting was a strange experience. I felt embarrassed and infantile, but my warm, wet diaper felt oddly comforting. I fell back asleep until 3:00 when the other glass of water wanted out and I wet again. This time the bed got wet.

About 8:00, Ms. James came to see if I was awake. I heard her and woke up cold, soggy, and very uncomfortable. At first she was all smiles, but when she smelled the pee she started to frown. “It smells like someone needs a diaper change.”

I blushed. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

“I appreciate that.” She got a fresh diaper and pulled back the covers. When she saw that the bed was wet, she got mad. “You’ve wet Sandy’s bed! Couldn’t you control yourself at all?”

“It was all that water at dinner – and I forgot to ask to go potty before you put me to bed.”

“Only babies ‘forget to go potty.’ If you’re going to act like I baby, I can treat you accordingly.”

“I’m sorry.” I felt very infantile in a wet diaper, nitie and bed. Since I was already feeling very alone and vulnerable, I started to cry.

She softened just a bit, but was still mad. “Well, let me change you.” She pulled off the wet nitie and changed my diaper. She must have done it before because she seemed quite expert. The baby powder smell brought back vague, pleasant memories. While embarrassed, I felt cared for.

When I was changed, she put me in a wheeled office chair to wash my legs and back. Finally, she rummaged in the bureau until she found an infantile nitie – pink, with a skirted Care Bear. “Here, this suits you!” In my state of mind then, it did. What upset me most was the warm, tingly feeling wearing it gave me.

She wheeled me into the kitchen and left me in front of a bowl of Frosted Flakes, an empty glass and a carton of milk. My bandages made it hard to pour the milk, use a spoon, or even hold a glass. When I was done there were milk puddles on the table, dribbles on my nitie and splatters on the floor.

While I was struggling with breakfast, Ms. James was stripping the bed, washing the sheets, and hauling the mattress out to the patio. She still looked mad as she walked past. She saw the mess I’d made and said, “You really are a baby. You need a bib and a bottle.” She got a wet cloth, cleaned the front of my nitie, the table and floor. Then she went out to work on the mattress.

I sat feeling sorry for myself and guilty for all the work I was causing Ms. James – I was a big baby. I’d wet my diaper and the bed, and made a mess any toddler could be proud of. I wondered what wearing a bib and suckling a bottle would feel like. Maybe it would not be too bad. Meanwhile she was on the patio working on the mattress with club soda and towels. As she worked, I could see her calming down.

When she was done, she came in to talk. “I’m sorry that I got mad and made you cry sweetie.” (It was the first time she called me “sweetie.”) “I know it wasn’t your fault. You’re zoned out on painkillers, and I gave you all that water and told you to use your diapers. Monday I’ll buy you plastic panties and a waterproof sheet. Also, it wasn’t your fault that you made of mess of your breakfast. Still, we’re going to have to do something about the spills.”

“I wish you did not have to. I’ll pay for whatever you get. By the way, do you know if they got my bag out of the car?”

“The deputy said everything burned to ashes.”

“Oh God! I had all my money in my bag – over five thousand I got from my grandma! … and other things from mommy and grandma.”

“Didn’t you have a wallet? They gave me a bag with your belongings.” She got it and handed it to me.

“Yeah, but I wasn’t going to carry all that cash around. I only have about $100 in my wallet.” I looked – there was $116.00. I started crying again – not so much for the money as because it was from my grandma. It hit me how alone and dependent I was. Lindsey came over and hugged me to her breasts.

“Look, sweetie, I make more than I’ll ever need, so I’ll front you till you get on your feet.”

“Thanks.” What else could I do? I sniffed and tried to stop my tears. She continued to comfort me, rubbing my back silently until I relaxed.

“William, sweetie, when I stripped the bed, your pillow case was really dirty. I don’t think they washed your hair after the accident. Do you mind if I give you a shampoo? My sister Sandy enjoys me washing hers. She says it’s really relaxing.”

“I would like one if it is not too much trouble.”

“It’ll make up for my getting mad at you. Let’s go out on the patio. It’s nice out and you can relax on the chaise while I wash your hair.”

“OK if no one will see me. The way I am dressed is really embarrassing.”

“Sorry about that, but there is no point in changing now. No one lives close or looks down on my house. Don’t be embarrassed. It’s just us and I think you look cute.” I blushed. Whenever women complimented my looks I was always “cute,” never “handsome.” The sole exceptions had been my mommy and grandma who said that I was pretty – “too pretty to be a boy.”

It was not quite 70°, but the sun was shining and there was little breeze. I was very comfortable as she shampooed my hair. Once my hair was rinsed and conditioned she let it dry in the sun for a bit, then wheeled me in to blow dry it.

“My grandma used to do this for me, Ms. James.”

“Look, if you don’t start calling me Lindsey, I am going to put you over my knee!”

I was not sure if she would really spank me or not. She was certainly strong enough and she had a temper. “I’m sorry, Lindsey.”

“Did you live with your grandma then?”

“Yes, mommy was single and we all lived together. Mommy died when I was in eighth grade. Then my grandma and I took care of each other till I was 20 and she died. She used to say I looked just like mommy when I was her age.”

“Do you have any pictures?”

“Yes, in my wallet. You can look. … That is my grandma, mommy and me when I was little. Here is mommy in pigtails when she was small.”

“I agree with your grandma, you look very much like your mom, sweetie.”

I was feeling dreamy with the painkillers, the sun streaming through the patio door and Lindsey brushing my hair as grandma had. I reminisced. “Grandma liked to brush my hair like she’d done for mommy. She would braid it or put it in pigtails … mommy’s I mean. Her brushing my hair sounds weird, but it made her happy and I liked the attention. We would talk as she did it. It was a special time for us. … Oh God now you think I am a freak!” I twisted around, but Lindsey looked moved, not freaked out.

“I’m glad you had those special times with her. I don’t think it’s freaky at all. I just didn’t know boys enjoyed things like that.”

“I did – so I guess I’m not much of a boy.”

“Maybe not, but it makes me like you better than the men I’ve dated.” She brushed on silently, and I relaxed – feeling more accepted than I had since my grandma died. I’d never told anyone about my hair time with grandma, but I was glad I told Lindsey. “Would you like me to do that for you?”

I was almost asleep. “What?”

“Braid your hair or put it in pigtails?”

“That would be weird.”

“Not to me.”

“Boys don’t wear pigtails.”

“I’m sure some do.”

I had imagined grandma giving me pigtails when I was younger. Ms. James – Lindsey could not know that. Still, the idea made me blush.

“You’re blushing, sweetie. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I just thought you might want to see how much like you mother you really do look.” After that she stopped asking me if I wanted pigtails. She parted my hair in the middle, but did not put it in a ponytail, so it kept getting into my eyes. At some point I fell asleep. I woke briefly as she lifted me onto the sofa. “Sweetie, I have to get some things. I put a towel under you and the sofa is leatherette, so don’t worry about wetting. Have a nice nap.” She kissed me on the forehead and left. I felt warm and accepted as a fell back asleep.

My Charge

My mind raced as I lay in bed after my day with William. What I had gotten myself into? I never thought pulling someone from a burning car would end with me wiping his rear. I missed that class in hero school.

I couldn’t get William’s “package” out of my mind. The last penis I’d seen was Kerry Martin’s as he was trying to date rape me when I was 20. I’d fought him off, but hadn’t got over it. I’d been so sure Kerry was a gentleman. I hadn’t dated since because I didn’t trust men or my judgement where men were concerned. Still, seeing William had gotten my juices flowing – until I had to deal with the unpleasant reality of him “going potty.”

That was another thing. What kind of man talks about “going potty,” cries so openly, or wears girlish shorts, diapers and nities without complaint? William was probably a momma’s boy – the kind who would’ve been called a sissy in school. I wondered what he’d look like one of Sandy’s childish dresses. Would he wear one for me? The whole idea was fantasy. Still …

Strangely, or maybe not so strangely, William’s femininity was endearing, not repulsive. It was almost like having my own little girl – except for what was between her legs. But did he even like women? Or was he dreaming of being in the arms of a strong man?

I’d been alone so long; I needed someone in my life. William did too. Still, taking care of him was a lot more work than I anticipated or wanted. I fell asleep torn between anger at being put upon and the desire to end my loneliness. My dreams were equally turbulent. By turns I was lovingly dressing my man dolly in lace and Mary Janes, taking out my anger by paddling his bottom, and wantonly using him to fill my needs. I woke after a restless night.

I made coffee and set out breakfast. I drank my coffee, waiting impatiently to see what the day would bring. At 8:00 I decided to wake William. I found that he’d wet not only his diaper but the bed as well. I flipped out. After changing and washing him, I found Sandy’s most infantile pink nitie to dress him in. He let me put it on him without protest. The whole experience left me thinking of him as a 110-pound baby.

I’m not a domme. At least I’d never been dominant, but William’s submissiveness sent a surprisingly sexual thrill through me. I’d been living in secret fear of men, and now one, at least, did as I told him. Breaking free of my fear was liberating. I didn’t want to abuse William, so I wasn’t sure I liked this new side of myself. Maybe if I could be dominant without being abusive … But, where was the line?

After I sat William down to breakfast, I went out to clean the wet mattress on the patio. Working in the sun and crisp air gave me time to think. I was wrong to get mad over his bed wetting. Between the painkillers, the water at dinner and telling him not to wake me, it wasn’t really his fault. Still, he hadn’t complained when I told him to use his diaper – or when I dressed him like little girl for that matter. Was he afraid of me or did he enjoy being submissive, even feminine? How much of a sissy was he? How much did I want him to be?

As I walked back into the kitchen, I saw the mess William had made – puddles on the table, dribbles on his nitie, and cornflakes and splatters on the floor. It reminded me of little Katie – a two year old I used to baby sit as a teen. My anger re-ignited. He needed a bib and a baby bottle and told him so.

Another annoyance was his calling me “Ms. James.” I’d asked him to please call me “Lindsey” several times. Still, he persisted. In my angry mood, I told him that if he didn’t call me Lindsey, I’d put him over my knee. From then on he called me “Lindsey.” Did he really think I’d spank him? I imagined doing it and got the same erotic shiver dressing him in the Cheer Bear nitie gave me. My mixed feelings returned. I didn’t want to be abusive, but I was happy my sexuality had woken from its long slumber.

I don’t stay angry. After a bit more time cooling off on the patio, I came in and apologized. He needed his hair washed. Sandra, my mom and I all washed each other’s hair. It was relaxing and a good time to talk. Shampooing his could make up for my earlier outbursts.

The shampooing relaxed him and he began a kind of stream of consciousness. His grandmother had washed and brushed his hair. He reminded her of his mom. She used to braided his mom’s hair and put it in pigtails. Why did he mention that? Did he secretly wish she’d done it for him? The idea of a pigtailed sissy hadn’t occurred to me, but it made me moist. I suggested that I give him pigtails. He kept giving me reasons not to, but never said he didn’t want them. I filed the idea away. He fell asleep before I finished and I took advantage of it by putting barrettes in his hair. What would he say?

He’d be pretty if his face wasn’t bruised. I laid him on the sofa to finish his nap, kissed his forehead and left. After shopping at Save-A-Lot, I drove out to the crash site. Searching the area, I found the charred remains of a suitcase in a clump of creosote bushes not far from the car. Perhaps his inheritance wasn’t gone.

William was asleep, but the towel under him was wet. He woke as I made lunch. I changed him. For the first time, he responded to me wiping his equipment. I rewarded him with a bit of baby oil but stopped before anything happened.

A Princess Ariel nitie looked darling on him. I thought about how much laundry a baby generated. Since he’d made such a mess at breakfast, we ate on the patio. I gave him plastic bib and a baby bottle I got at Save-A-Lot. He asked if he had to use the bottle, but once I said yes, he did. He looked adorable and I told him so.

As we ate he told me that he felt like a baby girl dressed as he was. I asked him if there was anything wrong with being a girl – after all, I was one. He didn’t know what to say. Then I told him he shouldn’t worry about being a baby now. As it couldn’t be helped, why not relax and enjoy it?

“You don’t think the less of me? I owe you so much. I want you to like me.”

“I can hardly be mad at you for using a bottle I gave you, or wearing a bib and nitie I put on you. Don’t you feel cute?”

“Boys should not feel cute.”

“Nonsense! Besides, when I was doing your hair you told me you aren’t much of a boy anyway. That is one of the things I like about you.” He blushed. I was not sure, but I thought he batted his lashes at me – probably just my imagination.

We finished our lunch with smiles, but not saying much more.

If I was to bring out his sissy side, my conscience demanded he know his actual situation – that he was not totally dependent on me because he still had his inheritance.

“After shopping, I went to the crash site and found your suitcase. It’s a bit charred. Would you like me to open it for you?” I put it on the patio table. The zipper was melted, so I used shears to cut it open. His clothes were smoke stained and some were charred along the edges, but a photo album, an envelope of money and a jewelry bag had survived. He thanked me profusely. I’d wash his things and see what survived.

“Well sweetie, now that you have your money, you have some options. You don’t need to stay with me.” He looked like I was about to throw him out.

“Don’t worry, I’m not throwing you out. Having you here has shown me how lonely I’d become … without even realizing it. I’d like you to stay. The thing is, I really don’t like men – not he-men anyway. That’s one of the reasons I’d like you to stay. I don’t think it’s an insult to say you’re a bit of a sissy, sweetie. … Am I right?”

He fiddled with his hair, feeling a barrette with his finger tips, but leaving it in place. “I must be,” he said quietly, looking down.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Some boys are born to be he-men, and some aren’t. You’re blessed with a delicate body and a pretty face. When I changed you and did your hair, I felt you liked big strong Lindsey taking care of you. You do, don’t you?”

He nodded, avoiding my gaze by straightening the hem of his nitie.

“Despite my little outbursts, I like taking care of you, sweetie. I’d like to help you blossom.”

“Blossom?”

“Yes, into the pretty flower you are inside.”

“I don’t know. Mommy never dressed me like a girl, but she did dress me in fussy clothes. The children at school made fun of me. I hated that.”

“Which, the clothes, or being made fun of?”

“I didn’t mind the clothes when it was just mommy, grandma and me. The teasing made me cry.” Tears welled up in his eyes.

“I wouldn’t let anyone make fun of you.” I hugged him to my bosom. “The question is would you like to be pretty while you’re here?”

“I’ve been trying to be more of a man since my grandma died.”

“For yourself, or because other people expect it?”

“Well, when I first started working in Las Vegas a lot of guys wanted to pal around with me. One asked me if I’d like to hang with him. At first he was really nice and we had lots of fun. Then the asked me to see The Crying Game with him. When it showed Dil was a boy, he started rubbing my leg and crotch and tried to force my head down onto his … you know, his organ. I had to struggle to get away. So, I stay away from guys now. I don’t trust them. I don’t want them hitting on me. So I try to act more – well masculine.”

“I had a similar experience and don’t trust guys either. But, would you want to be with a man if you met one who respected you?”

“No, I like girls, but none of them ever liked me … I mean romantically.”

“I think I do.”

“Really?”

“Yes, but part of what I like is you’re not a he-man. In fact, I’d like you to be pretty for me. Would you like that?”

“I’m really not sure. I want to please you – to do as you want. But, part of me keeps saying I am a boy.”

“I’m not suggesting that you become a girl – I’m not lesbian. In fact, since I first saw your … ah, parts, I’ve been very interested in the boy part of you, but not enough to want a he-man. I’d like a pretty boy who’s interested in women – well who’s interested one woman – me. What do you think?”

“I am interested in you. I am not saying no. I just don’t know. I need time to think.”

“That’s fair enough. In the meantime, I think ‘William’ is too formal. Do you mind if I call you ‘Billie’?”

“That would be OK.”

A New Road

Lindsey working in the kitchen woke me. As I shook my drowsiness, I realized my nitie was cold and wet. That surprised me. Last night I had wet my diaper while awake and reluctantly. This time I had wet in my sleep. I had not wet the bed since I was 14, stressed out by mom’s death. Grandma had put me in diapers. She was very nice about it, but I felt like a baby and she treated me like one – not letting me change myself and putting me on the potty. Yes, “the potty,” as she insisted I call it. Secretly, I liked the attention, but it did not help me feel very grown up, especially as I was small for my age.

Grandma had me grow my hair out. She was on social security and quite frugal. She said hair cuts were an expense we could avoid. Besides she enjoyed shampooing and brushing my hair. She also economized by having me wear a lot of my mom’s old things. Not dresses or skirts, but shorts, tops and nities – even panties. Sometimes I felt that she was confusing me with my mom. Grandma never embarrassed me by sending me out dressed like a girl – not on the outside, anyway. I came to like wearing mom’s old things. It made me miss her less. I never felt proud of my masculine image, but when grandma dressed me in them, I looked and felt good. Grandma understood that, and sometimes she would put lipstick on me or paint my nails. I never asked her to, but when she did it I would I would leave it on until she took off. Once, when she was out, I tried a training bra and my mom’s prom dress. I looked beautiful, but felt so guilty I never tried them again.

While I was thinking all this, Lindsey was changing me like a baby. Suddenly I realized that even though my mind was occupied, my body was responding to Lindsey’s ministrations with an embarrassing woody. I was humiliated at obviously enjoying my diaper change and put my hands over my face. Lindsey did not tease me, but for the first time she rubbed a baby oil on me “to prevent rashes.” She stopped before I lost control. Part of me was glad I had not cum all over myself, but part of me wanted her to continue no matter how embarrassed I would be.

At lunch I got good news. Lindsey found my suitcase. My clothes were mostly ruined, but my photo album, inheritance and a case of jewelry from mommy and grandma had survived. Almost as good was that Lindsey liked me. The bad news was she wants me to “blossom.” I had been struggling to be a manly man. I was already in diapers and nities. Today she gave me a baby bottle at lunch. I should have resisted, but I wanted to see what suckling a bottle would feel like. It was comforting, but I did not tell Lindsey.

I told her I liked her too, but was not sure I wanted to be more of a sissy than I already am. I said I’d think about it. A real man would have just said no, but she knew I wasn’t much of a boy before we started the conversation. I also agreed to let her call me “Billy.” “William” is more dignified, but it is hard to feel dignified in diapers and a girl’s nitie.

On the third day, I finished my painkillers and graduated to Tylenol and ibuprofen. Also the doctor unwrapped my hands and I could use my fingers a bit to eat without making a mess. In a week, my bruises were fading and I was starting to feel almost normal except for my legs.

I still could not use the potty without help because I could not lift my bottom with my legs still in casts – nor could I change my diapers. Oh yes, my diapers. Lindsey said it was a lot less work to change my diaper than to take me to the bathroom and lift me onto the potty. Also, my calls broke her concentration working. She told me to just wet my diapers and she would change me when it was convenient for her. She still took me to poo when I needed to. I stopped thinking about peeing and started to find myself wet without remembering doing it.

Lindsey did not seem to mind my infantile behavior. For sanitary reasons she had shaved my diaper area clean, so that I looked like a little boy. She also started “rewarding my patience” at waiting to be changed by increased applications of baby oil rubbed in by her soft hands until I lost control.

After I started looking forward to changing time, she started using it to ask me if she could do things to help me look cuter. The first time she stopped as I was on the edge and asked if she could put my hair in pigtails. Part of me had hoped that she would do it without asking, but now I had an excuse so, I agreed with feigned reluctance. A few days later, before she changed me, she got a childish dress out of the closet and told me that if I wanted my baby oil “treatment” I should ask her if I could please be allowed to wear it.

The next week, she sat me at the vanity and said she would be pleased if I painted my nails pink and applied matching lipstick. Later the same week, I was given a makeup video and told to work on my eyes.

About a month after the accident, Lindsey took me to the doctor in a dress suitable to a 14 year old. The doctor seemed unaware that I was a boy. She put rubber feet on my casts and told me that I could put weight on my legs and use crutches. Now I could use the potty without help. Lindsey gave me cotton panties in place of my diapers, but I could not keep them dry and went back to diapers before the end of the day. The next morning, Lindsey told me that if I wet my panties during the day I would be spanked. I really tried not to, but wet twice because had gotten into the habit of wetting without thinking. True to her word, Lindsey spanked me each time and it hurt! By the end of the week I had been spanked at least ten more times, but was dry during the day. Lindsey continued to diaper me for bed, using baby oil, and giving me a bottle to go to sleep with.

Once I was able to get around on crutches, I started helping around the house – cleaning, doing laundry and cooking. Although I had never told her that I wanted to be her sissy, my behavior made it abundantly clear that I had accepted my role in life.

Slowly, Lindsey replaced the childish things Sandy had left behind with more adult, but still very feminine, clothes. Finally, my casts were removed. My legs were stiff and emaciated, but at least I could move them. Lindsey spent a lot of time walking with me and helping me recover.

At last I was healthy and could care for myself. Lindsey took us both to Palm Springs to celebrate. We began with a hair appointment. I got an elegant perm, and Lindsey had hers done in a vintage 1920’s bob. We went on a tram excursion and finished at a four star restaurant for dinner. It was the very one where I was to have had a job. I wore a cream linen dress and my mommy’s pearl earrings. Lindsey was in a blue crepe pants suit. After dessert, she got down on one knee, asked me to be her wife and presented me with a ring. I could not speak, but nodded yes through my tears. Everyone applauded. I knew I had blossomed.