Chapter 2: Chapter 2
The first light of dawn painted the Alps in shades of rose and gold, but Mae only saw it as a faint glow beyond the reinforced glass. The night had been long, filled with the restless ache of confinement and the muffled rustle of the diaper beneath the duvet. Now, Patricia’s efficient hands were back.
"Morning, Miss Maeve," Patricia announced, her voice devoid of inflection as she approached the bed. The click-click-click of the restraints releasing echoed sharply in the quiet room. First the ankles, then the wrists. Mae flexed stiff fingers, the ghost pressure of the cuffs still lingering. The helmet remained firmly in place.
She shuffled off the bed, the thick diaper sagging slightly between her legs, a familiar, cumbersome weight. Patricia guided her wordlessly back to the changing table. The vinyl was cold. The scent of antiseptic cleaner and baby powder rose again as Patricia efficiently stripped off the sodden nighttime diaper. Mae stared at the ceiling rabbit-continent stain, detaching herself from the impersonal swipes of the wipe, the sprinkle of powder, the snug pull of fresh tabs. Her mind drifted to complex equations, quantum states – anything but the reality of Patricia’s brisk, clinical ministrations.
"Hands," Patricia commanded as she pulled up the thick, soft joggers. Mae lifted her arms automatically, letting the oversized oatmeal sweater be tugged back down, swallowing her frame once more. The helmet strap dug into her chin.
The bathroom adjoined her bedroom. It was all gleaming white tile and chrome fixtures, sterile and cold. The bathing chair dominated the space near the tub – a sturdy plastic throne with thick, padded armrests and sturdy straps dangling like waiting snakes. Patricia guided Mae towards it.
"Sit," Patricia instructed. Mae lowered herself onto the hard plastic seat. The caregiver efficiently fastened the broad chest strap across Mae’s torso, buckling it snugly just below her collarbones. Then came the wrist restraints, clicking into metal loops on the armrests. Finally, the ankle straps secured her feet to the chair’s legs. Mae was pinned, upright and exposed, in the clinical brightness. The helmet felt heavier, trapping heat against her scalp.
Patricia turned on the showerhead mounted on a flexible hose. The water hit Mae’s shoulder blade first – startlingly cold. She flinched, a small gasp escaping before she clamped her jaw shut. Patricia adjusted the temperature without comment, then began the methodical process: wetting Mae’s hair through the helmet’s ventilation gaps, squeezing shampoo onto her gloved hand, scrubbing roughly. Water streamed down Mae’s face, stinging her eyes, dripping off her chin onto the chest strap. She kept her eyes squeezed shut, focusing on the roar of the water, the scrape of the washcloth on her skin. It wasn’t painful, just impersonal. Efficient. Dehumanizing.
First Class Honours, her mind supplied bitterly as Patricia scrubbed her back. Theoretical Physics. The absurdity was a sharp stone in her chest. Brilliant mind, trussed up like an infant for a bath.
Patricia rinsed her off, the water sluicing away soap suds and the lingering night. The taps squeaked shut. Silence descended, broken only by dripping water and Mae’s own breathing, amplified inside the helmet. Patricia produced a large, fluffy towel and began drying her with the same brisk efficiency, patting around the restraints, beneath the helmet’s edges. The towel snagged slightly on the rough patch inside her left wrist cuff where she’d chewed the leather thin.
Once dry, Patricia unfastened the restraints. Mae stood on shaky legs, the tile cold beneath her feet. Patricia handed her a thick terrycloth robe. Mae wrapped it around herself, clutching it closed, seeking a sliver of modesty amidst the exposure.
Back in the bedroom, Patricia laid out clothes on the bed. Not the usual oversized sweater and joggers. Today, it was a soft, pale pink onesie made of brushed cotton. It looked cozy, infantilizing. The zipper ran from the neckline down the back.
"Arms up," Patricia directed. Mae obeyed, lifting her arms as Patricia pulled the onesie down over her head. The fabric settled over her shoulders, soft against her skin. Patricia tugged it down over her torso, her hips. Mae felt the bulk of the clean diaper beneath the thin cotton. Then Patricia’s hands moved to her back. The cold metal pull of the zipper touched her spine. Zzzzip. The sound was loud, final. The zipper ascended, sealing her in from neck to waistband. Trapped. Encased. The rear zip ensured she couldn’t reach it herself, couldn’t remove it without help.
Patricia smoothed the onesie over Mae’s hips. "There. Comfortable?" It wasn’t really a question. Mae nodded mutely. The pink fabric felt like another layer of restraint, softer than leather but just as confining.
"Breakfast," Patricia stated, turning towards the door. Mae followed, the onesie rustling softly with each step, the diaper a constant, muffled presence beneath. They moved through the hushed, carpeted corridors of the vast chalet, the scent of pine logs and beeswax polish growing stronger.
The main room was cavernous, dominated by a massive stone fireplace where logs crackled cheerfully. Vaulted ceilings soared overhead, heavy timber beams crisscrossing the space. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. The view of the snow-covered peaks was breathtaking, almost painfully beautiful. Distant shouts and laughter from the ski runs drifted faintly through the thick glass.
Eleanor sat at the head of a long, rustic oak table, already impeccably dressed in tailored taupe trousers and a cream silk blouse. She held a delicate porcelain cup of coffee, reading something on a tablet. She looked up as they entered, her sharp blue eyes instantly appraising Mae.
"Good morning, darling," Eleanor said, her voice smooth as the polished tabletop. Her gaze lingered on the pink onesie, a flicker of satisfaction in her eyes. "You look… cozy. Patricia, her juice, please. The vitamin-enriched one." She gestured dismissively towards a place setting laid out beside her.
Patricia pulled out the heavy wooden chair for Mae. Mae sat, the onesie tightening slightly across her shoulders. Patricia placed a plastic cup with a spill-proof lid and straw filled with thick, orange liquid in front of her. Beside it sat a small bowl of oatmeal, already cut into manageable pieces.
Mae picked up the spoon. Her movements felt stiff, constrained by the onesie fabric and the ever-present helmet. She took a small bite of oatmeal. It was bland, lukewarm.
"The fresh snow is magnificent," Eleanor remarked, sipping her coffee. "The slopes will be perfect today. The Laurents are taking their helicopter up to the glacier later." She watched Mae take another spoonful of oatmeal. "Did you sleep well? Secure?"
Mae swallowed the tasteless paste. "Yes," she murmured, her voice slightly muffled by the helmet padding near her ears. Her gaze drifted past Eleanor’s shoulder, out to the sun-drenched terrace. A squirrel darted across the snow-dusted railing, impossibly quick and free. She watched its tiny, frantic movements.
"Good," Eleanor said, setting her cup down with a precise click. "Security and routine are paramount. Especially here." She leaned forward slightly, her voice lowering conspiratorially, though Patricia was clearing dishes silently nearby. "We must maintain appearances, Maeve. Especially now."
Mae’s spoon paused halfway to her mouth. Especially now? What did that mean? Her mother’s expression was unreadable, polished marble masking whatever lay beneath. The squirrel vanished over the railing. Mae lowered the spoon back into the oatmeal, her appetite gone. The pink cotton felt suddenly suffocating, the helmet a crushing weight. The cheerful crackle of the fire sounded distant, irrelevant. Across the vast, luxurious room, the silent mountains watched, indifferent to the meticulously maintained cage within their shadow. Eleanor picked up her tablet again, her attention shifting, leaving Mae alone with the cloying sweetness of the vitamin juice and the suffocating certainty that something, beneath the surface of this perfect winter morning, was shifting. Something cold. Something Eleanor hadn't yet named.
The silence stretched, thick with Eleanor's unspoken tension and the distant crackle of the fire. Mae pushed the vitamin juice away, the cloying sweetness turning her stomach. The squirrel outside was long gone. Patricia cleared her barely-touched oatmeal without comment.
"Plans for today, darling," Eleanor announced, her polished voice slicing through the quiet. She didn't look up from her tablet. "The fresh snow is too perfect to waste indoors. You'll be skiing."
Mae froze, spoon hovering over the empty bowl. Skiing? Actual movement? Outside? A spark ignited, brittle and bright, deep in her chest. She hadn't skied since… since Oxford, maybe? Before the restraints became truly constant. Before the helmet felt welded on.
"Disability Services sent someone new," Eleanor continued, finally meeting Mae’s eyes. Her gaze was sharp, probing. "A specialist. Liam something-or-other. He’s apparently excellent with… challenging cases." The pause before 'challenging' was infinitesimal but deliberate. "He’ll meet you at the bunny slope lift in an hour. Patricia will get you into your thermals."
Skiing. With a stranger. The spark flickered, threatened by the weight of the helmet, the constriction of the pink onesie, the sheer logistics of her existence outside these walls. How would she even move? The bulky diaper rustled softly as she shifted in her chair. "The… the gear?" Mae managed, her voice thin.
"All handled," Eleanor waved a dismissive hand. "Adaptive rig, they said. Sit-ski probably. Patricia knows the protocol. They assured me he’s fully briefed on your… requirements." Her eyes flickered to the helmet’s stiff leather edge. "Such a lovely opportunity for controlled stimulation, don’t you think? Fresh air. Supervised activity." She made it sound like a medical procedure.
Mae nodded, the movement stiff within the helmet. A controlled opportunity. Like everything else. Hope felt dangerous, a fluttering bird trapped against glass. But it was outside. Moving. Away from the changing table, the bath chair, this suffocating room with its rabbit-stain ceiling. "Yes, Mother."
"Finish your juice, then go with Patricia," Eleanor commanded, her attention snapping back to the tablet. The moment was over. The decision made.
Mae forced down the last sickly-sweet sip through the straw. Patricia materialized instantly.
"Come along, Miss Maeve." The journey back to the bedroom felt longer. The pink onesie, suddenly, was unbearably childish under the high, vaulted ceiling. She imagined Liam the Specialist seeing her in it. Heat crept up her neck.
In the stark white bedroom, Patricia laid out unfamiliar items next to the ever-present restraints folded neatly on the bed. Thick, waffle-weave thermals. A puffy, insulated jacket in dark blue. Bulky snow pants. Sturdy ski socks. All looked new, functional. Nothing pink.
Patricia worked with brisk efficiency. The rear zip of the onesie hissed open. Mae stood passively as Patricia peeled it off, leaving her in just the diaper and socks. The cool air hit her skin. Then the thermals went on – top first, then the bottoms, thick fabric swallowing her frame, tucked carefully over the diaper’s bulk. No comments, just efficient tucking and smoothing.
The snow pants were next. Heavy, waterproof. Patricia guided Mae’s legs in. They rustled loudly. The waistband sat high, digging slightly into her stomach, the thick padding around the hips and seat emphasizing the diaper underneath. Plastic rain pants, effectively. Then the jacket, zipped up to her chin, bulky sleeves swallowing her arms.
"Helmet stays on, of course," Patricia stated, pulling the jacket hood up awkwardly over it. The combination was tight, the jacket collar pressing against the helmet’s lower edge. "Ski helmet goes over the top."
Socks next. Thick, scratchy wool. Then, Patricia picked up something else. Leather ankle cuffs, but different. Padded, yes, but with heavy-duty D-rings. And straps. Not the bed restraints, but clearly designed for anchoring. For the sit-ski, Mae realized with a sinking feeling. Her brief spark of hope guttered. There would be straps there too. Of course.
Patricia knelt, buckling the cuffs snugly above Mae’s socked ankles. The D-rings hung heavy. "Arms," Patricia commanded. Mae held them out. Similar padded cuffs went around her forearms, just below the elbow, secured tightly. More D-rings. Points of connection. Points of control.
Finally, Patricia pulled on insulated mittens, clipping them securely to loops inside the jacket sleeves. Trapped. Bundled. Tethered. Ready for her "controlled opportunity". Mae felt like a parcel, meticulously wrapped for delivery. The only skin showing was a sliver of her face around the edges of her own helmet, soon to be covered by another.
"Right," Patricia said, standing back. "He’s waiting downstairs. The service entrance." She steered Mae towards the door, not touching her directly, just guiding with a presence that brooked no hesitation. The snow pants swished noisily with each step, the diaper a constant, muffled presence beneath the layers. The ankle cuffs shifted with her movement, a foreign weight.
Down the back stairs, colder air rising to meet them. Through the mudroom, cluttered with skis and boots. Patricia opened the heavy service door. A blast of icy mountain air hit Mae’s exposed cheeks, sharp and clean, carrying the scent of pine and packed snow. It was startling, almost painful after the chalet’s filtered warmth.
A figure stood on the cleared path just outside, silhouetted against the brilliant white slope beyond. Tall, broad-shouldered in practical dark ski gear, holding the handles of a low, sled-like sit-ski with a single seat and two skis mounted beneath it. Liam. He turned as they approached, pushing his mirrored goggles up onto his helmet.
His eyes, a clear, startling blue against the snowy backdrop, met Mae’s. They flickered, just for a microsecond, over her face, taking in the rigid leather helmet protruding from her hood before returning to her eyes. His expression wasn’t pitying. Wasn’t dismissive. Just… assessing. Professional. Curious, maybe.
"Miss Ainsworth?" His voice was deeper than expected, calm, cutting easily through the cold air. No trace of the overly bright, condescending tone she braced for. He nodded towards the sit-ski. "I’m Liam. Ready to get acquainted with the snow?" He didn't wait for an answer, his gaze shifting to the D-rings on her cuffs. "Let's get you layered up in this rig. Then we’ll see what this mountain’s about." He patted the sit-ski’s frame, a practical gesture. The reinforced chalet door clicked shut firmly behind Mae as Patricia retreated inside. The vast, open mountainside stretched before her, silent and immense, as Liam stepped forward.
The vast, open mountainside stretched before her, silent and immense, as Liam stepped forward. Cold air bit Mae’s cheeks, sharp and clean, a stark contrast to the chalet’s controlled atmosphere. She felt ludicrous in the layers of thermal wear, snow pants emphasizing the diaper’s bulk, the unfamiliar weight of the padded cuffs on her arms and ankles shifting with every slight movement. The helmet felt like an anchor beneath her hood.
"Right then," Liam said, his voice calm and carrying easily in the crisp air. He didn't hover or offer a hand she couldn't take. "First, the headgear." He pulled a sleek, dark blue ski helmet from the sit-ski. "Goes over yours. Gotta protect the noggin twice over, apparently. Lean forward a bit?" His tone was practical, devoid of pity or condescension.
Mae complied, bending stiffly at the waist. Liam carefully positioned the ski helmet over her rigid leather one, the padding inside snugging down. He fastened the chin strap securely, his knuckles brushing her jawline through the padding. Then he paused, pulling something small and clear from his jacket pocket. It was a mouthguard, the kind athletes use.
"Open up, Miss Ainsworth," Liam instructed gently but firmly. He held it up. "Protocol. Safety first, eh?" He gave a quick, reassuring smile that didn't quite reach his watchful blue eyes. "Prevents any... accidental biting during bumps. Won't take a sec."
Mae hesitated, the exposed vulnerability of opening her mouth making her throat tighten. The leather edge of her own helmet pressed against her chin. She glanced back instinctively towards the imposing bulk of the chalet, its windows reflecting the blinding snow. Patricia or Eleanor could be watching. Resignation settled coldly in her stomach. She parted her lips.
Liam slid the thermoplastic guard smoothly over her upper teeth. "There. Bite down." She did, the faint chemical taste filling her mouth, her tongue trapped. He produced a small clip attached to a flexible cord. He snapped one end onto the mouthguard’s tab, the other onto a sturdy loop near the chin strap of her own helmet. "Secure," he declared, patting the top of the ski helmet. "Can't lose it, can't spit it out. All good."
The mouthguard pressed awkwardly against her palate and gums. Speaking felt impossible, muffled. She could only nod mutely, the action restricted by the layers of headgear. Liam turned his attention to the sit-ski – a low-slung, bucket-like seat mounted on two wide skis, with footrests and a complex web of straps.
"Okay, Maeve – mind if I call you Maeve? Right. Let's get you buckled in." He guided her backwards towards the seat. "Step over the bar. Careful now." She shuffled, her movements clumsy in the snow pants and bulky boots Patricia had fitted earlier. The sit-ski seat felt cold through the layers as she sank into it. Liam immediately knelt in the snow beside her.
He worked with startling speed and precision. First, he secured her booted feet onto the footrests, buckling thick padded straps tightly over her insteps. Then came the ankle cuffs. He unclipped short, heavy-duty tethers from the sit-ski frame and snapped them onto the D-rings on her padded cuffs. Click. Click. Solid, unyielding connections.
"Torso next," he announced cheerfully, pulling a broad, padded racing harness over her shoulders and across her chest. It clicked centrally between her breasts. He tightened it firmly, the pressure constant and confining. "Gotta keep the core stable." More straps followed. One snaked diagonally across her chest from shoulder to opposite hip, another secured low across her hips, pinning her firmly into the bucket seat. Each buckle snapped shut with a decisive, metallic sound.
He secured the D-rings on her forearm cuffs to anchor points on the armrests. Finally, he pulled thick padded mittens, attached to the sit-ski’s handles by retractable cords, over her already mittened hands. She was encased. Pinned. Immobilized from head to toe within the rigid frame. It felt less like adaptive equipment and more like being bolted into a land-bound torpedo. The diaper rustled loudly beneath the harness straps.
Liam stood back, surveying his work. He gave a satisfied nod. "Locked in. Like a race car driver. Safe as houses." He grabbed the long control bar attached to the back of the sit-ski. "Ready for a little glide? Let’s get you hooked up to the lift." He started pushing her towards the nearby beginner's slope lift, the sit-ski runners hissing softly over the packed snow.
Mae stared straight ahead, the mouthguard a constant pressure, the harness straps digging into her shoulders and hips. The vast panorama of snow and sky felt suddenly oppressive, dwarfing her insignificant, trussed-up form. Her heart hammered against the padded chest strap. Distant skiers swooped past, free and fluid. Liam’s cheerful whistle, as he pushed her towards the clanking lift machinery, sounded jarringly bright against the muffled thudding in her ears. The first flakes of a fresh drift began to swirl down, cold kisses on her exposed skin. The lift line loomed.