I was wet, as she came through the door.
I wasn’t wearing a diaper; I was just wet. She saw, and smiled.
I hadn’t wet myself; I was just wet. As she smiled, I blushed.
I was wet, and as I blushed, she spoke.
“You’re wet,” she teased.
I sighed. “I’m wet,” I admitted. Her smile widened.
“You’re a messy girl,” she said, her mocking tone playful.
I played along. After all, I was wet.
“I made a mess,” I confessed. She rolled her eyes.
“Shall I clean your mess?” she asked.
“I can do it,” I promised. She shook her head.
“That’s why I’m here,” she said. I nodded my head.
“And you’re wet,” she restated.
“I’m wet,” I confirmed. “I’m sorry.”
She left me sat there, wet.
Later I paid her. Sure, I’d done my own washing up, but I’d splashed water all over. After I’d changed into a dry top I’d joined her, found my kitchen pristine again, her cleaning worth the wage. We drank coffee, and I wondered when she’d be back.
I’d be wet.