Kitty Comes to Life [Tier 2 & 3 Exclusive] (Patreon)

Author's note: There's a word that I use many times in this story that I had to censor because Patreon doesn't like it. I usually try to avoid this word, for this reason, but it felt like the right word for this story. You'll know when you see it - and I hope that my censoring still makes it clear what word I am trying to use.

When I was younger, they called me Kitty. Later, it was just Kat. Now, people just call me Kate.

My life is over.

I’m sorry, I’m being dramatic. I do that sometimes - or so I’m told.

The best parts of my life are over.

I know, I know, that’s still a little dramatic. But I don’t necessarily think it’s a bad thing. I did things. Good things.

I went to college and got a degree. I fell in love with Gerald and got married. I had two sons. Those sons grew up and are just starting to experience their own good things now.

See? Good things.

But I’m at that age where I have to ask: What now? Coast through life until I arrive at my coffin? Tempting, if only because it wouldn’t require much effort.

My friends all have opinions on this, of course. I have “empty-nest syndrome.” I need a hobby. I need grandkids. I need more wine.

First of all, I couldn’t be happier that the kids are gone. I was “blessed” with two boys, or so I’m told. I love them; of course I love them. But can I be honest with you? They were disasters. Moody entitled little pricks who had managed to inherit their father’s worst qualities while ignoring the best of mine. I watched them sleepwalk through adolescence, their good genes and familial wealth helping to drop the panties of every attractive girl in a 30 mile radius.

I did my best - I swear I did. I tried to instill them with wisdom, good taste, and a healthy respect for women. Either I failed, or my husband was teaching a more interesting lesson.

Whatever, they’re gone now. College and “studying abroad” and whatever else slowly drains away the savings account in the background.

Grandkids would be nice, if only because it meant that my sons had finally found just a single woman to annoy for the rest of their lives.

I’m curious as to whether or not I’d make a good grandmother. I also wonder if I was a good mother.

I probably do need more wine.

Actually, I’ll tell you exactly what I need: A head between my legs. I’m not even going to be picky about it. Any head will do. I could really go for some of that.

I went to the liquor store and bought a shopping cart of wine. But when I got home, and as I was stocking the wine rack, I came to the realization that there was nothing sadder than riding out the rest of my 40s drinking wine alone in my house.

--

I found the cutest thing in my closet - the cutest thing that I could fit into - and decided to go out on the town. Alone. Only slightly more depressing than drinking at home alone, theoretically.

Honestly, I’m not even sure where I got this little black dress from. It could have been for a banquet. Or a wedding. Some school function. It’s primary purpose may have been forgotten, but pulling the dress out of the closet reminded me of what I thought when I bought it: I could totally get someone to think about wanting to fuck me while I wore this.

I put on makeup, but then I take it all off. It’s been a while since I wanted to impress anyone, and I find it challenging to locate the middle ground between “MILF” and “slut.” The next attempt at makeup feels close enough to what I’m looking for.

For a single amusing moment, I have my cell phone in my hand and I’m about to text Gerry that I’m going out.

But he certainly doesn’t care.

He’s golfing. There was a time when I believed that he was actually wearing khakis and a polo while hitting a white ball with an assortment of clubs. Maybe he had, once. But “golf” was code. I wasn’t supposed to know this, but of course I did.

He’d say: “I’m going golfing this weekend,” and he’d be gone for three days. No pictures. No texts. No calls. I’d pack some clothes in a suitcase for him, and when he’d come back, most of the clothes - including the golf clothes - would look untouched.

This was day two of golfing. I wouldn’t be hearing from him until tomorrow night at the earliest.

I chose Wortham’s. I’ve never been there before - but I know it’s a pretty trendy bar. I keep telling myself that I have no expectations for the evening. I keep reminding myself how the night is likely going to play out: I’ll get a drink, I’ll drink the drink, I’ll get another drink, I’ll stare off into the dark spaces of the bar while everyone ignores me.

This is the 21st Century. If I want to get people to look at me like a cartoon wolf, I should probably be using the Internet.

Maybe I’ll do that next. But first I need to humiliate myself in public and destroy any sense of my self respect.

--

The first drink is in my hand. A cosmo. It's an embarrassing choice. I don’t even like cosmos, but it’s my go-to drink choice when I’m out with girlfriends. Easy and expected. Completely expected.

Here I am, the world’s most basic woman, sitting amongst all the kids who are maybe 20 years younger than I am.

I spot a young man a few stools down from me. He smiles at me. Or, he smiled in my direction before looking elsewhere. I spend the next few minutes waiting for him to turn around and smile at me again. My lips are ready and waiting to reciprocate the smile should he turn around again, but he never does.

“Do you know him?” A voice from behind me asks.

I turn to find a completely different young man standing over my shoulder.

“I do not,” I confess. I feel a little bit of shame for having been caught staring at him.

“Careful,” he says with a smile. “I’ve seen stares like that put a hole in a man’s head before.”

“If only he knew how lucky he was that you saved his life,” I say to the young man.

He’s got some sort of facial hair experiment going on. Someday soon, I suspect he’ll either cut it off altogether, or he’ll let it grow into a beard. I think he’d look just as cute either way.

“Shall I go tell him the news?” the man says.

“Save your breath,” I say. “You could just sit and talk to me instead.”

I’d like to think that I’m not that forward. Maybe I am. Maybe I was. The stories about Gerry and I’s early days are a popular topic at parties and barbecues. I was a “fast” girl. I was “all over him.” I usually nod along, and I’ve long accepted that story as the truth - but that’s not always how I remembered it.

He sits down and orders a rum & cola for himself. He offers me a drink, and I bite. We’re now waiting for two rum & colas and I’m delighted that for the first time in almost 25 years, a stranger is buying me a drink.

“My name is Andrew. Though people usually just call me Drew,” he says. “What’s yours?”

“Kathryn. Though people usually call me Kitty.”

“Kitty? I like that,” he says.

It almost feels naughty to have broken out the “Kitty” name. Kitty stopped existing a lifetime ago. She’s dead and buried and there’s a Starbucks built over her grave. So when I say “Kitty” now, it feels new.

I don’t know who Kitty is just yet.

“I like that you like that,” I say. I feel myself smiling, and it feels good.

“Married?” he asks, pointing to my wedding band and engagement ring. I’m a little disappointed in myself for not having thought of taking them off earlier, but I decide to roll with it. I’m curious to see what the truth does to this situation.

I feel like a scientist.

“Married,” I reply with a nod. I have more I want to add. I want to say that Gerry is “golfing.” I want to tell him that my kids are stuck-up brats. I want to tell him that I’m already thinking about his head between my legs. But I bite my tongue, curious to see where the conversation goes from here.

“I used to be,” he says, shrugging. “For, like, 6 months. Divorced now, of course. It’s probably a good thing in the scheme of things. But at my age, already having a divorce under my belt isn’t exactly a good look.”

“And what is your age?” I ask. It’s a bold question, but he’s practically begging for it.

“26. I’ll be 27 next month.”

“Then you’re 26,” I say.

He laughs and shakes his head. “You don’t think 27 sounds better?”

“You’ll get to an age where all the numbers look bad. Be happy with the smaller number while you can be,” I say.

“Attractive and wise?” he asks. “I can see why you’d be taken.”

Now I’m the one laughing. “I’m the oldest woman at a posh bar on a Saturday night. My husband is either actually playing golf right now, or he’s drinking champagne out of an escort’s shoe.”

Oops. I said some of the things I didn’t want to say.

“But I can see why you’d…” he stalled, clearly unsure of where to go with this thought.

I pat his lap gently. “Don’t worry about it.” It’s time to change the subject: “What about you? You’re here tonight because…”

He shrugs. Is he blushing a little? “Women, I suppose.”

Our drinks have arrived, and the first sip helps me achieve the lowest possible threshold needed for me to start speaking a little more freely. It’s probably dangerous.

“If I’m being honest, that doesn’t make me feel especially great,” I say. I am smiling smugly.

“No? And why wouldn’t it?”

“Because in a room of attractive young women, you turn to the lonely middle-aged woman drinking a cosmo. Low-hanging fruit. No competition.”

“I mean...it’s not like…”

I laugh and shake my head. “But don’t listen to me. I’m being silly. I literally came to this bar, in this dress, for this exact reaction. And now that I’ve gotten it, I’m acting like you just committed some heinous social crime.

His smile is back. “You wanted this?”

I nod. “Sure did.”

“And then what?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Then what?” he repeats. “You charm some young man over to you, you say some witty things. And then what?

“Ah,” I say. “I didn’t plan that far ahead. But what if we brainstorm out loud the various possibilities.”

“I’m game,” he says.

“So, maybe we have a very good conversation here at the bar. Maybe one of us even gives the other a phone number. We make a promise to call the other at some point. But we never do.”

“Because you’re married,” he says, “and you realize that tonight was just a moment of weakness.”

“Right. And likewise, you don’t call me because in the clarity of tomorrow morning, you realize you were a fool for hitting on a 40-something woman.”

“40-something?” he asks.

“Are you looking for a specific number?”

“No,” he says wisely. “I just thought it’d be younger.”

“I see,” I say with a grin. “This could be the start of the second scenario, of course.”

“Yeah? And what does that look like?”

“We feel some sort of spark. Maybe it’s just some temporary alcohol-fueled haze, but we let it run its course and it takes us out of the bar. We end up at one of our homes - making out and touching all of the parts we want to. I wrap my legs around your head and you…”

“I don’t want to interrupt,” he says, while interrupting me. “But I kind of like the sound of that one. And I’d hate for you to spoil it for me.”

“Very well. I’ll keep that to myself.”

“Do you have kids?” he asks.

“A woman at the bar talks about wrapping her legs around your head and you then ask her about her children?”

“Sore subject?” he asks, laughing.

I roll my eyes and shrug. “We’re here to escape reality,” I say. “Have I mentioned that yet? Because that’s important.”

He nods, agreeing to the new terms.

“Is anything else off topic?” he asks.

“Cigarettes,” I say. “I gave up smoking along with the flirty nights at the bar in my early 20s. It’d be a shame to have to start that again too.”

“I’ve never smoked, if that helps.”

It absolutely does.

“But really,” I say, “it’s going to bother me if I don’t get a satisfactory answer: Why me?”

He sighs and spins his brown liquid around in his glass. “I tend to think of myself as an ‘old soul,’” he says. The fact that he kept a straight-face as he said it implies that he means it. “I like meeting women my age, but…”

“But?”

“They’re vapid?”

I nod. “You’re probably right about that.”

“I don’t know what it was about you,” he says. “But you looked hot. Smart. Fun. I took a chance.”

“I’m at least two of those things,” I say with a shrug.

“I’ll let you make the rules,” he says. “Tell me where this goes. Am I buckling myself in for a long night of great conversations before we split off in different directions at the end of the night? Or should I be thinking about what I will make for us for breakfast tomorrow morning?”

I’m not completely in love with either option that he’s presented to me, but he’s on the right path.

“I’d like to be surprised,” I say. “So make the decision for yourself - but don’t tell me what you’ve decided. Then, order us another round.”

He laughed and then nodded. “Fair enough.” He waved the bartender over to us.

--

It’s our fourth round, I think. We elected to move from the bar to a table in a corner where we seemed to have a slight reprieve from the ever-loudening dance music playing over the speakers.

I still don’t know what he had chosen.

“Kitty,” he says.

“Purr,” I say in response. It’s kind of silly and cringey, but he reacts well enough to it.

“That dress is very hot,” he says.

“Did it make you think about wanting to fuck me?” I ask.

He nods and laughs. I laugh too, though mine is out of victory.

“You strike me as someone...naughty,” he says.

I’m not sure if anyone had ever called me that in my entire life. Maybe a girlfriend would say it in jest as I poured myself a third glass of wine while we binged episodes of home-remodeling television. I was tempted to correct him.

Instead, I bit my lower lip playfully. “Kitty” was naughty.

“What makes you think that?” I ask.

“The wit, maybe,” he says with a smile. “I feel like it's the smart-asses that you have to watch out for. It starts with some playful banter, but then you’ll start asking me to pull your hair or smack your ass.”

I couldn’t remember the last time a man had ever pulled my hair. Ditto for a little sp*nking, though…

Damn. That sounded really really good. I’m having a little epiphany at this bar’s table.

“Do I have to ask?” I ask.

“You’d rather I just assume you’re fine with it?”

“Wouldn’t you like having carte blanche?” I asked.

“Wouldn’t it be nice if we stopped answering each other’s questions with more questions?”

I laughed. I was blushing a little, but I suspected it’d be hard to see in the dim lighting of this corner.

“Carte blanche?” he asks. “Is that...on the table?”

“I’d consider it,” I say. “But your interest in that option has me a little worried.”

“Saying no is never a bad thing,” he says.

“I don’t want to say no,” I reply. “Do your worst.”

He laughs. “My worst? What do you think I would ask for that would be that bad?”

“People like strange things,” I say. “I can’t keep up with it all.”

“Are you kinky, Kitty?”

I shake my head. “Not for lack of trying, I guess. I’m open-minded. But my husband…”

“He’s an avid golfer,” Drew says.

“Yes, exactly.”

“So something like...getting your ass smacked around. How do you feel about that?”

“Good,” I say. “I feel good about that.”

“Have you ever been sp*nked?”

“Maybe as an actual child,” I say. My cheeks feel incredibly warm. My panties are a little moist.

“But you’d like to be sp*nked?”

I nod.

“More than you’d like to sp*nk someone else?”

I nod again. I never once sp*nked my children, even if I had wanted to. I’m grateful for that decision, as it probably would’ve ruined this moment if I had.

“What about it excites you?” he asks.

“How do you know this excites me?” I respond.

He laughs and shrugs. I could pursue him for an actual answer, but I don’t have to. I know he can read it on my face. Anyone could probably read it on my face. The horny sheltered middle-aged woman in front of him is literally dripping with desperation.

I owe him a better answer. “Do we want to get all psychological about it?”

“Sure.”

“I don’t think I’d be exaggerating if I said that I did the bulk of the parenting for my children. Conservatively, I’d say 60%, but that’s only because I’m being polite. But now? With a couple of drinks in my system and a wet spot in my panties?”

“Wait, so…”

“I’ll get back to that,” I say. “I’d say it was closer to 80%. 80% of all the parenting. My oldest is 20 now. That’s 20 years of being the authoritarian. The disciplinarian. The judge. The jury. The voice of reason. The funkiller. The Mother.”

“I see.”

“I’ve done my time, and I’m ready to have fun again. I want to be a bad girl. I want to be...punished. Sp*nked.”

“Over Daddy’s knees?”

“Fuck,” I mutter. The very words seem to cause my labia to pulsate.

“I’ve struck a nerve,” he says.

“Maybe.”

“We could go...further down that path.”

I tilt my head. “Explain.”

“The idea of being sp*nked certainly has you in a state,” he says. “Maybe we could take it further? You could be...Daddy’s Little Girl.”

Another pulse. I swear my panties feel even more moist now. I want to be fun and witty. I want to offer sarcastic comments. But I can barely talk. Drew - or maybe the topic - has a hold on me.

I utter only: “Go on.”

“I don’t know,” he says with a smile. “There’s a lot of ways that could go, right? I mean, why would Daddy want to paddle his little girl in the first place?”

“She was naughty,” I offer. I’m not so much answering his question as I am dictating the fantasy that is slowly forming in my mind as the conversation proceeds.

“Well of course. But what did she do that was so naughty?”

I tried to see it in my imagination. What deserved being put over his knees? What was so juvenile that this was the appropriately humiliating answer?

“She wet her panties,” I said.

“Oh? So, she got so turned on - so excited - that her panties were moist and…”

“No,” I say, stopping him so I could explain. “She...peed her pants. Pissed herself.”

“Oh my,” he said, a wide grin stretching across his face. “That would certainly get his attention. Is that something that Kitty would do?”

I’m reminded of a party we threw a few years ago - it might have been a son’s high school graduation party, but who could keep these things straight? I had a little more to drink than I should’ve. I was doing my best to hold it together. Outside of a handful of close friends, and maybe my husband, nobody seemed to be the wiser. But whilst on an epic journey to the master bathroom to use the toilet, I managed to trip over the corner of a dresser in the bedroom, falling onto the ground and pissing myself in the process.

Gerry had ventured upstairs himself, possibly looking for me or possibly looking to use the master bathroom, and found me on the ground in a puddle of urine. Me? I found it funny. Hilarious, really. He was far from amused. I’ll never forget that look on his face. It was as if he was personally offended. Nobody would ever know about this incident, and yet it was as if I had still managed to bring shame and humiliation to the family.

He helped me up. He got me a fresh pair of pants and panties. He then returned to the party, muttering that I should “try harder in keeping this pair clean.”

The memory had remained lodged in the back of my head for years with no place to actually store it. Was it a good memory? A shameful one?

I knew now, at the bar with Drew, that this was a good memory. My inner-consciousness had been waiting for the rest of me to catch up with it.

Kitty really liked the feeling of pissing her pants.

“That is definitely something that Kitty would do,” I finally say.

“So she’s done it before?”

I shrug.

“You should be careful,” Drew says. “If repeated trips over Daddy’s knee doesn’t stop you from pissing your pants, he may have to try something else.”

“Something else?”

“You’re a parent,” he says. “What do you think you would do with a little girl who keeps wetting her pants - seemingly on purpose?”

I know the answer before he finishes his question - and I suspect that he already had the answer in mind before he even asked.

“A...diaper?” Just saying the word causes my cheeks to burn. I haven’t thought about diapers in years and years. Most days, they feel like a lost artifact in my life - something that was once an everyday part of life that has faded into obscurity. But the word - the concept of what they are - feels new and reinvented suddenly. It’s a tool of humiliation.

“A diaper,” he repeats.

“Are you suggesting that I get...put into a diaper?”

“It sure sounds like it, doesn’t it?” he asks.

There’s a part of me that wants to get up and leave. What even is this night anymore? This smug guy, just barely older than my eldest son, has the audacity to suggest that I would wear a diaper?

“Have I struck a nerve?” he asks, perhaps realizing that I’m feeling a little conflicted.

“Am I so old that we’re going to poke fun at my eventual need for adult undergarments?”

I’m not being entirely serious, though I’m not sure how he’ll take it.

“On the contrary,” he says, laughing, “you’d be in diapers because you’re just a naughty little girl. And that’s what naughty little girls get - a fresh diaper after their trip over Daddy’s knees.”

I’m blushing again. We haven’t even done anything other than talk about it and I’m already feeling pathetically insignificant.

I want this. I want this more than anything.

I don’t want to say that I want this.

“Have you done this before?” I ask.

“Diapers?”

I nod.

“No.”

“You seem to know a lot about keeping a little girl in diapers.”

“I know of it,” he says with a shrug. “Ageplay. Maybe Google that later?”

I make a mental note.

“I get it,” he continues. “It’s hot. It’s a loss of control. And I can guess that’s something you’re completely willing to surrender.”

“Yes,” I say. I say it so softly that I’m not even sure he can hear it over the sounds of the bar in the background.

His smile suggests that he either heard me, or was at least able to parse my answer. Though, I’m sure it wouldn’t have been hard to guess either.

“You’d do that?” I ask.

He nods.

“You’d put me in a diaper?”

He nods again, laughing.

“What if I wet that too?”

“It’s a diaper,” he said. “You’re supposed to do that.”

“But would I still…”

“Get sp*nked? Oh, of course.”

I bite my bottom lip again. I cannot even put into words how I’m feeling. It’s a euphoric buzz that I haven’t felt since I was Drew’s age - if not even younger. I missed this feeling. This feeling of almost mindlessly falling into desire. I’d probably never have guessed that the return of this feeling would come with diapers, but I’m not going to be picky about it.

“You live close?” I ask.

“Close-ish,” he says.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” He laughs again. “Did you want to...go there?”

“I’m not one to invite myself to other people’s homes.”

“Kitty? Would you like to come over to my place?”

I nod.

“And if you were to come over, what do you think you’d want to do?”

“I’m going to tell you what I’m going to do. And then you can tell me what you’d like to do about that.”

“Alright,” he says. “Let’s hear it.”

“Kitty is a naughty girl,” I say. “And she wants to be punished, very very badly.”

“I already know this,” he says.

“She wants that trip over Daddy’s lap.”

“I’m sure.”

“She’s going to earn those diapers.”

“Well, she’s going to have to wet her pants then,” he says with a shrug.

“Fine,” I say. “Consider it done.”

He laughs for a moment, but quickly stops himself. His eyes widen and his mouth hangs open.

“Wait. You don’t mean that...you’re actually going to…”

I shrug and laugh. “Take a look.”

He quickly shuffles his chair back and peers under the table. The light isn’t especially bright here, especially under the table, but even if he isn’t able to see that I’ve just pissed in my panties, he should at least see the puddle that was formed under my feet.

His head pops up from under the table again; he still looks to be in disbelief.

“You...you really did that? Here? Now?”

I smile. “Well? Did I earn that sp*nking? Did I earn the diapers?”

“Oh, honey,” he says, shaking his head and exhaling slowly. “You’ve earned yourself anything you want.”

--

We’re in the back of an Uber, on the way to god-knows-where. We could be going to Drew’s house, or maybe he’s dropping me off at an asylum. But we’re sitting next to each other in the backseat - right next to each other - and I have to assume that he’s as excited for what’s next as I am.

We didn’t tell the Uber driver about my wet panties. Maybe we should have been upfront about that. In fact, the more I think about it, the more I wish Drew had informed the driver that I had been a bad girl and had pissed myself. I’m tempted to say it myself, but I don’t. Maybe nobody will ever notice the damp spot on the seat. Maybe someday Drew will get a bill for this guy’s seat cushion to be reupholstered.

We pull up to a quaint house on the outskirts of the city. It’s the kind of neighborhood that probably gets called “the suburbs” when you talk to other locals - but you call it “the city” when you tell people from out of town about it. We get out of the car and are left in the dim streetlights to discuss what’s next.

“I assume you have diapers inside?” I tease.

He laughs and shakes his head. “Fresh out.”

“Come on,” I say. “I earned one.”

“There’s a 24-7 grocer on the other side of the block. We can go over and get some.”

“I’m not going anywhere like this,” I say, waving my hands in front of my crotch.”

“You can barely tell you pissed yourself when you look at your dress,” he says.

“Barely? Barely isn’t enough assurance for me.”

“Okay,” he says with a laugh. “I’ll let you into my house. Then I’ll go grab a few things, and I’ll be back in, like, 20 minutes.”

“Hurry,” I say. “Or I’ll be forced to be naughty again.”

--

He’s back in 18 minutes.

He had, of course, let me into his home to wait. I asked if he wanted to put a towel down before I sat on his couch. He said it wasn’t necessary. I wondered if - later, after I left - if he’d return to where I sat on the couch in my pissed panties and sniff the cushions.

It was an amusing thought, and probably not likely. But I still kind of hoped it happened. I’d have been turned on if I knew he was doing it.

“Daddy’s home,” he says, walking through the door.

I’m practically gushing in my panties.

In his absence, I had spent a lot of time contemplating what would come next. I had considered throwing myself over the seat of a chair with my dress pulled up so that he would have easy access to my soaked panties. I thought about going through his kitchen to pick out the best wooden spoon or spatula that he could use on my bottom. I gave up on that one quickly, however, for fear that I would somehow inadvertently pick his deceased grandmother’s favorite spoon and ask him to slap my pissy ass with it.

I had decided on what the move would be just before he entered the door.

Moments after he places his paper bag full of fun down on the ground, I get down on my knees in front of him, looking up at him as I hold my hands together in front of me.

“Please,” I beg. “Please, Daddy.”

He seems confused for only half a second before adapting and slipping into his new role too.

“Please what?” he practically spits at me. It’s a tone and inflection that almost feels born out of personal experience. I leave it alone. It doesn’t matter right now.

“I...I had an accident.”

“An accident?” he scoffs. “Again?”

“It was just a little one. I just…”

“Show me,” he says.

“But…”

“Stand up, turn around, lift your dress, and then show me your panties.”

“Y-yessir.”

It’s my first time roleplaying. Maybe I’m drunk. Or horny. But I feel like I deserve a fucking Academy Award. I’d settle for a Daytime Emmy.

I do as he asks, spinning around and lifting my dress while bending forward. My ass, and the wet panties covering them, are right there for him to inspect.

He puts a hand on my ass, feeling it through the damp panties. He squeezes it a little, forcing a little moan out of me.

“What was that?” he asks. “Did you say something?”

“No…”

“Kitty, you’re absolutely soaked. I ought to have you call back Wortham’s and have you apologize to the management for pissing on their floor.”

“Daddy, I’m sorry. I just…”

I never get a chance to finish saying whatever it was I would say. I didn’t even finish thinking that thought. His hand had slipped into my panties, and it had slid between my legs, finding me completely wet and slick.

“It’s one thing to piss yourself like that,” he says. “Yet again. But what’s this?”

I shrug.

“You like it. I can feel how wet you are. That isn’t piss.”

“No, sir…”

“Do you like it? Do you like pissing yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me that you like it.”

“I...like pissing my pants.”

“I thought so, you dirty little girl.”

He grabs my wrist and pulls me along with him as he sits down on his couch. Before I even fully understand what’s happening, I find myself pulled over his knees, my wet ass sticking up in the air.

I’m not a 40-something mother of two anymore. I stopped being that a while ago. I’m Kitty now. I’m a naughty little girl and I’m getting punished for it. I’ve just been manhandled in a way that I haven’t in decades. I’m feeling naughty in a way that I had just assumed that I’d never feel again.

SLAP!

His hand connects with my ass so quickly, and so unexpectedly, that I yelp loudly.

“Oh that wasn’t too hard,” he says, condescendingly.

“It...it surprised me.” I say.

SLAP!

I unleash a guttural groan.

I’m alive. I’m living again.

Kitty has come to life.

I can’t even help myself: “Harder, Daddy.”

CRACK!

I bellow like a goddamn coyote. I’ve lost control, or I’ve surrendered it all.

“Again. Please!”

SMACK!

“Please...more…”

Again and again, his hand collides with my ass. I’d like to think that I have a nice ass. Maybe if I had seen this coming I would’ve spent more time at the gym the last few weeks.

“Are you going to keep pissing in your panties?”

“Maybe…”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t be wearing panties anymore.”

“But, Daddy, what would I wear then?”

I love it. I’m in love with this moment and I never want it to end. We’re pretending, or at least we think we are. But this is Kitty. This is actually Kitty, and when tonight is over, I don’t want to have to wait to see Kitty again. I want her to stick around.

I’m on the ground now. Again, I don’t even remember how that happened. I’m just suddenly on my back, my dress bunched up around my waist. Drew is pulling my soaking wet panties down my legs.

“If you can’t be trusted to keep your panties dry, maybe you need something more...absorbent.”

He pulls the package of diapers out of the paper bag. I don’t know jack about diapers - especially adult ones. The packaging, the font - it all suggests a cheap store brand. I have a feeling that any amount of research on ‘ageplay’ later will yield better options. Hell, if I was an incontinent elderly adult, I’d probably feel insulted with having to resort to these chintzy abominations.

But I don’t care. Not even a little bit. He could’ve pulled out a giant towel and wrapped it around my waist and I would’ve climaxed into it.

“Diapers,” I say. It still feels naughty to say the word aloud.

“Diapers,” he repeats.

“But...I’m not a…”

He laughs. “What? Go on, finish that thought. What are you not?”

“A...baby.”

“I hate to be the one to inform you,” he says with a smug grin. “But you’re a little baby now. Let’s get your wet little pussy into this diaper before you go and make another puddle on my carpet.”

He has no idea what he’s doing, but I’m far too horny to chime in. He fumbles his way through putting a diaper on me - maybe it’s the first time he’s ever diapered anyone in his entire life. It’s kind of an honor.

“There’s just one problem,” I say.

“Oh?”

“How are you going to fuck me now, Daddy?”

His cock finds a way inside of me while I wear the diaper. Later, he’ll pump everything he has in his balls into my diaper.

--

“What could have been different?” he asks finally. It’s the first time in about 10 or so minutes that either of us have said anything. We’re just lying on his living room floor, staring at the ceiling.

“Your diapering technique could use some work,” I say. “And you should use things like baby wipes to clean a baby with before putting them into a new diaper.”

“I’m a new father,” he says with a laugh.

“Baby powder too,” I add. “Or something to help minimize excess moisture against the skin. You want to avoid a diaper rash.”

“Should I practice?” he asks.

“If you think it’s an important skill to have.”

“I forgot, for a while, that you’re…” his voice trails off as we both realize that he probably didn’t need to say it out loud. But I give him a look, and he feels pressured to finish the thought anyways: “...older.”

“But I’m not old,” I say.

“No,” he says, nodding.

It’s a little bit of a mood-killer, but I almost don’t even mind. We had our fun, and I needed the reminder that there’s a real world outside that I have to return to at some point.

“Can I see you again?” he asks.

“Would you like that?”

“Yes,” he says. “Very much so.”

I slowly stand up, letting my dress fall over my poorly-applied diaper - still filled with everything he had squirted into it. I walk to a desk where I grab a pen and a piece of paper.

“I’ll write my phone number for you,” I say.

“Thank you.”

“Do you mind if I...take these diapers?” I ask.

“Oh, no. Not at all. Are you going to…”

“I don’t know yet,” I say. “But I’d like the option.”

--

I only have three phone numbers memorized. Mine, Gerry’s, and the bagel place I used to call in an order from every day back while I was in college. I imagine that someday soon, Hal’s Bagels is going to get a call from a confused young man who is wondering why his diaper-clad mistress isn’t there.

It’s nothing personal. I liked Drew. We could’ve had more fun. I’m going to regret not giving him my real number at some point. But it’s probably for the best. I’ve got to clean. Garden. Do the grocery shopping. Check in on the boys. Make arrangements for our upcoming anniversary dinner. Kate things.

If you ask me? Kitty seems a little out of control. Give her too much attention and who knows just how crazy she’d get.

I’d like to take my time in getting to know her myself. Maybe we can learn a bit from each other.

Then? Next time when we go out? We can really show Daddy how naughty Kitty can be.