One Afternoon in Bell Hall [Tier 2 and 3 Exclusive] (Patreon)

Logically, I know that Bell Hall is no different from any other dormitory on campus. 40 year old architecture, painted-over block walls, cold and white fluorescent lighting, aged tile floors with generations worth of stains. But the closer I get to the entrance of these all-female dorms, the faster my heart beats. Despite my invitation, I feel like an intruder. An interloper. I expect to take two steps into the lobby, only to have a pack of pretty co-eds chase me right back out the door—as if I was walking into the women’s bathroom.

Yet, nobody bats an eye as I walk through the door. In fact, within the lobby, I see other men standing about, talking to their girlfriends—or people they wish were their girlfriends. Maybe that’s how I’m seen; a potential boyfriend.

Despite already knowing what to expect, I was still disappointed by the interior. I had hoped for more...pink? Floral scents. The sound of either Lorde or, at the very least, Joni Mitchell playing from someone’s stereo. But it seems just as cold and sterile as any of the men’s dorms.

“Anthony?”

I turn to see Violet in the hallway. She smiles and offers a little wave. I wave back and quickly walk towards her.

“Well lookie there,” a redhead in the lobby says flippantly. “Violet, do you actually have male company?”

“This is Anthony,” Violet offers with a shrug. “He’s just a, uh, study partner.”

“Sure,” the redhead says as she walks away. She likely wasn’t interested in the answer no sooner than she had asked the question.

Still, the word ‘just’ stings a little. Yes, I am her study partner, but that falls far short of what I wish I was to her. I’d settle being her friend, but I have my sights set far higher. Lover. Girlfriend. Soulmate. Etc.

But, for now, I guess I’d consider myself lucky just to be her study partner.

It’s a short walk down the hall to her room. “Is it weird?” she asks.

“Weird?”

“Well, you know, to be in the girls' dorms? I had to go meet someone in the boys dorm not too long ago and I felt like I was on an alien planet.”

It’s a little amusing, considering I had just thought about something quite similar. But what really stands out to me in what she said is that she refers to the dorms as belonging to either ‘boys’ or girls.’ It feels like she’s describing elementary school bathrooms, and suddenly I feel a little naughty for being here again.

“It’s surprisingly not that dissimilar to my dorm. Just more girls.” I’m tempted to use the word ‘women’ instead, but I stick with the vernacular that she used.

“Think you’ll catch any cooties?” she teases.

I don’t think I’d mind that, but then again, I’m not entirely sure that we’d be on the same page as to what ‘cooties’ are. I just shrug, and follow her into her room.

She closes the door behind me, and it’s as if I stepped into a fantastical world. This was what I expected from a girl’s dorm room. At its core, it wasn’t that much different from my own room—industrial white, linoleum flooring and cabinets and dressers built into the walls. But that’s where it stopped being similar. The extent of me making my own room ‘mine’ was a Radiohead poster and a plastic Jay-Z action figure on my computer desk, and just that much seemed like more effort than what my roommate Ryan had put into his half. Almost every square inch of Violet’s room seemed to have something happening in it. Streamers and lights hung from the ceiling and lined the room. Posters, art prints and photographs were affixed to every vertical surface. A stationary store got in a fight with an Ikea, and this was the battleground.

There’s a mix of scents in the room. Nothing harsh or overpowering, just a handful of soft pleasant scents that form a medley. Flowers and bath soap and...I’m not even sure what else there is, even if it all seems vaguely familiar.

“Sorry if it’s a little messy,” she says, picking up a few random pieces of clothing from her bed and throwing them into the cabinet next to it. “My mom isn’t here to harp on me about keeping a clean room, so…”

I laugh. “Yeah, well, that’s the college experience, right?”

“Are you a neatfreak?” she asks.

“Not really.” I’m understating the truth. There isn’t a single out of place sock, piece of paper or pen in my dorm room. I keep a broom and dustpan under my bed. I secretly hope that she asks me to come back another time so I can clean her room for her.

She sits down on top of her bed, poised on her side with her legs kicked up beside her. I have to look away as I catch myself following her slender legs into her red skirt. I gingerly pull out a chair from her desk to pull it closer to the bed.

“You can come up here if you want,” she says, patting the bed. “I’m not going to bite.”

Sitting on her bed—with her—feels like more than what I can handle, but it also feels like the kind of offer that I have to accept. I climb up onto the foot of her bed letting my feet dangle off the side. It’s just a short glance to my right to see her leaning on her pillows, looking back at me with a smile on her face.

“How are you feeling about the test,” I say, thinking ahead to the Sociology exam that we were meeting today to study for.

“Not that bad, actually,” she says, lackadaisically. “An hour ago, I flipped through the chapter again and I think I felt a little more comfortable with the material than I thought.”

“That’s good,” I say with a nod. “I was thinking the same thing last night. Maybe we were a little overzealous in setting up another-” I stop myself from saying the words ‘study date,’ but what I really regret is the implication that I didn’t want to meet with her again.

“I’ve never heard anyone say that you could study too much,” Violet says. “Maybe we just go over the material again? To be sure we’re good to go?”

“Yeah,” I say, smiling. “That sounds good.”

We’ve met a handful of times this semester in the interest of studying. It was a ‘right place, right time’ sort of thing—we sat next to each other in Sociology and had both lamented on how far behind we felt at around the same exact moment. But unlike today, our past study sessions were spent in libraries, cafeterias, and cafes. This time, she asked if I’d come to her room.

For a few minutes, I worry that I’m the only one feeling the thick tension in the room, but I slowly realize that she seems a little off her game too. Usually quick-witted and bubbly, Violet seems a little more reserved and soft-spoken today. We take turns quizzing each other on content that we know is going to be on the test. We both nail every question—it couldn’t be more clear that we’re ready for this test.

“I think we...got this,” I finally say, closing my Sociology book. “Like, we practically have this chapter memorized.”

She laughs, running a hand through her blonde hair. “We’re a good team, huh?”

I nod, and take the opportunity to let my eyes wander around her room again. I can see her roommate’s bed and her belongings, but in terms of aesthetics, it looks like the girls share a common style.

“Do you get along with your roomie?” I ask.

“Tabitha? Yeah, she’s pretty great. Kinda lucked out, honestly. We’re like sisters from different mothers. She’s, uh, home this week.”

It feels like Violet is saying something else, and the best I can decipher when I read between the lines is: She won’t be coming back here today.

“We could just, like, hang out,” Violet says. “Unless you have somewhere else to be. I have another class in a while. But until then, I’ll be…around.”

My heart beats a little faster. “N-no. I can stick around. I’d love to, uh, hang out with you.”

“Yeah? Okay, good.” She laughs and adds: “I hope this doesn’t feel like a trap.”

“I don’t think so. But...how would it be a trap?”

She’s blushing a little, and I’m reminded of how hard I fell for her the very first time I saw her sit next to me in class. She was prettier than any girl I went to high school with. Yet here, on the big campus, she seems somehow undervalued. A lightly-freckled face in a sea of attractive women.

“I did ask you to come to my dorm room,” she says. “To study a chapter that we both clearly already know pretty well. While my roommate is away.”

I nod, laughing. “Yeah, when you put it like that, it does feel a little bit like a trap. But the good kind of trap.”

“Is there such a thing?”

“If this is a trap,” I say, “then this is the good kind.”

“I’m not, like, very good at flirting,” she says with a shrug. “It’s just one of those skills that I missed out on honing because I wanted good grades in high school.”

“I could probably say the same,” I say, as my nearly nonexistent love life quickly passes before my eyes.

“I have a hard time opening up to strangers. I want to, of course, but I’ve just never been that great at it.”

“So you’re trying something new out today?” I ask.

“Sorry?”

“Well, you’re doing a good job of opening up to me so far,” I say.

She smiles, her blushing cheeks make her dimples look like they’re radiating. “Tell me something else about you.”

I think about her request for a moment, wanting to find the right nugget that I can offer her. Something that’s worth her time, and inspires her to give up some more information about herself. I land on a potentially awkward fact, but one that feels like it could provoke some good conversation.

“I’ve never seen any of the Star Wars movies,” I say with a shrug. But now that I’ve said the words, I’m unsure that this was really that compelling of a subject.

To my delight, her eyes seem to light up. “Really? Never?”

“I mean, I guess I have a pretty good idea of what happens throughout them all just from, uh, cultural osmosis. But, nah, I’ve never sat down to watch them. And the weirdest part is that I like sci-fi stuff quite a bit.”

“I don’t really care for spaceship stuff all that much,” she says with a shrug. “But even I have seen the Star Wars movies. In fact...oh man, I have to show you this.”

She slides her body towards the side of her bed and reaches down and under it, her hand shuffling through objects in search of something.

“Please don’t tell me that you have the Star Wars DVDs under your bed.”

Her laugh suggests that it’s not that, but she continues to dig. Meanwhile, I’m staring at her legs again, slowly following them up towards the hem of her skirt. But when my eyes finally reach her skirt, I find that it’s hiked up a little, revealing what’s under. My mouth is immediately prepared to salivate, but—are those panties? They’re...white and weirdly thick and…

She pulls herself up again, straightening out her skirt as she turns to face me. She hands me a book.

“The Art of Star Wars?” I say. “Wow. This is even nerdier than owning the DVDs.”

“In my defense,” she says, “I didn’t mean to bring it to school with me. I grabbed some books from my room back at home a few weeks ago and didn’t realize this—my brother’s book, for what it’s worth—was among them.”

I laugh, amused by the universe’s sense of humor in putting an out-of-place artbook for the movie I referenced under her bed. But I’m quickly distracted by my other thought: what did I just see under her skirt?

“You alright?” she asks.

“Oh, uh, sorry. I just…” But I have no idea what to say. ‘What the hell are you wearing?’ I’m embarrassed that my confusion was so obvious that she could see it on my face.

She grips the hem of her skirt on either side and wriggles it down a little, as if to further ensure that it won’t be revealing anything else. For a moment, I can’t determine if it was just an unconscious gesture on her part or not.

“Did you, um, see something?” she asks.

There’s a lot to process in a short amount of time. If there’s ever a moment to ask my rude question, this is probably it—even if it still feels rude. But the longer I pause to consider my options, the more obvious the answer is to the simple question she asked.

“Yes,” I say. “Maybe.”

Her cheeks turn a deeper shade of pink, but she doesn’t seem entirely flustered. “Care to wager a guess?”

I summon the mental image of her skirt creeping up past her ass again, and I try to analyze it. But the image is already distorted, and I’m no longer sure if I saw anything strange at all. I mean, I must have, considering that she’s asking me about it, but I have so little to go on. I instead focus on the observations I made. Panties, maybe. White. Thick.

“I don’t want to be insensitive,” I say. “But the only thing that comes to mind is…”

“Go on,” she says, smirking a little. “You can tell me.”

“A...diaper?”

She releases a little sigh—the venting of pent up tension—and her smile grows. “I bet you weren’t expecting that.”

“Wait… So, it is a diaper?”

“Let’s say that it is,” she says. “What would you think?”

“I guess…” I cycle through all the responses I can think of, but only one stands out as being the ‘right’ one: “I’d say that’s your business and not mine.”

“You’re sweet, Anthony.”

I have no idea where to go from here. We seem to have reached a conversational brick wall, and I’m not sure if I’m waiting on her to say something else, or if it’s on me to guide the conversation in a new direction.

“Do you want to see it?” she asks.

“Oh, uhm…”

“No pressure,” she says. “I’m just saying that I’ll show you if you want to see.”

It all seems very curious to me. Aside from the obvious question of ‘why,’ I’m unsure why she seems to have taken such little precaution to prevent me from seeing it in the first place. Though, considering her offer to show it to me now, I have to assume that she had intended for me to see it. And again I ask myself: Why?

“Do you want me to see it?” I ask. That feels adjacent enough to ‘why?’

“I don’t need diapers,” she says, seeming to answer a completely different question instead. This answer, of course, only generates more questions.

“That’s, uh, interesting,” I say.

“You probably think that’s pretty weird, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I say. “But...I don’t mean that in a bad way.”

She laughs. “You didn’t know before this?”

“About the diapers? Was I supposed to?” I scan my memory, trying to remember if we had ever had a conversation where the word ‘diaper’ was said aloud. I’m coming up empty.

“I guess it’s good that you didn’t know,” she says. “I was just always worried that you could tell.”

“Oh, so I guess you were wearing them when we met to study before?”

She nods.

It’s kind of fascinating to me. There were times I had caught a satisfying glimpse of her ass. There were times, when I was alone, where I thought about the pleasant round shape it had. And yet I had no idea that I was staring at a diaper.

“I had no idea.”

“They’re loud,” she says, rocking her body back and forth. For the first time—now that I’m aware of it—I can hear the sound of crinkling plastic emitting out from under her. Again, I’m floored that I hadn’t ever noticed this before. This whole time—diapers, hiding in plain sight.

It’s getting harder to defend my stance on not just asking the obvious questions. Clearly, she’s willing to share just about anything right now.

“I guess my question would be: Why?”

She smiles and nods, almost looking to be relieved that I finally asked. “Do you ever just get, like, in the zone when you’re doing something? Like reading, or...studying.”

“I guess,” I say.

“I had this really bad habit in highschool of getting so worked up about tests and exams that I’d sit at my desk and just study for hours on end. And every time I got up to go to the bathroom, I felt like I was wasting time trying to get back into that groove again. That...zone. So I started putting off my potty-breaks until… Well, until I started having accidents in my pants.”

“That’s certainly some dedication.”

“I started wearing diapers in anticipation of these big study sessions,” she says. “And...I guess that became the new normal, you know? It was like my body adapted and while I was in that zone, I could just...go. Anytime, and without thinking about it. And now, I can’t really study without them.”

“Does that mean that, in the past, when you and I were studying, you were…”

She nods, laughing. “Peeing my pants? Yeah. Is that weird?”

“Yes,” I say—the same answer I gave the last time she asked that question. “But that’s okay.”

“Do you have any idea how much I’ve thought about this moment?” she asks.

“No...I can’t say that I have any idea.”

“I told myself that college was going to be different from high school, you know? I wouldn’t just jam my face in a book and ignore everything else going on around me. I didn’t want to be in my 30s, and regret not being more sociable in the so-called ‘prime of my life.’ But here I am, stuck in my books and...peeing my pants. And then you came along and I just felt like—I dunno—if anyone was ever going to understand me, it’d be you.”

Perhaps I had never pissed myself from studying too hard, but her words still resonated with me. I had few friends on campus—and most of those were just people I saw only in classes. I put off dinner for three hours—before finally skipping it completely— last night so that I could get some more research done on a paper I was writing.

“We do some pretty weird things in the name of good grades,” I say. “I’m skipping meals and you’re....having accidents in your pants. There’s probably some better options.”

She laughs, running her hand through her hair again. “Yeah, probably. But, if I’m being honest…I’m kind of obsessed with diapers now.”

“Obsessed?”

She repositions herself on the bed, splaying both legs out in front of her, towards me. She slowly starts pulling her skirt up her legs again. I’m tempted to tell her that she doesn’t have to do that—but I was never the one who asked her to do that in the first place. She wants to show me, and I’m all for letting that happen.

“I just...can’t get enough of them. I want—need—to wear them all the time.”

Her skirt is pulled back past the diaper, revealing the thick white padding that sits between her legs once more. Getting a better view of it now, it looks even more plump than I remember it being just minutes ago. I’ve never once thought about diapers—for pleasure or otherwise—but there’s something in her excitement for them that feels contagious. She could have a sea snail under her skirt, and she could still probably transfer her excitement to me.

Her right hand slides between her legs, grasping at the diaper. She squeezes at the padding, and I’m impressed with how much give there is in it.

“I’m sorry,” she says, squeezing at her diaper again.

“W-Why?”

“Because I really needed to show someone. I don’t mean to be so…” she stops herself for a moment, letting out a breathy squeak—perhaps a byproduct of her pawing at her diaper. “...rude.” Her hands cover her face, clearly embarrassed at her momentary lapse of all modesty.

I have to laugh. I don’t want to, because I don’t want her to think that I’m laughing at her. But, it occurs to me that she might have been right: If anyone was going to understand her, maybe it was me. I wondered, if just for a moment, if I was heading down my own path that would eventually lead to diapers.

“May I...touch it?” I ask.

She nods. “Please.”

I lean forward, stretching out my hand in front of me as I carefully guide myself down the V of her legs. When I reach her diaper, my fingers gently poke at the soft plastic garment. Nothing about the feeling of the diaper is especially surprising. If anything, the surprising thing is that it’s the first time my hand is between a woman’s legs—and the woman is wearing an adult diaper.

“Do you like it?” she asks.

I nod.

“Do you want one?”

“A diaper?”

“Yeah. Maybe you’d like it?”

I have no doubt that I would. “Maybe next time,” I say.

“Oh,” she says, a little pout on her lips. It’s actually kind of perfect—her pouting face and diaper on display.

“That seems like a pleasure I’d rather savor another time. Right now, I’m much more interested in the diaper right in front of me, and the girl wearing it.”

“Oh,” she says again, this time with an optimistic hum. I seem to have hit the right chords for her, because her entire face lights up. “Shit.”

“Is everything alright?”

“That made me wet,” she says.

“I guess that’s what the diaper is for.”

“Ah, no… Like...I’m turned on.”

Another first for me—having someone tell me that I’ve turned them on. My sexual history is embarrassingly brief and lacks any other participants. Maybe things could’ve been different if I tried to date someone. It wasn’t rejection that had done me in, just my own lack of trying.

I put my hand on her diaper again, and this time her hands clamp around it to hold it in place. My first instinct is to pull my hand back, but I resist. I don’t want to take my hand off her diaper. I want to leave it on her diaper for the rest of my life.

“This will be weird,” she says. “But, just promise me that you’ll keep your hand there?”

I have no idea where she’s going with this. “I promise.”

She takes heavier, slower, breaths as her eyes close. She’s focusing on something. I’m tempted to ask what she’s doing, but I bite my tongue.

It happens so slowly that I don’t even realize anything is happening at first. By the time I can feel her diaper growing warmer under my hand, I realize that she’s already been wetting herself for a few seconds. I can feel the force of her jet stream on the other side of the diaper. It’s surreal, but such a privilege, to be where I am at this moment.

“Can you feel it?” she asks in a hushed tone.

“Yeah.”

My hand feels three times heavier than usual, and I’m pressing into her diaper with my palm as she soaks herself. I’m not even sure if it’s me doing that, or her hands holding mine against her more tightly.

Everything I knew about the diaper has changed. The type of squish it had, it’s texture, it’s shape, and even it’s color seems different now. She releases her grip on my hand and I slowly pull it back so that I can see her newly saturated diaper.

“I did that for you,” she says. It’s an odd sentiment, but one that means everything to me.

“Thank you.”

“Is it gross?” she asks.

“Not at all.”

“Really?”

I smile and laugh. I’m not even sure I could put into words how I really feel about it. “You’re good.”

“Come here,” she says, patting the space near where she sits at the head of the bed. I waste no time in repositioning myself next to her.

No sooner than I sit next to her, she gets up on her knees. “You should lie back,” she says. “Like on your back.”

“Uh, sure.” I scoot forward a little so that I have enough room to lie all the way on my back, and I do so, looking up at the same industrial ceiling I know from my own room.

“Would you like it if I, uhm, sat on you?” Violet asks.

“I don’t think I’d mind that at all,” I say. She could put that diaper anywhere on me that she wanted, and I expect to see her lower herself onto my pelvis. Instead, as she straddles my body, I see that she’s positioning herself on my chest instead, pinning me down under her diaper.

I feel myself growing hard in my pants. Any other time, in the presence of someone else, I’d likely have been mortified. I still feel like I’d be a little embarrassed if she discovered my arousal, but it’d be far from the end of the world.

“Do you think I’m a baby?” she asks.

“Do you want to be a baby?”

She laughs, an adorable little giggle. “I want you to tell me.”

Decision making—decision making for other people—has never been my strong suit. Yet, there’s a pretty obvious answer here. The girl wearing her skirt like a belt and who pissed herself in a giant diaper certainly seems to be begging to be called something. I put my hands on her diaper again, feeling the warm squishy padding in my fingers.

“I think you’re a baby,” I say. “The biggest baby.”

“Mmmm,” she moans, eyes closed, as if she absolutely needed to hear those words.

I find it surprisingly easy to continue on that path. “I can’t think of any big girls who’d wet their diapers like that, can you?”

“Nuh-uh,” she says, slowly grinding her diapered pelvis into my upper chest.

“You’re a baby,” I say again.

“Do I smell like a baby?” she asks.

I hadn’t really thought of that, as I had just gotten acclimated to the range of ambient scents that were in her room when I walked in. But I take a deep breath in through my nose again, really trying to savor the air around my head. It’s everything I’ve smelled before, though some of it seems to stand out more than it did before. It’s not the urine scent that I was expecting.

“Baby powder?” I ask.

“Just a little,” she says.

I recognized the scent when I walked through the door initially, though I couldn’t quite place it then. I find the very concept of her putting baby powder into her diaper to be quite adorable.

“You smell exactly like a baby,” I say.

She moans again, completely satisfied with that answer. “Can you...can you tell me again that I’m a baby?”

I laugh. Just five minutes ago, this might’ve seemed like a ridiculous request. It still is, perhaps, but I find myself much more willing to entertain it now.

“I dunno,” I say, looking up at her while grinning. “I mean, you certainly smell like a baby. And you’re wearing a wet diaper. But...what if I’m not totally convinced?”

She offers a faux “Harrumph” before laughing. “What more do I have to do to convince you?”

“What else would a baby do?”

“Hmm.” She pops her thumb into her mouth. “Doeth thith help?”

“It does.” My tone changes a little as I ask a more sincere question: “Do you like doing more...babyish things? Do you act like a baby when nobody else is around?”

She pulls her thumb from her mouth, seeming to take a moment to consider that. “Yeah. I do. I didn’t always do that. In fact, I probably didn’t really start doing that until I was on campus.”

“What does that entail?”

“Uh...oh gosh,” she says, her face turning bright pink again. “I’ve never said these things out loud before.”

“Try?”

“Well? I suck my thumb a bit. I mean, I always have. Maybe that’s how I should’ve known I liked this stuff.”

“What else?”

“I’ve, uhm, crawled around on the ground before. Like on my hands and knees…”

The thought of that is almost too much to handle. Her, crawling around on the ground in her diaper? I had no idea that this mental image would resonate with me so well, but suddenly I was unable to think of anything hotter than that.

“I could go on,” she says.

I’m not even sure if I could handle more. But, if she’s offering… “Okay.”

“I bought a baby bottle,” she says. “Oh, and some pacifiers. And a bib. It’s a baby bib, so it’s too small. But I extended the strings myself and...well, it’s pretty cute and…”

With every new tidbit, I’m adding to my mental image. She’s crawling in just her diaper. And she has a little bib around her neck. A baby bottle, half-full of milk, rolls around on the ground near her while she suckles her pacifier.

“...there’s still a bunch of things I want to get.”

I can’t even begin to imagine what else there would be. “Like what?”

“Oh you have no idea how much there is out there for...people like me.”

“People like you,” I repeat, laughing a little. Everyone seems to have people like them anymore.

“Onesies, and mittens, and booties. Restraints and bonnets. There’s also, like, furniture? Cribs and changing tables, and…”

“A changing table?” I ask, laughing. “That seems to imply a need for frequent changes, doesn’t it?”

She reached down between her legs, squeezing her wet diaper as it rested on my chest. “Well, that’s what babies do, right?”

“Babies, yes,” I say. “But I’m sure there’s a lot of things that babies do that you wouldn’t do.”

“Oh?” she asks. “Try me.”

“Well, okay. Babies have an early bedtime.”

“I mean, sleep isn’t that bad of a thing. And it’s not like I’m doing anything other than studying at night anyways.”

“Okay. How about baby food?”

“Uhm. If someone forced a spoonful of baby food into my mouth? I don’t care how yucky it tastes. I’d die right there, and I’d die happy.”

She seems unflappable, and I’m starting to think that there may not be any real limits to just how far she’d want to take this little game of hers. But I have one more scenario in mind, and I’m curious to see how it lands with her.

“Okay, but there’s another thing that babies do.”

“And what is that?” she asks, her lips curling into a coy smile.

“Babies don’t just wet their diapers, right? They make big stinky messes in them too. I’d argue that if you’re going to be called a ‘baby,’ you’d have to be willing to poop yourself like one too.”

“Hmm,” she says. But this isn’t an introspective pause on her part—I can already see that she knows the answer, and she’s only trying to figure out how to break it to me. “I guess you’d be safe in calling me a baby then.”

“R-really?”

She shrugs. “I...yes.”

“You would? Or...you have?”

“Would,” she says. “I haven’t, but not for lack of trying. It’s surprisingly hard to convince my brain that I want to do that. But...I’ll get there.”

“So you want to,” I say.

She nods. “Is that...gross?”

I’m reminded of my answer to her question about whether or not she was weird earlier. “You’re not hurting anyone. It doesn’t matter.”

“Mmm,” she moans, eyes closed. “I could just kiss you for saying that.”

“Why don’t you?”

“That’s not a bad idea,” she says as she slides off of my chest.

Immediately, I find myself missing the weight of her atop me. She makes up for it quickly, laying beside me in her bed. We stare into each other’s eyes for a moment before we both lean towards each other until our lips meet.

I’ve never really, truly, kissed anyone before, and I’ve always been fearful that the first time would prove to be incredibly awkward and stilted. But as it turns out—it’s rather intuitive. From the second our lips touch, everything just clicks and makes sense. I know when to playfully bite at her lower lip. She knows when to stroke at my upper lip with her tongue. It’s all very harmonious.

“Am I a baby?” she asks again, in between kisses and almost out of breath.

“You’re such a baby.”

She releases an electric moan that seems to cause her whole body to shudder. “Would you change my diaper?”

“I want to. But I don’t know how.”

“I’ll show you.”

“Then, of course.”

She points to the cabinet doors to the right of the bed. “In there, at the bottom, you’ll find everything you need.”

I slowly roll off the side of the bed away from her. I’m still very much aware of the throbbing stiffness in my pants, and while there was no way that she felt it pressing against her while we made out, I still find myself being overly cautious with my every move in an effort to make it less obvious. Opening the cabinet doors, I find some assorted clothing, some toiletries, and at the bottom—as she said—is an open pack of adult diapers. Next to them are the rest of her infantile supplies: a bottle, wipes, baby powder, some pacifiers, her bib. I find it exciting that it’s all right here, in a cabinet near her bed that she hasn’t even closed all the way. Her roommate could be walking past them everyday. Visitors. Families. Friends. It’s all right there, and protected with little more than trust.

It occurs to me for the first time, that this is probably how she expected the day to go. Or, at the very least, how she wanted the day to go. We weren’t meeting in the library or the cafeteria—we were meeting in her room with the door closed. Her diaper was barely hidden under her skirt. She wanted me to see it. She expected me to see it. If it hadn’t been my Star Wars conversation, she’d have found some other way to make this happen.

I’m happy to have been led down this path. I take a fresh diaper and then I grab everything else, hauling it to the bed.

“Oh,” she says, giggling. “You got it all, huh?”

“Just in case?”

She shrugs. “Fine by me.”

In the same way that I have a general sense of how the Star Wars films play out, I have a vague sense of the flow of a diaper change. I’ve seen aunts and uncles do it—I’ve seen my own brother and my sister-in-law do it. It’s the smaller motions and details that seem more hazy to me.

I’m looking down at her body, her perfect and innocent body, and I feel completely unworthy. But she chose me, and that means something.

“Have you had your diaper changed by someone else before?” I ask. I think I know the answer already, but I need to feel the silence somehow.

She shakes her head.

I ignore the temptation to say something corny like ‘well, here we go,’ and just get right into it. The first and obvious step is peeling back the tapes on either side of her diaper. With each removed from the front of the diaper, I find myself staring at the soaked padding as it just sits atop her skin. I want, so badly, to see what is underneath it, and there’s no longer anything preventing me from just pulling open the freed diaper front to achieve that goal; it’s an overwhelming feeling to be so close.

“Go ahead,” she coos, possibly sensing my hesitation. “Don’t you want to see?”

The front of the diaper is surprisingly heavy, a sensation that I get to consider only briefly, as no sooner than it’s pulled back, her infinitely smooth pussy is staring back at me. I look up to her face, where her hands nervously cover her blushing cheeks.

I laugh. Was she expecting me to be disappointed?

“Well, there it is,” she says.

“Y-yeah…”

“You should, uhm, get those,” she says, pointing to the package of baby wipes I put on the bed. “Make sure baby is nice and clean.”

It makes sense, but I had already forgotten about the wipes; I had forgotten about everything that wasn’t directly in front of me. I grabbed them, opening the package and pulling a moist cloth out from it. Her glistening labia beckoned, and I pressed the cloth against her, immediately eliciting another moan from her lips. I had little clue what I was doing, but it didn’t seem to matter. I stroked upwords, my fingers pressing into her through the wipe.

My cock was throbbing, and in a way it never had before. This was more than just a little bout of horniness. This was passion. A yearning lust.

“Show me yours?” she asks, with a little smile. There’s something so innocent—infantile—about her request. We both have so much to learn and experience yet, and it starts here.

I quickly unfasten my belt, and unfasten my pants so that my cock can spring forth. She releases a little “uhhn” when she sees it, and reaches for it. I get a little closer so she can grasp it, and I watch as her fingers wind around my shaft.

“Have you...done, uh, sex before?” I ask. I can barely even believe I got such a humiliating question out of my mouth.

I fully expect her to nod her head, so when she shakes it instead, it takes a few seconds to compute.

“R-really?” I ask.

“Never,” she says, blushing herself.

Neither of us have to say it, but there’s a seemingly understood agreement in place. Yes, eventually. Not today. It’s good and grounding. One thing at a time. Today, Violet is getting her diaper changed.

I drop the wipe, and my hand returns to the wetness between her legs. I fumble about with fingers, clumsily seeking the right places to touch based only on her moans. She takes my hand in hers, guiding my fingers to where she needs them to be. From there, we simultaneously learn to pleasure the other while getting pleasured ourselves. We find our rhythms and we lock on. My fingers gently spin on her clit, while her slender fingers pulse on the head of my shaft.

“Oh,” she says. It comes off so plainly that it could just as easily be mistaken for a response to me telling her that I checked the mail. She says it again, “Oh…,” and I can hear it better now: the sound of someone so lost in bliss that they barely know how to emote at all.

“Yeah?”

“O-oh…” she says. “Fuck…”

Her body quivers and shakes as she unleashes a series of staccato moans. I ease up on the pressure in my fingers, but only right before she brushes my hand away altogether. She needs both of her hands to grip the sides of her face as she arches back in ecstasy. I let her have the moment, trying not to interfere.

“I’m sorry,” she says meekly, slowly coming back to reality.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” I say. “What if we finish taking care of this diaper?”

She struggles to get any other words out of her mouth, and just nods.

I pull the wet diaper out from under her and cast it off the side of the bed for now, hearing it splat onto the floor. I grab the fresh diaper, but I just hold it in my hands for a moment, gently squeezing and bending it in my hands—as if to just try and absorb the essence of it—as Violet reaches out to gently grasp at my stiff cock. Her hand is a little too far away. I’m tempted to slide closer, but I decide to stick with the diaper first.

“What is ethnocentrism?” I ask her.

She laughs before taking a deep breath to compose herself. “Are we studying still?”

“I just want to make sure you’re actually ready for the test.”

“Hmm. Ethnocentrism would be...uh...the evaluation of other cultures according to...uhm... preconceptions originating in the standards and customs of one's own culture.”

“I think you’re ready for that test,” I say. We both laugh.

“Have I earned a new diaper?” she asks.

No more dawdling. I unfurl the new diaper, and she lifts her bottom from the bed so I can slide it under her. I imagine that it’s different with an actual baby—a parent would likely be the one lifting up the baby’s backside. Maybe I’d get there with practice.

“Baby powder?” I ask.

She nods.

I take a whiff from the bottle of powder, noting how strong it is. I’m tempted to ask if she’s sure about that, with her roommate eventually coming back, but I let it go. Nobody knows her situation better than her. If she thinks it’s not a big deal to smell like a baby as much as she looks, then who am I to argue? I twist the cap and shake it over her and the open diaper, covering her in a fine mist of snow-like powder. I fold up the front of the diaper through her legs and do my best to tape it tightly into place. It’s a little uneven, but it seems good enough.

I collapse beside her on the bed, and she quickly rolls onto her side to face me. Her hand is between my legs again, and she’s gripping my still-hard cock.

“I wasn’t finished with this,” she says.

“I...don’t think you have much more to do.”

I am quickly, embarrassingly, proven right, as it’s just a few good tugs before I’m spurting all over myself uncontrollably.

“Oh my,” she says after a giggle. “That’s a messy thing, isn’t it?”

My cheeks burn as I nod. “Uh...sometimes.”

“You oughta put that in a diaper, mister.”

“Next time, maybe.”

“Is there a next time?” she asks.

“I think… Yes, there should be.”

She nods. “I agree.”

She reaches for the baby wipes, drawing another out so that she can clean me off. It’s a kind and sweet act, but one that feels steeped in humiliation. Being cleaned up with a baby wipe by Violet? The same baby wipes intended to clean up after babies—big or small? It almost feels wrong, but it feels even more right.

For a while, we just lay together on her bed, snuggling. I can feel the moment burning itself into my memory—I can already tell that it’ll be a specific moment in time that I come back to over and over again for the rest of her life.

Eventually, we get dressed. We half-heartedly lob a few sociology questions back and forth, but it’s clear that not only do we not need to study, but even if we did—how would we ever focus? It’s only our schedule that splits us up, even though we each assure the other that there’s plenty of time in the future to pick up where we left off.

“Do you want to get together tonight?” I ask.

She nods. “I would like that.”

“I’d suggest you come back to my place, but…”

“I’ll still have my room to myself tonight,” she says. “Come back here.”

In the process of gathering my things so that I can leave, she fishes another diaper out from her cabinet and brings it to me. “Take this.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she says. “Wear it tonight.”

There’s really no other answer I could give: “I will.”

Bell Hall seems like a completely different place as I walk out from it. There’s a few faces in the lobby, and none seem to pay me any mind. Yet I still can’t shake the feeling that there are judgmental eyes on me. Can they smell the baby powder? Is my hair messed up in a way that it wasn’t when I first arrived?

I return to my own building and room, thankful that I have nothing else to do with my day. There’s only one thing I can focus on. I’m daydreaming about seeing Violet on her back with her legs up in the air, waiting for me to change her. I’m hearing her moans in my ears. I’m feeling her hand on my cock. Then, I think about the scenario reversed—with her being the one to change my diaper.

I was apprehensive to go into Bell Hall in the first place. I worry that the next time I enter, I may be apprehensive to leave.