What Ever Happened to Miss StephyLoo? [Tier 3 Exclusive] (Patreon)

[Note from QH: There’s a word or two that I had to sensor in the story to ensure Patreon stayed off my back. Hopefully in both cases, it’s clear what the word was intended to be.]

People come and go. I guess that’s pretty obvious, but it still manages to be a life lesson that hits me pretty hard when I really think about it. There’s older relatives and childhood friends, for sure. Employers at past jobs. Elementary school teachers. Postal workers. Bank tellers. People that, for a while, are in your life everyday and then are just gone at some point.

Is it strange that I feel this way about my favorite...uh, adult content creator?

Her name was Lil Miss StephyLoo and she was such a constant fixture of my social media feed that I felt like I knew her better than some of my friends. I was there when she bought a new car, and I was there as she packed up all her stuff and moved across the country.

And, you know, I watched her poop her pants a lot - which is something I can’t say that I’ve ever seen one of my friends do.

Lil Miss StephyLoo, just Stephy to her fans, wore diapers and acted like a baby. You could argue that content like hers was a dime-a-dozen, and you wouldn’t be wrong. There were hundreds - thousands - of pretty girls with the time, energy, space, and money to create lavish fantasies to draw you into a subscription of their brand of cute and naughty content.

So what made her different? That’s harder to put my finger on. I imagine that a lot of other people saw her the same way they saw a lot of other similarly-styled ‘lifestyle’ baby-girls. That’s not a slight against any of them, really. I suspect every Baby Bubblegirl and Princess Pottykins has fans as devoted to them as I am to Stephy.

It was in her eyes, perhaps - a humbleness that felt more sincere. It was in the backgrounds of her photos - open laptops, paused video games on a TV screen, a plate of tacos on the table. It was as if she was in the middle of life and stopped for just a moment to show off her diaper before getting back to whatever it was she was doing.

And one day she just didn’t post anymore. I didn’t even notice it at first. A few weeks had passed before it occurred to me that I hadn’t seen any new posts from her. Twitter, Tumblr, Instagram - none had been updated a month. No announcements or promises that she’d be back; she had just stopped posting. A few others had inquired if she was coming back or if she was okay, and there was no response.

It feels silly to get caught up in wondering if this person is okay or not, when they have no idea who I even am, but there I was with a knot in my stomach about it. I, myself, sent her a direct message - the first time I had ever done such a thing - thanking her for everything she had ever shared, while offering assurance that I’d patiently wait for whatever she decided to share next  - “whenever she was ready to.”

I didn’t actually expect a response, and so I hadn’t been surprised as weeks passed without one. If anything, I regretted sending a message at all. The more time that passed, the more I imagined my message sitting in some abandoned digital mailbox, unread, gathering dust, and sounding more pathetic by the day.

For as long as the accounts stayed active, I held out hope for her return. While I told myself that I wasn’t being obsessive over my careful watching of her accounts - I suspected that anyone with an outside vantage point would have been quick to tell me that I needed to take a break.

Then, it all started to vanish. Her Twitter and Instagram accounts vanished first; trying to navigate to her profiles on those platforms after just pointed to generic messages that the user didn’t exist. A day later, her Tumblr was gone.

I had never downloaded any of her content - banking on it forever living in digital databases of “liked” and “saved” content. And then it was all gone. Every bit of it. Aside from the occasional public question from another fanboy about what ever happened to Lil Miss StephyLoo, it was almost as if she had never existed. She was, at best, a shared dream among a handful of perverts.

That could have and should have been the end of the story - me, sad over the absence of a woman I never actually knew at all.

But then I saw those eyes again when I least expected to.

--

Emma Petraglia was throwing herself a party. She did something important - I’m not completely sure I ever knew what it was - and I had learned not to pass on her invitation. Her parties promised good food, good beverages, and good company. If she wanted to feed me in the courtyard of the historic Tettlebaum Museum, on her dime, who was I to decline?

It was at this party, in the midst of a conversation about electric cars with David, when I saw a face float by in the background. Familiar; almost too familiar. It was so surreal that it had to have been an illusion. I had immediately written it off. At best, it was a woman with a similar shape and hairstyle. At worst, I had let the ghost of an online persona take up too much real estate in my mind.

I saw the ghost again later, as the bartender handed me my third vodka soda. I was entirely convinced I lost my mind. Was I so desperate to see her face - or diapered ass - again that I was starting to hallucinate? But there she - or someone who looked ridiculously similar - was, in a simply elegant tight-fitting navy blue dress. A dress tight enough to definitively say that she wasn’t wearing a diaper. .

“I’ve been to a number of Emma’s parties,” I said as I sidled up to her, “and yet I still manage to see new faces at every one. How does she know so many people?”

“When you offer food like this, for free,” the woman said, only turning her head slightly to see who had initiated a conversation with her, “you probably have more friends than you know what to do with.”

“Do you know what this party is for?” I asked.

“She won an award, I think?”

“Yeah?”

“No, she might have been promoted? Shit, I’m not too sure myself.”

We both laughed.

“I’m Daniel,” I said, offering an open hand in her direction. “Or just Dan.”

She took it, shaking it politely with the daintiest of grips. “Hello, Just Dan. I’m Anastasia. Just Ana is fine.”

It looked like her. It sounded like her. Those were her eyes. But I refused to let myself believe that this was actually her. If I had a photo of Stephy, I’d have consulted it and double-checked the details. As it was now, my mind was guessing, and the longer I looked at Ana, the less sure I was.

Still, I was talking to a pretty young woman. That wasn’t nothing.

“Can I get you a drink?”

“Such a gentleman,” she cooed.

“My treat.”

“At an open bar? Gosh, how did I get to be so lucky?”

“Please don’t squander my generosity.”

“What are you drinking?” she asked.

“Vodka and soda.”

She stuck her tongue out in disgust. “Rum and cola, please.”

“A, uh, cuba libre?”

She scoffed. “I didn’t use the fancy name because I wasn’t sure that you’d understand what I was asking for.”

“Ouch.”

She smiled, shooing me away with her hand. “Go. Get me a drink and then come back and keep me company.”

She wasn’t Stephy - I had convinced myself of that. She just reminded me of her, and that had been enough. Whoever Ana was, I liked her already.

I returned with her drink, expecting her to be gone or to be engaged in a more thrilling conversation with a better looking guy. Yet she waited for me, smiling as I approached. I worried that I’d put holes in her face the way that I stared, so I tried not to make as much eye contact as I wanted.

“Thank you,” she said. “But when you ordered this, did you ask for a cuba libre? Or did you ask for a rum and cola?”

“Rum and cola,” I said, feeling a little embarrassed.

She laughed. “I appreciate the honesty. Though, can I be honest about something?”

“Please,” I said, hoping that her next words would be: “I’m an online adult-baby model.”

Instead: “I’m not entirely sure who Emma even is. I think I’m just friends of her friends.”

I laughed, scanning the crowds and spotting Emma across the courtyard, speaking with exaggerated hands to a group of attendees. “That’s her over there. The one who looks like she’s conducting an orchestra.”

“Beethoven’s Symphony No. 9 in D Minor, if I’m not mistaken,” Ana said.

We laughed, even if the joke felt a tad too far out of my humor comfort zone.

“What do you do with yourself?” I asked. Traditional party small talk, but also the next step in my ongoing investigation into whether or not Ana had another infantile alias.

“I just started a new job,” she said with a shrug. “Digital marketing.”

“Interesting,” I said; a vast understatement, considering just how interesting the ‘new job’ angle was. “What does that entail?”

“Advertising on social media,” she said. “Nothing thrilling, but it’s getting my foot in the door in a career path that I’m interested in.”

“That’s certainly a good thing,” I said. “What did you do prior to that?” I tipped my imaginary detective’s hat up my head while waiting for the response.

“You know how it is,” she said. “I’ve been in the trenches, doing grunt work. Just a string of dumb jobs I did just to get by.”

Not especially helpful, but it didn’t disqualify my curiosities either. “I know how that is.”

“And what about you?” she asked.

“Graphic design,” I said.

“I admire anyone who follows their passion. A career in art sounds fulfilling.”

I laughed and shook my head. “Most days I find myself envious of cashiers and baristas. Working with art has killed all of my passion for it.”

She smirked, using the same words I just had: “I know how that is.”

Did she? I wanted to dig at that answer a little more, but I wasn’t quick enough to think of how I’d phrase another question.

“If I’m being honest, I don’t know what I’m doing here,” she said.

“Mingling? Networking? Free food and booze?”

She nodded. “Maybe the food.” She paused and looked around at the party, as did I. People talked to each other in little clusters with nobody left behind. Except us. We were the unsocial stragglers. Perhaps we would have fit into other conversations had we not been talking to each other, but now it was just us. We were a cluster.

“Is your name really Dan?” she asked.

I laughed. “Do I come off as that untrustworthy?”

“Well, my name is not actually Ana or Anastasia.”

“That’s a shame, it’s a pretty name. Do I get to know your real name?”

“I doubt it,” she said. “But maybe.”

“You realize that I have a lot of questions about that, right?”

She released a little chuckle. “It’s a bad habit I picked up somewhere along the way. But, too, I think it makes things more interesting, yes?”

“Does it? I’m not really sure who I’m talking to anymore.”

“Exactly,” she replied. “I’m uninhibited. I can tell you anything, and maybe some of it is the truth, and some of it isn’t. And it doesn’t matter.”

I decided to play along: “Fine. My name isn’t actually Dan.”

“I don’t believe that,” she said. “But I know now to be suspicious, see?”

I nodded as a thought came to mind—an exercise that could potentially take advantage of one’s uninhibitedness. “How about 20 Questions?”

“So long as you’re prepared for the possibility of 20 lies.”

“How would I know the difference?”

“True.”

“If nothing else, think of it as...an opportunity to do some worldbuilding for your party persona. Anastasia.”

“Very well, Daniel. If that is, in fact, your real name.”

I offered an exaggerated shrug, to which we both laughed. Three drinks were hitting me hard, and I was feeling as accidentally uninhibited as she felt purposefully.

“Question 1, for you,” she said, immediately ready to take the reins. “Do you come to Emma’s parties to pick up women?”

It was funny only because the thought had never even actually occurred to me. That just wasn’t who I had ever been. I never considered myself to have much ‘game,’ though this interaction had me curious as to whether or not I had more than I thought.

“It’s never my primary objective,” I said. “But I’d be lying if I said that I wasn’t keeping an eye out while in attendance. Emma does have a number of attractive friends.”

I liked this version of Daniel. I imagined him as a little cocky, but still grounded. Still intensely curious about who the real Ana was and whether or not I knew another of her aliases.

“My first question for you,” I said, quickly thinking. “If I were to ask you to come back to my place, would you instantly reject that?”

“Bold,” she said.

“It’s just a question. Not a commitment.”

“No.”

I paused, waiting to see if she had more to add to that, but it didn’t seem that she did. I nodded approvingly, learning a little more about the power of New Daniel’s confidence.

“Question 2,” she said. “How do you know Emma?”

The answer wasn’t especially interesting. We worked together for a few years. I’d hesitate to say we were ever ‘friends,’ but we had formed a bond the way two people did when you were stuck in the same miserable place together day after day. That bond didn’t mean as much these days, now that we didn’t work together, but I appreciated the fact that she still invited me to her parties.

“We worked together,” I said. “And then we had sex.”

She snorted, wiping some cocktail off of her mouth. “Yeah? You, uh, hit that?”

“She was a lazy lover,” I said. “She didn’t want to do any of the work.”

‘Ana’ looked back in the direction of Emma again, seeming to study her body language. “I believe that.”

I felt a little guilty, not just lying—but lying about the sexual habits of someone I had never even seen naked, let alone slept with.

“Next question for you,” I said. “Cake or pie?”

She laughed and shook her head. “Really? We’re going to talk about fucking the party host and then the follow-up is about dessert?”

“I was thinking I needed my way to work up to that-”

“Your first question was about asking me back to your place. What did you think we were going to do if, in that scenario, it actually happened? Play Scrabble?”

“I’m really bad at Scrabble.”

She laughed. “Cake. I like pie, but there are too many variables. The filling, the consistency of the filling, the type of crust, whether or not there’s a crust on top. Is it being served with ice cream? Whipped cream?”

“I can’t argue with that.”

“Question 3,” she said, bypassing any further discussion of dessert. “When is the last time you had sex?”

It was my turn to make a mess with my drink, doing a small spit-take of the sip of vodka soda I had just taken. “Ah, jeez…”

“Has it been that long? Is this a painful question?” she teased.

If I lie, I’m not sure what the lie would be. I had recently come to terms with the fact that I was not defined by the frequency of sexual encounters in my life, even if a small lingering voice in my mind still insisted that this was just something I told myself to feel better about it having been a year and a half.

“Two months,” I said, gambling on whether or not she’d find that to be an embarrassing answer.

She laughed, but said nothing else. “I believe it’s your question now?”

“You don’t have any commentary on that?”

“Should I?”

“Fine,” I said. “Next question for you: Have you ever had a*al sex?”

“Taking my comment about dessert questions to heart, huh? Just going to leap to the other end of the spectrum?”

I felt my cheeks warm, but I did my best to stay composed. The alcohol helped. “I asked what I asked.”

“Yes,” she said. “I suppose I could leave it at that, but I’ll add that I really enjoy it. Though more from a mental perspective than a physical one. The act of being, uh, used in a way that the body wasn’t intended to be is kind of exhilarating.”

If that was a lie, it was a very well-crafted one. Then again, weren’t the most believable lies the ones that seemed too crazy?

“Used?” I asked. “Is that something you like?” This felt a little bit like progress in my ongoing investigation.

“If I answer that question, it’s going to count towards your 20.”

“And what happens after that? We don’t get to ask each other any more questions? The conversation is over?”

She just shrugged.

“Very well. That’s my fourth question.”

“Yes, I like that. I like being made to feel…” she took a moment to consider the right word, “small.”

That was the most perfect word she could’ve used, of course. I did my best to stay composed. I also made a mental note to avoid dropping the word ‘diaper’ in a question until we were at least in the latter half of our game.

“Now we’re treading into dangerous territory,” she said. “Once you open that door, it’s hard to go back to talking about pie.”

“We could.”

“We won’t.”

“I believe it’s your question,” I said.

“Question 4: What is a kink of yours?”

It was a devilish question. I would’ve asked if she had any kinks, and she would’ve said ‘yes’ and I’d have wasted another question on getting more details out of her. But her question got it all done at once. In fact, I was tempted to wonder, with a question like that, if she was hoping to draw a specific answer from me. As if she suspected that I might know of another of her personas.

Lie or tell the truth? Lying wouldn’t get me any closer to solving my mystery, but it could alleviate her suspicions of me—if she had any. And the truth was that ‘big-lie’ kind of crazy.

Fuck it. I didn’t want to regret the shots I didn’t take in this conversation. “Diapers.”

“Really?” she asked, eyebrows raised. “I didn’t expect that.”

“What did you expect?” I asked.

“Sp*nking, maybe? Not vanilla, but not as out there, either. Uh, french vanilla?”

I laughed, shrugging. “I’m sorry to say that I’m all the way out there.”

“Don’t be,” she said. “Though, I can’t imagine someone lying about something like that.”

She was too smart for her own good.

“That makes it my question.” Here went nothing: “What is a kink of yours?”

She smiled and took a moment to consider her response. “Constriction.”

“Interesting. Care to elaborate?”

“Not just being bound—being stuck. Unable to move. Being left completely powerless, helpless, and at the mercy of someone else.”

“I’m sensing a theme.”

“Smallness,” she said. “But not so small that I need diapers.”

“No?” I felt my heart collapsing inside my chest. It could’ve been a lie, but just hearing her say that specific sentence hurt. “Maybe you just don’t know that you do yet?”

“That almost sounds like an invitation.”

I shrugged.

“What do you do with diapers?” she asked.

“Is that your next question?” I asked.

“Sure,” she said. “What is that, question 5?”

I nodded. I wanted to elaborate on her question. ‘What do you do?’ was very broad and could be easily answered with something unfulfilling. ‘Whatever I want.’

“The end goal is humiliation,” I said. A little more honest than I expected from myself, but I wasn’t upset at having said that.

“The humiliation of whom?” she asked.

“Myself.” I felt my cheeks flare a little again, and I was disappointed that I had missed almost every opportunity to lie about myself. Except for the one about Emma - making me a diaper lover who had slept with the host.

“Ah, so you’re a...bottom?”

“Are we going to call this question 6?” I asked.

“Fuck this game,” she said with a smile. “I think we’ve found what we were looking for.”

We were on the same page there. “Bottom-leaning,” I said, answering her last question. “I’m not sure that I’ve ever really defined myself as that word before, though. And you?”

“Curious,” she said. “Or opportunistic. Does that make me a switch?”

“I think so.”

“You should ask me to go back to your place with you.”

“Yeah? And what would we do if I did? Because, remember, I’m not good at Scrabble.”

“We should just get out of the public eye,” she said, looking around again. “I see this conversation becoming more ‘diaper’ than ‘pie.’ And wouldn’t that be awkward if Emma came around while you told me more about how you like to be humiliated?”

I sighed. “For the record, I didn’t actually sleep with her.”

“Oh, I figured,” she said with a grin. “But I have. And she’s a very generous lover.”

--

Not in my wildest dreams was this how I imagined my trip to Emma’s party to go. I had just arrived at my house, and ‘Ana’ would be there soon after. And while Ana wasn’t—though possibly was—Lil Miss StephyLoo, she now knew that I liked diapers and yet still wanted to come over to my place. I pinched myself, just in case this was an incredibly lucid dream.

I gave myself a few minutes of a head start before Ana left the party, thinking I’d have to clean up my place a little, but things seemed good enough. Really, it just gave me time to flip over some bourbon glasses and fetch the unopened bottle of Maker’s Mark I had been saving for a rainy day. This was close enough..

I had become a little restless as I waited for her to arrive. How much longer after I left had she? I expected her to be at my place, maybe, 10 minutes after I had gotten there myself. Yet, close to 20 minutes later and there was no sign of her. I had given her my address and my phone number, should she have any trouble finding my place, but I had no way of contacting her.

And so this would be how this dream scenario ended—stood up at my own home, after having told a stranger far too much about myself.

My phone vibrated on the table and I immediately snatched it up. The message had come from a number that wasn’t saved in my phone: I was thinking about how nice it would be if I was hanging out with some guy and I, somehow, accidentally discovered that he was wearing a diaper under his pants. Doesn’t that sound nice?

Who was I to deny a beautiful and charming woman the opportunity to experience such niceness?

It would be another half hour before she arrived. As I watched her black Jetta pull into the driveway, I wondered if she just wanted to keep me waiting, if she thought that I’d need that much time to act on her text, or if she simply wasn’t in any rush.

“Did you have any trouble finding the place?” I asked.

“Has anyone been lost in the last 10 years?” she said with a smile. “So long as there’s a cell tower in the vicinity, I couldn’t be lost even if I wanted to be.”

“Can I get you a drink?”

“Are we talking water? Or..”

I pointed behind me to where the bottle of bourbon sat on the table with two glasses sitting next to it. “But I do have water, too.”

“No,” she said, “that’s perfect.”

“Do I get anything more from you?” I asked. “You’re at my home and I have, I think, your phone number. Have I at least earned your real name?”

“I’d argue that you’d be suspicious of any name I offer now. If I said my name was, say, Mary—would you believe that?”

“Maybe not. You don’t look like a Mary.”

“Who do I look like, then?”

A name was immediately on the tip of my tongue, but I was hesitant to blurt it out. A negative reaction, or flat-out rejection, would only further weaken my already-tenuous hope that ‘Ana’ was who I wanted her to be.

But today was about taking shots and seeing what happened. “Stephy?”

“Interesting,” she said. “So not just Steph. Or Stephanie. Specifically a Stephy?”

I nodded.

“Do I remind you of someone?”

Anything I might have said felt lodged in my throat. I felt myself blushing again, becoming flustered at the sudden sensation of having been backed into a corner.

“It’s possible,” I said.

She seemed excited by this, I watched her eyes glow and her smile widen. “Yeah? Why don’t you pour me a drink and tell me more about Stephy.”

Her refusal to just say that she wasn’t Stephy invigorated me. I had grown more doubtful that she was actually the ghost I sought, but her willingness to play along made this a potentially different game.

I poured us each about two fingers of bourbon. I had started towards the freezer to grab ice, but she stopped me. “I prefer it neat, actually.”

“I admire anyone who has a preference,” I said, reversing course so that I could hand her the room temperature glass instead.

“Is that how Stephy would drink it?” she asked.

I shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m okay with making that canonical, though.”

She swirled the liquor around in her glass before taking a sip. “I’m going to assume that Stephy doesn’t personally know you.”

“She does not.”

“And Stephy is into diapers too, yes?”

I shouldn’t be too surprised. It could be a lucky guess, or the context clues were all there. I wondered if she correctly assumed that I’d only have mentioned diapers if I was trying to get a specific reaction from her.

I nodded. “She is.”

Part of me wants to tell her all about Lil Miss StephyLoo. The way that she posed, and the things that she wore. I want to tell her about how many times I had seen Stephy squat down and force a mushy load into her diapers before she sat down on the ground and wiggled about until she had made an apocalyptic mess of herself. I bit my tongue, instead curious to see what ‘Ana’ could tell me about her.

“Did you give her some of your money?” she asked.

A little sigh. “I...may have subscribed to her content. Back when she created it.”

She took another small sip of her bourbon. “Did you, by chance, give her any of your heart?”

It was a strange question, but it still hit pretty hard. “I...really liked her.”

“Unrequited love in the digital age,” she said, waving her non-drink-bearing hand in the air dramatically. “Is there anything more tragic?”

“Are you mocking me?” I said, cracking a smile.

“There is a pathetic quality to it, I think we can both agree. But, no, I’m not mocking you.”

I walked past her into the living room, hoping she’d follow. I was happy to see, as I sat down on the couch, that she had and she was sitting down too. Not directly next to me, but not on the furthest end of the couch either. It felt like a small victory.

“Do you remember the first time that you saw Stephy?” she asked.

It felt a little like therapy, suddenly; though this didn’t stop me from answering honestly. “I don’t remember the first time I saw her,” I said. “But I recall the first time I wanted to see her again. She wasn’t wearing much. A diaper, of course, and a yellow jacket. It wasn’t, like, juvenile or anything. It was just like a pretty simple light-weather yellow coat. It was open, but the unzippered front concealed most of her breasts. Do I sound...crazy? Like, am I saying way too much right now?”

“Not at all,” she said with a warm smile. Her eyes...I found myself right back where I started. Were those the eyes I was looking for in the first place?

I continued: “It was a pretty simple photo, honestly. But there was just something so perfectly candid about her pose and the jacket. Like, that was just how she was, you know? This was her life. It just felt genuine in a way that a lot of content never really does.”

“She made quite the impression on you.”

I nodded.

“May I offer an observation?” she asked.

“Of course.”

“You said that you see yourself as a bottom. And she, in her diaper, sounds like she may also have been a bottom. Say you had the opportunity to have actually met her—what would that have looked like? Just the two of you? Crawling around on the ground in diapers?”

Her use of ‘crawling around’ was curious to me. I couldn’t decide if it came from a place of experience, or just the obvious place an outsider’s mind would go to, given the facts she had been given so far.

“Yeah, I guess,” I said. “I never really thought about that. Maybe just because it seemed so unlikely. And, you know, she didn’t have to be here for me to appreciate her. She was just genuine. And genuinely...filthy. Sometimes I was living vicariously through her and sometimes she was just my muse.”

She seemed closer to me on the couch than she did before, though I couldn’t recall her moving. She carefully put her hand on my lap, and I made no effort to displace it.

“It sounds like you got to see a lot from her. Like you got to know her well.”

“Exactly.”

Her hand wandered up my leg at a leisurely pace. “I imagine that, for a lot of people who put themselves out there like that online, it’s just a desire for attention. Or money. And there’s nothing wrong with that. But once in a while, you see someone that has some actual passion in their eyes.”

“Y-yes,” I said, finding it a little harder to talk as her hand crept closer to my concealed diaper.

“I bet that with someone like that, they’re appreciative of people like you. People who respect them.”

“I...I hope so.”

“Even if she didn’t know you personally, she had to have felt your adoration. I bet she liked that.”

I said nothing. My eyes fluttered a little as her hand reached its target.

“Oh,” she said, voice dripping with faux-surprise. “What is this?”

In preparation for this moment, I wanted to be ready to say something. My mind had gone blank, though, and so I instinctively muttered: “My diaper.”

“Diaper?” she said, carrying on with the act. “You wear diapers? Like a baby?”

“Who are you?” I asked.

“Anastasia,” she said.

“N-no, really.”

“Mary?” she asked

“No…”

“Stephy,” she said with a wry grin.

“Really?”

She giggled and shrugged, squeezing my padded groin and feeling my diaper squish under my pants. “If you want me to be.”

I wanted her to be whoever she really was. But I needed her to be Stephy.

She didn’t wait for me to respond. Maybe she knew that I couldn’t—or that I didn’t want to. “May I take your pants off? I want to see.”

“Yes.”

We worked in unison—I lifted my bottom from the couch as she unbuttoned and unzipped my dress-slacks. With the space I had allotted, she was able to tug my pants down past my knees. I expected her to leave them there, but she kept going, sliding them entirely off of my body, leaving me in just my white diaper and black socks below the waist.

“There, much better,” she said as I lowered myself back onto the couch again. “Look at how cute that diaper is.”

I blushed, releasing a heavy breath from my nostrils.

She left her hand firmly planted on the front of my diaper, slowly squeezing the padding over and over again, as she spoke. “What did Baby Stephy like to do with her diapers?”

I knew the answer to that question, but I wasn’t sure that I knew the words to describe it anymore. I gave myself an extra moment to think about it, feeling the squeeze-squeeze-squeeze of her hand on my diaper.

“She used them,” I finally said.

“Oh did she, now? Just like a little baby?”

I nodded. “Exactly like a baby.”

“But when you say ‘used,’ do you mean that she…”

“She would wet her diapers,” I said.

“Oh my. That is certainly what a baby would do. I bet she absolutely drenched them too.”

My nod was embarrassingly enthusiastic, but I made no effort to curb that delight.

“There was this video,” I said. “She was sitting on the floor—it was a wood floor—and she was just wearing her diaper and a loose-fitting pastel pink tee. Her legs were splayed open and the camera was a few feet away from her, so you could follow the wood grain up between her legs and to the diaper. And you could see that she had already saturated it. So she wets herself again, and the diaper simply can’t handle it anymore. And the camera is at this perfect angle where it catches her pee trickling out from the legs of the diaper. It pools under her on the floor, but it catches the grooves of the wooden floor and you just watch as the water beads up and slowly crawls towards the camera.”

“It sounds like she knew exactly what you liked,” she said.

I had grown hard in my diaper at some point. I wouldn’t have been surprised if it happened as soon as we sat down on the couch, but if nothing else had done it, summarizing that video while ‘Ana’ played with my diaper would’ve.

“She really did.”

“If we’re going to pay homage to Baby Stephy’s wet diapers, I think we should do it right, don’t you?”

There were a near-infinite number of things I wanted to say, but the words that came from my mouth were: “Are you real?”

“I hope so,” she said.

“Me too.”

“Well?” she asked. “Are you going to wet your diaper or not?”

“I don’t think I can.”

“Oh? Is it because of this silly thing?” she asked, stroking my hard member through the diaper. “Boys must have it so—pardon the pun—hard. I feel like I could piss anytime I wanted. Excited or not.”

“I… Believe me, I wish I could,” I said. I so badly wanted to piss in my diaper while her hand caressed it. I’m not sure that I could’ve thought of many things that sounded better.

“We’ll just have to improvise,” she said with a casual shrug.

“Improvise?”

“What if someone else wet your diaper for you?”

“Wait...what?”

She tugged at the waistband of my diaper. “I have a feeling these tapes aren’t the refastenable type?”

“No, not really. But-”

“Then I’ll need a diaper of my own. Would you be a dear and get me one?”

Her hand on my diaper was helping, but just the idea of fetching a diaper for Maybe-Stephy had me close to blowing my load in my padding. I nodded and stood. I turned around for a moment—just to make sure that there really was someone on my couch with me. There she was, smiling. I sprinted upstairs, fetching a diaper from the open pack that was still on my bed, before running back down to her. I thrust it into her hands excitedly.

“Let’s not get too excited,” she said. “I’m not going to wear your diaper. I’m just going to lay it out and pee into it for you.”

“That’s, uh, plenty exciting,” I said, my fingers fidgeting at my sides as she stood up from the couch herself.

“While I do this, I do have another question for you,” she said.

“Okay?”

“Your Stephy, I imagine she was quite the baby, yes? She probably didn’t just...wet herself in diapers, right?”

I immediately knew what she meant, though I debated on the answer I’d give. I imagine she already knew the answer herself—either because she was who I wished her to be, or because she could safely assume that at this point.

She opened the diaper up completely, unfolding it from all angles as she held it out in front of her. I watched her mannerisms, looking for tells that would suggest whether she had done this before, or if she had never touched a diaper in her life. To her credit, her mannerisms invoked neither of those. She looked engaged and methodical.

“No,” I said. “She didn’t just wet herself.”

“I bet you liked that, hmm?”

I nodded, but she wasn’t looking at me to see that. “I...did, yes. Very much.”

“What about it did you like most?” she asked, as she laid the open diaper out on my carpet.

“If I’m being honest, I think I liked it all.”

“Oh, come on. I’m sure there was some aspect that always pressed your buttons. Your little corner of the internet is probably full of pretty girls filling their pants up. What did she do differently?”

I laughed to myself, realizing that there was a pretty obvious answer to her question. “Like with most things she did, it was the subtle details that made the biggest difference. When she used her diaper, it was as if she savored it. Especially when she, uh, messed herself.”

She turned to me, smiling warmly. I kept expecting to see her break character—a moment where she dropped the charade and revealed that she thought I was a disgusting pervert. But she looked like she wanted to hear more, and I found it encouraging.

“It was in the sounds she made,” I continued. “I mean, uh, with her mouth. Like, when she was pushing, she had this little...moan. Almost a hum, really. And she did it the whole time she pushed everything from her bowels. And at the very end—when she was finished—the pitch of her little moans would get higher. It was like a little song.”

She was pulling her tight black dress up past her hips, revealing her dark gray panties underneath. She then shimmied them down her legs before stepping out of them and kicking them to the side.

“Did you ever try it?” she asked.

“Try?”

“Moaning a little song as you made a poo-poo in your diaper?”

My cheeks were burning again. We were far too deep for me to start denying things now. “No...I never tried moaning like that.”

“I think I’m going to try,” she said, as she positioned herself above the diaper. “Tell me if I’m getting the tone completely wrong.”

“Wait, you’re going to-”

“Do you think you could?” she asked. “If I gave you back this diaper after I pissed in it, do you think you’d be able to shit in it?”

“Maybe. Not immediately. But...eventually.”

“Well I don’t have all day to wait around for that. So I’ll make it easy for you. I just so happen to need to piss. And, while I’m here, I think I’ve got another little present that I can leave in your diaper for you. And then? It’s all yours. You can be the dirty little baby that your Stephy would want you to be.”

My mind is in two places at once. The first is there, in that moment, soaking up her words and taking in her actions. I’m watching as she carefully squats over the diaper, being sure to hold the hem of her dress far out of the potential splash zone. Her ass lowers more and more until it hovers about a foot above the open diaper. Still, I seek some sign that there’s any familiarity to this. At best, I just see confidence.

My mind is also out of its body. I’m hovering up, looking down at this scene, and I’m not just looking at a single moment in time, but the day as a whole. Who was this girl, and how did we get here?

My mind merges, and I’m left with one thought: Thank you, Stephy. Wherever, whoever, you are.

She pisses first, a heavy stream that rockets straight into the diaper. My imagination summons images of the White House getting zapped by an alien spaceship in Independence Day. My eyes follow the perfect yellow-tinted beam to the point of impact in the diaper—already thoroughly saturated, with the moisture slowly spreading out in all directions. I see myself coming back to this moment for a long time after.

“This probably shouldn’t be so easy,” she said with a shrug. “It’s funny how the right audience will do that for your confidence.”

I want to say something, but all I can muster is: “You’re doing great.”

She laughed. “Thank you, Daniel. But this is the tricky part.”

She shifted her feet a little, seemingly searching for the right position. When she found it, she drew in a large breath. For the first time, her cheeks glowed red themselves. I don’t see it as humiliation though. Maybe it’s a little bit of that, but I saw it more as determination.

A loud ripple is forced from her ass, and she giggles. “Fuck. Later, I’m going to feel sillier about that than what comes next.”

I could barely contain myself, and I’m paralyzed in place. My cock is so hard that the entire front of my diaper has bulged out from my body, creating a gap between my abdomen and the diaper’s waistband. I could do two things: I can look at her squatting above the diaper as she forces out a few more short bursts of gas, and I can look down at the tip of my throbbing manhood as it looks up at me from my diaper.

“You’re doing great,” I said again.

She has no response or reaction this time, she seems deeper in whatever zone she needs to be in. There’s no turning back now; I can just tell that her internal machinations are in motion. It’s happening, and it’s happening now.

A moan escaped her lips, but it didn't dissipate immediately; it lingered and sustained itself. She’s humming.

Is that the same song? It both is and isn’t familiar, and the longer that it goes on, the harder it is for me to recall what Stephy sounded like. In fact, the sound I’m hearing now is rewriting the memories I had. This would be the sound I hear from now on, when I think back on Stephy—any iteration of her.

Her cheeks part, and I watch the semi-soft mass emerge from her. In one near-continuous flow, I watch it grow, hanging from her like a tail until it meets the diaper. It begins to coil for just a moment before it just becomes a pile. Its stench hits me much sooner than I thought it would. Out of context, I know I’d find it revolting and disgusting. Here, however, it’s sweet to my nose, and I take deep insatiable drags of the air around me. The moaning hum remains mostly constant, taking the occasional pause for a breath, until it finally takes a turn to a higher-pitched tone as the last of her bowels depart her body.

She continued to hover over the diaper for another minute, perhaps making sure that she’s expelled everything she had in her. A final burst of piss lands in the diaper.

“I have to imagine you have some baby wipes,” she finally said. I quickly ran to fetch them—not having to go especially far, since I have them stashed throughout the house. I ran back to her, holding the pack out in front of me as if a tribute to her.

“My hands are engaged,” she said, glancing down to her sides where they continued to hold the dress in place. “Be a good baby and clean me up?”

I worried that my body wouldn’t be able to perform this task, but my hands were already frantically peeling open the plastic package of the wipes. I’ve learned that I can be commanded to do anything.

I draw a damp wipe from the package and I squat down beside her, catching another strong whiff of the dirty pile below us. I remembered where that diaper is supposed to go next, and look away from it, barely able to process how I feel about it. She lifted her back up, bringing her ass an additional foot off the ground and giving me ample room to reach under her. I reached underneath, past her ass and to her labia, where I gently slid the wipe over her skin.

“You have to get in there,” she said. “You need to make sure you clean it thoroughly.”

I run the wipe over the same spot again, this time using the tips of my fingers to press into her vagina as I draw my hand back towards me.

She moaned softly. “That’s....better.”

The next wipe is for her bottom, a much easier point of access. Heeding her advice, I used slow and methodical motions, allowing my fingers to work the damp cloth into her tight back door. She moans again, and I’m reminded of her earlier confession that she liked having her bottom played with. Another wipe later, and she seemed sufficiently clean.

“Very good,” she said, standing up. “Dare I say, that was all rather enjoyable.”

I laughed bashfully, running a hand through my hair.

“Well, I believe it’s your turn now,” she said. She walked over to me, letting her dress fall back down as she did. Immediately she looks like the perfectly together woman I had just met at Emma’s party.

Her hands gripped the tapes on either side of the diaper I was wearing, and she pulled them open one at a time. Before she even reached the final tape, the diaper was unable to stay in place and fell to the ground—dry and wasted, though in light of what it would be replaced with, it didn’t matter.

She was doing the same thing that I was—considering the logistics for getting the new diaper onto me. She opted to return to the open diaper on the floor, saturated and stinking, carefully lifting it from the ends while letting it bend like a taco. She carried it over to me.

“I’ll need your help,” she said. “Hold the front of it here and part your legs as much as you can.”

I did so, and she fed the diaper between my legs, steering the front of it into my hands. I gripped it tightly as she pulled the back end up over my ass. Carefully, and with both of us working together, the front and back of the diaper met at my sides and were held in place tightly as she used the tapes to secure everything in place.

It was unlike anything I had ever felt before. It was one thing to have wet and messed my own diaper—something I had done a great many times—but this wasn’t anything like that. For one, the wetness was in the wrong spot. For another, it was as if I could feel that this wasn’t my own wetness or mess.

“There you go,” she said, stepping back to look at me. “Adorable! Little baby in his wet and dirty diaper! Do you like?”

I frantically nodded, feeling like a bobblehead doll.

Her tone softened as she leaned towards my ear again: “What did Stephy do after she made a big mess in her diaper?”

“She… Well…”

“Go on. Say it.”

“She...sat in her diaper.”

“She sounds like she was such a dirty little girl.”

I nodded again.

“Well? Aren’t you going to show me? Go on and sit down in your diaper for me.”

It had never been hard for me to make a pathetically dirty baby out of myself in the past, and I could find no reason—after everything I had just witnessed—to resist doing the same now. Her blessing probably wasn’t even necessary. In one quick motion, I let myself drop to the floor, landing on my ass with a thick ‘splat.’

And it was done. I was sitting in a messy diaper before her—sitting in a mess that wasn’t even my own.

“And what now?” she asked. “I bet this is the part where you rub yourself until you explode all over your diaper?”

I nodded.

“Well don’t let me stop you.”

I lasted all of a minute before I erupted, dripping and oozing all over myself and the front of the diaper.

She stood in place, looking down at me for a minute or two. She was taking in the sight, capturing a permanent mental image of me as I sat on my ass, in her mess, with my dripping cock still in hand.

“I had fun,” she finally said. “You were fun.” Her words sounded climactic

“Th-thank you. Are you...leaving?”

“I think I’ll leave whatever comes next to you,” she said with a shrug.

“Fair enough,” I said. “But...maybe we could do this again? Or, just...hang out? I have your number and-”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m not sure I’m looking for that right now.”

“Oh…”

“But. I imagine there will be more parties. The odds aren’t terrible that we’d meet again. We’ll just have to see, won’t we?”

“Y-yeah…”

She stepped towards me again, leaning down so that she could kiss the top of my head. Then, she turned and walked right past her panties and kept going until she was out the front door without looking back. She was gone.

--

I texted her number once, about a week later. Just a simple ‘Hi’ after finishing off the rest of the bottle of whiskey. I ended up holding onto the bottle, keeping it in the same place as her panties, along with a single ripped plastic diaper tab—the last remnant of the diaper we shared.

I worried that this would be the start of a dark time for me. After all, what could possibly meet the thrill I experienced that day? In fact, it had been the opposite. For the first time in months, the ghost of Lil Miss StephyLoo didn’t haunt my fantasies, as if I had somehow gotten closure on where she went—or who she was or wasn’t.

Parties came and went, and I’d show up and scan the party for familiar eyes. Nothing yet, but there’d be more parties.

Someone on a message board recently asked: ‘What ever happened to Lil Miss StephyLoo?’

I thought about responding, but decided against it. I had an answer, but I had done so much work to find it, that I felt I needed to hold it close to my chest for a little longer.

You don’t actually have to look that hard.