Adopting [Tier 2 and 3 Exclusive] (Patreon)

Lunch

I have a reputation for being standoffish. Or, on occasion, antisocial. Personally, I don’t believe this to be true, but I also don’t mind that being how others see me. I find that it buys me a lot of social leeway. Get a text? There’s no expectation that I’ll be answering promptly. Double that expected response time for a phone call. Is there a party? I’m the wildcard. Maybe I’ll be there, maybe I won’t. If I do come, I can arrive late and leave early, and nobody bats an eye.

The truth? I like people. But I like my space more. I’m willing to give all my time to the right person—the problem is just that there are few ‘right’ people.

Peter? Now there’s a guy that I’ll give all my time to. He’s a lot like me, operating in the fringes of the friend circles. It’s best to assume he’s ‘off the grid’ unless he’s the one reaching out to you first.  What he does during that time? Not important to me. And it’s for this reason that I assume he appreciates me as much as I appreciate him.

“Did you lose weight?” he asks.

I had. It wasn’t much, and nobody else had said anything about it, but I suspect it’s a little more noticeable if you hadn’t seen me in a year.

“A little,” I say. “I figure I should start using the gym membership if I’m going to keep paying for it every month.”

He laughs. “I bought one of those ‘home gyms’ a while ago. One of those, like, 18-in-1 contraptions? Ask me how much I use it.”

“How much do you use it?”

“Fucking never,” he says, laughing again. “And it wasn’t cheap.”

The only friend that I’d drop everything for, just as I think he’d do the same for me. He called out of the blue and asked if I could get lunch with him, and I said yes. I even had other plans—plans I wasn’t excited about, but plans nonetheless—that I cancelled so that I could meet him. Now, we’re sipping aperitifs and waiting for our soup to arrive.

“So if you’re not working out, then what are you doing with yourself these days?” I ask.

He makes a clicking noise with his mouth, a wide grin spreading across his face. I seem to have asked the magic question, and he’s very excited to give me the answer.

“I’ve had a little hobby as of late,” he says. “It’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Yeah? Go on.”

“I’m going overseas,” he says. “Did I tell you that?”

I laugh. “Of course not.”

He laughs too, well aware of the absurdity of his question. “Yeah, mostly business. I say ‘mostly’ because I probably could’ve gotten out of travelling altogether if I really wanted, but I figure that if the company wants to fly me around the world on their dime, I should take advantage of it.”

“Agreed,” I say. I realize that I’ve long forgotten what he does for work, or who he even works for. But I opt to not ask for a refresher and cross my fingers that it’s not important.

“So I’ll be in Asia for a few weeks. Then Australia. Then the Middle East. Then…South Africa? I don’t even remember. Needless to say, I’ll be out of the country for a while.”

“Is that your hobby?” I ask.

“No, no,” he says, chuckling. “But that’s why I wanted to talk to you about my hobby.”

“Okay,” I say. “You’ve got my attention.”

“I got a pet,” he says. There’s a wry smirk on his face that I can’t quite decipher. Is he making a joke? Or is this a euphemism of some sort?

“A pet?” I ask. “What kind?”

I wonder if I might have figured out what was happening here. He has a pet, but he’s going away. Am I about to get a dog?

“Ah, maybe I should show you,” he says, pulling his phone from the inner-breast pocket of his jacket. “She’s really something else.”

I’m trying to imagine the kind of dog Peter would have while he scrolls through his phone. Something with majestic long fur, maybe.

“You’re, uh, still single, right?” he asks, not looking up from his phone.

That’s a strange question, but one that’s easy enough to answer. “Yeah. Still single.” It’s a little bit of a sore topic. I had been on a few dates in the last few months, but nothing that really panned out. So: single, but not for a lack of trying.

He hands me his phone. “Tell me what you think.”

I’m expecting a dog—maybe even a cat—so when I see the picture on his phone, and it’s not either, my brain needs a few extra moments to compute what I’m seeing.

It’s a woman. She is completely nude and kneeling on the ground while looking up at the camera. She has soft pink skin, short dark hair, and a smattering of dark little beauty marks on her face and shoulders. There’s a simple pink collar around her neck, with a little bell hanging from the front of it.

“Oh,” I say. It’s all I can say, really.

“Not impressed?” he asks.

My eyes are fixated on her breasts, small but perky. I almost feel ashamed at myself for lingering on them for so long and I look back up to her eyes. Except, her eyes seem to be staring out of the photo and into mine. I almost feel like we’re connecting, and I feel even more embarrassed than when I was staring at her breasts.

I realize that there are more photos of her in the album, and I slowly scroll through two or three more before stopping myself. I’m nervous about the physical ramifications of looking at her any more.

“Well…I wouldn’t say that. It’s more like: what am I looking at, exactly?”

“I call her ‘Muffin.’ It’s not her actual name, obviously, but I felt it was important to give her a, uh, sort of rebrand. Do you want to hear something funny?”

“I, uh… Sure.” I return his phone to him.

“I’m not even sure what her real name is anymore. Ashley? Sheila? Something like that. It came up, like, once in the year that she’s been staying with me.”

“She’s living with you?” I ask.

“She’s my pet,” he says again. “Of course she does.”

My fingers idly tap on the table’s surface as I contemplate the things he’s telling me. I think I get it. But I also think I don’t. I consider all of the questions that I have, trying to determine which is the most important.

“What does being your pet entail?” I finally ask.

“Whatever I want it to,” he says, smiling. “She’s more obedient than you could possibly imagine. I could tell her to hit herself in the noggin with a golf club and she’d probably do it.”

“I…hope that you don’t do that.”

He lets out a loud laugh. “Never. I take good care of her.”

“Is this, like, a sex thing?” I ask.

He nods. “I mean, it’s not entirely a sex thing. But, you saw her. She’s pretty cute, right?”

“Yeah.” ‘Cute’ is an understatement. She’s adorable. Radiating. That kind of pretty innocence that you’d be afraid to hug, for fear that you’d lose control of yourself and crush her in your embrace.

“We, uh, do a lot together,” he says.

I return to my earlier thought about whether or not he’d ask me to look after his dog. That can’t possibly be what he’s asking me for. “Is she going with you overseas?”

He draws in a sigh. “No.”

“Oh.”

“It would be a logistical nightmare,” he says. “Passports and travel accommodations for the two of us? Not to mention keeping up with her needs and-”

“Needs?”

“If I’m being honest,” he says, skipping over my query, “I think things have kind of run their course. I think she’s amazing. But, you know, I’ve got places to go. Things to do and accomplish. I’m happy that I had the opportunity to spend the time with her that I did, but I’m not sure it’s something I want to have as a, uh, permanent part of my life.”

I think I understand what he’s saying, though it answers very few of my questions. “I’m sorry, what does this have to do with me?”

He smiles, taking a long sip from his coupe glass. “Brett, how would you like to adopt a new pet?”

Warning

I’ve spent most of my last two days contemplating whether or not I wanted to humor Peter’s request that I go to his house and meet ‘Muffin.’ Just the act of going feels like a commitment, and the last thing I want to do is to give him the impression that I’m completely onboard with any of this. This world that Peter is living in is not the same as mine. For as much as I understand him as a person, this feels leaps and bounds beyond my comfort zone.

Yet I’m still pulling into the driveway of his house.

“Brett,” he says, meeting me in the driveway and taking my hand in his. “I’m really happy you made it out here. I was nervous you weren’t going to come.”

I laugh nervously. “Yeah, I was nervous about that too.”

His house is gorgeous, of course. A mansion; new construction. It almost feels like a waste for one man. It’d probably be a waste for a family of four. Again, I’m tempted to ask again what he does for work. Again, it doesn’t seem important. I do well enough for myself, but this is another level entirely. I’ve been here once or twice before, yet it never ceases to amaze me when I see it again.

I remember him telling me that he’s lived with Muffin for a year, and I realize that’s likely been at least that long since I’ve seen him—or his house—last.

“Are you excited to meet her?” he asks.

“Excited? Curious, for sure.”

“She’s excited to meet you.”

I smile and nod. I don’t entirely believe that, if only because I feel that I have so little context on how their relationship works that she still doesn’t seem real to me. She’s a construct. A concept.

He stops me before he opens the front door. “A word of, uh, warning,” he says. “Maybe not warning. More of a…heads up.”

“Okay?”

“You may see some things that seem strange to you, and I won’t blame you for feeling that way. But I give you my word—this is all done with her blessing. She wants these things as much as I do. Perhaps even more, in some cases.”

“O…Okay?”

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair while he chuckles softly. “I’ve just been trying to imagine what this will look like from your perspective. And I think it’s going to be weird. But I know you, Brett. And I wouldn’t be trusting you with any of this if I knew you couldn’t handle it.”

Even more questions developed. But just as he trusted me, I trusted him. “Alright. Let’s see how weird this gets.”

“Oh,” he says, laughing again. “You have no idea.”

Study

Spend any amount of time in the dating scene, and you learn to adapt to the difference between expectations and reality. The photo you see on a dating site profile is—in most cases—the best case scenario. The best lighting. The best angle. The best wardrobe. The best background. The best smile. Reality, with its unpredictable angles and lighting, shows people for who they really are. It’s rarely a bad thing. In fact, more often than not, I find it really comforting to see the true version of someone and not the expertly curated version of them they wanted me to see.

But Muffin, as she’s called, is as effortlessly adorable in life as she was in Peter’s photos. The glowing aura that she had in the pictures—the ones that I didn’t believe I’d see in reality—were there and even stronger in person. Too, she’s nearly as nude as she was in the photos. From her face, my eyes working their way down her body, I see the brown beauty marks. The pink collar with bell. Her perfect dollops of breasts. And, then, I reach her hips.

I had been vaguely aware of her wearing some sort of panties when I had walked through the door, but for the first time I’m really looking at them. And they are not panties. I do a double-take. A triple-take. I’m almost positive, as weird as it sounds, that she’s wearing a diaper.

Peter did warn me.

“While I’m sure you can guess who this is,” Peter says, “for the sake of politeness, this is Muffin. Muffin, this is my good friend Mr. Brett.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” I say.

I expect a timid wave or nod, but instead she springs forward, wrapping her arms around me so she can hug me tightly. I’m not typically the hugging type, but I can’t say no to this opportunity, and I wrap my arms around her to reciprocate. I think back to the fear I had during lunch of wanting to crush her cute little body, but I manage to fight that urge. For now.

Her skin is soft. Perfectly soft, really. As my hands touch her back, it feels impossible for her body to feel so smooth. I can think of no other word than ‘pure.’ She smells as soft as she feels. Baby powder—not completely unexpected given the diaper—with a hint of lavender.

“Muffin is very affectionate,” Peter says. “Aren’t you, dear?”

“Mmmhm,” Muffin hums.

“Be a good girl and fetch Mr. Brett and I some drinks?” To me, he asks: “Scotch?”

I nod. “That’s fine.”

“Two glasses of Scotch, then.”

“Yes Sir,” Muffin says, nodding enthusiastically before practically galloping from the foyer towards his kitchen.

“Come with me, Peter. Let’s go have a seat.”

I follow him to his study—the sort of room that you could only have in a house like this, where one would probably be looking for niche purposes for all the excess rooms. The room seems to be split between a wall of vinyl records and a wall of books, with a high-end stereo system at the far end. In the center of the room are two seats and a small table between them.

Peter pulls a record from the wall and drops it onto the turntable. With a few button presses and switches flipped, the warm sound of a piano fills the room. We take our seats.

“The Goldberg Variations,” he says. “Are you familiar?”

I shake my head. Classical is a bit out of my wheelhouse. My tastes, admittedly, are forever stuck in my college days of jam bands and acoustic guitars.

I’m tempted to wait on him to direct the conversation, but I decide to take the initiative myself. “So, does, er, Muffin know that you’re leaving the country?” It feels awkward to say her name. The cute faux-pet name likely serves a purpose, though that doesn’t help me much.

“She does,” he says with a nod. He uses a remote control to turn the volume of the system down a little.

“And how does she feel about it?”

“It’s a mixed bag for the both of us, really. Would we welcome more time together? For sure. But are we both ready to move towards new challenges and experiences? I think so.”

“And she’s okay with the idea of just being…handed off?”

“I certainly don’t see it that way,” he said. “Nor does she, I think. She wants to serve, Brett. She wants to continue living this life. If it’s not with me, it’d be with someone else. And all I did was say that I know someone who I could see being a good fit.”

“Me?”

“Is that so far-fetched, Brett? We’ve known each other for a long time now. Sure, we don’t see each other as often as we used to. But I’m willing to bet that I still know you better than anyone else. You’re smart. You’re focused. You could use a companion like Muffin.”

As if on cue, she enters the room—bell jingling—carrying two glasses of scotch, which she places on the table between us. Her aura of lavender and baby powder seem to follow her in the room, and it's a welcome presence.

I don’t reject anything that Peter has said. While I’ve never once considered a life of having a ‘pet,’ of sorts, the idea is titillating.

“May I ask some questions?” I ask.

“Of course,” he says.

“The, uh, diaper?”

“Ah, yes. Muffin? Be a good girl and let Mr. Brett get a good look at your diaper.”

“Yes Sir.”

She immediately drops to her knees before slowly spinning around so that she’s facing the stereo system with her back to us. She arches her body forward, so that she ends up on her hands and knees. Her ass sticks up in the air in front of me, covered by the thick white disposable diaper.

“Before I say anything else about it,” Peter says. “What do you think of it? Give me your first impressions.”

I laugh and take another good look at the diapered bottom looking back at me. I’m tempted to dwell on it for a moment so that I can formulate a polite reaction. Instead, I opt to speak from the heart.

“It’s weird,” I say. “But not in a bad way. It’s…mysterious. Obviously taboo, so I get the appeal. If I was to guess…it’s more about control and power than it is about regression? Humiliation?”

“Not bad,” Peter says. He leans forward and smacks her diaper. She lets out a little yelp—more so out of surprise than it is pain. “Muffin? Care to tell him about your diapers?”

“I, uhm, wear diapers because…it’s important to remember how dependent I am on Sir.”

Peter looks to me and smiles. “Dependent, you see? She needs someone to take care of her.”

“So,” I begin, feeling like I may already know the answer, “I take it that she…uses her diapers?”

Peter turns back to her. “Muffin?”

“Y-yes,” she says. I can’t see her face, but I can imagine her soft pink cheeks glowing a brighter red. “I’m not allowed to use the toilet.”

“At all?” I ask.

“No,” she says. “Not at all.”

“Does that answer your question?” Peter asks.

I nod. I might have guessed that, but hearing it confirmed makes it seem even more surreal than it did when I was just speculating.

“And you…change her diapers?” I ask Peter.

He nods. “It’s the only way she’s going to get cleaned.”

I mull that over for a moment, but I find it hard to swallow. I believe it. I just can’t imagine what that actually looks like. I decide that I’ll come back to that later.

“What about clothes?” I ask.

“She’s wearing her collar and diaper. What more does a pet need?”

“Fair enough.”

For a few minutes, nobody says anything. Peter and I sip at our scotch, while melodic piano music plays. We both stare down towards Muffin, watching her as she holds her position with her diapered bottom in the air. My mind is all over the place. One moment I consider the logistics of living with another adult who needs to have their diaper changed. In the next, I’m thinking about how cute it is that she is so reliant on Peter.

“Muffin?” I finally ask.

“Yes, Mr. Brett?”

“What do you want?”

“I-I’m sorry?”

“Are you happy with this? This…lifestyle?”

“Yes.”

I glance over to a smiling Peter. I want to trust that she means that, but I also fear that if she didn’t like it, she wouldn’t say so in front of him.

“Ideally,” I say, “what would you like to see happen after Peter moves overseas?”

“Really? Truly? I just want to be a pet. I want to serve. I want to please.”

“But what about you?” I ask. “Don’t you want to be pleased? Served?”

“Mr. Brett,” she says, “I promise you, here and now, that nothing has ever pleased me more than having been a good pet.”

I wasn’t completely believing these words, but I wanted to believe her very badly.

I continued staring ahead at her diaper. Another minute or two passed, with the thick whiteness burning its image in my mind. And then, it seemed to change color. I thought I was hallucinating, or that I had been staring for too long. I looked back to Peter again, who was also staring down at her, and then I looked back at her diaper again. It was, in fact, changing. A blossom of wetness was forming at the bottom of her diaper, spreading out in all directions.

“See?” Peter says. “Completely dependent.”

Changing

The room is designated as ‘Muffin’s Room,’ though he makes it clear that he doesn’t consider it to be her bedroom. “She sleeps with me,” he says. “Like a pet.”

Still, it makes sense to me that Muffin would be allotted a space of her own. I imagine that even for a pet, there’s still downtime. I try to imagine what her space might look like. Hell, I try to imagine what she’s like when not in pet-mode. Does she appreciate hot tea and books? Is she a rebellious punk chick? She’s either a complete mystery or a blank slate, and both seem fascinating.

‘Muffin’s Room’ disappoints my need for more information about her. Half the room seems to be unfinished—boxes and half-assembled pieces of furniture are leaned against the wall. And while I’m curious what the vision for a completed room looks like, it’s the finished half that captures my attention.

“This is, as they say, where the magic happens,” Peter says, patting the top of a large piece of furniture. It reminds me of an infant’s changing table, but on a large scale. I look back to Muffin again, standing between Peter and I in her damp diaper, and it’s completely obvious that it is a changing table.

The table is a rather impressive behemoth. Custom made, I reckon, given it’s scale and obvious craftsmanship. I can think of parents of actual infants who would kill for a changing table of this caliber. Behind it, along the wall, are shelves stocked with fresh diapers. For the first time, I’m considering the diapers themselves. I know little about them, but given their size, thickness, and the childish prints that some of the ones on the shelves have, I have to assume that these are specialty items. Probably not custom, but that would suggest that there’s a bigger market for diapers like this than I’d have thought.

“Is this room to be a…nursery?” I ask.

“She’s not a baby,” Peter corrects. “She’s a pet. I had been thinking that this room would eventually be her, uh, kennel. But…I’m not sure I’ll get to see the project through at this point.”

Without any further prompting, Muffin crawls atop the changing table. She has clearly done this many, many, times before.

“I suppose she is a bit like a baby,” Peter says with a laugh. “I just tend to think of her as an especially spoiled pet.”

“I thought pets went outside to use the bathroom,” I say, laughing to myself. “Or at least, you know, they use a litter box or something.”

Muffin and Peter exchange a curious look, and for a moment, I’m afraid that I’ve suggested something they now want to try. But no—it’s not that—I realize that they have tried it already.

“It was fun,” Peter says. “But diapers contain her accidents a little better. Less threat of, uh, wandering eyes from our neighbors too.”

I kind of want to know more, but I find the mystery of it all exciting.

“Have you ever changed a diaper before?” Peter asks.

“I can’t say I have.”

“It was new to me, too. But it’s one of those things you figure out rather quickly. Now? I’m a diaper-changing expert. I could do it with my eyes closed.”

That doesn’t seem like a great idea to me, especially considering the revelation that Muffin isn’t using a toilet for anything. But he’s the expert, not me.

He peels back the sticky tapes on either side of the diaper before opening it up. I’m easily more embarrassed about her exposure than she is. When her cheeks finally turn a faint pink, I suspect it’s only because mine must be an even deeper shade of red. Still, I keep as stoic a stance as I can muster as I watch Peter run damp wipes between her legs, pressing into her tender pink flesh as she moans softly.

“It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve done this,” he says. “She still loves getting her diaper changed.” To her: “Don’t you, Muffin?”

She offers a sing-song “Uh-huh.”

“What you ought to do,” he says to me, “is take her home for a test drive.”

I laugh a little as my imagination conjures a pretty literal interpretation of that suggestion.

Still: “I’m not sure exactly what you mean by that,” I say.

“Take her home for a night or two. A weekend. A week. Get a real feel for her.”

I don’t dislike his idea, but I’m quite sure that I’ve yet said anything that implied I was willing to—for lack of a better word—adopt. I open my mouth to respond, and my gut reaction is to decline his offer. But I look down at her as I ready my words and her soft smiling face is looking back up at me from her changing table.

“If someone offered me a kitten, or a puppy, I’d probably stress about adapting to that change in my lifestyle,” I say, sticking with his own metaphor. “I’d need to get supplies, you know? Make a place for it to sleep. Get food. Make sure I was home more often to feed it and care for it and… Well. We’re not talking about a literal kitten or puppy.”

He nods sympathetically as he bundles up the wet diaper and deposits it into the trash can-like pail with the logo on it that reads Diaper Wizard. He readies the next diaper—this one has  multicolored animal paw prints on it. “I understand where you’re coming from. I don’t want it to sound like I’m pressuring you, because I’m not. But the opportunity is here. If you want it. And all I’m asking is that you consider it.”

The new diaper is slipped under her, and following a thorough dusting of baby powder, he fastens it around her midsection. He makes it look easy, and I try to imagine myself going through the same motions.

I can definitely imagine it.

Sunset

“Honestly. Tell me what you’re thinking,” he says to me.

The sun is setting and we’re on his deck kicking back the latest round of beers. Not long before, we ate some grilled chicken that he prepared. He and I ate from a plate on the deck’s table, while Muffin ate her pre-diced food from a dog bowl on the ground. I could barely concentrate on my own dinner, watching the mostly-nude woman cheerfully bite down at her food while her diapered ass once more stuck up in the air—seeming to bobble back and forth as if it was her tail.

“I’m struggling,” I confess.

“How so?”

“This all feels exciting and fantastical in a way that I’m kind of jealous of. I mean…look at her. She’s adorable. And it’s like this weird sex game that you get to live 24/7.”

“But?”

“But…well, I just keep thinking about her autonomy. Does she truly want this? Can someone truly keep another as a pet?”

I brace myself for a long diatribe on why he disagrees, but instead he just nods. “I get that.”

“Yeah?”

“My neighbors over there,” he says, pointing to the next massive house down the road, “they saw her running around my backyard in just a diaper once. They—this couple who is probably only a little older than us— had some rather rude things to say about it. They threatened to call the police.”

“Just because she was nude?”

He shrugged. “I guess. Or they thought I was keeping some sort of—I dunno—sex slave or something.”

“So how do you handle something like that?” I ask.

“I let them get it all out of their system. I let them yell and complain to me and I took it all in stride. And then, later, I invited him—just him—back over for some drinks in the study. You know, a sort of ‘no hard feelings’ kind of play. And, while he was over, and while Muffin served us drinks and cigars, she was a very good girl and offered to suck his cock for him. He accepted that offer, and he left quite satisfied. Wouldn’t you say, Muffin?”

“Uh-huh,” she coos. “Yes Sir.” She’s on her knees between us, like a loyal dog.

“I guess my point is,” he continues, “that I never asked her to do that; that was her idea. I didn’t introduce diapers to our little world—that was her idea. Likewise, she wanted to wear a collar. She wanted to be my pet. She wanted to take most of her clothing and put it in a trash can. These ideas were either hers, or they came as a result of discussing and negotiating. Is that right, Muffin?”

“Yes Sir,” she says.

“I’m very lucky,” he says to me. “Living the dream, you might say. And now I want to share that dream with you. And the best part? You can make your own dream. Anything you want, you just have to ask her.”

“Mmm hmm,” she hums.

“This is what she wants,” Peter says. “She’ll tell you that herself. And they’ll be her words, not mine.”

I turn to Muffin. “What do you want?” It’s not the first time I’ve asked her this question, but my motives for asking it have changed.

She smiles and giggles as she looks up at me. “I want to serve, of course.”

I believe her. Maybe because I want to believe her, but there truly is something about her that makes me feel it's the truth.

“May I serve you?” she asks.

I’m unsure how to answer this. I’m not even sure the context in which she’s asking this. “I, uh, I mean…if you want to?”

She nods. “I do.”

Her hands reach up and start working on opening my pants. My immediate reaction is to stop her, but I clench my fists tightly so that I don’t.

“She’s a good girl,” Peter says. “Why don’t I give you two a minute.”

He slowly walks off the deck and back into the house, and it’s just her and I in the dimming light of the sunset. She opens my pants and pulls my cock out. Just being in her presence had kept me in a perpetual state of near-arousal, and the moment her hands touched me, I had completely sprung to life.She guided my shaft with both of her hands towards her mouth.

“You don’t have to-”

“Please,” she says. “I want to.”

I needed to hear that.

Her lips wrap around my cock, and she proceeds to slowly, tenderly, ease her mouth up and down it. While it’s not the first time I’ve had a mouth on me like this, I can’t think of a time it was ever better than this. She not only knows what she’s doing, but she seems to savor every moment of it, like I was a bowl of rich ice cream. And when I finish—it doesn’t take long to get there—she makes every single drop disappear down her throat.

“Damn,” I say, laughing as I try to compose myself.

“Did I do good, sir?” she asks, looking up at me while licking her lips clean. Her rye smile suggests that she is already well aware of the answer.

“Incredible,” I reply.

“I can do a lot more than that,” she says.

“You don’t have to sell yourself to me.”

“No?”

“I’m already interested in taking you home.”

Highway

“Are you cold?” I ask.

She shakes her head. As it turns out, she does own pants, a shirt, jacket, and shoes. She’s in the passenger seat as I drive down the highway. Behind us, in the backseat, is one large suitcase containing everything she might need for a weekend. Mostly diapers and diaper-related supplies. She’s been especially quiet since we started driving, but so have I. I can’t tell if the atmosphere is actually awkward, or if she’s just waiting on me to stir up a conversation.

“You’re very pretty,” I say.

“Thank you,” she responds. I don’t look at her face, but I can practically hear her blushing in her tone.

“Sorry, I don’t mean to be weird. You’re just this…incredible looking young woman. And you seem so content in your, uh, role. I just find it hard to wrap my head around.”

“I’m living my best life,” she says. “I think that’s always a hard thing to see and accept, because it’s rare that anybody actually gets to experience that.”

I have to laugh at her profound truth. “Cute, dependent, and wise. I see why Peter likes you so much.”

“I’m fun to keep around,” she says. “You’ll see.”

“Peter claims that he doesn’t remember your real name,” I say.

She scoffs. “He doesn’t know my real name.”

I laugh, amused at this turn of events. Peter had been so cocky when he revealed this little fact to me, yet as it turned out, it was Muffin who held the power there from the very beginning.

Nothing has assured me of her autonomy more than this. I was starting to see the bigger picture. Muffin was getting what she wanted, and she was getting it on her terms.

“What about a permanent address?” I ask. “Taxes. Income. Credit. You’re living with Peter for a year, right? How does that work if you’re just…’Muffin?’”

She laughs. “Come on, Mr. Brett. Do you actually care about that? Can’t you just enjoy my company and let me worry about those things?”

If there’s any difference between Peter and I, I wonder if this is it—he can let those details slip through the cracks, perhaps even willfully, while I find myself stuck on them. But if she’s not concerned about these details, maybe I shouldn’t be either.

I have a near-infinite number of questions, and with the drive ahead of us, it seems like the time to get them all out there. Instead I take a deep breath. I’m probably not ever going to enjoy Muffin if I keep harping on things that she clearly already has figured out for herself.

I take a minute to reset myself so that I can start over again.

“How is your diaper?” I ask. “Are you wet?”

“Mm-mm-mmm,” she hums to the tune of ‘I don’t know.’

I fight my basic instincts of politeness and restraint, instead thinking: What would Peter do? I take a hand off the steering wheel and place it on her lap. And as I stare ahead through the windshield, I let my hand creep up her legs to the top of the black yoga pants she had slipped on over the diaper before we left Peter’s. I’m still waiting for her to stop me, or to at least offer some tiny bit of resistance. There is none.

My fingers reach the waistband of her pants, and my fingers slide into them. She not only allows this, but she shifts her body slightly so that I have even easier access. She wants me to explore; she’s practically begging me to.

I open my mouth again to say something, but I don’t. The mistake I continue to make is treating her like a new friend. She doesn’t want to be my friend, she wants to be my pet.

My hand is on her diaper now, and I give it a firm squeeze. The plastic garment crinkles between my fingers as she releases a little moan. It’s an adorable sound, and one that I’d do anything to hear again. I squeeze the diaper again. She makes the sound again. I suspect she knows that’s what I want to hear, because with every subsequent flex of my fingers on her diaper—and there are many—her moans become more dramatic. An affectation, likely, but I’m not complaining. Each moan gets deeper. Breathier. More guttural.

“You seem quite wet,” I say.

“Can you tell?” she responds.

My hand slides deeper between her legs, and when I squeeze the diaper again, I find that it does, in fact, feel different. Thicker—or maybe just denser. There’s some crinkling, but the sound seems off. I feel like I have my answer.

“Definitely wet,” I say.

“I usually am, Sir.”

“Wet yourself often?”

She nods. “Yes, sir.”

“Do you have control over that?”

She giggles a little. “Do you want the truth, or do you want the sexier answer?”

It’s already a safe bet that those two answers aren’t the same. “Fuck it, give me the truth and I’ll decide if I want to believe it or not.”

“I haven’t used a toilet in a year,” she says. “But I feel pretty confident that I could put some panties on tomorrow and not have an accident.”

“I suppose a lifetime of potty training does that.”

“I don’t think about it that much,” she says. “Like, I often just go as soon as I have to. There’s really no reason to hold it. So I guess, in that regard, I’ve trained myself to just not hold it. But if I had to? I probably could.”

I pat her diaper, a satisfying wet slapping sound emitting from under my hand. “Well I see no reason for you to have to hold it, so I’d say that’s good.”

“It’s not that different for, uhm, my bowels,” she says as she quickly glances out her door’s window so that she doesn’t have to look me in the eyes.

“No?”

“The control is there. I just don’t really have a reason to hold it. So I just…”

“Go.”

“Yes, Sir. But…”

“But?”

“If I’m being honest, I’m holding it now.”

There’s a split second where I wonder how I feel about that. But a smile develops on my face, and I realize that I feel just fine about it. Curious, if anything.

“And why would you hold it?”

“Otherwise, I would’ve gone 20 minutes ago. When we first got in your car. And, uhm, we would’ve had to make the trip back to your place in your car while my diaper…smelled…” she can barely finish her sentence, burying her face in her hands.

“You’ve been crawling around Peter’s house in a diaper for a year now, and you’re going to be embarrassed just talking about it in the car with me?” I ask, laughing.

“You’re new,” she says. “I…I’ll warm up to you quickly, I promise.”

I don’t respond immediately, and we continue down the highway for another mile in silence. My hand remains on her diaper, clutching the wet padding between her legs.

“You shouldn’t have to hold it,” I finally say.

“But…”

“This is the, uh, test drive, right? As Peter said. Am I really getting the experience of having a pet if you’re holding back on me?”

From the corner of my eye, I can see her cracking a little smile. “So…you think I should…use my diaper right now? While you drive?”

“I do,” I say. “Don’t you want to?”

“Yes, Sir.” Her mouth hangs open for a moment, as if there is more she wants to say, but can’t bring herself to say it.

“Hm?”

“Sir, I…really want to mess my diaper for you right now.”

For me? It’s as flattering as it is strange. Nobody has ever had a bodily function for me before, as best as I can recall. I should find it gross, or at least alien. Instead, I find it hot.

“Then I think you should.”

“But…”

“Look, I know how pooping works,” I say. “You’re going to smell like a little girl who just used her diaper. Unless cotton candy comes out of your bottom, you’re not going to surprise me. It’s okay.”

She laughs. “It might be cotton candy.”

“There’s only one way to find out.”

That’s the end of the conversation. I can feel her body tense a little as she pushes on her bowels. From my vantage point, it doesn’t seem to take much effort. My imagination wanders a little, and I wonder if I’d be able to just go on demand like that. I suspect not.

But she—she has no problem at all. There’s the slightest groan from lips as she lifts her bottom up from the passenger seat. I hadn’t thought about the logistics of filling one’s diaper in a car before—why would I—but I can suddenly see a few steps into the future. What goes up, must come down. How humiliating for her.

By sound alone, I can tell it's happening. The muffled sound of her little farts herald the arrival of her mess, and the diaper’s plastic ruffles and crinkles as it shifts to accommodate it. My hand remains on her diaper, between her legs. I can’t feel her diaper expanding from my position, but just knowing that it's happening while my hand sits on her is plenty exciting.

She finishes, and without any pause or hesitation, she sits back down completely. I take my eyes off the road just for a moment to watch her expression change as her diaper is pressed between the seat and her body. I’m happy to catch that single moment—this shameful, but excited, expression.

It smells exactly as I expected it would. There’s no masking that, or pretending it’s something else. The near-offensive stench of her diaper quickly consumes my car, and I can already predict that it will probably linger for days after. I could roll down the windows, but I don’t. I’m not actually offended, nor am I grossed out.

Now, I ease my hand into the front of her diaper, finding it to be quite wet. As to be expected from a diaper-wearing pet, no doubt, but when my fingers reach her pussy, I note that the wetness seems distinct. Different.

“Oh…” she murmurs, all but confirming that she’s as worked up as I am.

My fingertips slide into her, yielding another moan from her. But almost immediately after, she pulls my hand from her diaper. I’m about to ask the reason, but…

“You first, Sir.”

As I drive, her hands carefully open the front of my pants so that she can pull my firm cock out from the front of my pants. I’m tempted to remind her that she had already, once, drunk from my cock and sucked me dry while we were on Peter’s deck, but I bite my tongue. She can do this as many times as she’d like in one day.

There’s about 7 miles to go before we’re at my house, but I don’t mind taking a slightly longer route through town. With her head fitting into my lap, and her stinking diaper in the seat next to mine, I wouldn’t mind this taking all night.

Home

“I’m not…Peter,” I say when we pull into my driveway. I mean to say: ‘I’m not wealthy.’ I’m not embarrassed of the life I’ve made for myself, though I worry that Muffin has grown accustomed to a lifestyle that’s slightly outside of my budget.

“You don’t have to be,” she says. “I don’t need much. Diapers. Your bed.”

I open the door and usher her in. She spins herself around, quickly scanning the room. But when she’s done, and facing me again, it seems like she doesn’t care about any of it. She’s looking at me. Because she needs me.

“Sir?”

“Yes?”

“I…I think I need to be changed, Sir.”

One car ride ago, I was questioning everything. I was on the fence, and I was afraid that I’d be unable to actually enjoy this experience. Yet, this desire feels rather intuitive. The more I see, the more I want. Whether I know what I’m doing or not, I feel like I want to experience it all.

“Do you?” I smirk. “Why is that?”

“Y-you know…”

“Remind me?”

“I, uhm, messed my diaper, Sir.”

“Can I be honest with you?” I ask.

She nods.

“I’m not especially fond of ‘Sir.’ It feels too formal.”

“What then?” she asks. “Mr. Brett?”

“Even worse. I don’t know what the answer is yet. Maybe I’ll know it when I hear it.”

She nods again.

“My first diaper change, and it’s going to be a doozy, hm?”

“Sorry…”

“You can’t help it,” I say. “You’re just a…” I recall my conversation with Peter earlier, while we were in Muffin’s room. Despite the diapers and the changing table, Peter had insisted she was just a pet. But it had been obvious to me that there was a much better word. “...baby. You’re just a baby.”

Her cheeks immediately glow bright red. I can tell that it resonates with her—she likes having been called that.

I expand on that thought: “In Peter’s house, you were his pet. Here? You’re my baby.”

“Yes,” she says, eagerly nodding. She likes that. She needed to hear that. “Yes…Daddy.”

My heart practically stops in my chest. I hadn’t considered that, yet it’s so perfect. So obvious.

I reach out towards her, and she instinctively puts her hand in mine. I walk, leading her towards the master bedroom, towing her suitcase of diapers behind it. I’m going to need to change her diaper, though I already know that there’s no way I’m going to be able to put a new diaper on her before I fuck her silly little brains out on my bed.

If I was to guess, I’d say that it was likely I’d end up adopting.