For the Sake of Art [Tier 3 Exclusive] (Patreon)

“...sounds good! Okay, I’ll see you later!”

With a friendly wave to whomever she was talking to out in the hallway, she entered the art studio, closing the door behind her. It felt good to have a barrier between her and the rest of the world–however small.

“Oh?” asked a voice somewhere behind her in the studio. “An unexpected visitor?”

She blushed a little, quietly cursing to herself. She recognized that voice, and it flustered her for two–possibly conflicting–reasons. First, she had wanted the room for herself. It was why she traversed all the way across campus instead of staying in her dorm room. Not even the library felt isolating enough.

Second, the voice belonged to Professor Madden. With his young face, kind eyes and bohemian aesthetic, he often seemed much more like a peer than he did a professor on campus. And if there was ever anyone that she would’ve fantasized about being trapped in an art studio with…

“Professor Madden, I’m so sorry,” she said, spinning around to face him. “I had no idea you were in here. I-I can just go to…”

“Nonsense, Darcy” he said, shrugging.  “I suspect you chose this studio for the same reason I did, yes? It’s a great place for getting away from everyone else.”

She bashfully nodded.

“But did you know that, technically, the studio spaces are supposed to be closed at 7 PM?” he asked, looking at his watch. “It’s 7:05 PM right now.”

“I’ll just, uh, go,” she said, beginning to twist the doorknob. “Sorry to have bothered you.”

“You don’t have to leave,” he said. “In fact, lock the door.”

Images from her naughtiest daydreams flashed before her eyes. “L-lock? Are you sure?”

“I’m just in here working on a little project of mine,” he said. “And I’m sure you wanted to use this space to get away from everything else too. I see no reason we can’t share it. If you lock the door, we can be sure that nobody else will be bothering us.”

Her thought bubble, portraying indecent arrangements of the two of them in the studio, popped. What he was saying made complete sense–far more sense than nefarious deeds. She locked the door.

“I’ll stay out of your way,” she said. “Promise.”

“You couldn’t be a burden if you tried,” he said. “What are you working on today?”

“Just some sketches,” she said. “Actually…it’s for your class. Painting in series.”

“Ah yes,” he said, smiling while nodding. “Have you decided the theme for your series?”

Truth was, she hadn’t. That was actually her starting point for this evening’s escape from reality. But in that moment, after he had asked her, she realized that she had a pretty good topic.

“Daydreams,” she said.

“Interesting. Tell me more.”

“Well, uh…” She hoped that she could think quick enough to not have it sound like she didn’t just come up with this idea five seconds ago. “It’d be an exploration of…hidden desires. And fears. Thoughts that are just below the surface that we might not even be conscious of. But then, in a daydream, they materialize before us and we learn something about ourselves.”

“That’s fascinating,” he said. “I almost wish I hadn’t asked. I’m worried that my excitement for your work on this project is going to make me biased in some way.”

She, too, had wished she hadn’t said as much. She wondered if it would be better to just change the subject.

“And how about you, Professor Madden? What are you working on?”

He laughed, shaking his head. “You aren’t actually required to call me Professor, you know? This isn’t Hogwarts.”

“Doctor? Mister?”

“It’s after-hours and we’re just two artists sharing a space,” he said. “You can just call me Eric.”

“Yes, okay. Eric.”

He smiled. “So, I’ve had an idea for a painting in my head now for some time. One of those things that I can see quite vividly when I close my eyes, but I have yet to successfully capture on canvas. And I’ve tried.”

She actually felt inspired, hearing Eric’s plight. It was an incredibly relatable scenario, and one she found herself in often. It humanized her professor, while instilling a little more confidence in her about her own work.

“May I ask what it’d be a painting of?”

“It’s to represent juxtaposition,” he said, running a hand through his shaggy dark-brown hair. “Adults are only adults by choice. We’ve been told otherwise, of course. Years and years of systematic gaslighting have us believing that this is the natural order of things. A child grows and therefore must mature. But, I’m supposing that adulthood–as we know it–is only the destination after a lifetime of forced maturation.”

She had yet to see how this was being translated into art, but his words claimed her interest.

“Adulthood is actually a battle,” he continued. “We must constantly put effort into portraying ourselves as the adult that everyone else believes we are to be. No part of this comes naturally. We force ourselves to dress to fit the mold. Cut our hair in a certain way. Drink wine and eat meals that come with an arsenal of various sized forks. We willingly sacrifice our time so that we can be given money–that we then take and invest in the other niches that adults are supposed to care about.”

“And what is the alternative?” she asked, genuinely curious now about wherever he was going with this.

“My thought–my thesis for this piece–is that if we were to simply surrender and give up the fight against adulthood, we’d be right back where we started. Happier and more pure.”

“So, you mean acting more…child-like?”

“Precisely,” he said. “And that would be my painting. A world of commotion, stress, and expectation. But our focal point is the woman who has abandoned that world. She’s not wearing a dress or a uniform. She’s not even nude–as other adults would, no doubt, like to see her. Instead, she’s looking more infantilized. A bonnet. A dummy in her mouth. She’s wearing a diaper. She has so little interest in the forced concept of adulthood that she’s even eschewed the idea of using a toilet.”

It was, admittedly, a strange idea. And with more time to think on it, Darcy wondered if she’d be able to poke some holes in his idea. Like, perhaps, how our conception of infancy just as manufactured as adulthood. But she also really liked his concept. The rawness of just embracing infancy when the expectation was for you to grow up.

“I like it,” she said, hoping she sounded genuine enough.

“Thank you,” he said, nodding. “Like I said, I have yet to bring this idea to life–as hard as I try.”

“Well,” she responded, shrugging, “I think someone with your talent and intelligence will figure it out soon enough. Some ideas just need to marinate a little bit.”

“That’s very wise of you to say,” he said, laughing.

“I think you actually said that to me once.”

“No wonder it sounds so wise.”

“What do you think is the hardest part of realizing your vision?” she asked, taking a seat at another chair pulled up to the table he was working from. She was loving this moment–a candid conversation with someone she had looked up to. As if they were equals.

“It’s the rendering of the infantilized woman herself that I struggle with,” he said. “I can just paint a woman from memory. I could use a model. I’ve tried both. But it has yet to feel right. And I think I’ve figured out what the problem is.”

“Oh?”

“The look of this character needs to feel completely and totally authentic. You need to be able to look at her and instantly understand the rebellion she is waging against adulthood. And, try as I might, it’s been hard to capture that expression. That body language. Even with the models I’ve used…I just don’t think they get it.”

She didn’t realize it immediately, but her foot was nervously tapping on the floor. Something was churning in her mind, but she hadn’t quite assigned words to it yet.

“I get it,” she said, thinking aloud.

He raised his eyebrows. “Do you?”

“I think so. It’s kind of…overwhelming to think about. I think you’re right–even considering taking on a more juvenile attitude feels like it’s wrong.”

“Right,” he says, nodding. “A betrayal of everything that’s ever been asked of you.”

“But I’d do it,” she blurted out. Her heart was pounding–she almost couldn’t believe she had said it.

“You’d do…what, exactly?”

“I’d…be your model,” she said. “I think I could do it. Like, get into that headspace?”

He leaned forward in his chair, bringing himself a little closer to where she sat. The grin that had been on his face seemed to have grown exponentially.

“And tell me,” he said, “how do you know that to be true?”

“Because I believe in your thesis. I believe in you as an artist. I want your vision to become a reality. And, because…”

“Yes?”

“I think I can see myself embracing the role you want to capture.”

His confident nod seemed to punctuate that thought. He, too, believed that she could. “You’ll model for me?”

“No.”

“No?”

“I…I don’t want to be a model,” she said. “I wouldn’t want to be a…facsimile of an idea. I want to fully embrace it, and have you capture that.”

He laughed, shaking his head in disbelief. “These are some lofty expectations you’re setting for me, Darcy. I really want to believe you, but…”

She didn’t think, she just did–shoving her thumb into her mouth to begin suckling on it. She hadn’t done anything like that in a very long time–her mother had rid her of that habit when she was still a toddler. But the motions felt so natural to her now, and a rush of comfortable dopamine channeled through her.

He seemed convinced.

“Now?” he asked. “Can we capture this moment now?”

She nodded.

“I have…things.”

She pulled the thumb from her mouth. “What sorts of things?”

“Items,” he said, shrugging. “Garments. Toys. When I’ve worked with a model, I call them accessories. And when I’m left to my own devices, I consider them to be inspiration.”

“You have those things with you?”

“Not all of them,” he said. “Some.”

“May I see?”

“Of course.”

He reached down beside the drafting table to pull his leather shoulder bag up to the surface. Her eyes lit up upon seeing the bag. Between the worn leather and the soft patina on the brass buckles, she got the sense that this bag had been around for a while. It had been places. And when in the possession of a man like Eric, it had probably carried some interesting things over the years. She wanted to grab the bag for herself and take her time delving into it. It’d be as if she was taking a dive into his brain, she thought.

Instead, he opened the bag just a small amount, enough that he could reach in with his hand and grab only the objects he intended to show her.

The first was a pacifier–a ‘dummy’ as he had referred to it earlier. It was a royal blue with a bright orange handle on the back of it. The bold colors, even if not her favorite, were obviously playful and childlike. Next was a plastic rattle. Its faded pink color suggested it had been around for a long time.

She wondered if babies had ever actually enjoyed shaking around a stick that made noise.

“Hrm,” he groaned to himself. “I thought I had more with me. Maybe it’s back in my office.”

She had been tempted to ask if this was all he had. Just a pacifier and a baby rattle?

But he did have one more thing to pull out of his bag. This time, she couldn’t help herself and her hands sprung forward to grab the thick folded object. She held it in her hands, astounded by how large it was.

“This is an…adult diaper?” she asked.

He nodded.

“But…it’s so big. Do people really wear these?”

“These ones, in particular? Probably not the people you’d expect,” he said. “Not the poor folks who need diapers.”

“The fetish crowd, then?” she asked, having the mildest amount of awareness for the subculture devoted to crawling around and pissing their diapers for sexual pleasure.

“Indeed.”

“Are you one of them?” she asked. “A diaper fetishist?”

“I’m an artist,” he said, chuckling a little to himself–like he was making reference to an inside joke. “I’m lucky that such objects exist because of the kink community. But what I’m creating here transcends content for someone to rub themselves to.”

She chose to believe him, even if it was hard to believe that there wasn’t some aspect of a model posing before him in a diaper that didn’t press a button or two.

Or, maybe, she was just projecting a little.

“How would you have me pose?” she asked. “Without clothes? Save for the diaper, of course.”

She had done a little nude modeling this semester. Having spent most of her high school years in frumpy clothing and mousey glasses, she had been enjoying a personal renaissance since coming to college. She had done so well with finally embracing herself that she decided to start putting herself out there for others, too. The reaction from the other artists seemed to have been quite favorable.

“In a perfect world, I’d have more things with me,” he said. “I have some other accessories and toys. But…perhaps we start nice and simple.” He pointed to the diaper in her hands. “Take off your clothes and put that on.”

There was no ‘please,’ or even the tonal implication of it being a gentle request. This was a command. She bit her bottom lip as she nodded. They could both call it art all they wanted, but something about this situation was making her pussy damp.

There was an awkward pause. This might have been the moment, were the situation a little different, where he’d excuse himself from the room. Or, at the very least, look away while she went to undress. Instead, he remained stationed in his chair, eyes set on Darcy as she stood up. It quickly became clear that if she wanted privacy, she’d have to create her own.

But, no. He’d see all of her soon enough anyway, so there seemed to be little point in acting modest now. She started by kicking her shoes off.

“You sounded confident,” he said. “Like you believe you can become the infantilized version of a woman I require for my piece.”

She laughed to herself–hearing the words aloud did make her second-guess herself a little. Could she actually pull this off?

“I’ll be your baby,” she cooed back, shrugging off the doubt.

“I’ll help you,” he said, finally standing up.

She thought to tell him that she was more than capable of handling this on her own. But, for one, she’d much rather have his help. And, too, wasn’t this exactly what a baby would require?

It was surprisingly easy to slip into this new role, one that she was making up as she went: “Change me?”

He said nothing, though the smile on his face suggested that he was quite happy with how things were progressing so far. He pulled her top up and over her head and arms, before unzipping the back of her skirt to let it drop to the ground. Next came her bra, a dainty little lace number that had the extraordinarily easy job of managing her b-cups. Last, but not least, were her lavender panties.

“What is this?” he asked, gently touching the visibly wet fabric between her legs.

“See?” she said, softly. “I need a diaper.”

“Did you wet yourself?”

“In a way.”

“Hm.” It was hard to find a direct translation of that sound, but it sounded much more positive than it did negative.

He pulled on the waistband of her panties, tugging them down her sleek and slender legs until they could simply drop to her feet, joining the pile already started by her skirt.

“I’ll help you with the diaper,” he said, taking it from her hand.

“You have to,” she retorted. “I need you to.”

In a clearing in the studio–a space usually reserved for either models or arrangements of still life–she lowered herself to the ground, laying on her back.

Eric, diaper still in hand, took a moment to admire her in this position instead of rushing over. On her back, her legs slightly lifted off the ground so she could kick them about, she was already demonstrating a natural proclivity for the infantile. Even when being compensated, he couldn’t get a model to act like that.

“Daddy,” she cooed from the floor. “Come here.”

He laughed, running his hand through his hair again. Was she too good at this? He lingered for another moment, his eyes fixated on her glistening pussy–already hairless. He wondered how long she had kept it that way, and why. It seemed incredibly serendipitous for his needs tonight.

“Coming, my dear.”

“Is that okay?” she asked. “That I called you ‘Daddy?’”

“Well, you’re going to make it very hard for me to actually get any work done…”

“But you like it?”

“Any man who tells you they don’t want to be called ‘Daddy’ is lying to you. Unless, I suppose, they’re looking for a Daddy themselves.”

“So…”

“Yes,” he said. “I like it very much.”

“Well, I’m a baby now,” she said, giggling to herself. “Or something like that. I probably shouldn’t talk so much.”

“You do whatever you want to,” he said, kneeling down on the wooden floor next to her. “Do whatever feels right.”

She had hoped for a little more direction from him. This was, afterall, his project, and she was concerned that if she went at her role a little too hard, it’d detract from his vision.

Still, it’d be on him to say whether or not she was overstepping. And until he did so, she could only assume that she was acting exactly as she wanted to. So, for now, she’d try and enjoy the freedom she had been granted.

“It’s my first time doing this part,” he said. “I’ve never had a problem getting a model into a diaper. When it comes to making art, I find that people seem tolerant of just about anything. I hand them a diaper and ask them to put it on. They shrug and do it. And maybe that’s part of the problem, you know? They see themselves as tools, and so there’s no real commitment.”

Darcy was listening. Sort of. She loosely followed along as his words fluttered past in the background. But most of her focus was being quickly allocated to just being in this moment. Lying on the ground. The strong confident man–Daddy–putting a diaper on her. Her thumb found itself in her mouth again, and she suckled it like it was her most favorite thing to do.

Fuck art. Whatever this headspace was that she was slowly slipping into, it was working for her.

“You’re doing excellently,” he said.

Her only response was a muffled giggle from behind her thumb.

He was thinking it too: Fuck art. It almost felt like a crime to have to cover up those delectable lips between her legs. He did, of course, taping the diaper closed around her. But the thought of trying to make a painting out of what was happening before him seemed…redundant. She, herself, was the art right now.

She slowly wriggled and twisted her body about on the floor, her new diaper crinkling and rustling as she did. She was reminded of the handful of times she had been in the presence of a baby in her life. There was a smooth, yet unpredictable, way in which they moved around–as if every little movement was the first time they had discovered such a thing was possible.

It was getting easy to just turn off parts of her brain. No need to overthink things, or try to decipher what they mean. She was living in the moment, and she couldn’t even remember the last time she’d been able to do that.

“Do I…pose?” she asked, pulling the thumb from her mouth for just a moment. The words seemed hard for her to say. Not those words, specifically. Any words at all.

That had been the plan, though he now wondered if she’d be able to even hold a pose for an extended period of time if he asked.

“No, darling,” he said instead. “You do whatever you want. I’m going to be over here at my table, okay?”

“Mm,” she murmured, seeming indifferent.

Back at the drawing table, a pencil was in his hand and he was scribbling into a sketch book before he even realized it was happening. His muse was perfect–a font of creativity. Yes. This was what he had been looking for. This was what he had been trying to capture.

“Crawl?” she asked, seemingly unable–or at least uninterested–in putting together full sentences.

“Do as you please,” he said. “Don’t worry about me or what you think I want. Do what you want.”

“Mm.”

There was another little grunt as she attempted to roll her body over. Such a simple thing–and probably something that Darcy, the college student, did everyday. But Darcy, the baby, struggled.

He opened his mouth, thinking he’d provide some Daddy-brand encouragement. But he just watched her as she playfully flopped her whole body over with a giggly “Hmph!” and thought better of it. Maybe, for the time being, he’d be a little more journalistic in his approach: look, but don’t interact.

She was mobile, crawling on her hands and knees. She knew, vaguely, the area she needed to stay in for Eric’s sake. Not that she wanted to go far anyway.

She had never really considered herself to be all that deviant of a person before. She had her thoughts from time to time, but didn’t everyone?

But this diaper…

The diaper was something else. As best as she could recall, she had never worn something that was simultaneously so exposing while being so cumbersome. It was turning on parts of her brain that felt entirely new to her, while turning off the other parts that would normally try and stop such behavior. She knew, with little doubt, that she could be an excellent baby.

He was somewhere, watching her. It didn’t really matter where he was, or what he was doing. She was entertaining herself just fine.

FLOMP

She fell backwards onto her bottom, the diaper acting as both a cushion and a loud alarm for what she had done. Another giggle. Goddamn. She just could not get enough of this diaper. Both of her hands dipped down between her legs to fondle the bulky padding.

Eric laughed, his pencil-hand quickly zipping back and forth across the sketchbook page to attempt to capture, at least, the essence of what he was seeing. She was perfect–everything he wanted. Everything he needed to complete his vision. A single painting? He could generate a series based on this concept. An entire show. He could see it now: a series of paintings showcasing the female subject’s slow slip from adulthood into her fantastical infancy. Sure, in reality, Darcy seemed to take to babydom at a surreally fast pace–but he’d stretch it out for the sake of making a presentation.

He kept his eyes on Darcy, as she cooed and pawed at her diaper, while he thought about his art show. A series of paintings taking the audience on a journey. Until the end of the show, where the audience would be led to the actual art: the baby-woman herself. Left to her own devices in an oversized playpen, she’d be crawling about in just a diaper and some babyish clothing. It was perfect.

He wondered if she’d comply with this idea, and put herself out there like that.

She giggled from the floor, slowly wiggling her body around in a semi-circle so that she was facing Eric again. Her legs slowly opened, giving him a view right up her thighs to the vibrant white diaper.

“Mm,” she said. Part-groan, part-request. It was a suggestion for him to keep watching.

No need to worry about that, she had his complete and undivided attention.

For what seemed like a split-second, he wasn’t sure what she wanted him to see. Was it just her diaper? Fine, he could look at that thing all day.

But no. It was…changing? Perhaps it should have been obvious what was happening much sooner, though he hadn’t ever watched a supposedly-grown woman piss in a diaper before. The pristine white plastic quickly turned a dull yellow. Even the composition of the diaper seemed to change, with the once-fluffy padding began to sag and flatten between her legs as the weight of its absorbed moisture proved to be too much.

“You…just wet yourself?” He didn’t mean for it to be a question–the answer was quite obvious.

“Mmhmm.”

He shook his head. His pencil-hand was moving again. He needed to capture this exact look on her face: shame, mixed with pride.

The thing was, Darcy felt little shame for having wet her diaper. She already knew this place–with the locked door and her professor’s complete attention–to be a safe space for her to abandon her inhibitions. That she was able to do it so easily suggested that she had been waiting an awfully long time to liberate herself like this.

Nothing in recent memory had made her feel this good. She adored being a baby.

“That,” she said, pointing at the pacifier that was still on the table.

He walked it over to her, gently pressing into her mouth for her.

“There. Do you like that?”

“Mmhmm.”

“You are art,” he said.

She had no real response to offer. ‘Art’ seemed like such an adult concept, thus nothing she had any real interest in.

“I don’t just want to make art about you,” he said. “I want to put you on display.”

She propped herself up on her hands and knees again. The dense padding in her diaper shifted, pulling at her hips as it hung between her legs. It was a blissful feeling, quite honestly. And a dangerous door to have opened–she was going to want more of this. She began to crawl around again, mostly to feel the heavy diaper sway and squish between her thighs as she did.

“I want people to come see you,” he continued. “They wouldn’t be coming to make fun of you. They wouldn’t think of you as some sort of freak. They’d be…jealous. Inspired, even. This girl, who has somehow managed to completely separate herself from the expectations of society, can reveal what is inside everyone–just a free-spirited baby.”

She clumsily hummed a little tune to herself as she continued to tromp around on her hands and knees. Whatever he was saying was probably interesting to her as an adult. But, for now, it was just background noise.

“You could do that, right? Just crawl around for people?”

“Mmhmm.” It wasn’t especially clear, to either of them, if she truly meant that or not.

But this was just figurative. Speculation. It might have just been…daydreaming. The focus of Darcy’s art project, was it not?

“Apart from your size, the audience might have to carefully consider if you really are any different from an actual baby.”

“Mm.”

“She might be able to pass as an adult, they’d suppose. If she wore big girl clothes. And she wasn’t pissing her diaper.”

Darcy might have shrugged. Or, maybe it just looked like she did as she toddled about.

“But you have no limits, do you?” he asked. “What’s to stop you from doing more than just pissing yourself in your diaper?”

“Hmm,” she moaned from behind her pacifier–sounding almost contemplative.

“Some–some adults who are just playing a role–they might draw a line in the sand, yes? They’d think that using a diaper like that is just going too far. Too dirty. Too stinky. Too big of a mess for someone to have to clean up. But I don’t think you have such a line, do you?”

“Mm.”

“I didn’t think so. Because, obviously, you’re not an adult playing a role.”

“Mmm.”

“You’re just a baby.”

“Mmmm.”

“An actual little infant, regressed to nothing.”

“Mmmmm.”

“So it’s not a matter of if you’d be so bold as to poop your diaper like a baby. It’s a matter of…when?”

“Mmmm.” Her tone was twisting, morphing into more of a throaty, guttural, moan.

“It’s all part of the show,” he said. “Maybe not all of the audience, but the real connoisseurs of good art, they’d want to see that part. They’d want to see you squat down in your diaper…”

Darcy straightened out her upper body, coming up part way from her crawling so that she was just on her knees now. She may have been looking at Eric as he spoke, but it was just as likely that she was staring into some infinite space. She got her feet under her, and her body took on a suspiciously squat-like stance.

“...and they’d expect to see your face turn red. Maybe you’d be grunting a little as you started to, uh, push?”

At that moment, she gathered what scraps of her focus she could and beared down as she squatted. She had two simultaneous thoughts taking place in her mind, though neither was connected to the other.

The first: “Whatever it is that he’s describing, it sounds fun. I want to try that. Squat and push? Is that it?”

The second: “God, I’d love to poop…”

“There’s no turning back at that point,” he says, too lost in his own daydream to pay attention to what she’s doing just feet from him. “You and the audience both, you’re in this together now. They want to see just how little and pathetic you’ll be. And you want to show them. So you grunt harder and push more.”

She grunted a little harder as she pushed.

“They’re part of the show now, your fans? Because a painting…you just look at a painting, right? The painting doesn’t stare back at you. But now, in this show, the audience stands just inches from you as you literally poop your diaper. You just…fill it up without a care in the world. And they can watch it happen. Smell it happen.”

It wasn’t all that hard for her to do. Not in this state. Were it another time, another headspace, maybe it would’ve been a lot harder to do. 19 years of potty training had that effect on someone. Yet that concept couldn’t have been farther from her mind. All she knew–and she barely gave it much actual thought–was that she had to poop. And so she would.

She pushed a little harder. “Unnnnhhhh.”

Her mess made a rude and disgusting noise as it exited her behind and squeezed itself into her diaper. A wet series of bass-y farts ripped through the diaper, heralding the long squishy mess. It spread everywhere within her diaper in an instant. She could feel the back of the diaper expanding. She could feel the new weight hanging off her. She could feel the soft mass pressing against her skin.

“Jesus Christ,” Eric said, still lost in thought. “I swear I’m fucking tripping right now. I can smell that diaper for myself.”

No, it seemed far too real. He shook the images from his mind and spun around to Darcy. There she was, squatting down. Was that… He took a step or two to orbit her body. It was.

She had pooped her diaper, right there in front of him. He could see the big lump hanging down between her legs. The mess, mingling with the urine, was already turning her diaper brown in spots.

He almost–almost–ran back to his desk so he could draw some more sketches. But his feet seemed frozen in place, and he was grateful for that. He could look at this all day. He could just observe.

He had been fighting the urge to interact with her–wanting to see where she’d take this little journey she was on would take her. But she had gone far enough on her own. He could see it in her eyes. She needed…

“Daddy?” she pulled the pacifier from her mouth as she slowly brought her body forward to land on her hands and knees once more–dirty diaper sagging between her legs.

“Yes, Baby?”

“I…had…”

“An accident, I know.”

“But…”

“I have more diapers, it’s okay.”

“But…”

“Right…baby wipes. I guess I never thought about those before,” he said, scratching his head. “I can get some. We’ll have to go to the store…”

“But…”

“You can wait in the car, of course. And then we can go to my office? I could change you there.”

“Into another…”

“Diaper? I think that’s a good idea, don’t you? You seem to have become quickly attached to this new…persona.”

“Mm,” she moaned, slipping the pacifier into her mouth.

She was a lot of things. Stinky, for one. And seemingly quite regressed. But ‘regressed’ in a way that he had never seen, or considered, before. It wasn’t as if someone hit a switch and now she was a baby. She had willingly hit that switch herself, and now she kept her hand over the button so that only she was in control of it.

“Mm,” she moaned again. “Daddy.”

He had reached underneath her bottom so that he could feel the back of her diaper with his hand. Whatever intense electricity that was running through her body could be felt by him too.

Lust. Another perk of having such control over the figurative switch–she could pick and choose which adult emotions she didn’t want to turn off.

And he: of course he wanted her. She never needed a diaper before to get his attention. In class, she had always just given off a vibe that he hoped he was interpreting correctly. He never really thought of himself as that kind of professor, but perhaps all professors thought that until they were balls-deep in their pet student. And now, in a diaper? It was kind of hard to misinterpret that vibe.

“That,” she said, pointing to the table he had been working from.

“What about it? Do you want to see my drawings so far?”

“N-no…” she said, seemingly frustrated that she either couldn’t find the adult words she needed…or was too embarrassed to use them. “That.”

He looked to the table top again. What else could she want? Well, there was still…

“The rattle?”

“Mmhmm.”

He was a little confused. In the midst of looking incredibly turned-on, she suddenly wanted a baby toy? Maybe another side effect of unbridled regression was a diminished attention span. He took a few steps to the table, grabbed the rattle, and brought it back to her. Now, he was expecting her to take a little break from this moaning and groaning so that she could sit on the ground in her soiled diaper and shake the rattle around.

He was surprised again.

She was playing with the rattle, just not in the way he thought she would. At first, she held the firm plastic object to the front of her diaper, pressing into herself. This did elicit a few new noises from her, but it was quickly apparent that this wasn’t enough. She gripped the rattle more tightly and brought it to her waist, the inner-beads rattling about as intended. She then quickly thrust it into her diaper.

“Umph!”

He couldn’t see all of the action, not that it was too challenging to imagine what was happening. He watched the front of her diaper bend and contort as her rattled-hand found the perfect rhythm.  His eyes darted back and forth between the fluctuating plastic of her diaper and the expressions her face morphed in and out of. Admittedly, he wished he could’ve been a little more hands-on at this part. This was, after all, still his art. Didn’t he have the right to touch it as he desired?

He supposed that maybe it was best to just let this piece…run its course? He could only imagine the chuckles his peers in the faculty would offer if he had tried to explain this to them.

Instead, he’d do the next best thing to incorporate himself into his own art again: encourage.

“You’re doing such a good job, baby girl.”

“Mm.”

“That’s what you are, yes? A baby?”

“Y-yesss…”

“And, as a baby, do you think that…”

“Uhhhnnnhh…”

She had no time, or any real regard for his questions. Her moans were getting louder and more frequent. Her body quaked and shook. The scent of her diaper–a bouquet as blissful as it was fetid–continued to radiate throughout the studio.

Despite, assumedly, never having done this before, she certainly knew what to do. Quickly she succumbed to a fierce climax, which left her reeling on the ground on her side, her entire body shivering and squirming as she moaned.

“Well, I don’t think you need me for this,” he said to her–though he was quite sure the words were falling on deaf ears.

He quickly went back to his table and grabbed his sketchbook to get in some more quick drawings. Her position. That body language. That satisfied-yet-ashamed look on her face. He had never seen anything like it before. No model, with any amount of direction, could pull this off–It was the sort of thing that had to be genuine. With someone who wasn’t just playing a role.

From the floor, came her meek voice: “I think…”

“Yes?”

“...I got a little carried away.”

He shrugged. “It was exactly what I wanted from you. I mean…it was more than I ever could have asked for. But it was perfect.”

“This diaper…”

“Oh, it’s a complete disaster. Like I said, we’ll go get some wipes. I’ll clean you up and…”

“I…I can clean myself up if we can get some baby wipes. Or if you can get me to a shower.”

“I’ll clean you up,” he said, a little more assertively.

She nodded, her climax having not entirely cleansed her of her inner-baby. “Okay.”

“I’ll help you get dressed,” he said. “And then we’ll get out of here.”

“But…everyone outside…” she said, pointing towards the studio door. “...they’ll see my diaper. Or at least smell me.”

He looked at his watch. “Nobody’s going to be around, Darcy. You’ll be okay.”

“But…”

“I’m here for you.”

In an almost inaudible tone: “Daddy.” It wasn’t a question or a statement. Perhaps just a memory from her infantile haze.

“I could carry you out.” he said. “Like a baby.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I…” She stopped herself and laughed a little. “Actually. Please?”

He gathered his belongings, putting them back into his satchel. He picked up the since-discarded baby rattle and pacifier, handing the latter back to Darcy.

“You dropped this.”

She took it from him and slipped it back into her mouth as her cheeks glowed pink. She wasn’t quite ready to return to full adulthood just yet, it seemed. For as long as she had a pacifier in her mouth, and a dirty diaper hanging from her bottom, it just made more sense to stay where she was.

“Let’s get your skirt on, hmm?” He had it in his hands and was beckoning for her to step into it.

This was all his idea–his project, she thought. But it still didn’t seem like he really got it like she did. He seemed delighted by where she went with his direction, and he seemed to be eager about taking on a ‘daddy’ role himself. But in the back of her mind, there was another truth to consider: Everything he was doing here tonight was for the sake of his art.

She understood that. She was an artist herself–or at least trying to be.

For now, she’d roll with it. She did want to be held in his arms and carried. She wanted him to change her diaper. She wanted…well, she wasn’t even sure what else she wanted just yet. But she suspected she had only begun to scratch the surface of those desires.

Daydreams. She had mentioned them earlier to her professor when asked about the theme for her own series of paintings.

“It’d be an exploration of…hidden desires. And fears. Thoughts that are just below the surface that we might not even be conscious of. But then, in a daydream, they materialize before us and we learn something about ourselves.”

He hadn’t, but if he had asked about what she daydreamed about, she’d have said control. Specifically, the lack thereof. She often daydreamed of just lying back and letting someone else take care of everything else for her.

Interesting. She never would’ve guessed that it’d have manifested like this.

“You’re absolutely ripe, Baby,” he cooed to her as he zipped up the back of her skirt.

“Mmm.”