Strawberry (A Halloween Story) [Tier 3 Exclusive] (Patreon)

I have to park three blocks away. I don’t remember parking being such a commodity in this neighborhood, but maybe this is typical for a Saturday night?

But then, half a block from her house, I can hear muffled bass mixing with a fuzzy hum of voices and laughter. I have to laugh–Fran called this just a ‘little shindig,’ yet this sounds like anything but.

These suspicions are confirmed upon making it to the front door, which has been left wide open. The music is booming, and groups of people in costumes are flowing from one room to another. I can see that the party has already spilled out onto the deck in the backyard. I suspect I know most of these people, though with their masks and makeup, there’s very few I can actually identify.

“Did you just get here?” a voice says to me. I spin around to see a wolf-man.

“Eh, yeah, but I brought…wine.”

“Fashionably late as always, Drake?” Wolfman says. “And Fran’ll appreciate the gesture of bringing wine, but…I don’t think she needs it.”

Everyone has either a plastic cup of yellow, foamy, liquid, or a can. I spot a cooler of beer cans to my left, while I see the edge of a large steel keg through the kitchen doorway. I suspect that Wolfman, whoever he is, is right.

“Who are you supposed to be, anyways?” Wolfman asks. “A homeless man?”

“N-no,” I say, pointing down to my feet, hoping that this is the detail that gives the answer away.

“What the fuck?” says Wolfman. “What’s wrong with your feet?”

I’m glad that the shoes look realistic enough for him to ask me that, but I’m annoyed that Wolfman doesn’t get who I’d be dressed as after that clue. I sigh and bend down, grabbing one of the shoes and plucking it off my foot. I hand it to him.

“What the hell? It’s a shoe?”

“Pretty cool, right? I bought them online. They’re shoes, but they[re supposed to look like big, hairy, uh, bare feet. Y’know. Like a…” I pause, hoping he’ll finish the sentence for me.

“...homeless man?”

“A hobbit!” I playfully hit Wolfman in the head with my rubber foot before tossing it back on the ground so I can slip my foot back into it.

“Is that, like, a Star Wars thing?”

“Uh…hobbit? Like…The Hobbit. Lord of the Rings?”

Wolfman shrugs. “Sorry, man. I gotta be honest, I don’t watch that stuff.”

I’m tempted to pull his mask off, or at least ask who he is, but I wonder if I’m better off not knowing. If he recognizes me and knows my name, he’s at least an acquaintance. And if I knew an acquaintance of mine thought a hobbit was from Star Wars, I’d probably never look them in the face again.

Just as well, Wolfman is distracted by someone else and wanders off, beer bottle in hand. I spend a moment wondering how he drinks from a bottle with that mask on, but I don’t linger on it too long. I want a beer of my own.

“Drake,” a zombie cheerleader says to me as I start rummaging around in the cooler. “Are you, like, Peter Pan or something?”

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, though it seems not to be heard by anyone over the music. I grab an ice cold can and close the lid, ready to explain my costume for the second time in, what feels like, just as many minutes.

“I’m kidding,” Fran says, laughing. Her bloody pigtails swing wildly around her face as she does. It’s kind of cute. “I overheard you talking to Pete.”

“Oh,” I say, pointing to Wolfman. “That’s Pete?”

Fran nods.

“He thought that hobbits were from…”

“I think he was fucking with you,” she says. “Or, at least, he better be. I’m pretty sure he went with me to see at least one of those Hobbit movies in the theater with me.”

“This is a pretty big party,” I say, scanning around the room again, quickly losing track of how many people are in just this immediate vicinity.

“Oh this?” she says in her classic aw shucks demeanor. “Seems like I had an alright turnout.”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah. Just alright.” I want to show her the bottle of wine I brought with me, but I realize I had set it down when I was talking with Pete. I look around the room again, but I seem to have lost it. Whatever. Either I’ll find it later, or it’s just gone now.

“Well, look,” she says, “I’ve got so much food in the kitchen. And there’s alcohol everywhere. So please help yourself and…” she pauses for a second before adding, “...have a good time. Please?”

“I…well…” I know why she said that. I haven’t really been in the best of spirits as of late. Breakups are hard, or so I’ve been told. This is my first time truly dealing with one, and it’s turning out to be a doozy. I could try and assure Fran that I’m going to have a good time tonight, but she doesn’t need to hear it nearly as much as I need to hear it myself.

Instead, I just say: “Thank you.”

Fran hugs me. “Thank you for coming.” And then she peels herself off of me and disappears into the party.

I make a feeble attempt at wiping off the fake blood that was transferred onto my brown tunic from Fran’s hug, but give up and just open my can of beer instead. I need to have fun tonight.

I say it out loud too, for extra emphasis: “I need to have fun tonight.” Nobody seems to hear me, and I’m thankful for that.

Suddenly, I’m on my third beer and there’s a piece of pizza in my hand. I’m also standing in the corner, watching the party carry on without me. There’s dancing. Laughing. People just talking. Some are pairing off and making out in other corners. Snow White’s going to have a hickey on her neck tomorrow if Ash Ketchum keeps working on her the way he is now.

Mostly, I’ve been keeping an eye on the strawberry.

She’s actually dressed like a giant strawberry, whoever she is. And it’s not like she’s some sort of ‘sexy strawberry,’ it’s just a big foam strawberry costume with her arms, legs, and face poking out of it.

But it’s not the costume that gets my attention. It’s her mannerisms and the careless way in which she flits around the room. I watch her do it over and over again–she approaches a group of random strangers, mid-conversation, and jumps right into whatever they’re talking about. Every single time, she seamlessly becomes a part of that conversation. And, every single time, she manages to get the whole group laughing before she heads off to the next cluster of costumed guests.

She approaches a man eating a hot dog and asks him if it’s good. He nods, and she asks if she can try a bite. He laughs and complies, holding the dog as she takes a careful nibble from the end of it before thanking him and floating off again.

She smacks Fran in the ass and quickly dives behind some other people. Fran looks around, falsely assuming that it was Dracula and starts giving him hell.

That’s when Strawberry’s eyes meet mine, as she spots me laughing at her antics.

I feel put on the spot, and I’m a little nervous. As infatuated as I am by her mischief, I have no idea what I’d talk about with her if she came over here. Please don’t come over here. Please don’t come over here. Please don’t…

“Oh, hi,” I say as she pops up in front of my face.

“You’re not gonna tell Fran that was me, are ya?”

Her voice is vaguely familiar, but not familiar enough. And her face, coated with a thick layer of pink facepaint, isn’t ringing any bells in its current state.

“By the time I tell her,” I say, “I bet she won’t remember that it happened.”

“You just, uh, hanging out over here by yourself?” she asks.

“Seems like it.”

“That’s not how you’re supposed to do this,” she says. “You should only come to a party because you want to have fun.”

“I, uh, do want to have fun,” I say, shrugging. “But…” I shouldn’t say anything else, but I can’t stop my mouth in time. “...I just got dumped and…”

Strawberry laughs. And for a second, I’m a little offended that my plight is something to be mocked or laughed at. But I quickly get over it–I think I like this reaction far better than her commiserating with me.

“If you wanna be sad, you should go home,” she says. “But if you’re gonna stay here, then you have to have fun. Those are the rules.”

“The rules? Whose rules?”

“My rules.”

“Do you, uh, enforce those rules?”

She laughs and nods her head. “You better believe it, mister. So, what is it? You sticking around?”

I bite my bottom lip. Dammit. As much as I’d love to hold my ground in the corner and continue to people watch, she has a point. It’s a party. I should either party or leave.

“Yeah, alright,” I say. “But you should probably stick around. Just to, you know, make sure that I’m still having fun.”

“Oh,” she says. “I was planning on it. First things first, let’s get you another drink.”

“I’m still working on this one,” I say, holding up my can of beer.

“How much is in it?”

“I don’t know. Half-full? Why?”

She takes it from my hand and proceeds to chug down the rest of it in a few short seconds before handing the empty can back to me. “There you go. Ready to get another?”

I follow her to the kitchen where I watch as she quickly, and with some semblance of knowing what she’s doing, tips a few bottles of liqueur into an empty cup and adds some ice to it, swishing it around to mix it up before handing it to me.

I take a sip, eager to see what she’s made. But it tastes like garbage and I’m tempted to spit it out. She’s laughing.

“What the hell is this?”

She shrugs. “No idea.”

I laugh and defiantly take another sip of her mystery cocktail. It’s still not good, but it’s gotten easier to swallow.

“You don’t actually hafta drink that,” she says.

“What? This delectable concoction? Best thing I’ve drank all night.”

“You’re a good liar, Frodo.” She floats past me, heading out the screendoor to the deck. She hadn’t said or done anything to indicate that she wants me to follow her, but I just know that’s what she wants. I, too, want to follow her.

Outside, in the crisp fall air, I find her peering into the dark backyard while leaning against the deck’s railing. I glide up next to her and peer into the same darkness.

“What’s your name?” I ask. “I’m…”

“Frodo?” she asks, a grin on her face as she turns to face me.

“R-right,” I say, laughing.

“I’m Strawberry,” she says, winking.

“Can I just call you ‘Berry’ for short?”

She considers this for a moment, and nods her head. “I s’pose.”

“Do you, uh, offer free…tastes?”

Her eyes squint a little and she quizzically tilts her head. “Huh?”

Absentmindedly, I take another swig of her vile cocktail as I laugh at myself. “Sorry, sorry. I was trying to make a joke. Like…you’re a strawberry and…”

She laughs too. “Gotcha. It wasn’t bad. I mean, it wasn’t good. But you’re opening up a little. Is my special drink helping?”

“Alcohol, in general, is helping,” I say.

“But yes. You just have to ask.”

It’s my turn to look confused.

“Oh,” she says. “I was responding to your question. Or, uh, joke, I guess. I am offering free tastes for anyone who asks.”

I’m not entirely sure if she’s joking now, but I try to play along anyway. “Any takers tonight?”

“Not yet…”

“Maybe I could be the first then?”

“Maybe,” she says, shrugging. “Are you asking for a taste? Because, like, if you are–you have to actually ask me. Again, these are the rules.”

“Right, right. The rules. Is there, like, a rulebook or something that I could consult?”

“Ah, damn, sorry. I didn’t bring it with me,” she says. “You’ll just have to trust me.”

“Okay, fine.” I feel my cheeks blush a little. Even if I am just playing along with whatever bit this is–and I’m still not entirely sure that it’s a bit–it’s going to feel weird to ask this out loud: “Berry? May I please try a taste?”

She snorts before quickly composing herself. Without another moment of hesitation, she leans forward, pressing her foam strawberry suit against me as she presses her lips onto mine.

For a moment, the rest of the party vanishes and Berry becomes my entire world. As quickly as her lips landed on mine, she pulls away, and straightens herself out. My lips are buzzing. And, she even tastes like…

“Strawberry?”

She licks her lips. “D’ya like? Strawberry lip gloss. I came prepared, y’know? Just in case someone wanted a sample.”

I have no idea if I should believe her or not, but it’s an adorable thought. “Well…for what it’s worth, I’m quite impressed with the sample.”

“Oh? Are you saying that you’d be interested in more?”

“How much more are you, uh, offering?”

“Hmm.” She brings a finger to her chin as she looks off into space, feigning deep thought. It’s impossible to tell if she’s being serious or silly. Everything about her is so mysterious. So…exciting.

“I didn’t realize it would be that hard of a decision,” I say.

She looks at me again, smiling sweetly. “It’s actually not that hard. I’ll give you everything if you ask for it. I’m just not entirely sure you want it all.”

I scoff. “You don’t think I’d want you?”

“That’s not what I said.”

I replay the last part of our conversation. She says, again: “I’ll give you everything if you ask for it.”

I decide to put that to the test: “Would you kiss me again?”

“Yes, sir.”

She leans forward again, planting her lips on mine. She stays longer this time, the tip of her tongue sliding just past my lips. I taste strawberries again and I feel my cock shift ever so slightly in my hobbit-pants.

“Wow,” I say, running a hand through my hair. “So, that’s all it takes? I just…ask?”

“You’ll have to keep asking and see.” She smiles widely, right in my face, before pulling away again. She’s on the move, drifting across the deck and back into the house again.

I suspect she wants me to follow her, and I will. But I need a moment to myself first. My heart is racing, my nerves are electrified, and I need to give my dick a minute or two to deflate. It’s been a while since I’ve felt like this. A long while.

I take another sip of Berry’s cocktail. Still dreadful. Yet strangely charming. There’s no way that I’m going to finish it–I dump the rest of the contents over the fence’s railing. I hit up the keg in the kitchen before returning to the living room.

There’s the strawberry, chatting it up with Wolverine and an army man. Her eyes meet mine from across the room and I see her lips curl into a small smile as she continues talking. She’s taunting me–daring me to be as bold as she is and just push my way into the conversation too.

Deep breath. I strut forward, a booze-fueled confidence giving me some extra pep as I saunter into Berry’s little cluster.

“...I’m telling you, if you aren’t using conditioner, you might as well just shave your head,” Berry is saying. “It’s the most important thing you can put in your hair.”

“I guess I’ll consider it,” Army Man says. I’d love to know how this conversation happened.

“Wait,” I say, taking a shot at barging in, “but I use one of those all-in-one shampoos, that has the conditioner already in it. Is that the same thing?”

Berry reaches over and ruffles up my hair with her hand, much to the delight of everyone else. Maybe if this were any other time, or any other person, I’d be a little annoyed by this. But she can do whatever she wants with my hair.

“It’s not working, honey. Feels like a brittle little bird-nest up here.”

As quickly as this little group came together, it splinters apart again, and it’s once more just me and Berry.

“Look at you, Mister Social.” She playfully slaps me in the arm.

“I know how to talk to people.”

“Coulda fooled me.”

“Do you want a drink?” I ask. “I can make you an actual cocktail. Not, uh, anything like what you made.”

“I had a lot to drink already,” she says, shrugging. “Can I tell you a secret?”

“Of course.”

“This is, like, a legit secret, though. One of those ‘this changes everything’ sort of secrets. I just wanna make sure you get that.”

I laugh, never really sure how to take her playful tone. “Yeah, yeah, you got it. Whatever you say, I’ll keep it under lock and key.”

She nods, seeming to seal the pact of secrecy. She leans forward again, and I lean forward too, so that her lips are close to my face. Her breath smells of beer and strawberries.

“I peed my pants. I’m prolly going to do it again soon.”

I’m not entirely sure what to do with this information. I back up a step, taking a quick scan of her costume to see if there’s any obvious sign that she’s telling the truth. But, so far as I can tell, there’s no proof of this having happened. No wet spot. No trail of wetness following her around. I assume, then, that this must be a joke. Though not one that I can say I understand.

“Okay?”

“You don’t believe me?”

“Well…I just… Do you want me to believe you?”

“I can show you.”

“Y-you don’t have to show me that you pissed your pants.” I’m a little worried now. Is she too drunk? Does she need help? “Maybe I can help you find a bathroom and…”

“You’re very sweet,” she says, petting my cheek with her hand. “But I’m good. Promise. I was ready for this.”

“Ready? To pee your pants?”

“Shh,” she says, holding a finger up to her mouth. “It’s still a secret. C’mon, I’ll show you.”

Berry is bounding away from me. I immediately begin to pursue her, even when she heads up the steps. I pause for a moment, fighting the impulse to say that Fran probably doesn’t want the party heading upstairs. But when I look around, and see that nobody else is paying attention to us, I decide to just follow her up.

At the top of the steps, I see Berry dash into one of the rooms. I follow behind, closing the door behind me–if for no other reason, to cut down on the noise from the party in the hopes that we can actually have a conversation. We seem to be in one of Fran’s guest bedrooms.

“What’s this all about?” I say.

“Come over here,” she says, beckoning me over.

I walk over to her.

“On the back of my costume, there’s a zipper,” she says. “Do you see?”

“Yeah.”

“If you unzip it, you can look inside my costume.”

“Do I…want to?”

She laughs. “When a girl tells you to unzip her clothes, you should prolly just do it.”

“Fair enough.”

WIth one swift motion, I grab ahold of the zipper and tug it down the length of the costume. Then, without waiting for further prompts, I pull open the costume to peer inside. And I see the last thing that I expected.

Nothing. Well, almost nothing.

There’s no shirt. And her black yoga pants barely cover her bottom. I’m looking at just a sports bra and…a diaper? I’m almost positive that that’s what I’m seeing, but it doesn’t make any sense to me. It’s a big, plump, adult diaper. I think.

“I…wait. Are you, uh, wearing a…”

“It’s a diaper,” she says.

“So when you said that you peed your pants…”

“I literally peed my pants,” she says.

“But why…”

“Do you want to touch it?” she asks. It’s asked with such an innocent tone that for a second I’m second guessing whether or not diapers are more common amongst people our age. Is that the cool thing to wear now?

And, yeah, I do want to touch it. I take her question as the open invitation I think she intended it to be, reaching into her costume and pressing my hand against the white garment. It’s squishy. Fluffy and thick in some parts, while a little more warm and dense in others.

“Is this where you…wet yourself?” I ask.

She giggles. “Uh huh. Keep your hand right there.”

I do as she asks. For a moment, I’m not sure what I’m waiting for, if anything. Did she just like the feeling of my hand on her diaper? But then I feel it. A new wave of warmth spreads throughout the padding. I can feel tiny little tremors in the plastic as her stream connects with the diaper.

“Oh,” I say. “You’re…peeing. Again.”

“It feels so good. Even better with a hand on my diaper.”

I feel my pants getting a little tighter again. Maybe it’s just the alcohol and my fucked-up post-breakup emotions, because this is kind of…hot.

I suspect I know the answer, but I ask anyway: “Do you, like, need diapers?”

“Oh, I need them,” she says. “I need them to have a good time. And aren’t we having a good time?”

I nod, my head bobbing enthusiastically. “So this is your, uh, thing, huh? You show up at a party with a diaper on–barely concealed under your costume. And then you just flirt your way around until you meet someone who you want to have touch your diaper?”

“You’re giving me too much credit,” she says. “I didn’t put much thought into tonight beyond that I wanted to wear a diaper, and I wanted to dress up like a strawberry.”

“Mission accomplished.”

“Do you like it?” she asks. “My diaper?”

I see no reason to lie to her: “I do.”

“Do you want one?”

“N-no, I don’t think so. I like it on you, but I’m not sure if that’s really for me.”

“Ah,” she says. “So you’re more of a ‘daddy’ than a ‘baby?’ Gotta be honest, Frodo, that would make me really happy.”

I’m blushing again, and I’m not even sure how to respond. I’m so overwhelmingly into her, and I’m worried that there’s nothing she could do that could stop that. This feels dangerous while I’m still recovering from my last relationship. But, damn, I want to be her ‘Daddy,’ whatever that entails.

“Yes,” I say. “Whatever you want. I could be your daddy.”

“Careful,” she says. “Because you don’t just get to declare yourself as my Daddy. You have to earn it.”

“And how does one do that?”

“You have to prove that you know how to take care of your little baby girl.”

“Hmm,” I say, agreeing to this, but still not sure how such a thing happens.

“I’ll tell you what to do if you want to be my Daddy.”

“Okay,” I say. “Anything. Give it to me.”

“I’m going to go downstairs,” she says. “Back to the party.”

“Alright.”

“You shouldn’t come down with me. Gimme a few minutes headstart before you come down.”

“Okay, sure. Then what?”

“First, you hafta find me. Which, you know, might be easy ‘cuz I’m the one dressed like a strawberry.”

“Right.”

“Then? No matter who I’m talking to, and no matter what we’re talking about, I need you to interrupt the conversation.”

I swallow nervously, starting to see how this might be harder than I thought.

“And you need to ask me–in front of anyone who’s around–if I need to have my diaper changed. Do you think you can do that?”

I shrugged. “I…think? I don’t know, it’s not really the kind of thing that I do, and…”

“Okay, well, if you wanna be ‘daddy,’ this is what you have to do. Y’know, the rules and all.”

“Right,” I said, nodding. “The rules. So, you might as well tell me what comes after that.”

“So you’ll ask me. And I’m going to deny it. And, I’m warning you, I’m a pretty good actress. So I’ll put on a real good show while I deny it. But you’re going to double-down and insist that I wet my diaper. And then you’ll insist that if I didn’t actually wet myself, then it would be okay for you to open my costume and have a look for yourself.”

“But…then wouldn’t everyone see?”

“Smart boy,” she says. Her cheeks are getting rosey, and I suspect she’s turning herself on.

“Then it’s all you, Frodo. Are you going to make everyone stare and laugh at me? Are you going to haul me away while assuring everyone else you’re going to change my diaper? Surprise me.”

“You’re asking a lot of me,” I say. “They’re my friends. Well, some of them. And…I’m not that kind of guy, you know?”

“Look, you don’t have to do anything,” she says. “But, if you wanna play by the rules, here’s what you’re playing for.” She leans forward one more time, pressing her lips against mine. Strawberry. Electricity. My cock completely springs to life, moments before her hand explores the front of my pants and her hand rubs the stiff lump through the fabric.

Fuck. She makes a compelling argument.

“I’ll see you downstairs?” she asks.

I sigh, nodding.

“I hope so.” Once more, she’s gone.

I take a few minutes to compose myself. I’m still not sure that I want to go back into the party and have to call Berry out for being a diaper-wetter. But the rewards certainly seem nice.

My fingers anxiously tap on a wooden dresser as I contemplate the evening so far. Am I actually into this diaper-thing? Or is it that I like Berry–or, maybe, the idea of Berry–so much that I’m willing to go along with any weird trait that she has? If I had opened her costume to reveal slices of deli ham draped over her bare skin, would I have…just started eating them off of her?

Of course, she had to stumble into my life now, of all possible times. She couldn’t have waited a few months, when I was a little more detached from my breakup? I’m willing to concede that the breakup was probably a good thing, even if the burn of having been dumped will stick with me for a while. But I feel desperate. And while I don’t think Berry is actively trying to manipulate me, I’ve probably never been so…malleable. She doesn’t have to wrap me around her finger, because I’m wrapping myself around her finger whether she likes it or not.

One more sigh for good measure. I check to make sure I’m flaccid enough. Okay, here we go.

The party is in one of its latter phases now–maybe the one where the guests are split between having drank too much and need to take a breather, and people who’ve drank too much and haven’t admitted it to themselves yet. I don’t see Berry in the living room, and I assume she’s either in the kitchen or on the deck. Or…she left.

“Well, well well,” someone says to me. “On the rebound, are we?” It’s Fran, nursing what looks to be just a bottle of water.

“N-no, I just…”

“I saw the strawberry-girl come down a few minutes ago, so I figured she was up there with someone. I didn’t know it was you.”

I decide to sidestep her assumptions and teasing to ask a question of my own. “Do you know who she is? The strawberry?”

Fran shrugs. “I don’t think so. I thought it was Mandy K., but…she’s over there, dressed like Bo Peep. Why, you don’t know who she is?”

I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”

“Did you, like, ask?”

I nod. “She’s being a little coy.”

She laughs. “God, that sounds fun. You need that, Drake. You need some fun. Go chase her down and have fun.”

The universe has seen fit to send me one more sign to follow my penis instead of my brain. Okay. Fran splinters away from me and I’m on the hunt again for wild strawberries.

As soon as I enter the kitchen, I spot her through the screen door, talking to a small group of folks on the deck. My heart is racing again, and I wonder if hers is too. Sure, this was her idea. But did she actually think–hope–that I’d go through with it? Was she nervously waiting for the moment I sidled up to her?

We were about to find out.

I put my brave-face on and stepped onto the deck, before confidently marching towards Berry’s conversation.

“...and I just don’t get it,” Berry is saying. “Don’t you want me to shake it?” Everyone laughs. A scarecrow is laughing especially hard. I wish I could’ve heard the rest of whatever story or joke it was that got a punchline to hit like that.

Berry sees me coming, and she seems to smile a little wider. If she’s as nervous as I am, she’s certainly not showing it. My hands close a little tighter as I sturdy myself and try not to look as anxious.

“So, how’s it going over here,” I say, slipping into the small huddle. I’m met with some friendly fist bumps and hi-fives from the other less-sober guests in Berry’s current conversation.

“It’sh goin’ well,” Scarecrow says, slurring his words a little.

This suddenly feels a lot easier than I thought it’d be. These tired and drunk bodies probably won’t remember much of what I have to say by the morning. And if they do, they might not even remember who said it.

“Hey,” I say directly to Berry. “How are you holding up?”

“Oh, uhm, good,” she says, nonchalantly shrugging.

I need to get more specific. “You’re still, uh, in a diaper, yeah?”

Her cheeks get the tiniest bit more pink. One of the people in the group breaks away–either Wonder Woman didn’t like what I asked, or she was already checked out of the conversation.

Scarecrow, however, looks befuddled. “What the hell did you just ask her?”

“She’s wearing a diaper,” I say, pointing to Berry. I turn back towards her, feeling my confidence swell: “It was dry the last time you showed it to me. Dare I look again?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she says. She didn’t lie earlier–she is a good actress. Even though I know she’s lying to me, her tone and body language had almost convinced me that she wasn’t actually wearing a diaper–the entire scenario upstairs was just imagined.

I doubled down, as she told me to: “She’s just wearing a diaper under her costume.”

“Bullshit,” says Pippi Longstocking. “She’s not wearing a diaper. That’s ridiculous.”

I’m not used to being assertive, and I’m worried that I’m starting to look like a bully. I take a deep breath and try again: “Look, I’m not here to make a scene. But she’s wearing a diaper. And if she’s used it, she’s going to need to be changed. Or else, you know, uh, she’ll get a diaper rash.”

Is that right? I think that’s right.

“Are you wearing a diaper?” Scarecrow asks Berry?

“N-no…” Berry shrugs as her cheeks get a little brighter. As good an actress as she may be, she already seems to be cracking a little.

Deep breath. “I guess I’m just going to have to take a look for myself, huh?”

I’m fully expecting someone to tackle me right now. Or, at least, slap me across the face. Social protocol dictates that you’re not supposed to take clothes, or costumes, off of women in public–seemingly without consent. But my hand is on the zipper of the big strawberry and I’m pulling it down, and nobody is stopping me. They’re drunk, sure. But they’re also curious. Maybe the slaps and tackles are still on the table–should there not be a diaper under her costume.

God, I hope this wasn’t all some sort of weird fever dream.

The back of the costume is unzipped, and I pull it open, revealing–much to my relief–the completely saturated diaper. It droops from her hips, with the white padding having changed to a muddled yellow.

“Holy shit,” Scarecrow says.

“What are you?” Pippi asks Berry. “Some sort of baby?”

It’s hardly the time to further ponder social protocols, but it is a little surprising to me that Berry is accused of being a baby before it’s just assumed that there’s a medical reason for her diaper. I’d say that I feel bad for Berry, but…this is probably exactly the reaction that she wanted.

“Nooo,” Berry says, defensively. “I’m not a…baby.”

“Are you sure?” I ask. “Because you’re wearing a diaper like a baby. And you certainly wet your diaper like a baby would. More than once, if I was to guess.” The more I talk about diapers, the more confident I get about it. I have her to credit for this, of course. Her face slowly changes from defiant to guilty. It’d be impossible for me to guess where the line is between reality and the character she’s playing, but it doesn’t really matter either.

“I-I’m sorry,” she says. “I…wet myself a lot.”

Pippi checks out from the conversation, muttering something about needing to sober up a little. Scarecrow has nothing to say, but his mouth continues to hang open as he gawks at Berry’s diaper.

“Well,” I say, “we ought to do something about this, yes?”

She shrugs. “I guess so.”

I grab her hand and begin to tug her along behind me. It’s not until we’re back in the house that I realize that I hadn’t zipped her costume back up again. I pause for a moment, wondering if I should correct that. But I can already hear people whispering and giggling, and Berry seems to be glowing–a mix of humiliation and pleasure–as she hears them herself. I leave it as it is, continuing to pull her through the living room and towards the stairs.

“See?” Fran says, catching me near the staircase. “Fun.”

“Uh, yeah,” I said, smiling as if I knew exactly what I was doing. I went up the stairs first, walking backwards as to help lead Berry up the stairs. No sooner than Berry had walked past Fran, I saw Fran’s eyes going to the rear of the strawberry costume–as had the eyes of almost everyone else at the party we had walked past.

“This looks interesting,” Fran says.

I nod. “Should be.”

“Have fun, kids.”

From somewhere in the crowd, I hear: “Is he really going to change her diaper?”

Back in the spare bedroom, the moment I close the door, she’s pressed against me and her lips are on mine again. I missed the taste of her, and I’m convinced that I’ve never tasted anything better.

“How did I do?” I ask in the fleeting seconds between one kiss and the next.

“So good.”

“Did you get what you wanted?”

“I liked what I got...” She pauses and kisses me again before finishing the thought: “...but I could always take more.”

“What more could I have done?”

“You coulda dragged me over your knees and sp*nked my diaper right there, in front of everyone.”

Fuck. “Yeah…that’s really hot. I wish I did that too.”

She’s a diaper fetishist. An exhibitionist. A glutton for punishment and masochist. I could argue that I have no experience dealing with any of that–it’s all so new and foreign to me. But I want her, and everything that she brings to the table.

“Is this the part where I change your diaper?”

“It might’ve been,” she says, “had I brought somethin’ to change into.”

“So what now? You can’t just stay in that wet diaper all night.”

“I think you’re exaggerating how badly I need to be changed.”

“You’d know better than me, I guess.”

She laughs. “You earned the title tonight, by the way.”

“Yeah? I’m…Daddy now?”

“For tonight.”

She’s working on unfastening my leather belt. I make no effort to stop her–my hands have been inside of her costume plenty tonight. When she succeeds, she pulls down the front of my pants just enough to let my manhood–almost fully erect–flop out.

“This is nice,” she coos, looking down at it. “Do you mind if I…have a taste?”

I shake my head. “N-no. Not at all.” I briefly attempt to put together a pun–something about a baby drinking from a bottle–but I worry that I’d just ruin the moment and say nothing else.

She takes my cock into her mouth all at once, just slowly swallowing it until her face is nestled in my pubic hair. We moan simultaneously. Her mouth then slides back off from my cock, pauses, and makes the journey again.

“Jesus,” I mutter. “Fuck.”

“Are you going to get off for me, Daddy?” she asks, briefly pulling her mouth away from my cock–strands of spit still connecting me to her face.

“Looks that way.”

“Call me a baby, Daddy? Please?”

I stumble over my words for just a moment, but I try not to fret over what I should say. She’s made it pretty clear what she wants–she just wants to be humiliated. Used. Made to feel like someone’s–literal, perhaps–baby.

“Come on, baby,” I say. “You’re doing such a good job.”

She moans a little, her lips working their way down my shaft again.

“You’re such a…little baby.”

She giggles a little. Well, an attempt at a giggle–with her mouth full, it sounds like a sputtering mess of sloppy noise.

You can do better than that. I take a deep breath and try again: “You liked that tonight, didn’t you? Having your diaper show off to everyone?”

“Mmm.”

“See, now I wish I really did put you over my knee. For everyone to see.”

“Mmmmm.”

“Just a little girl getting paddled in her soggy diaper by Daddy, right? Everyone would’ve loved to have seen that.”

“Ohmmmmm.”

I’m finding my way quickly, and I’m getting a feel for this brand of dirty talk. “You shouldn’t have bothered with the strawberry costume. You should have just come as a big baby. I’m tempted–whenever you’re done–to just take your strawberry costume off of you and march you back down into the party in just your diaper and bra. Maybe make you crawl around for everyone?”

“F-fuck,” she quickly mumbles to herself before stuffing her mouth with my cock again.

“And why stop there?” I feel more excitement creeping into my tone as she gets me closer and closer to climax. “Babies don’t use toilets for anything, right? So, like, why not just go all the way and poop your pants like a little baby.”

She’s whimpering as she sucks me off, this desperate sound like she has nothing but infinite hunger for humiliation and embarrassment that she’ll never stop thirsting for.

“God,” I say. “I…I’m not going to make it much longer.”

“Daddy?”

“Yes?”

“Can…can you put it in my diaper? Please?”

“Of course.”

The logistics seem challenging at first, but she seems to know exactly how to contort her body to make this possible. I’m left holding my own cock, taking the last few strokes needed to complete the job. And when I do, I launch her gift into her ass crack as she pulls her diaper down for me. Then, once I’m drained, she slides her diaper back into place again.

“Mmm,” she moans again. “It feels incredible. Thank you, Daddy.”

I’m beside myself–a confusing mess of drunkenness, and a post-climactic comedown. I want more. I want everything. But as I sit on the bed, I’m not sure I have any energy left.

“Come on, Daddy,” she says, standing up and straightening herself out. “Let’s go back to the party. We could dance.”

“I…think I need to rest for a second.”

She laughs, bending down to kiss me on the head. “Why don’t you take a few minutes and rest. I’ll see you downstairs.”

“That sounds great,” I say. “I’ll meet you there in a few.”

She zips up her costume and bounds out the door, closing it behind her. I’m left feeling completely exhausted. By her. By tonight. By where I’m at in my life right now. And it’s in this newfound silence that I have to take a moment and ask myself: Did I really just get sucked off by a girl in a soaking wet diaper?

It all seems like a dream now, especially as my eyes open to find rays of sunlight pouring in from the guest bedroom window.

“What the hell?”

But my cell phone confirms my worst fears: It’s a little after 10:00 AM on Sunday morning. The party is over, and I may or may not have chased around a diapered strawberry all night.

I check that my pants are belt are fastened before leaving the room and making my way downstairs. The house seems to be in a state of disarray–an indication that the party was probably a success. And I see I wasn’t the only person staying over–Wolman is dozing on a couch, while I’m pretty sure I see Dracula sleeping on a lawn chair on the deck.

“You’re still here?” It’s Fran, slowly walking around and picking up stray cups and cans to put in a trash bag.

“I, uh, guess so.”

“I saw Little Miss Strawberry dancing around after you two went upstairs. I just assumed you left.”

“N-no. Just passed out. But, uh, the strawberry girl–did she stay long?”

“I think she wanted to. I don’t know how the hell she does it, but she had way too much energy. She wanted to dance around and have fun, but I think she was the only one interested at that point. I don’t know when, but I know she eventually left.”

I sighed, feeling even more like I messed up by letting myself fall asleep upstairs. “Did you ever find out who she was? Did she, like, say anything?”

Fran’s head tilts and she smiles in this condescending way, like a mother having to break the bad news to the kids that they’re not going to the park today. “You really liked her, huh?”

I nod. “She was really…something.”

She laughs. “Yeah, that’s one way of putting it. Look, it’s none of my business. But you just got out of a relationship and I know how hard that is. And she…well…wears diapers. And I don’t know what to make of that, but it seems like more work than a, uh, traditional girlfriend. You know, one who’s already potty trained?”

I laugh and pat her on the back. “Thank you, Franny. And thank you for inviting me to the party. I, uh, had a pretty good time. But she didn’t give me her phone number or anything so…I guess it’s back to the real world.”

I could already imagine how I’d spend the rest of the day: partly bemoaning my failed relationship, and partly bemoaning my brief encounter with a girl wearing a diaper to a party.

Fran sighs. “Hold on. I have something to give you. Mind you, I don’t really want to. But…it belongs to you.”

She trots off, and I’m left alone again, pondering what she could possibly have to bring me. So far as I know, I have everything I came with.

Fran returns, holding a plastic bag by the handles far out in front of her, like it’s either a bomb or something that’s just too disgsuting to keep any closer to her body. Whatever the object in the bag is, it seems big and heavy.

“I…can’t believe I’m doing this,” she says, handing the bag over to me. “But…she asked if I would give that to you. And I debated just throwing it away. But here we are.”

I open my mouth, ready to ask what it could possibly be, but instead I just look into the bag myself. It’s, I think, her diaper. Plenty used and still heavy, just all rolled up and shoved into a shopping bag. I feel my cheeks turn pink as I, too, have no idea what to do with this.

“Uh…thanks.”

“If you want me to just throw that out for you…”

“N-no, that’s okay,” I say, praying that I don’t look as crazy as I feel. “I’ll, uh, toss it out at my place.”

“As you wish,” she says, shrugging.

I say my goodbyes and I’m soon out the door, making the arduous three-block trek back to my car, this time carrying a used adult diaper in a plastic bag. For the entire walk, all I can do is wonder what the hell I’m supposed to do with her diaper. It’s kind of a cute memento, but it's not like I can put it on the mantle and show it off. In fact, were I to keep it any longer than today, it was probably going to start stinking up my apartment.

I could already smell the stale remnants of pee emanating from it.

I take it out of the bag when I get in my car and roll it over in my hands.

“Well, shit.”

Sure enough, she had written her phone number on the underside of the diaper with a marker. Or…someone’s phone number. Hopefully hers.

I think back to what Fran mentioned just a few minutes earlier: a girl like Berry would be a lot of work. She’s probably right.

But I still spend the entire drive home thinking about what I’ll say when I do finally call Berry.

I think I’m willing to change a diaper or two. For the right girl.