A Daddy Issue [Tier 3 Exclusive] (Patreon)

Personally, I’d rather not tell this story. For one, I don’t think it’s all that believable–even if I know it to be true. Second, and this is the real sticking point for me: I believe it makes me look like an absolute asshole.

To be clear, I have no regrets about my actions in this story–regardless of how bad they make me look. But what would bother me, potential reader, is that this is likely the only thing you’d ever know about me. You’ll finish this story and say: “Clearly, the man is a piece of garbage,” without any consideration for what I’ve done before or after this story takes place.

Maybe I could talk about those moments a little now? Tell you about the charitable things I’ve done or attempt to convince you of my occasional benevolence?

I don’t think I’ll do that. Instead, I challenge you, potential reader, to open up a beautifully white and empty word-processing document on your computer after you finish reading this story. And I want you to write about the time you slunk your lowest. Provide no context for who you are outside of that moment–let that story speak for itself. And then, give that story to a stranger and let them judge you based only on what they’ve read.

I’m curious to see how you’d feel.

I probably shouldn’t belabor my own story any more than I already have.

I had been married and divorced already, with about 15 years in between the two events. One son to show for it. I did not want the divorce, but that decision was not mine to make. The aftermath had left me feeling kind of…lonely. I missed the constant companionship of a partner, and quickly found myself back in the dating pool, seeking the company of other middle-aged ex-spouses. The standards I had when I was a young buck had been eroded, and there were more than a few times when I woke in the morning and looked at who was sleeping next to me and wondered: ‘What possessed me to allow this to happen?’

I’ve never been a subscriber to the concept of ‘love at first sight,’ but getting older does things to you. You see the dark days of rocking chairs and decaf coffee coming and it’s a scary thing to have to face alone. Suddenly, every set of mildly-flirtatious eyes has me planning the quickest route to the chapel.

Hazel’s eyes were quite flirty.

We met at someone’s holiday party, I think. Neither of us knew many people and we both seemed to be a few degrees separated from the hosts. She found me hovering near the punch bowl–maybe because she was interested in covering that territory for herself–and we got to talking. Needless to say, we hit it off exceptionally well. A relief for me, really, as I often worried that I’d find myself settling for half the woman Hazel is.

The next few weeks are a bit of a romantic blur. After a handful of successful dates, we begin spending more and more time together. We’re somewhere in the midst of juvenile puppy love–unlike anything that either of us have probably experienced in close to 20 years. It feels good.

And then she invites me over to dinner at her place so that I can meet her daughter, visiting from out of town.

From the time that Hazel proposed this dinner, up through the moment I walked through her front door that night, I have genuine excitement about meeting Melissa. I doubt I have much to say to a young 20-something woman, but it’s more of a symbolic excitement. It means that Hazel thinks it's important for us to meet. Because there’s possibly a future where we’re going to see each other a lot more. That’s exciting.

“Barton, I’d like to introduce you to my daughter, Melissa. Melissa? This is Barton.”

I awkwardly extended my hand towards Melissa, but she pulled me in for a hug instead. “A pleasure to meet you,” she purrs into my ear, in a soft tone that seems loaded with secret meaning.

I immediately wish that I hadn’t met Melissa. Don’t get me wrong, I love Hazel in every way possible, and there’s little I’d ever even dream of changing about her. But in Melissa, I see a more perfect version of her mother. Younger, obviously. But sleeker. Sexier. Her voice is smooth and buttery, unravaged by the small bout of smoking that Hazel had in her 20s. Fluid hair. Spotless skin.

I’m absolutely furious with myself for how badly I want to taste Melissa’s lips.

But Hazel loaded my hand with an IPA, and drinking it on an empty stomach helps to dull the impure thoughts I’m having. Just in time, too, as Hazel excused herself to check on the food cooking in the kitchen, leaving me alone with Melissa for the first time.

“Well, Melissa, it’s so nice to get to meet you and…”

“Missy.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Oh, I usually go by Missy,” she said, cracking a little smile. Is it flirtatious? Mischievous? I honestly couldn’t tell.

I feel my heart beating a little faster. There’s something about the nickname ‘Missy’ that feels so spot-on for her. I’m hesitant to use the word ‘juvenile.’ Youthful, maybe. It’s cute, without being too cute.

“I usually just go by Barton,” I replied. “Someone tried getting ‘Bart’ to happen once, but it never really took off.”

“No,” Missy said, shaking her head. “You don’t strike me as a ‘Bart.’”

“Well, if you had any nicknames you’d like to propose, better late than never.”

She crossed her legs slowly, her smile seeming to grow a little. “I can only think of one, I think.”

“Oh? Let’s hear it.”

“Daddy.”

If I had just taken a mouthful of beer, I’d have likely sprayed it all over Missy’s face. Instead, my jaw just hung slightly ajar as I tried to compute whether or not this was a joke of some sort.

“Ah,” I finally said. “You see things going that well with your mother and I?”

“Oh, maybe,” she said. “But I think I’d like to call you Daddy right now.”

I felt my cheeks developing some extra color as I ran a hand through my hair. “I’m a little uncertain about what you mean, Meli…er…Missy.”

“It’s been a while since I had a father, you know. Or…did you not know that?”

“Well, I know that Hazel had been divorced for a few years now and…”

“I haven’t seen my father in over fifteen years,” Missy said, shrugging. “I guess you could say that I have some daddy issues.”

There were the words she was saying, but there were also the words that she wasn’t saying. I felt as if I was on the verge of understanding what her message actually was, but I’d need to dwell on it a little longer.

With the slightest amount of trepidation, I tried playing along, hoping to suss out her intentions. “Every young woman needs a father in her life.”

“Exactly,” she said. “My mother, God bless her, has gone above and beyond for me–”

“She’s a wonderful woman,” I interjected.

“Indeed. But I’ve needed more than just coddling.”

“Right,” I said, swirling the last drops of my beer in my bottle. “And what else do you think you need?”

“I’m not always the most well-behaved girl.”

I laughed. “Are you saying that you need some discipline?”

“I’m saying that I want Daddy to spank me.”

It’d be hard for me to transcribe the noise I made at that moment. Somewhere between a dry spit-take and an undeveloped word. “Puh-hah…”

It was at that moment that Hazel reappeared, letting us know that dinner was ready. I was simultaneously relieved that she had broken up this surreal conversation, and slightly disappointed that I didn’t get to respond to Missy’s last statement.

It was all I could think about during dinner. I tried my best to keep up with the conversation at the table, but with every lull in the chatter, I found myself trying to visualize Missy’s slender frame perched over my knees.

I had never spanked a child before. In the years since my divorce, though, I had met a surprising number of women who needed their bottoms reddened. While I had always been fond of it in the moment, it was rarely something I thought about on my own time. I suspected Missy would be the exception to that.

“Well?” Hazel asked later, just after we clinked our post-dinner glasses of sherry together in her living room. “What did you think of my Melissa?”

“Oh, Missy. Well…”

“Missy?” asked Hazel, laughing a little. “I’m sure she asked you to call her that, didn’t she?”

“She did.”

“I don’t really care for the name myself,” she said. “It worked when she was 8 or 9 years old. But she’s 22 now–it just sounds a little immature for someone her age.”

“She exudes Missy-ness, I think,” I offered. “I don’t think it’s a bad thing.”

“You liked her?”

“Oh, uhm, very much so.”

“Good,” Hazel said, nodding. “She’s such a bright young woman. A bit…brazen, perhaps. She can be a handful. I think it scares some men away. Both her potential boyfriends and mine.”

“Really?”

“Oh, I’ve had more than one male-friend tell me that they found her to be a bit much.”

“Weaklings,” I said with a smile. “I found her to be delightful.”

It would be a month or two before I’d see Missy again. She lived a few hours away–close enough for the occasional visit, but that was about it. Still, I found myself frequently daydreaming about that conversation we had, just before dinner. She called me Daddy. She told me that she wanted Daddy to spank her.

I thought about it in my time alone, and I thought about it as I thrust myself into her mother. I didn’t dare talk about it to anyone–I was, and am, well aware of how it made me sound.

Have you begun to think of me as an asshole yet, potential reader?

In the early weeks of February, a little happenstance pushed Missy and I together again. Hazel had been hemming and hawing about getting a new tile floor for her powder room, and I just happened to know how to lay tile–having been an apprentice to my father when he was a handyman some years ago. I offered to do the job for her, and she graciously accepted. I took a week off from work, and set up camp in her home–slowly progressing through the project during the day while Hazel was at work.

A day into my project, I heard a car pull up into the driveway not long after Hazel had left for the day. I had expected it to be Hazel, having forgotten something silly, like a cup of coffee. To my surprise, it was Missy.

“I didn’t expect to see you,” I said to her as she entered the house.

“Likewise,” she said, giving me a tight hug.

“Does your mother know you’re coming? She didn’t say anything about it to me.”

“She doesn’t know, just yet,” she said. “But I also didn’t come to see her.”

“No?”

“She told me on the phone the other day that you were going to be here this week to work on the bathroom floor. I didn’t have anything going on this week, so I thought that I’d…stop in for a few days. Keep you company.”

I was immensely flattered that she had made such a trip just to see me, though it was a little strange considering that we barely knew one another.

“I could certainly use it,” I said.

“I’m not very handy with a tool, of course.”

“Your company will be plenty.”

For an hour or two, the conversation stayed pretty civil and polite. I told her a little about myself and she reciprocated. She had been taking a year or two off from school, but would be going back in the fall to work on her masters. In the meantime, she was helping to manage a nonprofit–something about rainwater and conversation.

“Your mother is always very proud of you,” I told her.

“What else does my mother say about me?”

“Is there more she should be saying?” I ask, unsure what she’s hoping for me to say.

“I’ve heard her refer to me as a ‘handful’ before.”

“Ah, yes,” I said, laughing a little. “I might have heard that word once or twice.”

“I understand what she means by it. She has this vision of femininity that she’s carried with her from a different generation, and I’m not sure I fit into that.”

“What does that vision look like?” I asked.

“Me, with a baby or two in my arms,” she said, laughing. “I think she desperately wants to have a grandchild. When I tell her about graduate school, I think she gets annoyed–only because that bumps up the timeline of when I find a man, settle down, and start pumping out babies.”

“She’s never said those exact words to me,” I said. “But…you’re probably right.” I had always sensed a slight frustration in Hazel’s tone when she talked about her daughter’s successes, but it wasn’t until this moment that I was able to better understand it.

“Someday, that might be nice. But I don’t think I’m ready to grow up yet.”

I laughed again, shaking my head. “You’re 24, yes? You don’t think that’s ‘grown up?’”

“Age ain’t nothing but a number,” she said with a wink. I suspected it was a reference to something, but I wasn’t sure what that was. “It’s a state of mind.”

“You have a bachelor’s degree, live on your own, and are considering a masters degree. And you don’t see that as being grown-up either?”

“Oh, sure, I can pretend to be a big girl when I need to be. But, given the choice, I don’t prefer it.”

“Right,” I said, recalling our last conversation. “You suggested that you had a naughty side to you?”

“Naughty? I don’t recall using that word.”

“It was implied.”

“Fair enough,” she says, giggling a little. Damn, that gleeful little laugh short-circuited my brain. “I am a little naughty.”

“Naughty enough that you feel you need a spanking, yes?”

I watched her cheeks glow a little as she nodded. “You remember.”

“It’d be hard to forget something like that.”

“I worried that I said too much, too soon.”

I shrugged. “It was a unique way to be introduced to someone, I’ll admit. But I didn’t take any issue with it.”

She smirked. “It’s a litmus test, I suppose. I like to see what kind of reaction I get.”

“Oh, so you’ve said things like this to your mother’s suitors before, then?”

“I’m not sure I’ve ever been so bold to tell someone I wanted to spanked before. But I like to at least hint at my daddy issues and see what happens.”

“And what is the usual reaction?”

“Nothing notable,” she said. “Indifference, sometimes. Or, it’ll be a man who takes my words a bit too literally and wants to actually nurture me like they were my father.”

I laughed. “Ah, but you don’t want that.”

“No, sir.”

“Because getting spanked by a fatherly figure wouldn’t actually teach you a lesson…”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “It’d probably just make me exceptionally wet.”

I feel my cock starting to spring to life in my pants. It almost seems like betrayal, and I can’t help but feel a little gross. This is not an ethical conversation. Even if this moment ended right now, and I was to tell Hazel about it, she’d be done with me.

And it’s that very idea, I think, that inspired me to push forward a little. If I’m already in a position where the truth would end my relationship, what difference does it make if I don’t put a stop to it?

“There’s only one way to find out,” I said.

Her eyebrows lifted and she stared at me with mouth slightly open, wordlessly. I felt that I could read her mind at this moment, and she seemed just as unprepared for my comment as I was for her initial declaration of her ‘daddy issues.’

It’s a look I’ve never seen on her before, and one I wouldn’t have thought possible.

“Could it be?” I teased. “You can talk the talk, but can’t walk the walk?”

“This is what I get for being a little more bold,” she said. “Maybe I could’ve been taught a lesson much sooner.”

“No time like the present,” I said, glancing at my watch. We had hours before Hazel would be returning. “I could sit right over there, in that chair. And you could just–”

“Y-you would do that?” she asked. “Here? Now?”

“It’s what you want, isn’t it?”

She opened her mouth to say something, but instead just sighs with exasperation. Finally, after taking another moment to compose herself, she nodded. “It is.”

I glance down the hall, looking at the open door of Hazel’s powder room. Within, I’ve started to peel up the old flooring, and I have a cup of coffee that has probably already cooled to a displeasing lukewarm. Given the choice between returning to my project and spending more time with Missy… Well, it’s hardly a debate at all.

“Come,” I said, walking past her and taking a seat on the large plush yellow chair in the corner of the living room. I pat the top of my thighs with my hand, beckoning for her to take her place.

“Are you sure?”

I nodded. “Quite.”

There’s no further hesitation on her part. She trots across the room to me in her oversized green tee and tight black yoga pants. When she reaches my lap, she lets my hands help guide her over it. Nothing has ever felt more sinful than handling the fit and young frame of my girlfriend’s adult daughter as she was positioned over my lap. But rather than it giving me any sort of pause, it only seemed to encourage me.

“What naughty thing have you done that makes you feel as if you need a spanking so badly?” I asked.

“Isn’t convincing you to spank me enough?”

I laughed. “You’re right. So, have you ever been spanked before?”

“Not by my mother, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“But someone else?”

“Boyfriends,” she said. “They’ve tried–mostly because I asked them to. It was disappointing. Their heart wasn’t in it. They were afraid of hurting me.”

“But you want to be hurt.”

“Yes.”

“I’d have to pull your pants down,” I said, my fingertips dancing over the tight fabric over her perfectly round bottom. “I want you to feel my hand. Is that okay?”

“P-please,” she said, her voice sounding a little more desperate.

“And your panties?”

“Uhm, about that…”

I answered my question for myself as I grabbed hold of the waistband and slowly pulled down her pants. She was not wearing panties.

“Naughty girl. You walked around like that outside?”

“Mm,” she said, nodding.

“And you drove all that way–to see me–without panties?”

“Yes.”

“You knew what you wanted, didn’t you?”

“I did.”

“Refresh my memory,” I said, hands gently massaging her ass cheeks. “Tell me what you want me to do again?”

“Spank me,” she said. “Please?”

I don’t know what came over me. I had never been all that assertive of a man before. I had my moments, probably, but I couldn’t remember a time I had felt such power while in an intimate position with a woman. I thought I’d lean into it.

“But who am I?” I asked.

“Daddy,” she said, the word coming out as more of a moan than anything else. Likely sensing where I was going with this, she saved me the trouble of having to ask her again: “Please spank me, Daddy. I’ve been a naughty little girl.”

I barely even think about what I’ll do next–she seems to have spoken the magic words that activate my body, and I immediately raise my hand in the air, poised to strike.

Whap!

A deep moan is forced from her lips as my hand connects with her backside. It’s more than just a sound–it’s the release of years of tension in her. Years of waiting for this moment.

I see no reason to stop. My hand swats her bottom countless times–I find myself getting lost in the moment, and the pleasure of each landed spank fills me with more and more pleasure. I’m not the only one–her moans and gasps get more raw and primal as I go.

“I…I don’t know if…I can take much more,” she finally says.

I stop myself, mid-swat, and calmly lower my hand to her bottom so that I can gently rub her reddened skin.

“I’m sorry if that was too much,” I said. “I hope I didn’t get carried away.”

“Not at all,” she replied in between little moans and short breaths. “It was exactly what I needed.”

“Feeling disciplined now?”

“Very.”

“Do you think you’ve learned any lessons?”

“Only that I want to be even naughtier in the future.”

We go our separate ways for a little while, with me returning to the powder room and her putting some stuff away in her childhood bedroom. We’re not separated long, but it’s enough time that I start to feel a little pang of regret. Obviously, what we had done would be unforgivable if brought to Hazel’s attention–there was no changing that now. But I wondered if this had been too much for Missy. I imagined her sulking a little in her room now, wracked with guilt over having laid across my lap.

After an hour or two of labor, I put down my tools and decided to go check on her. I had never stepped foot in her room before, though I knew where it was. I carefully walked up the stairs and down the hallway, my hand hanging in front of me–ready to knock on her door.

But I didn’t have to, as the door was wide open. Inside, I found Missy laying on her bed, pants completely removed, and her hand between her legs as fingered herself. Her tee is pulled up and bunched up just below her chest.

Our eyes meet, and for the slightest moment, I can see shame on her pink face. But it’s just a moment, as she then smiles.

“I came up here to check on you,” I said. “I was worried you were regretting what had happened downstairs.”

“Uh, no,” she said. “Quite the opposite…”

“Well, I don’t mean to interrupt anything…”

“N-no,” she said. “Come in? Sit down. You can watch.”

“Are you sure?”

She nodded. “You could…help, if you want.”

It’s tempting, but I worry that I’ve shown enough poor judgment for one day. “Maybe not this time. Why don’t you show me what you like to do.”

I take a seat next to her on the bed, my eyes remaining fixed on her hand as I watch her fingers artfully caress the lips of her labia.

“I take it you liked that?” I asked.

“Mmhmm.”

“We’ll have to do it again. This seems naughty enough to earn you another trip over my lap.”

“Please, Daddy,” she said, her head slowly turning to face me.

The room is silent for a few minutes, less the sound of her increasingly more desperate breaths and the slick sound of her fingers doing their work. I open my mouth a few times, wondering if I should offer some encouraging thought, but I keep it to myself–afraid of spoiling the moment.

Eventually, she fills in some of that silence herself. “Can I tell you something?”

“Anything.”

“I want…more. I want a lot of things.”

This revelation isn’t surprising, but it makes me nervous. Because whatever it is that she wants, I’ll probably go along with it. And it will only dig my hole deeper.

“Tell me,” I said.

“It’s weird.”

“The weirder the better,” I said, not entirely sure if I meant that or not.

“I need my Daddy to do more than just spank me. I need him to…help keep me in my place.”

Very curious. “And what is your place, little girl?”

She moans sweetly upon hearing me say those words. “Th-that, I think. Little girl. That’s my place.”

“Ah,” I said, nodding. “I’ve never had a little girl before. So I might need your help here. Tell me how a little girl is kept in her place.”

“Keep calling me ‘little girl,’ for one.”

“Done. What else?”

“I…uhm…also want…” She paused for a moment, either looking for the words she wanted, or just a little lost in what was happening between her legs.

“It’s okay,” I said. “You can tell me.”

Her mouth continued to hang open for a moment, but no words came. Instead, she lifted her other hand to her mouth, and she planted her thumb in the gap between her lips.

It was cute, but it wasn’t an answer. Or was it. There was something about the way she suckled her thumb that suggested she had done it a lot. She had been painting a picture for me, I realized, and I was starting to make sense of the shapes on her canvas.

“Ah, so you want to be treated like an actual little girl too, hm?”

She nodded, a gurgling moan bubbling up as she did.

It was an entirely new concept for me, but not one that I disliked. I could see something quite attractive about that arrangement–that sort of power game. I wanted her to tell me more, but it was obviously getting harder for her to speak as she brought herself closer and closer to the edge. I wondered if, maybe, I should do some of the talking instead.

“I’m trying to imagine how little of a girl you think you might be,” I said. “One who is so little she sucks her thumb.”

“Mm.”

“One so little, she needs to be spanked to be kept in line.”

“Mm.”

“One so little, she…crawls around on her hands and knees?”

“Mmmm,” she muttered, a moan that seemed to come from such a deep place that I wondered if her approval had even surprised herself.

“Oh, you like that?” I asked. I was pleased to have been stumbling in the right direction. I tried to think of where I could take it from here. What else would be the right amounts of infantilizing and humiliating. Infantilizing, that was an interesting word. It felt so deliciously on point, and it served as my new muse.

She let out another breathy little noise as her fingers seemed to bring her a little closer to a climax.

“Little girls,” I continued, “they sometimes can’t make it to the potty on time.”

“Mm…”

“Do you ever have that sort of problem?”

Aside from a cute little noise, she didn’t have an answer to that. Not that I expected her to. I reached down the length of the bed, grabbing her discarded black yoga pants and dragged them closer to my face. I found the crotch in the fabric and brought it to my face, taking a deep whiff of it. It was a stunning bouquet of sweat, hormones and, maybe, a little bit of pee.

The sight of this inspection had been enough to push her into overdrive, and I watched her body contort a little as she further melted into a pathetic puddle.

“Some little girls have to wear protection,” I said. “Diapers, you know? I’m wondering if that’d be good for you. What do you think? Should Daddy keep you in diapers?”

I got my answer in the form of her finally climaxing, her body bucking and wriggling as she moaned uncontrollably into the pillow she had rolled into.

We kept to ourselves for the rest of that day. There was no tension or regret, I didn’t think, just two people who needed to clear their heads after what had been a series of intense moments.

How about now? Now, I must look like an asshole, for sure.

Hazel was, in fact, quite surprised to find her daughter at the house when she came home. She wondered why neither of us had told her. The answer was that we had been a little too indisposed, but we both played it off as just wanting to surprise her–which Hazel had bought.

I had a good laugh to myself over dinner that evening, watching Missy gingerly lower her sore bottom onto the firm wooden chairs of the dining room. I watched her cheeks turn pink as we made eye contact.

It wouldn’t be until the next morning when Missy and I had a moment to ourselves again.

No sooner than Hazel had left for work, I heard a strange shuffling sound coming from the living room while I sat in Hazel’s kitchen with a cup of coffee. I could assume that it was Missy–I just couldn’t be sure what she was doing.

“Daddy,” her voice cooed from the next room. A seductive siren’s chant if there ever was one. I was suddenly on my feet, placing my coffee down on the table.

In the time after this story, I’ve looked back at this moment and tried, as honestly as I can, to think of what it was I was expecting when I went into the living room. Because even if all the clues were there, I don’t think I actually expected her to embrace it all so quickly.

I found her in the living room on her hands and knees, crawling. She wore almost nothing at all. Her perfect skin radiated in the light, and her smallish breasts hung from her chest–perfectly sized for her role. The one thing that she was wearing was a diaper. I almost didn’t recognize it as one at first–perhaps I had just never seen an adult-sized diaper before. Even if this didn’t look all that much like an adult diaper either. It seemed absurdly thick, and it noisily ruffled as her body moved. It was a pastel pink color, which seemed oddly cute for a garment intended for an adult. Had I seen the diaper by itself, and not on her adult body, I wondered if I would’ve just assumed that it was for a literal infant.

I couldn’t even imagine where she had gotten something like this, and I especially couldn’t imagine when she had the time to go out and buy them. Unless…

She already had them. She brought them with her when she came.

“So, yesterday, when I said that you should wear a diaper…”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” she said. “I didn’t think you would, but…”

“I’m glad we’re at least on the same page about what a little girl should wear.”

“Am I cute, Daddy?”

“The cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”

She crawled around the center of the living room in her diaper, completing a small circle to show off her babiness to me from all angles.

“Very good,” I said, clapping. “Dare I even say that you’re a…good girl?”

“I’d rather be bad,” she replied.

“As would I. And I imagine I won’t have to wait long for that.”

She shook her head.

“Your diapers?” I asked. “You, uhm…”

“Yes,” she said, nodding. “I use them.”

I had hoped, and assumed, this would be the case, but her answer still exhilarated me. “You’ll have to show me.”

“Come here, Daddy. Put your hand on the bottom of my diaper. Between my legs.”

I did as she asked, cupping the thick padding with my open hand. My cock was rock-solid at this point, and while I was tempted to dwell on the absurdity of getting so aroused about Missy wearing a diaper and acting like a baby, I chose to just run with it. This was hot, and there seemed to be little reason to question that.

The diaper suddenly seemed to be warmer. In fact, it was gradually getting warmer. Heavier. The texture of the padding was changing.

“You’re wetting yourself?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Naughty girl.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

At that moment? Not much. I remained stationary, continuing to feel her diaper absorb her piss as it sagged further down between her legs. Such a lovely sight–seeing this beautiful girl do something so dirty. If I had any regret at this moment, it was not realizing how arousing this was sooner–there were a number of women in my life who I wouldn’t have minded watching piss themselves in a diaper.

“All done,” she finally said.

“Naughty, naughty, naughty.”

“Mm.

I couldn’t take my hands off her diaper. I explored every inch of it, feeling the spots that were still dry, and the dense and soggy bits that continued to settle between her legs. She’d moan or squeak at times, as I poked and prodded her diaper. She was loving it as much as I was.

“You’ve earned yourself another spanking, young lady.”

“I had hoped so.”

“But I won’t be pulling down your diaper.”

“No?”

“If you want to be a pissy little baby, I think it’s only fitting that you be spanked in your dirty diapers.”

“Mm, yes. Daddy, please.”

I gave her no second to prepare, my hand already in mid-swing as she finished speaking. My palm connected against the squishy padding with a satisfying splat!

I may not be making her bottom sore this time, but the humiliation she felt from being spanked in her diaper while on her hands and knees in the living room were hard enough hits in themselves.

“I…” She was trying to tell me something.

“Yes, baby?”

“I…just… I want to ask you something.”

“You know that you can ask me anything.”

“I know. But this is naughty.”

“And what we’ve already done wasn’t?”

“This is…extra naughty.”

“Extra? Hmm. You best tell Daddy what it is.”

“I was hoping that you might…”

“Yes?”

“Fuck me?”

“Now? In your diaper?”

“Y-yes. Daddy, please?”

There is a near-infinite list of things she could’ve asked for that I would’ve given to her at that moment. But this likely would’ve been at the very top of that list.

I left her where she was, sprinting back up the stairs to Hazel’s bedroom where my overnight bag was still on the floor. I quickly rifled through it, eventually finding the condoms I was looking for. I had to laugh, this was not what I imagined I’d be using these for when I first bought them. Then, as quickly as I had sprinted up the stairs, I sprinted back down. Missy was exactly where I had left her.

“Ready?” she asked.

“Of course.”

I pulled down the back of her soggy diaper, exposing her soft-skinned bottom to me once more. I gently rolled the condom onto my stiff cock as I positioned myself behind her. I slowly slipped my cock into her, her moaning getting progressively louder the more I filled her.

“I…I’m a naughty little girl, yes?”

“The absolute worst little baby there ever was.”

To tell you about the rest of the week would be to rehash those same events in slightly different orders. After Hazel would leave for the day, I’d split my time between the bathroom floor and taking care of my newly adopted baby girl. I’d tease and pleasure her, and when the time came, I’d change her diapers too. At night, we’d trade mischievous grins, nods, and winks while Hazel was around.

Later, when it was just Hazel and I, I’d fuck her too–still thinking about Missy and her soggy diapers.

This is where the story I want to tell comes to an end. There’s more that follows, of course, but I’m not sure I’m ready to share that just yet. Instead, what if I offered you a few possible paths? Feel free to choose whichever one you want. Feel free to choose the one that seems the most right.

I’d be curious to see which you think is the most likely, especially given the fact that you’ve formed some opinions about me following what I’ve already told you.

In the first path, perhaps the most noble one–or as noble as it can be–I finally come clean to Hazel. I tell her everything–or at least enough. I don’t tell her about the wet diapers and spankings, glossing over most of the sordid details by just saying we had ‘relations.’ It’s enough for Hazel to scream at me and slap me across the face. I’m ejected from her home and told that I’m never to see her or her daughter again. It’s a dark moment, but it quickly passes. I feel more sorry for Missy, whose relationship with her mother is likely strained for the considerable future.

In the second path, I’m the one who chooses to end my relationship with Hazel. I try not to hurt her too much, insisting that while I thought she was an incredible woman, I wasn’t sure that this was the relationship I wanted to be in at this point of my life. She understands and we promise to stay in touch. In the weeks that follow, I’m spending more and more time with Missy–this time at my home, or Missy’s. We see a future together–Daddy and Baby. We’re always watching our backs, waiting for the day that Hazel learns that we’re seeing each other. Until then, we’re as careful as we can be. Missy has a nursery in my home, and she spends more time in her diapers than she does in her big girl clothes.

And, finally, there’s one last path. I stay in my relationship with Hazel, without telling her about what is happening between Missy and I. I had asked Missy if she was interested in pursuing a relationship with just me, but her answer surprises me: She thinks it’d be hotter if I went forward with marrying her mother, actually becoming her…well, you know. And so it goes. Hazel and I are wed, and I become my adorable baby girl’s daddy. I try my hardest to keep Hazel both happy and in the dark–it’s a fulltime job, at times, distracting her with affection, but it seems to work. In the moments when Hazel isn’t around, I have Missy wrapped around my finger. Or, maybe, it’s the other way around? I sometimes wonder if Hazel knows more than she lets on. I doubt she’d ever know all the details, but she senses something. But she keeps it to herself, likely afraid of losing her husband and daughter.

Now that I’ve told you about this point in my life–one of my most morally dark–I ask only that you offer the same. Sit yourself down and write out the tale of you at your worst. Leave out all the good things you may have done in your life before or after. Simply let that moment speak for itself. When you’re done, share it with a stranger. Share it with me.

I’d be curious to see how we stack against each other.