Sleepover [Tier 3 Exclusive] (Patreon)

“When are you two going to grow up?”

Franklin just laughs off the question with an ‘aw shucks, Mom’ hand toss, but her question hits me a bit harder. I know she’s just teasing, but it feels strangely targeted.

“There’s nothing immature about two friends hanging out,” he says to her.

“Hanging out?” she asks. “You used to call this a sleepover.”

Franklin’s mother has always been like this–the ‘funny’ mom. The jokester. The witty one that you had to be careful around, lest you get ribbed a bit. Considering that I’ve known her for as long as I’ve known Franklin–and the two of us have known each other since elementary school–I was quite familiar with her antics. I knew her better than many of my own extended family members.

Maybe she was right to tease us a little. Franklin and I are both 20 years old now, both home from college for the winter break. We could call it whatever we wanted, but I was sleeping over at his house. We were going to eat pizza, play video games, and talk about girls. Was this any different than what we did ten years ago?

“I’ll leave you two alone,” she says with a casual shrug. “But if you get hungry, let me know. I can warm up some pizza rolls for you. For old time’s sake.”

“You hungry, Walt?” Franklin asks me, either unaware that his mother is still joshing us a little with her reference to the snack food she used to serve when we kids, or just genuinely interested in the prospect of pizza rolls.

“I mean, I guess I’d eat them if they’re here,” I say.

With a kind smile–and her eyes seemingly fixed on me–she nods and walks back up the stairs.

No sooner does Ms. Dobbs leave the finished basement-turned-sleepover headquarters, Franklin flashes me a sly smile. “I got us a little something for tonight.”

“Oh yeah?”

He opens the cabinet door underneath the wall-mounted TV–the one he keeps his video games, now a generation or two behind–and pulls out a large clear bottle.

“Vodka,” he says.

I laugh. “And where the hell did you get that?”

“Had a buddy at school pick it up for me,” he says. “If this isn’t ‘growing up,’ I don’t know what is.”

I don’t have the heart to remind him that we had spent many a teenage sleepover pilfering small amounts of booze from his mom’s liquor cabinet. Nor do I think I should point out that we’re 20 years old and still hiding things from his mother. During a sleepover. It doesn’t really seem like anything has changed at all.

Still, illicitly obtained alcohol does sound rather nice.

We slip into the classic routine pretty quickly. We play Tekken and Mario Kart for a bit before checking in on our old Minecraft server. We crack open some cans of Pepsi and mix it with some vodka. At some point, pizza rolls arrive and the controllers start getting a little greasier. I share the story about how I made out with Emma Brodsky in the campus library, while he recounts his frisky evening with two roommates following a football game. I suspect a few details are embellished–but I’m only upset that I didn’t think to do the same with my story.

Just past midnight, Franklin is passed out on the couch. He had been bragging that his mixed drinks were slowly becoming more vodka than cola, but it seems that caught up with him.

I was all alone.

There was a precedent for this, of course. Our high school sleepovers usually went the same way–he’d always be the first to pass out. Sometimes it was too much food. Sometimes it was too much stolen alcohol. Sometimes, I think, the guy was just unable to reliably stay awake past 11:30 at night.

And just like our sleepovers of yore, this was when I needed to change into my diaper.

Twenty years old and still wetting the bed. Not as much as I used to, thankfully, but often enough that I don’t like to risk it–especially when I’m staying at someone else’s house.

Honestly, I’m not sure how Franklin doesn’t know. I’ve never told him, but he’s been around me plenty of times while I wore my ‘nighttime protection.’ He’s either very oblivious, or he’s a very good friend. But he’s also the guy who laughed until he cried when I fell off my bike when I was 12 and broke my ankle–I don’t think he’d let me live it down if he knew.

Which is why I don’t change in the basement and never have. I grab my garment, slip it under my shirt and creep up the stairs. From there, it’s just a short jaunt to the bathroom by the kitchen where I can close the door and change in privacy.

Not that it seems I need it. All the lights are off and the house is completely silent. Ms. Dobbs is probably in her bedroom on the second floor, likely sleeping. Still, I lock the bathroom door after closing it.

I’m taking a big risk with the diaper I’ve brought tonight. It’s big, thick. A stark white color with loud sticky tapes and a crinkly plastic outer-layer. This is not like the Goodnites I used to wear. Or the pull-up style ‘incontinence briefs’ I graduated into during my teens. These are diapers. Made for either incontinent adults or…fetishists.

Me? I might be a little of both. The freedom afforded by free university internet had me exploring what other bedwetting young adults were doing, and I didn’t have to look far to find the ‘adult baby’ scene. People who chose to wear diapers and act like babies. Not only did I find myself kind of smitten with the idea, it felt like an obvious way to embrace the issues that still plagued my nightlife. I’m buying adult diapers now. And occasionally, when my roommate wasn’t in our dorm room, I’d break out the pacifier.

I wished I had something a little more subtle to wear to Franklin’s house, but I didn’t think to pack any other options. I had considered going to the store and just buying something cheaper and cloth-backed, but I just hadn’t gotten around to it. And now, here I was, changing into a thick and crinkly plastic diaper in my best friend’s bathroom at midnight.

As nervous as I was about being caught by him, I figured my odds were still pretty good. I’d creep back downstairs and go to sleep. In the morning–almost assuredly waking before Franklin did–I’d sneak back upstairs and ditch my diaper and slip back into some boxers again. Easy peasy.

“Hello, Walt,” Ms. Dobbs says, standing inside the kitchen as I emerged from the bathroom. The light was on now and it looked like she was pouring herself a glass of water. She was wearing light blue pajama bottoms and a cream colored tee that did little to suppress her sizable chest, sans bra.

“Oh, uh, hi,” I stammer, feeling my face turn bright red.

“I decided I needed a glass of water,” she says. “Would you care for one?”

I thought of the diaper between my legs, concealed by my sweatpants. A glass of water at this time of night would almost guarantee that I soaked myself while sleeping. I might not be drunk like the unconscious Franklin downstairs, but I’m certainly not stone-cold sober. I’m terrified that I’m going to do something to give away my secret.

“N-no,” I say, shaking my head. “I think I’m good.”

“Probably for the best,” she says, her lips bent in a rye smirk. “Probably don’t want to have an accident while you sleep.”

I take in a sharp breath, and every nerve in my body seems to be shaken awake. I can’t decide if she knows too much, or if she’s just making a jest that coincidentally hits too close to home.

I try to play it off as the latter: “Well, uh, good thing I’m not a toddler.”

I watch as she bites her bottom lip. I can’t quite read the expression on her face. Playful? The look of someone who knows more, but doesn’t want to say it aloud? Both?

“Don’t get me wrong,” she says. “I do love my son. But I think we could both agree that he’s not the most observant boy.”

My shoulders bounce with a noncommittal shrug.

“I’ve known about that bottle of vodka he hid in the game cabinet for a week now,” she says. “And it wasn’t exactly a mystery where all my alcohol used to go when you two were teenagers.”

“I…I’m sorry. We were just, uh, you know…”

“You were kids,” she says, shrugging nonchalantly. “Look, I was plenty annoyed by the two of you, but I was happy that you were at least doing it here where I could keep an eye on you–whether you knew it or not.”

“I’m really sorry,” I say. “I didn’t know you know.”

“Moms know everything,” she says. “Even about the children who aren’t ours.”

I can tell she’s hinting at something. And I can probably guess what it is–her ‘accident’ line still rings in my ears–though I’m not sure I want to acknowledge it.

“Thank you,” I say. “For being cool about Franklin and I…drinking and…”

“Is he out cold right now?” she asks.

I nod. “I think he’ll be out for a bit.”

“Lightweight. He certainly doesn’t get that from me. Probably his father.”

I nervously laugh, unsure if I’m supposed to be defending him or agreeing with her.

“I know everything,” she repeats. “I know that you were 11 when you started having issues with wetting the bed.”

My eyes widen and my mouth hangs open. I feel the redness in my cheeks–as well as the rest of the color in my face–dissipating. “H-how did you know?”

“As careful as you thought you were being, I’m afraid you weren’t careful enough,” she says. “Eleven year olds aren’t as thorough about disposing of wet pull-ups as they think they are.”

“Oh.” I had no idea she knew–nor that she knew for so long.

“But also,” she continues, “don’t forget that your mother and I are friends too.”

My heart sinks even further into my chest. My own mother had spilled the beans on my secret shame? Who else had she told? The mailman?

“I wouldn’t be too upset about it,” she says, no doubt reading the expression on my face. “She didn’t give me many details, nor did she say anything out of malice. She was just concerned about her baby boy’s well-being and asked for me to keep an eye out for you. You know–help put out any fires if Franklin found out.”

I suppose that’s a little reassuring that my mother, and Ms. Dobbs, had my best interests at heart.

“Thank you,” I say.

“And credit where credit is due. You did a pretty good job of taking care of yourself. Sure, I might have noticed your soggy garbage in our trash can. But I don’t think anyone else ever did. And you never needed my help.”

“Yeah,” I say, scratching my head. “I guess that’s a good thing.”

She laughs. “It is, right? Even now, putting your own diaper on like a pro.”

Did she have hidden cameras in the bathroom? “H-how did you know about that?”

“It was, at least partially, a lucky guess,” she says. “But you were making an awful-lot of crinkly racket in the bathroom. And knowing your history… I’d say it was an educated lucky guess.”

“But you won’t…”

“Tell Franklin?” she asks. “I’d never. Though I will say that you’re awfully bold for bringing such noisy pants to your best friend’s house if you didn’t want him to know.”

“It’s…all I had,” I say.

She bites her bottom lip again. I feel like she has something she wants to say–or something she wants to ask–and is debating on whether or not she’ll say it. An awkward silence hangs in the kitchen for a few moments until she finally smiles.

“Would you show me?”

“Sh-show you? My, uh, diaper?”

She nods. “I promise that I won’t tease you, sweetheart. I just want to see what you’re working with.”

“But…”

“I’ve kept a secret all these years, haven’t I? I’ve never told a soul about the things you wore to bed when you slept over. And anything you show me now, I promise, will stay just between you and I.”

I want to say no. I want to turn around and walk back down into the basement. But I also want to show her. I see that curious, yet kind, look on her face–and, goddamn, if she doesn’t look as pretty now as she did 15 years ago–and I feel like maybe it would be okay if I did give her a little peek.

She watches my hands grip the waistband of my sweatpants. “Are you going to let me see?”

“Okay,” I say. “But just for a moment.”

“Of course. As long as you’d like.”

I quickly shove my sweatpants down my legs until the waistband is just above my knees. There it is–my white diaper on display.

Her smile shifts a little–perhaps becoming more of a smirk now–and she bends down a little to get a closer look at it. “This is a lot of diaper, young man.”

“I know.”

“And you don’t wear them all the time, no?”

“No.”

“So you certainly don’t need a diaper this big and thick, hmm?”

“Uhm, well…”

“May I take a little guess?” she asks.

I nod.

“While I have no doubt that you still have legitimate accidents in your bed on some nights, I’m thinking that these, uhm, rather excessive diapers are part of something…else?”

“Something else?” I repeat, swallowing hard.

“Don’t play coy, Walt. Are you going to tell me, or should I just come out and tell you what I think?”

“Well…” It seems silly to have given me the choice. Of course I wasn’t going to just offer up the truth when there was still a non-zero percent chance that she was wrong in whatever assumption she had made. “Maybe you should tell me what you’re thinking.”

“I think you like diapers. Is that it? One of those boys who likes to dress up like a baby?”

I wanted to melt into the floor. I wanted to close my eyes and disappear out of existence.

“I think I’ve cracked the case,” she says. She walks over to me and reaches to my face, stroking my cheek with the back of her hand lightly. I glance up from the ground, finding myself looking directly into her eyes.

“I…well, you’re right.”

“I know I am,” she says. “But you shouldn’t be embarrassed about it.”

“No?”

“Unless you want to be embarrassed about it,” she says, chuckling a little to herself.

“You don’t think I’m a freak?”

“A freak? Goodness no, Walt. You’re just a baby.”

I feel my cheeks warming again. I wonder if I look like a pink neon sign right now.

“That’s what you want to be, right? A baby?”

I know that I could deny it. I know that I could put an end to this conversation if I wanted to. She’d respect my desire to step away and this would be the end of it.

Instead, I give her the honest answer. It’s something I’ve never said aloud to anyone before, and yet it’s not as hard to say as I fear it will be: “I want to be a baby.”

“I could help you with that,” she says.

The brain is a funny thing. I’m presented with this golden opportunity–the likes of which I’ve never before thought possible, and will likely never be just handed to me again–and I find myself looking for reasons why I can turn her down. Would I be asking too much of her? Would it be weird? Immoral?

I glance behind me, towards the stairwell leading down to the basement where Franklin is, assumedly, sleeping.

“Don’t worry about him,” she says. “Even when he’s sober he could sleep through an earthquake.”

I look back to her, to her charming smile and confident pose. “You could help me?”

“Didn’t you play house when you were a little boy?” she asks, slowly running a finger up my chest before playfully booping my chin. “I could be the mommy. You could be the baby.”

“You… You want to do that?”

“So long as we’re both willing to keep it a secret.”

I nod. It’s a very enthusiastic nod. So enthusiastic that I worry I’ll scare her off.

But she just laughs. It’s an adorable laugh, too–the kind where she holds a hand up to her mouth as she emits a high-pitched giggle. It’s also incredibly genuine sounding–the sort of candid laugh she’d never purposefully allow me to hear.

Her cheeks have the faintest tint of pink to them as she reaches for my sweatpants. “Well then, should we get started? We ought to get these big boy clothes off of you.”

I find myself frozen in place as she pulls my sweatpants all the way down to the ground. She then grabs hold of my t-shirt and gently lifts it up. As if we’ve done this a thousand times together, I knowingly lift my arms into the air, making it easier for her to pull the shirt off.

“Good boy,” she coos. She takes a step back, giving me a full scan from head to toe–just me in my diaper and nothing else. She looks quite satisfied with what she sees.

“You’re developing into a handsome young man,” she says.

“Th-thank you.”

“I bet it's hard keeping the girls at bay.”

“Well, y’know, I…”

“You’re shy,” she says with a knowing nod. “I know. You really ought to put yourself out there more. You’re attractive. Smart. Kind. Any girl would be lucky to meet a boy like you.”

“Thank you,” I say again, nodding.

“Of course, I’m not sure if they’d be as enthusiastic about the diapers,” she says, her hand cupping the padding between my legs, filling the kitchen with a chorus of crinkles. “Most girls like their boyfriends to be potty trained.”

“I’m, uhm, potty trained.”

“Mostly,” she says, a sly smile on her face. “You do still have accidents, yes?”

“Yes,” I say, nodding.

“Though, were I to guess, I’d bet that you use your diapers on purpose more than you have actual accidents in them, right?”

I’m blushing again. “Maybe…”

“Thought so. Do you like it? Peeing your diapers like a baby?”

I nod. I could say more, but I feel like this answers her question sufficiently.

“But babies do more than just wet their pants, right? Do you also…make little stinkies in your diaper?”

I’m absolutely mortified again, barely able to believe that I’m here right now. Is this really happening? Is Franklin’s mom really standing before me asking if I mess myself while I wear only a white diaper?

Still, I nod.

“Oh my,” she says. “That’s quite the commitment to being a baby.”

I offer a tiny little shrug, unsure of how else to respond.

“Do you like that? Pooping your pants?”

I nod again.

“Oh, come now. You can tell me, can’t you? Out loud? I bet you’ve never told anyone this before.”

I shook my head, agreeing with her.

“Go on,” she says. “Tell me what you like to do in your diapers. Go ahead and get it all out.”

She’s right, of course. I’ve never told a soul about any of this before. I haven’t even had an anonymous conversation with someone online about it. These thoughts have never left my own personal space before.

“I…like to use my diapers,” I say timidly.

She nods. “Mmhmm. Tell me more.”

“I like the way it feels, I guess.”

“The feeling of using them? Or the feeling of sitting in your used diapers?”

“Both?”

She laughs. “Seems very naughty.”

“Yeah,” I say, eyes cast down at the floor again.

She lifts my chin up with her fingers so that we see eye-to-eye again. “Show me.”

I know what the words mean. I can even guess at what it is she wants to see. But I still instinctively ask: “Show?”

“Can you use your diaper for me?”

I can. At least, I think I can. I’ve never really had to perform under any sort of pressure before. Nor have I had to perform for anyone else. And maybe it’s the lingering effects of the vodka-and-Pepsis, or maybe it’s the haze of the late night, or it might even be the growing elation of exposing myself as the baby I am to Ms. Dobbs–but I want to show her. I want to show her everything.

“I…I think I can pee,” I say.

“Show me how you pee-pee in your diaper,” she coos. Her use of pee-pee is perfect, and I feel myself beginning to tumble into a headspace that’s new even to me. I feel smaller. More docile. More willing to comply. More willing, and needing, to please.

Right there, on her kitchen floor, I widen my stance a little, letting my feet slide further to the side. I squat. I’m so hopped up on this infantile energy that I keep forgetting that Ms. Dobbs is still in the room with me, watching me.

“Is this how you like to do it?” she asks.

“Mmhmm.”

She says nothing, staring at me intently as I close my eyes and give the command to my bladder for release. It comes slowly at first–just a slow trickle–but it begins to grow into a heavier stream. In the silence of the late-night kitchen, against just the ambient noise of a clicking wall-clock, we hear the sound of my urine filling the diaper.

“Oh wow,” she says. “You’re really doing it?”

I nod. I feel like I’m beaming. Like I’m proud of myself. But I see her–and the way she’s smiling at me–and I feel like I should be proud. She’s certainly very pleased with what she’s seeing.

“I…I’m wetting myself,” I say. But the statement feels like it’s missing something, and I add on a: “...for you.”

She moans a little, her hand reaching between my legs again to feel the soaked diaper. She gently squeezes it, and the feeling of her hand on the saturated padding almost makes me c*m in my diaper right on the spot. I pull myself together, though I’m not sporting a little tent in the front of my diaper.

“Can I confess something?” she asks.

“Anything.”

“I used to love being a mommy. It was my identity. It was my entire world, you know? Taking care of my little boy. But then he gets older and more independent. And he doesn’t need me for as much as he used to. And the things he needs me for nowadays…well, it’s money and shelter, mostly.” She pauses for a moment to laugh to herself. “I miss that. I miss being a mommy. Could I ask you a favor?”

I nod. I’d probably do anything she asked of me. Anything in the entire world.

“Could you call me…Mommy?”

“Yes, Mommy.”

She moans again, a prolonged and deep “Mmmmmmmmm,” that resonates deep inside of me too. “You’re a good boy, Walt.”

I’m tempted to ask again if this is too weird. If we’re overstepping any sort of boundary. But the truth is that I don’t care. We’re both in the zone. We’re loving this moment, and I don’t ever want it to end.

“I’ll change your diaper,” she says. “Whenever you’re ready.”

“R-really?”

She nods. “Of course, baby.”

It’s normally the sort of thing I’d just think and not say, but my brain is broken, and I just start rambling aloud to her: “I…want so many things. I want you to change me. I want you to feed me. Bathe me. I want you to push me around in a stroller. I want you to take me to the store and buy me baby clothes. I want you to put me over your knees and spank me.”

She laughs, putting a finger up to my lips to silence me. “I’m excited too, baby. One thing at a time.”

I nod, my cheeks flaring again as I realize how desperate I must sound. But she strokes my face with her hand again, and I feel some of that humiliation fade.

“Is Baby hungry?” she asks

Not really. Between the pizza rolls, potato chips, the cheesesteaks that Franklin and I ordered for dinner, and the cookies Ms. Dobbs had brought down to us after that, I didn’t think I could eat another bite. Filled to capacity. Still, I was curious to see what she was offering. “Maybe?”

She laughs a little, her cheeks turning the slightest bit pink again. “Do you want to know a little secret about Franklin?”

The timing for this query seems strange, but I’m not about to pass on that offer. “Of course.”

“He was breastfed until he was four years old.”

“Oh,” I say. “Wow.” Any other time, I might be stifling a giggle. Now, I’m just jealous.

“He refused to give it up,” she continues. “There were days where I thought he’d be drinking from my breasts until the day he got married. He, obviously, grew out of that stage, but it took a bit longer than I expected.”

“I had no idea.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t even remember it,” she says. “Or maybe it's some repressed memory, who knows. Maybe he’ll bring it up in therapy someday.”

We both laugh a little.

“But I mention this only because…I think about it a lot.”

“Breastfeeding?” I ask.

She nods. “Mmhmm. Mind you, I don’t think about Franklin sucking on my tit again. I mean, if he asked… But I just mean in general. The feeling of someone suckling from me. The warmth of feeling their body pressed against mine. I miss that.”

My heart is racing as I hear these words. I can’t remember if she’s actually asked me a question yet or not. But I have an answer: “Yes.”

I think she’s on the same page, but she offers a “Hmm?” for confirmation.

“I…I want to suckle on your breasts, Mommy.”

“Mmmm,” she moans, practically melting herself. “You’re a very good boy. Come with me.”

She grasps my hand and starts walking. I allow myself to be towed behind her, waddling as fast as I can to keep up in my sloshing diaper. Through the living room, down the hall, and then up the stairs.

It occurs to me that in the 15-ish years I’ve been coming to Franklin’s house, I had never gone to the second floor before. It was where his mother’s bedroom was.

“Wh-what about Franklin?” I ask, reminded of my sleeping friend.

“We’ll be fine,” she says. “Come along, Baby.”

It hardly seems like the time to make a real critical analysis of her bedroom, but my first impression is that it’s exactly what I expect of a single mother’s bedroom. Modestly decorated–function over aesthetics. Kept quite clean, though there’s a few stray pieces of clothing that catch my eye. There’s a pair of black panties on the bed that my eyes fixate on.

“Like those?” she asks. “You might like the ones I’m currently wearing even more.”

She releases my hand, and in the same instant, she pulls down her own light blue pajama bottoms, letting them fall to the floor. She’s wearing lavender panties with black lace trim. I’d find it hard to believe that she chose such cute panties with the expectation of showing them to me tonight, but such cute underpants would seem wasted without a set of eyes ogling them.

“Do you like?” she asks.

I nod. “Very much so, Mommy.”

She sits down on her bed, sliding her bottom up to the headboard and leaning her back against it so that she’s sitting. I can see up the length of her legs to her crotch, where I’m pretty sure I can see a wet spot in her panties. “Come here, Baby. Mommy wants to feed you.”

I crawl atop the bed in my diaper, which only seems to sag more and more between my legs as I move around. She pats her thighs, and I can guess where she wants me.

There should be nothing instinctual about lying across a woman’s lap, as an adult, to be breastfed–it’s just not something that happens. But as I find myself slipping into a smaller headspace, it all just makes sense to me. I know where I need to be. I know how to position myself. My torso lies across her lap as she lifts off her tee, revealing her voluptuous tits. God, how I wish they were still full of milk.

Still, my grabby hands can’t help themselves. I’ve never been in the presence of bare tits like this. They’ve never been so close–dangling above my mouth. I grab one with both hands, greedily tugging at it in an attempt at pulling it to my mouth.

“Careful, little boy,” she coos. “I’ll help you.”

One hand cradles the back of my head and neck, lifting me towards her nipple. The other guides her breast–still being held onto for dear life by my hands–to my lips.

“Go on,” she says. “Suck on it like a good baby.”

This too, shouldn’t come as naturally to me as it does. But the second I take her nipple into my mouth, I feel like it's something I’ve done thousands of times before. I’m not getting any milk, of course, but I almost can’t even tell–going through these motions, being held up to her chest like this, I feel like I’m getting something.

Her other hand slides down my bare chest and to my belly, where she slowly rubs my skin in large circular motions.

“Baby’s already had a lot to eat tonight, huh?” she asks playfully.

“Mm,” is all I can offer as my mouth is otherwise preoccupied.

“If you need to make some room…” She doesn’t finish that thought, but I can guess where she was going with it.

I pull my mouth from her tit to look up at her. “A-are you asking me to…uh…”

“I’m saying that you can if you want to,” she says. “Haven’t you ever wanted a Mommy to change your dirty diapers?”

“Y-yes,” I stammer, my lips wet with strings of saliva still connected to her breast. What I really want to say is: “Oh fucking hell yes, please please please, fuck. I’ve never wanted anything more!”

“This might sound strange to you, but I think you’d be doing me a favor if you did go ahead and fill your diaper for me.”

“Really?”

“I’ve missed it,” she says. “That whole ritual of the diaper change? I know it’s not the sort of thing you’re supposed to miss. Or like in the first place. But there’s something about caring for someone so helpless at their most vulnerable moments, you know? That sort of trust? Believe me, there’s really nothing else in life that’s quite like it. I’ve looked.”

There’s so much I want to say. I want to ask her if she’s sure. If she’s thought this through. If she’s considered the fact that there’s a big difference between changing her son’s diaper when he was an actual baby and the diaper of her son’s friend–a 20 year old college student. But her nipple is so close to me, and I still hunger for it very badly.

I instead offer the condensed version: “You’re sure?”

“Very,” she says, her mouth curved in a wide smile. I’m already suckling on her breast again when she continues: “No pressure, of course. But I promise I’ll take good care of you.”

I believe that.

I’m feeling euphoric. It’s not just the sensation of suckling from her. It’s being cradled in her lap in a diaper. Her enthusiasm towards everything she’s learned about me. It doesn’t even seem real. I’m sure there are people who daydream and fantasize about a scenario like this, but I never have. Previously, it seemed too unrealistic even for my own fantasies.

“That’s a good boy,” she coos, stroking my back. “What do you think? Are you going to use your diaper again?”

Don’t think, just do. I fight the impulse to ask more questions. The impulse to check again and again if she’s okay with it. At some point I just have to take her for her word, and she’s made a strong case for what she’s okay with doing.

I’m a little worried that I won’t be able to perform. I’ve never done this–mess my diaper–while in this sort of position before. With someone watching, no less. But when I bare down and push a little, I can feel my bowels reacting–it’s possible that I have to go more than I thought I did. Maybe this won’t be so hard after all.

“Was that a little grunt I heard?” she asks, running her hand through my hair.

I decide I’m just going to go for it. The more I overthink it, the less likely I am to go through with it at all. And I truly believe that I’ll never get an opportunity like this again.

“Huugghmm,” I moan through her breast as I push again.

“Oh my,” she says. “Is that what I think it is?”

Her hand slips back to my diaper, resting on my bottom just in time to feel it expand and swell as I push my load into it. I have to take my mouth off of her breast for fear of biting down on it as I continue to push. I don’t think I’ve ever had to push so hard in the past, but I’m just so eager to load this diaper as much as I can. And, admittedly, I do love the performance aspect of it. As does she.

It’s done, and for a moment, the entire world seems perfectly still. I’m in her lap, my mouth still inches from her nipple–still slick with my saliva. Her hand remains stationary on the bottom of my diaper, feeling the lumpy gift I had just delivered. Absolutely nothing else matters.

And then the scent wafts to my nose and my cheeks glow a bright red.

“Oh…jeez. I’m so sorry about that. I…”

“It’s what babies do,” she says. “It’s no big deal.”

I open my mouth, ready to apologize again, but I stop myself. Her hand is still on my diaper. She’s patting it. Squeezing it, gently. I know she’s smelling what I’m smelling–so if she’s not upset about it, I shouldn't be either. I take her breast back in my mouth again, suckling it like it was a pacifier.

“Thank you,” she says, so softly that it just barely registers over the wet sounds of my mouth on her skin.

I pull myself away again. “For…what?”

“I needed this,” she says. “Or something like this, I guess. I miss…babies. Being a mommy. But also, a man. Which…” She laughs a little to herself before continuing: “...seems kind of silly to say when the man is wearing a diaper. But…it’s been a while since another man has been in this bed with me. It just feels good. All of it.”

I keep my response short and sweet, not wanting to detract from what she just confided in me: “It does feel good.”

She laughs again, giving my full diaper a playful slap. Her hand slides now to the front of my diaper, feeling the swollen lump of my erection.

“Do you like being such a stinky little baby?”

I nod, feeling gloriously tiny and pathetic.

“I can tell. What do you think would happen if I kept rubbing the front of your diaper like this?”

“I…uhm…mmmmm.” My efforts to reply are fruitless, as her hand’s gentle motions on my diaper shut my body down. All I can do is moan, and I do plenty of that.

“Can you c*m in your diaper?” she asks? “For me?”

She doesn’t need to ask. I was well on my way to achieving that myself. In less than a minute I feel my body quivering as I spurt into my padding–the unintelligible babble coming from my mouth sounding like it might as well be actual baby-talk.

“That’s one loaded diaper,” she finally says, rubbing the front of the diaper–pressing my sticky padding against my skin.

“Th-thank you,” I say.

Her finger is on my lips again. “You don’t have to say that. I wanted to do this.”

She flattens her body on the bed and I lay beside her, curled up at her side like a kitten. I have no idea if she falls asleep or not, but I certainly do. I have the most blissful dreams. I see her face.

When she gently shakes me awake, I notice that it’s still dark out. Just after 6 AM, according to the red digits on her alarm clock.

“I think you should go back down to the basement,” she says to me. “I don’t know when Franklin will wake, but it’d probably be good if you were there when he is. Instead of…here.”

I nod, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. I suspect that once I get back down there, I’ll sleep for another few hours–I’m exhausted.

It occurs to me that something is off. I can still smell the slight lingering odor of my toxic diaper, but it’s not nearly as strong as I imagined it’d be. I run my hand between my legs, feeling a thick crinkly diaper. But it feels dry.

“I changed it,” she says.

“Wh-where was I?”

She laughs. “Right where you are now, silly. Except you were sleeping.”

“You…changed me? But the diaper was…”

“You certainly did a number on it,” she says, waving a hand in front of her face. “But I took care of it. I had to sneak into the basement and go through your bag to find a new diaper. As you can see, I found it. I found a pacifier too. I wish I had known about that sooner.”

My cheeks blushed brightly. “I…but…”

“It felt good to change a diaper again,” she says. “Please don’t thank me. Please don’t apologize.”

“I just wish that I was awake for that,” I say. We both laugh.

“Next time.”

“Next time?”

“Oh please,” she says. “You two will be having sleepovers until you’re in a retirement home. We’ll see each other again.”

I took a deep breath and nodded. Then, she offered a hand towards me. I took it, and she pulled me up to a sitting position, my diaper crinkling beneath me. I slid off the edge of the bed–still amazed that I had this experience, but sad that it was coming to an end.

Just before I walk out of her bedroom, she pulls me close, wrapping her arms around me. I hug her back, and we stay like this for a few moments. With one final and sensuous kiss on the lips, she gives me a pat on the bum and hands me my sweatpants.

“Don’t let Franklin see your diapers,” she says.

I nod. “I’ll be careful.”

I, predictably, wake before Franklin, and find that I had wet my new diaper in the few hours since I returned to the basement. I take it off in the bathroom and bag it up before changing into some underwear. He’s clueless about it when he wakes–all of it. No idea what his mother and I did last night, nor what I changed out of this morning.

The next time I see Ms. Dobbs is just after noon that day. We finally emerge from the basement to find her in the kitchen, getting some grilled cheese sandwiches ready for us.

“Sleep well, boys?” she asks.

“For sure,” Franklin says, trying his hardest to pretend that he’s not hungover.

“Slept like a baby,” I say. 

Her back is turned to me when I say it–I’d have loved to have seen her reaction.