Little Sister, Part 1 [Tier 3 Exlusive] (Patreon)

QH Note: Once again, a particular word had to be censored a few times in this story as to not anger the Patreon gods. It rhymes with 'gum.'

One

Maris, my work-wife, often says that the only person she’s ever heard me be upset with is my father. She’s assumed–and not that I blame her–that we’re not on the best of terms.

My father and I get along just fine.

Do you know what it is? It’s knowing someone too well. Their strengths and their flaws. I imagine it’s not dissimilar to a couple who’s been married for years–not that I’ve had that experience yet, myself. We know how to get under each other’s skin, that’s all.

It’s my own fault, really, as the only time I talk about my father is to complain. I don’t tell Maris about the times he’s not driving me insane. I don’t talk about how he built me new planters for the garden last year. I don’t talk about how good his homemade barbecue sauce is. I don’t talk about how he grabs me a donut from my favorite shop every time he walks or drives past it.

Of course, when I write it all out like this, I do wonder if I might take him for granted sometimes.

We live together, he and I. I’ve had every opportunity to escape, and yet I continue to stick around. I say it’s for his sake–that he’d be a lonely, miserable, mess without me. Maybe that’s true, but I know deep down that I’m probably just as afraid of being lonely and miserable living by myself.

My mother passed away when I was young. Too young to remember her, really. Sometimes I think I remember her, but then sometimes I think my memories are actually just the stories I’ve heard my father tell me.

And so it’s mostly been just the two of us for a very long time. Occasionally things have switched up a little. I went to college for a few years. He’s dated a handful of women over the years–some have even stayed with us for short periods of time. Who could forget Margie and her weird eye? Or Leanne and her penchant for belting country-western ballads while she cooked breakfast?

Someday, or so I usually assume, I’ll leave. I’ll meet a lovely woman and we’ll marry, buy a house, have kids, get annoyed with each other, and then die. But I’m in my late-20s now, and still live with my father. My optimism has waned a little.

Toledo

We rarely recognize the start of a big change at the moment it happens. Usually it comes much later, with 20/20 hindsight. We retrace our steps until we finally find the first moment where things started to change.

I think I recognized the catalyst for change the moment it occurred.

I was getting myself ready for work that morning–the usual morning routine of making coffee, sitting at the kitchen table to eat some cereal, and reading the news feed on my phone, when my father walked into the kitchen with a little extra energy in his step than he normally had. The energy was alarming enough, but the real tell-tale sign that something was amiss was that he was awake before I even left the house.

He was ‘semi-retired,’ meaning that he was making a decent living from doing some consulting work for the company he had worked at for 30 years. He was still making four times as much as I was per year, and he did about 10 hours of work a week–and as best as I could tell, 8 of those hours were spent telling dirty jokes and talking about football.

“What’s your deal?” I asked.

“My deal?” He was smiling as he responded–he knew that he had a deal.

“You’ve got that weird date-energy,” I said. “I only see you like this when you’re going on a date. Or, sometimes, the morning after a date…”

“I guess it is a date of sorts,” he said.

“I don’t know what that means.”

“I’m meeting her for the first time tonight,” he said. “We’ve been talking online for a while.”

“Oh yeah?” I wasn’t surprised that he wasn’t talking to someone online–he had discovered online dating before I had. What surprised me was that he hadn’t mentioned her to me previously. Usually he didn’t shut up about this sort of thing. “How long is a while?”

“A few months,” he said, shrugging like it wasn’t a big deal.

“And you didn’t think to mention this to me? I swear you’ve gone on dates with other women in the last few months.”

“Right,” he said. “But I also wasn’t sure that we were going to meet. She’s not local.”

“How far away does she live?”

“Toledo.”

“Ohio? And…you two are meeting tonight? Tell me that you’re not flying to Toledo.”

That seemed like the sort of ridiculous sort of thing he’d do.

“She’s actually coming here,” he said. “I’m picking her up from the airport today. She’ll be staying with us for a few days. I hope that’s okay.”

His ‘hope’ is just a formality. It’s his house, and we both know that he can, and will, do whatever the hell he wants to do. I don’t really care that he’s bringing a stranger to our house–it wouldn’t be the first time for that. But the extremely short notice gives me a little pause. It makes me wonder why I haven’t heard about this woman, or his plans, sooner. It felt like there was more to the story.

“Yeah, of course,” I said, donning my best supportive-son voice. “What’s her name? What’s she like?”

“Her name is Quinn,” he said. “She’s a real cutie, too.”

This didn’t give me a lot of information–I swore that he’s called his potential love-interests ‘cuties.’

“But I guess I should, uh, be a little upfront about something,” he continued, suddenly looking slightly nervous.

I tried to imagine what strange detail he’d announce. Was Quinn married already, running from a spouse? Was she a robot? Insanely violent?

“Okay?”

“She’s a bit younger than me,” he said, shrugging.

This didn’t bother me all that much yet. He had just turned 50 this year, and I wasn’t sure what ‘younger’ looked like at that age. 40? 30-something? But…would that really warrant him bringing it to my attention like this?

“How much younger?”

He sighed, his head cautiously bobbling from side to side. “She’s 20.”

“Dad,” I said, “she’s younger than I am. She’d be too young for me.”

He nodded. “I’m aware.”

I’m not sure what else to say. I might have been mad–I’d need more time to process it–but I definitely felt let down. I thought my father was better than this. Was this, finally, his mid-life crisis–the one I had been bracing myself for the last few years?

“Well,” he said, just as unsure how to react to my uncertainty. “Just…be nice?”

“I’m always nice.”

“She’s a special girl,” he said. The statement makes me uneasy–like there’s something else he’s not telling me. Maybe he would’ve if I’d reacted more positively. “I don’t want to mess this up.”

Quinn

I didn’t tell Maris about my father’s new guest at work that day. I was tempted to–I really needed to talk to someone about it, and I probably talked to Maris more than anyone else outside of my father–but I didn’t want to feed her more negativity about my relationship with him.

But keeping it inside of me wasn’t all that great either. As the day progressed, I became more angry and annoyed with my father. 20? That’s a 30 year age-gap. That seemed so irresponsible to me. The power dynamics were catastrophically unbalanced. Sure, that was probably the point, I assumed. It had to be, right? What other reason would there be to try and start a relationship with someone that much younger?

For once, I was thankful for a busy day of work, as it helped to take my mind off things. By the end of the day, while I was still unhappy about the situation, I was worn down enough that I was willing to at least humor it. I wasn’t about to trick myself into thinking it was a good idea, by any means. But maybe it wouldn’t be as bad as I thought it’d be.

My father and Quinn were home before I was, waiting for me in the living room when I came in. They were sitting next to each other on the couch–their hair a little mussed and clothes slightly askew. I suspected I had interrupted something when I pulled into the driveway.

“Ah, here he is!” my father exclaimed, standing up. “Quinn, I’d love for you to meet my son Max. And Max, I’d love for you to meet Quinn.”

She also stood from the couch, a petite thing with curly blonde hair, rosy cheeks and big blue eyes. If I hadn’t been told she was 20, I’d have probably guessed she was even younger. She looked like a delicate little doll. Though I also quickly assumed that this was part of the appeal.

We stepped closer to each other, and I stuck out a hand for her to shake. Instead she surprised me by quickly wrapping her arms around me for a hug. I hugged her back, albeit awkwardly. Partially because I’ve never been much of a hugger. Partially because I was afraid I’d snap her in half. Still, admittedly, it's not an entirely unpleasurable moment. My own dating life has been a bit of a disaster in recent years, and it’s been a while since a warm body was pressed against me like that. And she smelled…nice. I can’t put my finger on what the scent is. Something familiar and calming.

“It’s really nice to meet you,” she said. “Your father has told me so many nice things about you.”

“That’s good,” I said, glancing at his smiling face. I can’t help but wonder what he’s told her about me, or why he felt the need to talk about his son–older than her–in the first place.

“Quinn and I are going out for dinner tonight,” he said, checking his watch. He looked to her: “Maybe we should get ready, sweetpea?”

Her face glowed with happiness as she looked back at him. I was actually jealous of him. All I’ve ever wanted was for someone to look at me with the kind of admiration she showed him in that moment. And they had only met in person, what, a few hours previously?

“Of course, Da–uhm…” Her voice trailed off as her face seemed to glow in an entirely different sort of way–more embarrassed than delighted. Were I to guess, she was on the verge of saying something she shouldn’t have, though I’m not sure what it would’ve been.

My father cleared his throat and draped an arm around her shoulder. “Come along, dear.”

The both of them seemed to think the moment was more awkward than I did, but all I can do is shrug.

“It was nice to meet you,” I said. It seemed like the polite thing to say.

“Likewise,” she said, smiling at me as my father towed her away by the hand.

I could see what he liked about her in that moment. That smile on that face? It could melt just about anyone.

Bag

The moment I see the headlights of my father’s Mercedes hit the road, I carefully creeped back to his bedroom.

I’m not usually one to be going through things that don’t belong to me. I respect people’s privacy. And if there’s one person whose things I have no interest in going through, it’s my father’s. But there was something strange about him and Quinn that I just didn’t get, but wanted to. I already felt outside of the situation, but were any further, I’d have simply labeled my father as a creepy pervert. And maybe he was, but I wanted to believe that it was something better than that.

I didn’t want to go through his things–I wanted to go through hers.

She had two suitcases and a backpack. There was nothing too telling about the suitcases themselves–simple black cubes with wheels. It did seem like a lot to pack for a visit, but I also had no idea how long she was staying.

It was the backpack that piqued my curiosity. Bright pink with pastel yellow and cream accents. A cartoonish picture of some sort of cutesy–vaguely Japanese-styled–critter was on the front of it. It was so juvenile–so infantile–in appearance that I had to pause and, once again, ask myself: “Dad, what the hell are you getting yourself into?”

I opened her backpack, half-expecting to see Barbie dolls and unicorn figurines pour out from it like Lisa Frank vomiting.

Yet, what I find is even stranger.

“Diapers?” I quickly closed the bag.

For a second, I doubted myself. I wasn’t positive that they were diapers–it was just my gut reaction to what I had seen. I was reminded of being a little boy, spending summers with my Aunt Laney while she was raising my then-baby cousin Dora. There was always a stack of diapers within view. What I had seen in Quinn’s bag reminded me of that.

But. No, that couldn’t be right. Surely she didn’t have a child with her. I’d have seen that. My father would’ve said so.

I opened the bag again, pulling out the folded objects. They were definitely diapers, I wasn’t wrong about that. But I might have been wrong about them being for a child. These were big. Thick. Sized for an adult.

For a moment, I felt bad. All I had wanted to do was figure out what my father was doing with someone so much younger than him–I didn’t mean to discover Quinn’s disability.

No, wait. There was more in the bookbag. I took a deep breath and opened it a little further, reaching my hand in again. A pacifier. Baby powder. Colorful barrettes. A baby bottle. A small stuffed duck.

I wasn’t entirely sure what I was seeing, but it was all starting to come together.

Daddy. That was what she was going to call him in the living room. That scent when I hugged her–baby powder? Quinn was my father’s…baby?

Well, roleplaying as one, I assumed. I hoped.

I had seen enough. What else did I need to see? I carefully put everything back into the bag and I placed it near the suitcases where I had found it.

If I wasn’t sure how to feel about my father and Quinn before, I was really lost now.

Entertaining

I did my best to avoid my father and Quinn for the next day or two. I made small talk when I had to. Offered friendly waves and said all the proper ‘hellos’ and ‘good-byes.’ But I tried my hardest not to be dragged into any conversations. I made plans to eat dinner outside the house. If they were in the living room, I went to my bedroom.

I still had no idea what to make of what I had learned about the two of them. There were fleeting moments when I was almost happy for my father–having success in establishing such a strange relationship that I’m sure he must’ve been craving. But most of the time, the whole thing just made me uncomfortable.

“Max, can I ask you a favor?” my father asked me on Friday afternoon. I had just gotten home from work and was sitting down to a much-needed cold lager when he cornered me in the living room.

“What’s up?”

“Some of the guys from the office are going down to Bernie’s for some drinks tonight. I guess they wrapped up the quarter with some great-looking numbers. They wanted me to swing by.”

I didn’t hear the needed favor in that yet. “Okay? I guess you’re going over there?”

“Just for a little bit,” he said. “I want to say ‘no,’ on account of having–y’know–company. But I did help fix their business plan so I feel like I probably should stop in.”

“Going to introduce them all to Quinn?” I asked.

“Ah, well…” He laughed awkwardly, running his hand through his hair. “I’m not sure I want to overwhelm her with all those new faces, you know?”

He wasn’t fooling me, even if he thought he was. He knew damn well that he couldn’t show off his 20-year old toy. The little girl who was still wearing diapers, apparently.

“Oh,” I said, feigning ignorance.

“You, uh, don’t mind entertaining her for a little bit tonight, do you?”

I sighed, fighting against the temptation to ask if he expected me to bring her to McDonald’s to get a Happy Meal. “Well…I don’t know.”

“Just, you know, chat with her a little. Get to know her. Just…hang out with her and put a movie on if you have to. She’s a sweet girl.”

“I guess.”

“I swear I won’t be too long.”

But I had heard that before. Every month or so, my father had a reason that he had to ‘swing by’ Bernie’s for a few drinks. And then he’d roll back in around 2:30 in the morning, dropped off by a friend or a cab. Maybe, with his ‘baby’ waiting at home, tonight would be different–but I’d learned not to make assumptions about drinking-nights.

An hour later, he was gone, and it was just Quinn and I sitting on opposite sides of the same couch, staring at the TV as cable-news played. I couldn’t tell if she was dressed up in some sort of specific garb for her games with my father, or if this was just her standard juvenile wardrobe–a short pink skirt, a white tee with some cutesy cartoon character on it that I didn’t recognize, and a pair of pink socks that stretched to just under her knees. Her hair had been pulled into little pigtails on either side of her head.

“I hope I’m not ruining any plans you had for the night by being here,” she said. “I told him that I didn’t need to be…”

“Babysat?” I asked. I immediately regretted my choice of word. It sounded mean. Worse, it suggested that I knew far too much.

Her cheeks went red and she bit her bottom lip. “I, uhm, was going to say ‘entertained.’”

I should’ve gone with that word.

“It’s not a big deal,” I said. “I didn’t have any plans to ruin.”

Neither of us said anything for a while, the awkwardness expanding with every second spent in silence.

She was the first to speak up again: “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Did you, uh, go through my bag the other day? The first night I was here?”

I could’ve lied, but I suspected that she wouldn’t be asking if she didn’t already have reason to believe I had. I tried to think back on that moment–wondering if I could recall the misstep I made that had given the truth away.

I couldn’t, and it was time to fess up. “I did.”

It’s stated matter-of-factly–almost defiantly. I want her to ask ‘why?’ I want an excuse to go off about the absurdity of whatever game her and my father are playing.

“Oh,” she said, her face looking a little more pink. She just left it at that.

I wasn’t sure how to react. Was I supposed to just move on and start watching the television again? Was there a conversation that should be spiraling out from that question?

“I’m sorry,” I said, much to my own surprise. I decided to roll with it. “I don’t like getting involved with other people’s business, but…”

“You wanted to know what was going on,” she said, nodding. “I understand.”

“You’re not mad?”

“I don’t like it,” she said. “But I get it. I’m sure your father hasn’t told you much about us.”

I shook my head. “Not a thing.”

“Maybe I could answer some questions,” she said. “If you have any.”

“If I was supposed to know things, I assume he’d have told me already,” I said. “I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to know.”

She shrugged. “Well, he’s not here now. And if it helped you to feel better about it…well, I don’t have to tell him that we talked about it.”

I did appreciate what she was offering, and I wanted to take her up on it. But her willingness to keep secrets from my father, already, gave me some pause.

Still, my curiosity seemed to trump my tenuousness.

“So,” I started. “Diapers, huh?”

She laughed, shrugging. “What do you think about it?”

“I’m not sure that I have an opinion,” I said. “Seems…weird. But it’s not something that I really have to care about, I guess.”

She nodded. “It’s weird, I’ll give you that.”

“You like dressing up like a baby?”

“Mmhmm.”

“And my father…?”

“He likes it too,” she laughed. She quickly added: “He likes when I’m dressing like a baby. He doesn’t like dressing like one himself.”

“I figured,” the mental-image of my dad-bodied father in a diaper, thankfully, fading as quickly as it appeared.

“He’s my…Daddy.”

I nodded, having presumed as much previously. “I suppose that makes me your big brother?”

She let loose a high-pitched squeal that morphed into a giggle, her hand held up to her mouth bashfully. “S-sorry…that was cute.”

It did feel good to make her laugh like that. Still, I needed to be careful. This wasn’t my game to play in. I didn’t want to be involved in my father’s kinky adventures.

“Can I get you something to drink?” I asked. Talking about it was actually helping some. It was a strange conversation, but it beat the silence.

“Yes, please,” she said.

“Shall I put it in a baby bottle for you?”

Her face turned a much darker shade of red. “Y-you joke, but…I did bring my bottle with me.”

“I know.”

“Would it be weird if I got it?”

Yes. Though that wasn’t a bad thing. “Go on and get it. I’ll meet you in the kitchen.”

Moments later, I heard the pitter-patter of her little feet taking her to the kitchen where I was pouring myself a glass of iced tea. With a surprising amount of confidence, she plopped her purple plastic baby bottle onto the counter next to my glass with both hands. It looked almost exactly like how a toddler would’ve done it.

“Iced tea?” I asked.

She nodded. I filled her bottle to the brim, before screwing the nippled-lid back onto it and handing it back to her.

“Thank you.”

“Is it strange,” I asked on our way back to the living room, “that my father is so much older than you?”

She shrugged. “I don’t really think about the numbers. I like older men–as I’m sure you can guess–but I don’t really think about it as ‘old’ or ‘too old.’ I like your father because he’s mature. Sweet. He’s not pushy, you know? There’s a lot of guys who see a girl like me and they want to, just…dive right into my diaper.”

I had to laugh at her phrasing. I didn’t completely know what she meant, but I understood it enough. It was also interesting to hear her talk about my father like that. He had always just been…Dad. There was baggage with that, some good, some bad. The way she talked about him, it was almost like she was talking about someone I didn’t know.

And maybe I didn’t.

“Is it weird talking to me about this?” I asked. “Your, uh, Daddy’s son?”

“If I stop and think about it, it probably is,” she said. “But I’m enjoying this, so…I just won’t think about it.”

I didn’t want to be too engaged…but I was. She fascinated me. My father was right–she’s cute. So fucking cute. I tried to avoid eye-contact, fearing I’d get lost in those adorably large doe-eyes. I wasn’t about to pretend that I cared about things like diapers or baby-things, but I was starting to at least understand the appeal. I just wanted to, I don’t know, protect her. Take care of her. Swaddle her in a blanket and fend the rest of the world off.

“Can I ask you something?” she asked.

I wasn’t entirely sure, but it looked like she was seated closer to me on the couch now. I was catching the slightest whiff of that baby powder scent again.

“You answered my questions. I’ll answer yours.”

“How come you’re single?” she asked.

“Ouch,” I said, laughing. “Starting with a tough one.”

“In case you didn’t know,” she said, “your father is wondering the same thing. Though I don’t have to tell him what you tell me.”

“He asks me almost everyday,” I said. “I’m well aware of his curiosity.”

“Well?”

“I don’t know what my problem is,” I said. “I’ll try and dip my toe in the dating pool for a little bit, but then I’ll get discouraged and give it up for a year. But, if I’m being honest, I think I know the actual problem.”

“Hm?”

“I’m complacent. I mean, I’m still living with my father, and I’m 28 years old. I’m afraid to go out and live on my own. I tell myself that I’m here for his sake, but…well, he doesn’t need me to be here. I guess I just don’t like change all that much.”

She shrugged. “I think I thrive on change.”

“Well, sure,” I teased. “Diapers, right? You kind of have to change those.”

“That’s not what I mean,” she said, smirking. “Though…maybe you’re onto something there.”

“Tell me about that though,” I said. “Thriving on change?”

“A blessing and a curse,” she said. “I need things to feel new and exciting or else I grow bored. Hence flying across a couple of states to be with a man who is more than twice my age.”

“What’s the, uh, plan here?” I asked. “My father, unsurprisingly, has been pretty mum on the details. Are you staying long? What happens next?”

“He invited me to live here,” she said. “Did he…not tell you that?”

I shook my head.

“I haven’t committed to anything,” she added.

“Not that I’m advocating for you to stay or to leave, but…what’s holding you back from committing?”

“You, I think.”

“Me?”

“Well, sure. Maybe it’d be different if he lived alone. In my mind, I imagine living out this ultimate fantasy of being his big-baby full time, you know? I have an entire nursery. He takes care of my every need. I stop participating in the outside world and double-down on my entire identity revolving around diapers and infantile things.”

“But my presence messes all of that up?” I was smiling–the idea of this kind of amused me.

“If I’m being honest? It changes things. Because now, for my fantasies to come true, you either need to leave, or…”

“Or?”

“Or, you need to be onboard with having a new little sister, I guess.”

“Charming, except for the fact that you’re boning my father.”

She grimaced. “True or not, I don’t like the way that sounded.”

We both laughed. And, I wasn’t completely sure, but it seemed like Quinn had scooched a little bit closer to me somewhere in that conversation.

Oops

Two hours passed, and my father still wasn’t home. I was unphased by this, though Quinn seemed a little disappointed. She seemed to hide it well enough, and my company seemed to be scratching a social itch for her, but I still caught her glancing at the front door every so often.

The biggest surprise to me in those two hours, though, was how much I was enjoying Quinn’s company. I tried to remain honest with myself–there was a very strong possibility that the drought of love-interests in my life would have me gravitating towards anyone who’d give me the time of day. But, no, I think I genuinely enjoyed my time spent with her. She was sweet. Funny and playful. And…cute. Even the more baby-ish details had started to grow on me. I enjoyed watching the way she sipped from her bottle. Or how she’d occasionally shift in her seat and I’d hear the crinkling of her diaper.

“Pardon my bluntness,” I said, returning to the couch from the bathroom, “but that was the second time I went and took a piss since my father left. And you’ve been drinking just as much as me. You had to have wet yourself by now, right?”

She laughed, her cheeks brightening. “I didn’t think you’d care.”

“I didn’t think about it until just now, when I was in the bathroom.”

“Well…”

“Did you?” I realized I sounded more excited about it than I meant to. “Did you wet yourself?”

She nodded.

“Wow. While you were sitting next to me? When did this happen?”

“It happened twice, actually. Once when we were talking about how Daddy–er, your father–wanted me to move in. And then, again, about twenty minutes ago.”

I shook my head. It was strangely thrilling–the thought of her just pissing her diaper while sitting only inches from me on the couch.

“I could show you,” she said.

“I believe that you wet them.”

“I didn’t think I needed to prove it to you,” she said, smirking. “I was wondering if you wanted to see it.”

I did. But it felt very wrong to me. My father’s presence–his very existence–still loomed in the house, and it made this situation very confusing. Seeing her diaper felt like crossing a line. Because then, maybe, I’d want to see more. Do more. And she wasn’t ‘mine’ to do those sorts of things with.

“Well?” she asked, ending the silence caused by my inner-debate.

“I dunno…”

“We, obviously, won’t tell him,” she said. “If that’s what’s bothering you.”

“I’m not sure that makes it any less weird.”

“But you do want to see, don’t you?”

“I do…”

She slid off the couch, her short skirt riding up her legs a little as she did. Not enough to reveal her diaper, but enough to show off her soft and hairless thighs. I bit my bottom lip a little, trying hard not to be turned on by the slightest exposure to her bare skin.

Quinn positioned herself directly in front of me, her rear end in my face. She was so close that she might as well have been sitting on my lap. Her body arched forward as she reached back, hoisting up her pink skirt until it was entirely pulled around her waist.

And there it was–her diaper. I was no expert on diapers, but I didn’t think I had to be one to tell that it was thoroughly soaked. The thick padding closest to her bottom and between her legs was a different texture then the rest of it–discolored even. It hung from her like a soggy lump. Never in my life had I thought of a diaper as something that I’d be turned on by, and yet there I was–feeling something growing in the front of my pants.

I’d have argued that it was less the diaper that turned me on and more the girl who was wearing it. Maybe she could’ve been wearing a trash bag and it’d have the same effect. Her confidence made everything exciting. She was spunky and unpredictable.

“Well?” she asked. “What do you think?”

“It’s, uh, very nice.”

“You can touch it if you want. Don’t you want to touch it?”

“Just a little.”

“Go on,” she said.

I reached forward until my fingertips were stopped by the saturated padding.

“You can do more than just poking it,” she said.

I snorted, laughing a little at my own exaggerated hesitancy. She was practically begging me to touch her diaper. And I wanted to touch it. What else was I waiting for? I reached forward again, this time placing the entirety of my open palm on the bottom of her diaper. It felt heavy. It felt good.

This was the point that I stopped thinking about it. I gave her diaper a gentle squeeze as I continued to explore it. Both hands were on her diaper now, feeling the rustling plastic flex beneath my fingers.

I heard a faint moan coming from her, or at least I thought I did.

The more I touched her diaper, the more of her I wanted. I let the back of my hand brush against her bare thigh, finding it to somehow be even smoother than I was imagining.

She moaned again, this time a little louder.

“Oops,” I said, worried I might have been overstepping. “S-sorry.”

She said nothing, instead giggling to herself before taking another step backwards towards me. By the time I realized what she was doing, it was done. She was sitting on my lap, her wet diaper planted atop my stiff cock.

“Oops,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at me with a playful smile on her face.

Stolen

It all happened so quickly. The feeling of her squishy diaper landing on my lap had turned on switches that I never even knew existed. I craved more. I craved everything.

I reached around her body, grasping at her thighs, feeling the tender flesh in my fingers. I slid them up to her diaper, taking some more time to admire the feeling of the plastic padding, before letting my hands slide up under her shirt. She moaned again, making no effort to stop me.

I took in a long breath through my nose, getting hit with a bounty of aromas–baby powder, sweat, and maybe just a little bit of pee? It was unexpectedly intoxicating.

“You should smell the inside of it,” she said.

That sounded delightful, though a few steps ahead of where I was at.

“Can I…kiss you?” I asked.

“You don’t have to ask.”

“I just wanted to be sure that…”

“I want you to kiss me.”

She slid off of my lap again, only to spin around–the hem of her skirt twirling into the air to expose her diaper again–before she crawled back onto my lap, this time facing me. Her legs straddled my sides as her diaper slid up my lap before getting parked directly on top of my erection again.

This time, I was the one who moaned–though the noise was cut short by her lips pressing against mine.

Fireworks, immediately. I wasn’t thinking about anyone else at that moment–but my lips held the memories of everyone else I had kissed in the last few years, and they buzzed now in a way they hadn’t before.

Later–maybe just seconds or maybe a year, who could say–she pulled her lips from mine. “This is naughty, isn’t it?”

“Very,” I said.

We both looked towards the front door at the same time, as if to double-check that in all of our making-out, we hadn’t missed my father returning home.

I swear I had experienced this before in my life–peering out the corner of my eye to make sure my father didn’t walk in on me while my hand was up some young lady’s shirt. Except I never had my hand up father’s girlfriend’s shirt before. Or…whatever the hell was Quinn was to him.

I’m stealing her. That was what I was thinking as I felt her grind her wet diaper on my crotch. She's all mine, and he’s never going to get her back.

“Do you like that?” she asked, her hips gyrating over my lap. It wasn’t quite a whisper, but it was a softer tone that just about melted me into the couch.

“Y-yes…”

“I bet I could make you–ungh–c*m,” she said.

I chuckled. “Sounds like you might cream your diaper first.”

“Wanna–uhf–bet on it?”

I nodded. “If you c*m in your diaper, before I c*m in my pants, then I’m going to carry you back to my room and fuck you on my bed.”

I’ve never talked like that before. I wasn’t even sure that I’d said the word ‘c*m’ aloud in over ten years. But she had that way about her that loosened all my inhibitions. I was loving the way that she made me feel.

“Okay, fffffffine,” she said, pressing her diaper even harder against my cock. “But if you c*m in your pants, I’m going to make you wear one of my diapers.”

“You’re on.”

And thus started one of the most surreal moments in an evening that had already well surpassed the strangest I could ever remember. Quinn atop my lap, grinding into the lump of my cock with her wet diaper as hard as she could. Me, thrusting my hips into the air, hoping that her own movements would wear her out before she wore me out. Every few seconds we’d pause, and our lips would collide again as we made-out with each other like desperate animals. I almost didn’t care if I won or lost this bet–I just wanted to feel her on my lap like this forever.

I grunted loudly, feeling myself on the verge of losing the bet as my body fought every impulse to just explode into my pants.

“Lights,” she said.

“Huh?”

“In the driveway. Your father.”

“Right, right.”

With one last grunt, she pushed herself off of me. We both did our best to compose ourselves. I fixed my hair and straightened my pants, while she pulled her skirt back into place and took a few deep breaths. She took a seat at the opposite end of the couch from me–where she had first started when my father left.

“The bottle,” I said, pointing to her half-empty baby bottle sitting on the coffee table.

Maybe it wouldn’t have raised any red-flags for him. Maybe he’d have enjoyed the idea of his ‘little girl’ embracing her more infantile side in my presence. But I didn’t want to risk anything, and seeing how quickly she reached forward to grab the bottle herself, I suspected she thought the same thing. She tossed it under the couch just as the front door opened.

“Well, well, well,” he said, stumbling through the door. I knew Drunk-Dad well enough to know this wasn’t him. This was Tipsy-Dad–still not a man I’d trust to operate a motor vehicle, though it seemed he managed to get home without getting arrested. “It’s my two favorite people.”

“Hey,” I said, throwing him a wave.

But Quinn suddenly seemed like an entirely different person from the one who had just been grinding on my lap. She leaped from the couch and galloped across the room to my father, giving him a giant hug and began kissing him on the face repeatedly.

“Daddy,” she cooed, “I’m so glad you’re back!”

My heart sank in my chest. I had no idea which was genuine–her antics with me just minutes ago, or her performance now, with her hands wrapped around my father’s body. Or, perhaps worse, if both were genuine. It made me feel uneasy. Almost gross.

I watched as my father’s hands adventured into her skirt, feeling her diaper. I pretended not to notice.

“Ah, well, looks like you’re overdue for a…” my father stopped short of saying ‘diaper change.’ “Come, Quinny. Let’s go to my room for a minute.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

That was my cue to head back to my room.

“Thanks for amusing her tonight,” he said to me. “I appreciate it.”

“It was nice getting to know you,” Quinn added.

“Yeah,” I said to both, waving goodbye. “Have a good night. I’ll see y’all in the morning.”

Halfway to my room, I realized that the inside of my boxers were slick and wet.

Early

I was having trouble sleeping. I had a lot on my mind. Quinn, mostly. Her wet diapers and succulent lips. I had never met anyone like her before.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

I wasn’t sure where it was coming from. I sat up in my bed, looking to see what time it was on my phone. 2:30 AM.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

It was coming from my door. Someone was tapping on my door.

“Hello?” I knew it wasn’t my father. He had a distinct knock–and he was a heavy enough sleeper that I knew he would never be tapping on my door this early in the morning. It had to have been Quinn. “Come in.”

The door opened and closed, illuminated by the dim light of Quinn’s cellphone screen.

“Hey,” she said.

She was wearing the same t-shirt she wore earlier in the evening, though there was nothing below it now except for a purple diaper. Obviously not the same one she was wearing earlier.

“Hey,” I said.

“I’m, uh, sorry to bother you, Max. But I…had something I needed to say to you.”

I was simultaneously delighted and frustrated to see her standing there in her diaper. She was adorable, and I wanted–more than anything–to feel her on my lap again. Yet it was hard to look at her and not see her hugging my father as he felt her wet diaper. The diaper she wet when she was sitting next to me.

“Yeah, actually,” I said, scratching my head–hair mussed from tossing and turning in my bed, “I have something I need to say to you too.”

For a moment, we both looked at each other–waiting for the other to speak first.

Okay, fine. Here goes nothing.

But we both spoke at the same time–and we both said the exact same thing:

“I think I lost the bet.”

Hey, if you’re looking for something else to read, why not check out the Master Index of Stories - a (usually) complete list of all stories published on the Patreon:https://www.patreon.com/posts/55547916