The Night Mr. Kirkland Rescued Me [Tier 2 and 3] (Patreon)

I was a sweaty, nervous mess the first time I met Mr. Kirkland. Maybe I just hadn’t met that many ‘important’ people in my life at that point—I had just finished my freshman year of college and all the adults I knew were either relatives or teachers. And Mr. Kirkland, he was important. He was one of our county commissioners, and had been for the last decade. Every few years, his name was on every lawn sign and billboard in a 50 mile radius, and his face was a constant presence in TV commercials.

When I told my father I was in search of a summer job, he surprised me with the fact that he was friends-of-friends of Armand Kirkland, and that he knew Mr. Kirkland was hiring students for the canvassing effort in his re-election campaign. All it took was a phone call and I got myself an interview.

Except, to my surprise, when I showed up for my interview, I was sat in a room with Mr. Kirkland himself. It was like being sealed in a room with a celebrity, and I was so overwhelmed that I could barely form coherent sentences.

To his credit, he was exceptionally kind and patient, encouraging me to take my time and to simply speak from my heart. His warm personality helped ease my nerves and when we actually got to having a conversation, I found our rapport to be outstanding. We laughed and got sidetracked as the chit-chat rapidly switched from college antics, to cuisine, to music, to cinema. It was hard to believe he was almost twice my age.

Long story short, he had been looking for an assistant—someone he could trust to run more personal errands for him while he was running his campaign. While he didn’t know me personally, he knew and trusted my father and his company enough that he was hoping I’d be both a good fit and interested in such a job. The offer was barely out of his mouth when I told him that I'd be happy to accept.

Do you know that feeling of guilt that comes with pleasure sometimes? Like: Should I be enjoying this as much as I do? I had that feeling almost immediately. It was a job, and I was getting paid for it, but it never felt like…work. While I was making the occasional coffee runs or grabbing lunch for him, I was spending a lot of time in his office with him. There was nothing, as far as I could tell, especially scandalous happening behind closed doors—we just talked a lot. It was like he just wanted me to keep him company. He’d rehearse speeches with me, or ask my opinion on the designs of new t-shirts. Sometimes we’d just talk about Bob Dylan for a few hours.

In another world, that’s all there is to the story. Nothing tawdry or sinister. Just a slightly irregular friendship between a college girl and an older local politician.

Alas, I was still a 19-year old girl with a social life. My friends had connections, and so we had alcohol. We spent most of our Friday and Saturday nights sitting around Julie’s hot tub, drinking cheap bottles of hard cider. I rarely drank an excessive amount, but usually just enough to get a good buzz going.

It’d be hard for me to retrace my exact steps for this one particular night. Things got a little fuzzy after Julie opened up a new bottle of spiced rum that she had managed to get ahold of. My last coherent memory, for a time, was ushering everyone out of the hot tub if we were going to keep drinking. We weren’t completely irresponsible.

Things start gelling again a while later. I’m still not entirely sure how much time had passed. Probably because I had no idea what time it was when we left the hot tub.

I was on Julie’s deck, sleeping on top of a wooden bench. I was alone. The outside lights were off. Hell, the lights inside of Julie’s house were off too. Frightened and confused, I knocked on the door for a few rounds, hoping to wake someone up who could let me inside. No answer.

Much later, when I talked to Julie about this night, she swears that she has no recollection of leaving me on the deck before she and the other girls went inside the house to go to sleep. I choose to believe that—it’s not so far-fetched to think that they were all as drunk as I was and simply didn’t account for me when they stumbled into the house before falling fast asleep again.

Of course, I didn’t know this in the moment. In the moment, I’m freaking out. In the moment, I feel stuck between a rock and a hard place. Was I supposed to call my parents in the middle of the night, crying that I got drunk and ended up getting locked out of my friend’s house? I doubted that would go over well. I certainly wasn’t going to walk home, that would probably take the rest of the night—Samantha had been the one to drive me here and I was sure that she was sleeping soundly in Julie’s house at that point.

My only real option seemed to be to just wait on the deck for the morning. Maybe if I was in a slightly more inebriated state, I would’ve found that option acceptable. But the buzz had mostly worn off, and between the chill in the air and the unsettling stillness of the surrounding night, I sure as hell wasn’t going to be comfortable.

I had another idea, though. One other person I could attempt reaching out to.

Mr. Kirkland.

I had casually mentioned before the long nights I spent with my friends on nights like this. I didn’t specifically mention alcohol, but I probably didn’t have to. He had been young once and so he said things like ‘Just be careful, okay?’

It was close to 2 AM when I texted him. A simple: ‘Any chance you’re awake?’ Later, I’d wonder if it had come off like an illicit booty call, though he never said anything to suggest he took it that way.

Within five minutes he texted back: “No, but I could be.”

I told him that I needed help and he immediately called. I explained the situation—a paraphrased version of the situation: I had been accidentally locked out of my friend's house, and I had no way home. I gave him the address and he assured me that he could be there within ten minutes.

You’d expect these to be the longest ten minutes of my life—waiting for the older man, whose respect might be the only respect you want, to come and save you from one of your lowest moments. It was a long ten minutes, but for different reasons than you’d expect.

I had been aware of my pants being wet since I woke up atop the wooden bench, but it seemed like a low priority in the list of things I cared about. Somewhere, deep in my consciousness, I had written it off as just being damp from the hot tub.

But just after I had ended my call with Mr. Kirkland, I spotted my bathing suit hanging on the railing of the deck, perfectly illuminated by the moonlight. A cruel cosmic taunt: ‘Behold! Things aren’t exactly as you thought they were!’

My hands reached down to my jeans and I investigated the dampness. It wasn’t the entirety of my jeans that were soaked, it was my crotch. My ass. My inner thighs. I rushed back to the bench and investigated the wood where my ass had been. Damp. Hell, it looked as if a little puddle had formed beneath it.

I had, at some point, pissed my pants. Such a thing hadn’t happened since I was a toddler. And while I was thankful that my friends weren’t here to see this, it seemed even worse that the one person who would see what I had done was Mr. Kirlan.

I had nothing else to change into, nor did I have any chance at drying off my pants for his arrival. The best I could hope for was that he simply didn’t notice.

He pulled up to the curb two minutes earlier than he said he would. He stepped out of his black Lexus and rushed over to me.

“Penny. Are you okay?”

“Y-yeah. Thank you so much for coming. I…”

“Your pants are wet,” he said.

So much for the hope that he wouldn’t notice.

“I, uhm, fell…into the hot tub.”

“Oh,” he said, entirely unconvinced that this was the truth. To his credit, he didn’t immediately have any follow-up questions. “Don’t be offended, but I’m going to grab a towel from my trunk and put it on your seat before you sit down.”

I sighed, nodding. Embarrassing, but understandable—I didn’t want to know the cost of a damaged seat caused by my wet bottom.

I eased myself inside of his car and he closed the door for me before climbing into the car himself. He immediately began to drive, not even waiting for me to tell him where to go. It was possible he knew where I lived already, having known my father, but he could’ve been driving me to Istanbul, for all I knew.

“I just didn’t want to sit in the car in front of your friend’s house,” he said to me as he drove.

I could appreciate that logic. “Thank you for getting me.”

“Of course. And you’re sure that you're okay?”

“Yes,” I said, afraid to elaborate much. I already felt pretty ridiculous for getting myself into this situation in the first place. I almost couldn’t believe that I had actually called Mr. Kirkland to rescue me. I definitely couldn’t believe that he was actually here.

“Do you want some food?” he asked. “Change of clothes?”

I laughed. “Do you have girls’ clothes in my size just lying around?”

“I was offering to buy you some.”

I looked out the passenger side window into the darkness of the early morning and then back at his dashboard clock to confirm that it was still after 2 in the morning. “Where were you going to do that? A gas station?”

He laughed. “Fair enough.”

“I appreciate the offer,” I said. “But I was probably just going to go home. I’ll sneak through the back door, change my pants, and go to bed.”

I watched his face as he seemed to carefully consider how he was going to respond to that. “I may have a counter proposal.”

“Okay?”

“I’ve got the house to myself right now,” he said. “My wife took the kids to see her parents out west for a few days. I was supposed to go, but I had too much stuff to do in the office. So, if your parents aren’t expecting you home tonight anyway, and you need a place to stay…”

“Oh, I dunno about that, Mr. Kirkland,” I said nervously, barely able to process the fact that he had just offered me such a thing.

“It’s not a big deal. I’ll fix you up a bed in the guest room. You can sleep a few hours. I’ll make waffles whenever you wake up. And then, I’ll take you wherever you want to go.”

I wanted to protest further, but he had already made it quite clear that I wasn’t going to be a burden—this was his idea. My parents probably assumed I wouldn’t be back until later tomorrow anyway, and my friends would just assume I went home. So…why not? I could use some sleep, and I didn’t feel like having to tiptoe around my own house in soaking wet pants.

“I will be getting you some dry clothes, though,” he said, pointing ahead at the big blue department store sign. Saved by the convenience of 24-hour shopping.

“Are you sure?”

“Just stay in the car,” he said. “I’ll just be in a minute.”

I appreciated his assertive kindness. It felt fatherly. I wondered if he had done this sort of thing before for one of his own children—maybe it was just the sort of inherent problem-solving one acquired upon becoming a parent. I had questions, of course. Did he know my size? My tastes? Maybe it didn’t matter. He could show up with granny panties and an ugly sweater and I’d still be thankful for him fetching me dry clothes while not forcing me to expose my soggy ass to the late-night shoppers in town.

True to his word, he returned quickly with a bag that looked bigger than I expected. I couldn’t see the contents, but judging by the size, I wondered if he had purchased me an entire wardrobe.

Don’t be selfish. The world didn’t revolve around me. Maybe he bought something for himself too. Panties for the girl and a new toolbox for Daddy. I laughed a little as he tossed the bag in the backseat at the thought of referring to him as ‘Daddy.’ It seemed wildly inappropriate, even if it gave me the slightest of tingles.

“Alright,” he said, getting back into the driver seat. “I think I got what you need. Let’s get back to my place and we’ll get you nice and comfortable.”

“Thank you, Mr. Kirkland.”

“You’re in my car and I’m taking you back to my place,” he said. “I think we’re past you having to call me Mr. Kirkland. Armand is fine. For now.”

“F-for now?”

He laughed. “That was just a joke.”

Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t—I didn’t want to think about it too much. “Thank you…Armand.”

I didn’t have much to say on the drive back to his house, but he filled the silence himself—likely trying to dispel any lingering awkwardness. He just sort of rambled about music, talking over the radio to tell stories about his more adventurous youth spent following bands like Fleetwood Mac and Grateful Dead around the country. It seemed to be working to lower my heart rate, his calm and collected tone sounded like music to me. I’d have found comfort from listening to him read the phone book to me.

“And here we are,” he said at last, pulling into the driveway of a large house in a gated community. “Chateau du Kirkland.” The garage door opens automatically and we pull inside an immaculate space that would put my father’s well-used garage to shame.

“It looks like a very nice house,” I said.

He shrugged. “It’s alright. Paid too much for it, if I’m being honest. I’d like something more rustic and on a lake but what can you do in this market?”

“Sure,” I said, having no idea how else to respond.

“Come, follow me.”

I slowly slid off the thick towel on my seat, noticing that— yes— I had left a bit of a wet spot in my wake. My cheeks warmed as I quickly grabbed the towel myself so that he couldn’t see it.

The garage door slowly closes with a mechanical whirring, leaving me sealed inside with Mr. Kirkland. I didn’t find this to be especially alarming or concerning, just surreal. This was really happening. I was really here, in his house.

I follow him through a door into a short hallway, which eventually connects to his kitchen.

“Are you hungry?” he asked. “Thirsty?”

“Well…it’s pretty late.” Except, in the aftermath of my excessive drinking, my mouth felt dry and tasted foul. “Maybe some water.”

“How about tea?” he asked. “I have this blend that I swear does wonders for hangovers.”

“I’m not sure that I’m hungover, though.”

“Not yet.”

Touche. “Okay,” I said. “If it’s not any trouble.”

“None at all. I’ll get some water started. In the meantime, would you like to use the bathroom? Maybe a shower would be good?”

My eyes squint a little. Yes, a shower would be very good for cleansing myself of my humiliating accident. But I wondered if the offer was an implication that he knew what I had done.

“You, uh, don’t have to, of course,” he quickly added, perhaps realizing how his offer had been perceived.

“No,” I replied. “That sounds good.”

I follow him through his house, a small labyrinth of contemporary architecture. Giant open spaces, connected with winding hallways. If I wasn’t still walking around in pissy pants, and not still carrying the wet towel, I’d want to stop in each space and take a good look around. He carried the shopping bag with him, still not revealing what it was he had purchased for me.

To my surprise, we walked past at least two full bathrooms. Each time I paused for a moment, wondering if this was where he was taking me. But he kept walking, and so I kept following.

The trail ended in what I presumed to be the master bedroom. A lush king-sized bed was stationed in the center, with little other furniture around. I assumed everything else was in closets, as I spotted 5 different doors scattered across the walls, not counting the one we had just walked through.

“You can use the bathroom through that door,” he said, pointing off to the left hand side of the bed. “There’s a pretty spacious shower in there, as well as a bathtub if you’d rather.”

“N-no…the shower is fine,” I said. The idea of sinking into a nice warm bath sounded amazing, but I wasn’t about to do that in Mr. Kirkland’s personal bathroom in the early hours of the morning.

“You can just leave your dirty clothes and the towel on the ground here,” he said. “I’ll toss them in the washing machine while you’re taking a shower. They’ll be good to go by the morning.”

The word ‘dirty’ caught my ear. I opened my mouth to try and dispute the state of my pants, but stopped when I saw the little smirk on his face.

“We don’t have to pretend,” he said. “You did wet your pants, right?”

“Well…”

“I’ve raised toddlers. I know the smell of peed-in pants.”

“Smell?” I blurted out. “Y-you can smell my pants?”

“In the car, with the windows up?” He chuckled softly to himself. “It wasn’t too hard to pick up. Or maybe I just have a nose for it at this point.”

I could only imagine just how red my face must have been. “God, this is so embarrassing. I…I never do this sort of thing, I swear.”

He laughed again. “It’s really not that big of a deal, Penny. I’m not going to start spreading rumors that you’re a little pants-pisser.”

Jesus. I could not believe that I was hearing this man say those words. I wanted to die. I wanted to literally curl up into a ball and be absorbed into the soft carpet under my feet, never to be seen again.

“To be clear,” he added, “I’m not mad about it.”

How could he be? If anyone should be mad, I thought that it should be me. He was mocking me when all I had done was have an accident a few hours ago.

“M-maybe I’ll just go take that shower now,” I finally said.

He sighed, perhaps sensing that he had said too much. “I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

“I’m just feeling pretty embarrassed right now.”

“Does it help if I, well, told you that I thought pissy pants were a good look for you?”

“I’m sorry…but what did you just say?”

“Feel free to tell me to fuck off,” he said, keeping an even and calm tone. “If you want to call me a dirty old man, I deserve it. But…you’re a pretty girl. And I can’t help but find the sight of you in pissed pants to be a little…exciting.”

Things already seemed plenty surreal, but now they were dipping into the absolute absurd. I felt paralyzed with confusion.

“I’m not sure how to respond to that,” I finally confessed. “M-maybe I’ll go and take that shower now.”

“Of course,” he said, a glint of regret in his eyes. Clearly, he believed he had said too much. “Take your time. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

The shower was as spacious as he had described it, and I don’t know what sort of black magic was at work, but the water was piping hot almost immediately. I let it cascade down my body, washing away my shame. It felt good. I hadn’t realized how badly I needed this.

The hot shower also gave me a moment to reflect on the awkward conversation we had just shared moments before I stepped into the bathroom. He had told me I was pretty. He also said that he found my pissy pants to be exciting. That was a lot to unpack.

I’d be lying if I said that I never harbored some attraction for Mr. Kirkland. On top of being powerful and popular, he was just a very good looking man. I never thought I’d have much of an attraction for an older man, but the more time I spent working under him, the more often I found myself daydreaming about working under him.

But the piss thing. That seemed weird, I thought. Not disgusting. Not any sort of dealbreaker. Just weird.

I swooned a little, a girlish throb of desire there in the steam of the shower. He said I was pretty. I could almost pretend that the mentions of wet pants never happened.

After reluctantly stepping out of the shower—I could’ve easily stayed in there for another month or two—I pulled a thick towel down from the shelf and wrapped it around myself. I gave myself a quick glance in the mirror. The lack of sleep, combined with a night of heavy drinking, hadn’t done me many favors, yet I still had a little bit of a glow.

Returning to Mr. Kirkland’s bedroom, I found that my clothes and the old towel—true to his word—were gone. I blushed again, thinking about him handling my pissy pants and panties. I could just imagine the man holding my soiled underpants to his face. And yet…I didn’t find the idea repulsive anymore. It was flattering in a very, very, strange way.

I also found some items laid out on the bed, waiting for me. A simple white pair of underpants. Some slippers. And a simple pink nightgown. I found the array to be a little comforting. As much as I liked his earlier comments about his attraction towards me, I think I’d have been overwhelmed by the sight of sexy lingerie or anything more revealing.

But wait…

I picked up what I had assumed to be panties. These were not panties. These were thicker, made of some sort of padding. They were…diapers?

Maybe not baby diapers. But perhaps something more akin to what an elderly adult would wear. I could see the effort it made to be more svelte and subtle, but it was still a pull-up style diaper.

“You can’t be serious right now.”

I wouldn’t say that I was offended, but I was certainly confused. Did he think that I needed this? Like with the towel in his car, was he trying to protect more of his property? I tossed it aside, uninterested in even humoring the idea of it. Instead, I slipped the nightgown over my head and took a look on one of the wall-length mirrors near the bathroom door.

Wouldn’t you know, the hem of the gown just barely covered my ass. I had no idea if this was intentional or not, but regardless, I was left with only two options—leave this room with my bare ass hanging out, or leave this room in a diaper.

I guess…I’m wearing a diaper.

Thinking back on the bag that he was carrying around after going to the store, I realize that this was the larger object in his bag—a package of adult diapers. Had he really gone into the store, with the idea of buying adult diapers for me on his mind? It felt so…premeditated. I wondered which was more likely: That he had always fantasized of getting a young woman into a pair of diapers, and lucked out with my late-night phone call. Or, had he seen me at Julie’s house in my wet pants and was suddenly inspired?

I decided to ask him for myself.

“So, could you explain this to me?” I ask, pointing to my midsection as I briskly whirl into the kitchen.

He looks up from the counter, where he’s just finished pouring hot water into two teacups. “Do you like them?”

“Like? Mr. Kirk—er, Armand, they’re diapers.”

“Yes, I know,” he said, his voice so matter-of-fact that I momentarily wonder if I’m somehow the crazy one for questioning this. “I picked them out myself.”

“I’m not a baby.”

“I never said you were. But you have to admit, you’d make a cute one.”

I tried to shake his comment off, but I felt my cheeks warming again. “I…uh…do you like diapers on girls, Mr. Kirkland?”

“Armand,” he corrected. “But I’d also accept being called ‘Daddy.’”

Well, fuck. As confused and embarrassed as I am, his words trigger something in the deep recess of my mind—feelings that I’m not even sure I was ever aware of.

“What do you want with me?” I asked.

“No more than you’re willing to give,” he replied. “If you’d like to just lie down and go to bed, I’ll make you some breakfast in the morning and then take you home.”

“Or…?”

He shrugged. “I’ve got some ideas.”

I can’t pretend that I’m still intoxicated in any way. Between the nap on Julie’s picnic table, my hot shower, and the feeling of my nerves frying as I stood between him in a diaper, I was stone-cold sober. Whatever came next would be of my own cognisance.

I spoke from the heart, and my heart wished to ask a question: “Do you like being called Daddy?”

He smiled. “Very much so.”

“And that makes me…”

“Baby,” he said. “That makes you the baby.”

I’m tingling. My body is made of electricity. “What does the baby do?”

“What does the baby want to do?”

“Uhm, maybe…whatever Daddy wants?”

“Good girl,” he cooed.

He steps closer to me, running his fingers through my hair, brushing my bangs to the side. The back of his hand caresses my cheek. I can smell his cologne on him—I’m not sure what it is, but its notes of campfire and pine seem to enhance his power over me.

“Daddy,” I said, my voice soft as I try saying the word aloud again to get a feel for it.

“It’s nice to say, isn’t it?”

I nodded.

His arms wrapped around me and he pulled me in close to him, my face pressed into his warm chest. I let my arms wrap around his body as well, and we stay like this for a few moments. When he finally releases, it’s only so that he can hold my face in place as he leans in to kiss my lips. He tastes as good as he smells. I’ve done my share of making out, and it’s never felt like this. Unlike the boys who’ve kissed me, Mr. Kirkland—Armand—has confidence. He knows what he’s doing. With just his lips and his tongue, he sends waves of pleasure through my body that make me wet between my thighs.

“The tea,” I said, motioning behind him towards the steaming cups on the counter.

“Tea can wait.”

I nod.

“Can you crawl?” he asked. “I want to see you crawl.”

“Yes, of course,” I responded. I’d have done anything he asked at that point.

I took a step back from him before dropping down to my hands and knees. Childhood wasn’t so long ago that crawling felt unfamiliar to me. I looked up at him, a silly smile plastered across my face. He gave a supportive nod, clearly happy with what he had seen so far.

One limb at a time, I propelled myself forward on the tiled floor of his kitchen. After crawling a few feet, my diapered ass sticking up in the air, I started to reach behind me to adjust the hem of the nightgown, which had ridden up a bit.

“Leave it,” he said.

I smiled again, continuing onwards to do a lap around the bulky island in the center of the kitchen.

“See?” I said. “I’m a good girl.”

“A very good girl,” he confirmed.

Eventually, I knew I’d look back on this moment with confusion. Did this really happen? Why did I allow for it to happen? Why did it seem so…right? Because in this moment, it felt very right. Normal, even. I was a baby, and he was Daddy.

“What can I do for you, Daddy?” I asked, looking up at his smiling face with longing eyes. I hoped that my expression got across the implication that I would do anything for him.

“How long ago was it that you piddled in your pants, sweetheart? That was a while ago, yes? At your friend’s house?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“If you were drinking as much as I think you were, well, I’m going to guess you’ve got more in you that needs to come out, yes? Unless…you were a naughty girl and used the potty when I left you in the bathroom to take a shower.”

He was right to predict that my bladder had once again been aching for release. Strangely enough, despite having every opportunity to use the toilet, or even the shower itself, I hadn’t thought to. I definitely hadn’t predicted that I’d end up in diapers, though I had no idea why I didn’t just take care of that urge earlier.

“Do you want me to wet myself?” I asked. “Should I pee my diaper, Daddy?”

He reached down to my face and stroked my cheek again. “I do want you to. But you’ll have to wait until I tell you to.”

“Of course,” I said, as if it was the most obvious thing I had ever heard in my entire life.

If he hadn’t said anything about my bladder, I bet I would’ve been able to hold it for another hour. But suddenly it was all consuming. The pressure was quickly taking up more and more real estate in my mind.

“B-but, you’ll let me go soon, right?”

He laughed. “Aw. Does the little girl have to tinkle in her baby-pants?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well I’m certainly not in any rush to give you permission.”

“But…”

“Maybe if you were to ask nicely,” he said. “Or, if you really want to fast-track my permission, might I suggest begging?”

Begging? I couldn’t remember the last time I had ever begged for anything. Maybe not since I was a child, begging for my mother to buy me something from the store. Of course, it might have been just as long since I wet my pants.

Well, before tonight.

I was going to give it my best shot: “Daddy, please, may I go pee?”

“Where are you going to pee, sweetheart?”

“My, uhm, pants.”

“Be more specific.”

“My diaper.” I decided to start again from the beginning: “Daddy, may I please pee in my diaper?”

“Hmm,” he hummed, a rich smile on his face. “I think we’re so close. But do you know what I think is missing?”

I shook my head, very invested in whatever his advice might be.

“I think it’s your voice. It’s a very cute voice, of course. I’ve long been a fan of listening to you speak. But when I see you as I do now, on your hands and knees in a diaper, I expect your voice to be a little more infantile. What do you think? Could you try again, working a little more baby-talk into your voice?”

I felt my cheeks warm a little again. I wish I could say that I had no idea how to talk like a baby, but I did have a little experience with that. I don’t even remember how it started–maybe with a bottle of booze being passed around Julie’s hot tub one night–but I had a reputation for my ‘baby voice.’ It was an oft-requested character when my friends and I got together. I’d usually just say silly things about my friends, occasionally saying naughty words in an infantile tone for kicks and giggles. I never would’ve thought it was practice for this moment.

“Daddy,” I said, splitting the word into two equally pathetic-sounding syllables–dah-dee. “Can me pwease make pee-pees in my diapie?”

You know the look when you see it–the way someone’s face changes when they’re suddenly far more turned on then they were expecting to be. Fuck. He’s practically salivating as he stares at me. Into me. Through me.

“Go on, baby,” he finally said, sounding like it took a lot of energy to get those words out. “Pee your diaper for me.”

He hasn’t even finished saying the words yet and I’m already gushing into the diaper. The stream bursts from me with such intensity that I can hear it cascading against the padding. I had no doubt that he could too.

“That’s a good girl. “Fill it up for Daddy.”

It’s all just so perfect. My position on the ground. The swelling of the diapers. The knowledge that I’m doing something so disgusting and degrading. His words. His smile.

I want him. I want this, forever. I want…

I think I just want.

I don’t say the words so much as I let them fall out of my barely parted lips: “Take me, Daddy.” I’m not even entirely sure that he can hear me say it.

His hand extended towards me. “Come here.”

I take his hand and he pulls me to my feet. First, he slips a hand between my legs, feeling the plumpness of the saturated padding. The feeling of his hand pressing against the diaper–pushing some of the moisture into the drier padding–causes me to let out a long and slow moan.

Then, he scoops me up in his arms. I’m cradled in his arms, completely horizontal and parallel to the ground. I can’t even remember the last time I was held like this. I also never realized how badly I needed to be held like this.

He carries me out of the kitchen, and takes me back to his bedroom. I’m excited for what happens in the bedroom, but I wish there were a few more miles between the two rooms–I only want to be carried from now on.

“You’re okay?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Everything’s going to be different from now on.”

“For the better,” I said.

Eventually, as I lay on my back, he’d pull the sopping wet diaper down the length of my lengths before warming a baby wipe in his hand and thoroughly cleaning me up. He’d slowly slide a new diaper up my legs until it found its proper resting place. We’d cuddle together and sleep for the next few hours–when he finally woke and made pancakes and bacon.

But before that–before he treated me like a woman again–he treated me like a dirty little princess. He tossed me to the bed, face down and letting my legs dangle off the edge. He pulled the back of the wet diaper down my ass, so that I was still wearing it. I heard him unzipping his pants. I might’ve heard the sound of plastic being torn open? A condom? I honestly had no idea what I was hearing.

I loved not seeing his cock–having no idea of what was happening behind me. I wasn’t privy to those details. I wasn’t his partner, I was just his pissy little sex toy.

And nothing had ever made me happier.

I’ve had sex before. I’ve had boys inside of me. Boys. Cocky little horndogs who think they’re God’s gift to ladies. Maybe I, too, thought they were something special. But Mr. Kirkland–Daddy–he changed everything in a moment. This was what a cock was supposed to feel like. This was what getting fucked was supposed to feel like. I had never felt this sort of pleasure before.

“Pissy little baby,” he grunted, shoving his cock into me.

“Fuck me,” I practically screamed into the bed. “Please, Daddy. Harder.”

We fed off of each other. My desperation and pleading continued to fuel him just as his assertiveness fueled me. His arms grasped the back of my shoulders, pinning me to the bed. I was left helpless–no agency of my own.

“This is…it,” he grunted finally. “Going to…”

He never finished that thought–not that he had to. I felt his body contorting and twisting where he was pressed against my diaper. His fingers gripped my back even tighter.

When he was done, he pulled my diaper back up into place, giving it a good firm pat–pressing the wet padding against my tender pussy. “Fuuuuuuuck.”

And that was that. I had become his baby-girl.

Nobody knew what had happened that night. Julie and my friends assumed I had been inside all night and had just left early in the morning. My parents assumed I was at Julie’s all night and the next morning. I’d eventually tell Julie about the part where I slept on her bench outside, but that was the only part of the story I’d ever divulge to anyone else.

I’d start wearing diapers to the office. Daddy started locking his personal bathroom that I used to have access to. And when there was nobody else around, he’d change me. Fuck me. Use me.

We’d upgrade the diapers I’d wear for him. We quickly learned there that the capacity of the cheap pull-up diapers we had been using just wasn’t good enough. He’d end up getting me actual diapers–almost baby-like in design, though sized for an adult. Not only could they hold a lot more, but everything about them made me feel even more like a pathetic little baby.

To my knowledge, we were never caught or discovered. We managed to keep it a secret until the end. Even at the end, there had been no drama or awkwardness. I couldn’t work for him forever, and between college and a new employment opportunity, it just wasn’t possible to get our schedules to align.

We see each other from time to time. Years later, he was still a county commissioner, so he’d show up to just about every big event. Sometimes we’d just let our eyes connect and we’d smile. Sometimes he’d approach me and whisper a simple question in my ear:

“Are you being a good little girl?”

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