The Restroom at the Paradise Diner [Tier 2 &3 Exclusive] (Patreon)

“Do you want to go out tonight?” I ask. As if I need to sell her on it, I add: “It’s Friday. We got paid today. It was a long week. Maybe we just go and grab some drinks and something to eat.”

Clara rolls her eyes. She doesn’t seem opposed to the idea, I think, but she’s found some sort of flaw in it.

“Right,” she says. “It’s Friday night, Cal. Every other couple in town is having the same exact conversation tonight. Every bar and restaurant is going to be packed. We’ll have to wait forever for a table, the service is going to be slow, and we won’t even be able to hear each other speak.”

“I don’t think it’ll be that bad,” I say. “Besides, it’ll be nice to get out of the house.”

“Fine.” She doesn’t seem entirely sold on the idea, but if I know Clara–and I think I do–I know that she doesn’t like the alternatives either. She doesn’t want to cook. Take-out or delivery will probably take just as long as going somewhere and getting sat at a table.

So it’s settled. We put on some shoes, grab our jackets, and head out the door.

We quickly learn that Clara might have been right. The first few bars and restaurants we drive past–our usual favorites–are packed full of people. At some, there are people waiting outside the door just to get in.

I can see the frustrated glare out of the corner of my eye. “I know, I know. But I swear, we’ll find something good.”

Unwilling to admit defeat, I press on. We’ll have to do a little exploring. A little extra driving–maybe to areas we are less familiar with. Somewhere out there, I figure, there has to be a little hidden gem. Something off the beaten path that has both good food and no wait time.

Two exits down on the highway, I think I might have spotted exactly what I was looking for.

“The Paradise Diner?” she asks as I pull into the parking lot.

“What? Have you been here before?”

“No,” she says, shaking her head. “I’ve never even heard of it.”

“It’s a diner,” I say. “You love diners.”

“I love the diners that I know. We probably could’ve been seated at a table right now if we had just stopped and waited at The Carousel Diner.”

“I couldn’t even pull into the parking lot there,” I say. “And look–lots of open spaces here.”

“Please tell me that you understand why I’d find that to be a concerning thing.”

“Look around,” I say, pointing out the windshield at the expanses of forest on one side of the road and the aging industrial complex on the other. “This place is just a little out of the way, you know? One of those places you just have to know.”

She signs and nods. “Okay. But if it sucks here, you’re going to be picking up take-out all by yourself for the next month.”

The stakes aren’t actually that high. Sure, we tend to order a lot of take-out, but I’m usually the one picking it up anyway. At most, this would be like three extra trips for me in the next month.

“Come on, let’s go give this place a whirl. Besides, look at the sign–they have a full bar.”

It’s nothing fancy. It’s not dingy or run-down. But it’s not ultra-modern or pristine either. It looks like a thousand other quaint roadside diners I’ve been in during my life. The diner seems neither completely deserted nor filled to capacity either. The hostess leads us to an available booth, slightly separated from the other occupied booths, and hands us some menus.

“See?” I ask. “This isn’t so bad. Seated quickly. Not too busy.”

“All we need now is for the food to be decent.”

Decent seems like a low bar to hurdle. The prices in the menu seem pretty fair, and the selections are honestly pretty good looking. Sure, maybe I’m hungry enough to be happy with just about anything, but I think this food is going to hit the spot perfectly.

Not long after we place our orders, our drinks arrive. And not much longer after that, our food arrives. And, much to our delight, it’s pretty good.

It’s funny what a good meal–or even just a full belly–will do to enhance the mood. Clara, for sure, had been riding a bit closer to the hangry side of the spectrum before her grilled mushroom sandwich was delivered to the table. Now? She is smiling and talking about her day. We’re making weekend plans. We’re laughing and making jokes about the weird pink shoes a woman a few booths away is wearing.

All was right in the world again.

“Alright,” she says, sitting back in her chair as she massages her belly. “I can admit when I was wrong. I’m glad we stopped here.”

“See? You ought to trust me a little more often.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“I’m going to hit the restroom real quick,” I say. “Then, how about we get out of here? We’ll go home and see if we can find a movie?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

I don’t think much of it as I walk towards the restroom. Regardless of whether or not I’ve ever been to this restroom before, I’ve been to plenty of them. Go in, do your thing, wash your hands, get out. My body is on auto-pilot.

But when I push open the door to the men’s room, I find that it’s locked. Occupied, assumedly. I look over to the women’s restroom door, longingly. I have to piss badly enough that it’s almost tempting to sneak in there for a minute. But that seems silly–I can just hold it and wait for the bathroom to open up again.

But there is a third door, in between the men’s room and women’s room doors. It’s unmarked, leading me to believe that it’s just a maintenance closet. Something not intended for patrons of the diner. There’s nobody else around, though, and I’m a little curious to see if it isn’t a family restroom of some sort. So I pull on the door, finding that it opens easily.

It is, it seems, a restroom. No stalls–everything is contained to just this room.

But I’m also surprised to find a woman with bouncy blonde curls just standing there, wearing just a billowing blouse and a pair of panties. My cheeks instantly turn a bright pink as I back right back out of the bathroom.

“I…I’m so sorry,” I say. “I think I have the wrong room.”

My cheeks warm considerably as I contemplate sprinting back to my table or just waiting for the men’s room to open up.

“You can come in,” the feminine voice says from the other side of the middle door.

“I, uhm… I think I’m good.”

“Come in,” she repeats. “It’s okay.”

I take a cautious look around me, nervous that someone else is going to see me going back into the unmarked restroom–perhaps someone who already knows that there’s a woman in there. But from this angle, nobody seems able to see me or the bathroom door.

So, I go back inside.

“Why don’t you close the door behind you,” she says. “Wouldn’t want someone to walk in on you.”

“But…”

“I know,” she says, seemingly ready for me to question the fact she’s already here with me. “But I have to be here. It’s my job.”

“I’m sorry–your…job?”

“Well, yeah. This toilet is broken. People need a place to go, right?”

She speaks so nonchalantly that I feel like I’m the crazy one. “So the bathroom is out of order? I’ll just, uh, take care of this later.”

“No, no,” she says. “That’s what I’m here for. I’m the toilet.”

These words make absolutely no sense to me. “What?”

She points to a box in the corner of the restroom, but I’m still not sure what I’m looking at. Open plastic packages of folded white…objects of some sort.

It’s not until I look back at the young woman again that it slowly starts to dawn on me what’s in the box. She’s not wearing panties. She’s wearing what I think is a diaper. It’s big and thick, riding past her hips and almost reaching the center of her back. And while I don’t know much about diapers, I could swear that the bottom of it was sagging further down than I thought one would.

“I’m not putting a diaper on,” I say.

She giggles. “No, silly. I’m the one wearing the diaper. All you have to do is pee.”

“I’m sorry, I have no idea what I’m still doing here,” I say. I turn around to leave.

“No, wait. Come here,” she says. Her voice is surprisingly calm. So calm that it helps to ease my insecurities about this bizarre situation.

“I don’t really get what’s going on here,” I say.

“It’s not that difficult. The toilet is broken. But I’m here, and I’m wearing a diaper. All you have to do is pee into my diaper. I’ll take care of the rest.”

It’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard, or seen, in my entire life. I have so many questions. I want to be concerned for the young lady–who is putting her up to this? But, again, her serenity suggests that she wants to be here.

And, admittedly, I’m kind of curious.

“This isn’t some sort of prank show, right?” I ask. “I’m not going to take out my dick and then the cops bust through the door and arrest me?”

“No, sir,” she says, shaking her head. “Just pee in my diaper and be on your way. That’s all you have to do.”

“Okay.” I’m talking to myself. In fact, I need to say it again: “Okay.”

As ridiculous as this situation is, Clara is still waiting for me back at the booth. And, considering the 20-something minutes of driving it took for us to get here, I didn’t really want to leave this bathroom without pissing.

“Just, like, don’t tell anyone, I guess,” I said.

She giggles again. “No, sir.”

She turns around, sticking her diapered ass out in the air so that it’s closer to me.

“Go on,” she says. “Just pull open the back of it and go. If it helps, you can just pee on my lower back and most of it should go into the diaper.”

“I…guess. Sure.”

I’m still so confused that I’m expecting my bladder to just lock up. That sort of pee-shyness I get when I’m at a urinal and some giant guy takes the urinal immediately next to mine, and suddenly it’s like I don’t even know how to piss. Miraculously, I’m able to function just fine. I wonder if it’s because there’s no eye contact. Or because she wants this. Or because…I want this.

I have to admit–this is doing something for me. I’m not exactly turned on, but it excites me in a way that I wasn’t expecting. It’s so strange–so undignified–and it’s somehow scratching an itch I never knew I had.

My eyes wander back to the box of diapers as I urinate, my piss hitting her in the small of her back and cascading into her diaper like she said it would. I see an open pack of diapers, with more unopened packs beneath that. I glance to the opposite corner, seeing the trash can for the first time, almost overflowing with balled up–and presumably used–diapers. Also, for the first time, I’m focusing on the smell of the restroom. Stale piss. Baby powder? It just smells vaguely…moist.

I want to know everything. Who put her up to this? Who else at the diner knows about this? How many customers have participated in this before? How long has she been doing it? How did the toilet break? How often does she have to change her diaper? Why, oh-god-why, did it have to be a girl wearing diapers and not, like, a bucket?

I finish, releasing the waistband of her diaper. As I step back from her, I can see that her diaper is sagging far more than it had been before.

“Don’t forget to wash your hands,” she says.

Sound advice, regardless of the source. I wash my hands and dry them without saying another word. I want to–there’s so much I want to say–but I need to get back to Clara.

As the bathroom door closes behind me and I start walking back to our booth, I start to wonder if I had just imagined that entire scene. The closer I get to the booth, the more I’m convinced that it was some sort of fever dream. Tainted french fries? Did I drink more beer than I thought?

“There you are,” Clara says as I sit back down again. “I thought you fell in. That took forever.”

‘“Uh… No, sorry, I just had to wait,” I say. “One of the toilets is broken.” It’s sort-of the truth.

I’m tempted to tell her the story, but I just can’t imagine she’ll buy it. I try to imagine how I’d react if she told me that she went into a public restroom and was expected to piss into a man’s diaper. I simply would refuse to believe it.

Was it really a ‘public’ restroom, though?

But as we’re driving home, another reason begins to develop in my mind: I don’t want Clara to know about the girl in the bathroom. I don’t want her to know about what I did. I don’t want her to ask me why I did it, either.

Because, I think, I really liked it. And because I want to do it again.

In the days that follow, it’s all I can think about. Everytime I go to use my own bathroom–or the one in the office–I’m reminded of the cute blonde girl in the men’s room at the Paradise Diner. Sticking her diapered ass out towards me so that I could fill it up. I think about all the discarded diapers in the trash can–and how many men before me had used her like a urinal.

I keep thinking about her. But I also keep thinking about the diapers.

Everynight, when Clara asks me what we should do for dinner, ‘Paradise Diner’ is at the tip of my tongue. I don’t suggest it though. I’ve got it in my head that if I look too eager to return, she’ll get suspicious. It’s a crazy thought, I know.

No–if I go back, I decide, I have to go alone.

I decide to create a fake work function that I have to go to. I keep it pretty generic: A group of guys from the office are getting drinks after work one night to celebrate a project wrapping up. But, of course, the truth is that I’m heading over to the Paradise Diner.

As eager as I am to return to the bathroom, I know that I can’t just waltz in there from the street. I get a booth for myself–one near the small hallway that leads to the restrooms–and order some food and a beer or two. The beer is especially helpful in not only steeling my resolve to confront the bathroom-girl, but it also gives me some extra ammunition for when it comes time to fill her diaper again.

I carefully watch everyone else as I enjoy my meal. I watch the staff, checking for any sort of signal or acknowledgment of the restroom situation–though there’s none that I can detect. I watch the other patrons, following me with my eyes as a few get up and walk to the restrooms. There are a few observations to be made now. Most men walk into the men’s restroom, and they don’t usually take too long before they’re out again. But then, once in a while, there’s a man who will go into that unmarked center door. They seem to take considerably longer before returning.

And, upon exit, they always have a smug, satisfied, smile on their face.

Also, the men who use that center bathroom always seem to know that it’s just one at a time. There’s never a line. There’s never men trying the door handle when another man is in there. It’s almost like there’s a protocol to follow. These men, I suspect, have been here before.

I’m curious again. Do these men talk to each other? Are there secret meetings? Message boards? Text alerts? Or, like me, did each of them stumble upon this place, learn about who was in the restroom, and keep coming back?

It’s strange that I never observe a man walking into that center restroom and then immediately walk out, looking distressed or humiliated. Maybe my sample-size of observed men is far too small while I eat my meal. Maybe I’d need to observe 100 men go into the bathroom and not, like, three or four.

I’m done with my food. I’m locked and loaded. I just bide my time, waiting for the right moment to head to the restroom.

“Can I get you anything else tonight?” asks my waitress.

“N-no, I don’t think so,” I stammer, suddenly pulled from my thoughts.

“I’ll bring you your check then.”

“Of course. I, uh, just have to use the restroom. So if I’m not here when you come back…”

“Sure thing,” she says. “I’ll leave it on the table for you.”

I can’t get a good read on her reaction. If we had the exact same exchange, and I wasn’t about to go into a restroom with a diapered woman in it, I probably wouldn’t have thought it was that strange at all. But now I’m wondering if ‘Sure thing’ was an acknowledgment of what I’m actually here for. I’m wondering if I should’ve been picking up anything in her tone.

I can think about it later, I decide. Nobody’s gone to the restroom in a while and I don’t see anyone else getting up from their seats. Now is as good a time as any.

I carefully push open the men’s room door, and there she is.

“Hello,” she says politely, a warm smile on her face. “Come on in.”

I do as she asks. I’m slightly disappointed–I mean, yes, I’m very delighted to be here again. But I was hoping for some sort of recognition, and I see none in her eyes.

“Have you been here before?” she asks.

“The, uh, bathroom?”

She nods.

“Oh, yeah. I was here, like, last week.”

“I thought you looked a little familiar,” she says.

I don’t entirely buy it. Once again, the trash can seems excessively full with used diapers, and their lingering odor permeates the room a bit more than I remember it doing the last time. She’s had a busy day, it seems.

All week, I’ve been thinking about the questions I’d ask her. But now that I’m here, looking at her pretty face and diaper, my mind has gone blank.

“I’m ready when you are,” she says.

I can’t leave this room without at least having attempted to figure out part of this mystery. I blurt out the first question that comes to me: “Do you like this?”

“Mmhmm,” she says. “Very much so.”

Unsurprisingly, this answer only inspires more questions.

“Can we just talk for a minute?”

She shrugs. “Okay, but we probably don’t want to take too long. Other people have to go too, you know?”

“Right, right. Well, first, why are you doing this?”

“The toilet is broken.”

“Okay. But, like, is someone putting you up to this?”

“I mean it was my idea in the first place,” she says, her voice still ringing with the same nonchalance she had the first time we met.

It occurs to me that I might be going about this all wrong. Here I am, asking questions and trying to figure everything out, when–in reality–I should just be thankful that she’s here at all. It’s a thrill to piss on this woman, and maybe I should just…enjoy that. Perhaps actual answers to my questions would ruin it.

“Alright,” I say. “Let’s just…fill up that diaper, then.”

“Okay!” she says, quickly spinning herself around and sticking her diapered rear out. “You know what to do, right?”

“Just pull open the back of the diaper and…go?”

“Mmhmm.”

I do it. Again, I watch as my stream of piss cascades down her back and into the diaper. I wish that, from this angle, I could watch her diaper as I did this. I want to see her diaper swelling and growing heavier. I want to see if it actually begins to sag lower between her legs. I want to see if the color of it changes at all.

“M-may I touch your diaper?” I say.

“That’s kind of you to ask first,” she says. I wonder if most men don’t ask first. “You may.”

No sooner than I finish emptying my bladder into her diaper, I step back and admire her padded backside once more. It’s hard to tell if I see much of a difference between what the diaper looked like before versus what it looks like now. Is it sagging so much because of me?

I reach forward, gently placing my hand on her bottom. Warm to the touch, and kind of squishy. Again, I’m certain that I’ve never once imagined such a thing being exciting to me. Yet at this moment, the taboo-ness of it is so thick that I can’t help but feel completely delighted.

“Do you like how it feels?” she asks, slowly turning herself around again so that we are face-to-face.

“I do.”

“It feels good wearing it too,” she says. “I love when someone makes it nice and warm for me.”

I glance over to the box of unused diapers in the corner. I have no idea if this is the same box that was here the last time or not. My hand continues to squeeze and rub the bloated diaper she’s wearing, feeling the warm squishiness absorb my fingertips.

“Do you want to try one?” she asks.

“A…diaper?”

“Mmhmm,” she nods.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” I say. I can’t even begin to process the idea of wearing diapers myself right now. I stow away that idea for another day.

She shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

“What’s your name?” I ask.

She laughs. I try not to take much offense to it, but I can’t help but feel she’s laughing at me. Maybe I’m the 50th guy–this night alone–who has asked her that question.

Still, she answers: “Kimmie.” Is it her actual name? No clue.

“I think about you a lot,” I say. I don’t really mean to say it out loud, and after I blurt it out, I can’t help but feel that it sounds even stupider said aloud than it did in my head.

“Oh yeah?”

“Sorry, I’m probably being weird.”

She laughs again, shaking her head this time. “I’m pretty weird too. And if you think we’re weird, you should see some of the people that come in here to use the bathroom.”

“I can only imagine.”

“Speaking of which,” she says, “I hate to kick you out, but there might be other people who need to use this restroom.”

Need to use. Yeah, I feel that.

“Right, right. Well, I should let you get back, er, to it. But I’ll be back.”

“Good,” she says. “And what is your name?”

“Cal.”

“It’s nice to meet you Cal. Come back and see me soon, yeah?”

In the blink of an eye, we’re deep into a new week again. Between work being particularly busy for me and a few small pre-planned commitments for Clara and I, I don’t get the chance to return to the Paradise Diner as quickly as I’d like. But that doesn’t mean that I’m not thinking about it. I’m thinking about Kimmie and her diapers every minute of every day. At least twice now, I’ve wandered so deep into a daydream about her, that I’ve had to excuse myself from my desk at work and quickly rub one out in the office men’s room. So far as I can tell, nobody has any clue about this. Still, this feels unsustainable. I need to be careful, and I need not to rile myself up so much.

“What was that place we went to for dinner the other night?” Clara asks me one night as we watch TV.

“The, uh, Paradise Diner?”

“That’s what I thought it was called,” she says, nodding.

“Wh-why?” I’m unreasonably paranoid and suspicious. Chill out, man.

She shrugs. “I was just thinking about that place today. Maybe we head over there after work on Friday? Grab some drinks and food?”

More Paradise Diner–more Kimmie in the restroom–sounds like a delight. But going there with Clara at this point seems…less than ideal. It’d make me too anxious, I worry. Too paranoid.

“Aw, damn,” I say. “I wish I could, but I forgot that Miles in Operations invited me to join his team for some drinks Friday night.”

Two birds, one stone. I can prevent Clara from going to the diner with me, and I can use that time to go to the diner myself and see Kimmie. Genius.

“Oh,” she says, sounding a little deflated. “But is it just like a happy hour thing? Maybe we could still go out after?”

“You know how these things are,” I say. “Starts off as a happy ‘hour’ and, next thing you know, it’s a happy ‘night.’ But, hey, let’s go out Saturday night instead. Just you and me.”

“Sure,” she says, shrugging. She’s disappointed, and probably even biting her tongue to stop herself from asking me to change the plans I suddenly had for Friday that I hadn’t told her about before.

It’s not easy–and I don’t like being so deceitful–but I let the conversation end there. Come Saturday, I think, she’ll have forgotten all about Friday night.

And on Friday, I’m back at the Paradise Diner. Half a monte cristo is on my plate back at my booth, and the mostly-consumed third beer of the evening. I’m at the door of the restroom.

“Hello,” she says, a warm and friendly smile on her face. She’s wearing a loose-fitting gray t-shirt and one of her big, thick, diapers. I could be wrong, but it looks fresh–like she had just changed into this one. “Close the door behind you. Come on in.”

“Hey, Kimmie,” I say.

To my delight, her eyes show a little recognition.

“Don’t be offended,” she says. “I’m not the best with remembering names. But you were just in last week, right?”

“That’s right,” I say. “Cal.”

“Cal, that’s it! I was going to say Curt.”

“Close enough.”

“Well?” she asks. “Gotta pee?”

“Sure do.”

She knows just what to do, turning her body around and sticking her diapered rear out towards me. But things don’t come as easily as they had the last two times I was here. Now, looking down at that thickly-padded curvy ass, my cock is as hard as a rock. It’ll be hard enough just to piss, let alone have the ability to aim it into her diaper.

“I’m ready when you are,” she says. “Let ‘er rip.”

“Just, uh, give me a minute here…”

“Everything alright back there?”

“Y-yeah. Just kind of…”

But she backs up her body a few inches–just enough to ease her diapered bottom against the firm tent in the front of my pants. Slowly, she slides her diaper up and down the front of my pants.

“I see,” she says. “Or, rather, I feel. Someone’s a little excited?”

“That’s a pretty good talent.”

She shrugs. “Do this long enough and you pick up a thing or two.”

Again, so many questions. “You’ve been doing this for a while, then?”

“Mmhmm.”

I’m hoping for more details than just a confirmation, though maybe I wasn’t specific enough with my question. Still, time feels of the essence here. I feel like I’m breaking some sort of unspoken protocol by staying here too long–I can’t just be standing around interviewing her.

But, goddamn, do I like the feeling of her rubbing her diapered tush against my stiff manhood.

“I, uhm, don’t think I can do this right now,” I say.

“No?”

“Peeing, that is. Maybe I’ll go sit down and drink some more. Come back in a little bit?”

“Well, I’ll be right here.”

I have one more question to ask before I leave: “Is the toilet actually broken?”

She laughs. “Does it matter?”

“No,” I say, laughing too. “Probably not.”

I walk back to my table with a smile on my face. I’m a little disappointed in myself for not being able to fill Kimmie’s diaper again, but the night is young. Sure enough, one and a half more beers later, I’m ready to go. This time, between the slight buzz I’m feeling and the intensity of the urge to piss, nothing stands in my way. My cock is like a firehose and I swear that I hear her moan as I spray her backside down.

This continues for the next few weeks. Every week I make an excuse to not be home one night, and I head over to the Paradise Diner instead. Happy hours. Conference calls. A guest stays too long in my office. I’ve always got an excuse, and I always get my weekly treat of filling Kimmie’s diaper.

I stop asking Kimmie so many questions. The details, I find, are irrelevant. It doesn’t matter why she’s there, or doing what she’s doing, it only matters that she is. I’m a regular now. She knows my name. Occasionally, I’ll get her diaper grinding against my cock. Once, she comes especially close to making me climax in her pants–and she probably would have if Clara hadn’t texted me, asking what time I’d be home.

Clara’s been getting frustrated with me. While she usually seems to buy my reasons for not being home one night per week, I can sense that her suspension of belief is waning.

“You’ve been at this job for years, and you’ve never had so many many things going on afterhours,” she says.

“I don’t like it either,” I say with a shrug, “but the office culture is just changing, I guess.”

This buys me another week. On the next Thursday, I stroll into the restroom confidently, gleefully soaking Kimmie’s diaper again. She treats me to diapered lapdance as I sit on the possibly-broken toilet–her saggy padding pushed repeatedly into my face and lap. I can’t even help myself–I thrust my hand into my pants and quickly manage to rub a sticky mess into my boxers.

“I’d love to see you in another setting,” I say. “Anywhere that’s not a bathroom.”

She laughs. “You’d have to get in line.”

“I’m sure.”

I return to my booth, once again smiling like an idiot.

But the smile is quickly wiped from my face when I see that there’s someone else sitting in my booth.

“Hello,” says Clara.

“H-how did you know I was here? Or…where I was sitting?”

She points to my green jacket, still laying on the seat. “Just some basic detective work.”

“But, how…”

“I keep seeing the Paradise Diner show up on our bank account,” she says, shaking her head. “And, so far as I know, we’ve only been here once. And I can’t help but notice that a charge for the Paradise Diner always shows up on nights when you’re out.”

I sigh, completely unprepared for this conversation. I can’t believe how stupid I’ve been. Had I really never considered the paper trail I was leaving in the wake of my deception?

“So, what’s going on here?” she asks. “The food was good, but it wasn’t that good. I have to assume that you’re…meeting someone here?”

I feel like I can still lie. I’m not ‘meeting’ anyone in the context that she thinks I am. I’m not leaving here tonight, arm-in-arm with another woman. The answer to her question is in the restroom–a restroom that she probably wouldn’t ever think to go into.

“I just…like my alone time, I guess.”

She winces a little. “You don’t want to spend time with me?”

I really regret going down this path with my lie. “N-no, not at all. It’s just that…”

“Cal, are you seriously not meeting someone here?”

“No…”

“Damn. I don’t know, I feel like this is worse than being cheated on. My husband just wants to…get away from me? As often as he can?”

“W-wait. Clara, it’s not really like that.”

“Oh? So what is it like, then?”

I have no answer for that. Maybe, given enough time, I’d find a better lie to spin or a better answer for her question. But I don’t have time.

“Okay then,” she says. Translation: time’s up. She stands up from the booth and starts to walk away.

“Wait, Clara.”

“Yeah?”

But I have nothing to say. Still. I pray that something will suddenly pop into my head, but nothing comes.

“Okay, Cal. I’ll see you later.”

Thus begins the start of a cold war in our home. She doesn’t talk to me much–barely acknowledges me on most days. And because she avoids me, I avoid her.

The longer it goes on, the harder it looks to be resolved. It’s not just about me lying to her about where I’ve been going. I don’t even think it’s about why I’ve been going to the Paradise Diner. I’ve inadvertently set off a grenade, and long forgotten arguments and issues have been exposed again.

But on the plus side, this gives me plenty of free time. Free time that I can spend at the Paradise Diner. It almost seems stupid to go back there–Clara can probably guess where I am when I’m not at home or work. But I doubt she’ll follow me.

And I need to see Kimmie.

“Hey Cal,” she says as I close the restroom door behind me.

The room smells different tonight. My first instinct is to say that it smells ‘worse,’ but the longer I stand in the room, the more it grows on me. For sure, I recognize it as a pungent sort of vileness that I’m probably not supposed to like. But I’m obsessed with a girl who lets people piss into her diaper. I’m the target audience.

I want to ask her about the smell, but I’m not sure how.

Thankfully, she takes the reins of the conversation for me. “Is it pretty stinky in here?”

I nod. “It’s not a bad thing. But, yeah.”

“I thought so,” she shrugs. “I guess I just get used to it after a while.”

I feel like I might know, but I can’t help but ask anyway: “What…happened?”

“It’s my diaper,” she says, doing a playful little bounce to jiggle her sagging diaper.

“Did someone…”

“No,” she says, laughing. “Guests aren’t allowed to do that in my diaper. But…I’m allowed.”

“Oh,” I say, smiling stupidly as I scratch my head. “So, you just…pooped your pants?”

“Mmmhmm.”

I’m hard. Stiff as a fucking board. Never in my wildest dreams would I think that this would turn me on so much, but here I am. Perhaps if this was my first impression of her, I wouldn’t have liked it. But now, seeing that signature diaper on her, but knowing that it’s loaded with a sinful mess, I’m left trying to remember the last time I was this turned on.

As always, I have questions. I’m keeping them to myself. I find the mystery to be far more exciting. I don’t need to know why she shits herself. Or how much she likes it. Or how many times she’s done it in the past.

“Come here,” she says. “Feel my diaper.”

I immediately trot forward, my hands grasping at the bloated padding as she turns around. I can feel it in the back of her diaper–the mass that’s a little firmer than the rest of the saturated padding. Still a little squishy, though, and nothing has ever felt more naughty than squeezing her loaded diaper.

“I want to fuck you,” I say.

“I wish you could.”

It’s against the rules–she doesn’t even have to say it. I don’t know who makes the rules, and I don’t know why sex is against the rules when pissing on someone else isn’t.

She turns around again, squatting down so her head is level with my cock. For a moment, I think she’s going to open my pants and pull my cock out. Instead, she just starts rubbing my shaft through the front of my pants. I’m certainly not complaining–she can do whatever she wants to me.

“You should think about diapers,” she says.

“I think about them all the time. I think about you wearing them. Wetting them. Now, I’ll probably think about you messing in them.”

“No,” she says, laughing. “I mean…you should think about wearing them.”

“Really?”

“You seem to like them a lot,” she says, still rubbing my erection.

“Well, I like you in them.”

“I know you do. But I see the way you look at the diapers. I feel the way you touch my diapers. Most men don’t do that. You like me. But you also like the diapers.”

She’s right.

“Take one,” she says. “Take it home with you.”

I laugh. “You expect me to just walk out of here with a diaper in my hands?”

“I can help you put it on if you want. You wouldn’t have to carry it then.”

“Y-you would do that?”

She nods. “Of course, we’d just need to take care of one thing first.”

“What’s that?”

“You’re not going to properly fit into a diaper when you’re hard like this.”

Her hands continue to work their magic on me, keeping me locked in place in front of her. She finally unzips my pants, her fingers helping to release my cock.

I almost allow myself to get lost in my questions again. This is allowed, but not sex? The nights she’s rushed me out of the bathroom, as opposed to a night where she can take the time to get me off and put me in a diaper? Who at the restaurant knows about this? Who’s in charge here?

No, stop that.

She strokes my shaft with both hands as I breathe in the foul aroma of her dirty diaper. Goddamn, the moment couldn’t be more perfect.

“I bet we could get it in my diaper,” she says with a playful grin.

I don’t have to ask what ‘it’ is–I feel ‘it’ coming very quickly.

She stands up a little, pulling up her shirt so that her belly is near the tip of my cock. When I do finally erupt, it hits her skin just below her belly-button, slowly sliding and dripping down into her messy diaper.

“Perfect,” she moans. “Bet you’ve never done that at a restaurant before.”

“N-no,” I say, still feeling dumbfounded from my climax.

“We’ll need to be quick,” she says, backing up and grabbing a fresh diaper out of the box. “Stand still. I’ll take care of the rest.”

She proceeds to pull my pants and boxers down, lowering them all the way to my ankles. The diaper is opened up–revealing it to be much bigger than I’d have imagined it to be–before she weaves it between my legs and carefully binds the back of it to the front with the tapes.

“Ideally, you should be lying down for this,” she says. “But I don’t think either of us want to lay down on a public bathroom floor.”

“This is fine,” I say.

“You’re all set,” she says. “What do you think?”

There’s so much to take in at once that I feel surprisingly numb for a few moments. She had just jerked me off into her diaper. I was still breathing in the stench of her dirty diaper. We were still in the restroom of a diner. And now I was wearing a diaper of my own. Thick padding between my legs. Tightness around my slowly shrinking manhood. The gentle rustling sound as I moved.

“I think it’s good,” I say.

She laughs, perhaps recognizing shellshock when she sees it. “You think about it, yeah? I’m going to pull up your pants and send you on your way. Next time you’re in, you tell me all about it, yeah?”

“Yeah,” I say, nodding. It’s about all I can say.

“Don’t forget to wash your hands.”

Clara is sitting on the couch when I come home that night. We don’t say anything to each other as I walk through the door, though we do stare at each other for a few moments. I don’t think she knows about the diapers–about Kimmie–but she knows that something is up. She knows that I’m deep into something new and strange.

“Were you at the Paradise Diner again?” she asks.

I’ve stopped using my debit card there. So far as I know, she doesn’t see the statements of my credit card. I probably don’t have to lie about where I’ve been, but I do anyway.

“No.”

“Where were you?”

“Does it matter?”

She just sighs and dismisses me with a wave of her hand.

In the weeks that follow, things continue to get colder at home. Clara has started sleeping in the guest bedroom. We never talked about it, it just started happening. I never questioned it.

Meanwhile, I was a bit lost in the next phase of my obsession with diapers–wearing them. I suspected that Kimmie knew exactly what she was doing when she taped me into one of her thick white diapers that night, as I found myself completely smitten with the experience.

I’m craving diapers these days. So much so that I ordered some of my own.

Once, sometimes twice, a week, I’ll head into the Paradise Diner to see Kimmie. The dynamic has changed some, as I no longer see her to piss into her diaper. Instead, she likes to pull my pants down and inspect my diaper. It’s her hands feeling and squeezing my diaper. She shows me hers, and we’ll compare the two. Whose is sagging more. Whose smells more of urine.

One night, she greets me with an eager smile on her face. “I need you to take off your pants,” she says.

I do as she asks, and they’re tossed aside.

“Now, this is going to be a little bit harder for me than it was for you,” she continues. “But I think I’ll be able to manage.”

I’m unsure what she intends to do, but I don’t question it. She poses my body like I was a doll, bending my legs a little and pushing my torso over my knees. By the time she’s done, it looks like I’m squatting and hunched over.

“Stay still,” she says as she begins to untape her diaper.

“Wh-what are you doing?”

“Trying something new. I bet you’re going to love this.”

Her diaper, as wet as it usually is, falls from her body, hitting the tile floor with a satisfying splat. Her hairless pink pussy glimmers in the artificial lighting of the bathroom, and when she turns a little, I find that her perfectly-shaped bare ass is just as succulent as I had always imagined it to be.

I can’t tell exactly what’s going on behind me, but I can see some of it in the bathroom’s mirror. She’s facing away from me–her back to my back. I think she’s…sitting on me? I can feel the soft skin of her bottom pressed against my lower back. It’s not until I feel a sudden burst of wetness on my skin that I realize what’s happening.

She’s peeing on me. I feel the back of my diaper absorbing the stream as it cascades down my skin. I audibly gasp–I can’t believe this is happening to me.

“Do you like this?” she asks.

“Very much so,” I say.

“Good. I thought you would.”

She pisses forever. I swear, hours go by and she’s still draining her bladder almost directly into my diaper. In actuality, it’s probably just a minute–but what a sweet minute it is.

When she’s done, she removes herself from my back and returns to her own diaper. She rolls it up into a tight ball before casting it into the trash can, fetching herself a new one from the box in the opposite corner.

“You took that like a pro,” she says. “How does it feel?”

I’ve experienced a few soggy diapers of my own in the last few weeks, but this feels pretty different. The wetness is concentrated in an entirely different area of my diaper, and there’s something about the warmth of the pee–and it not being my own–that makes it feel especially tingly against my skin.

“Incredible,” I say. “I feel like I understand why you’re in here now. Why you always have a smile on your face.”

“Good,” she says. “Now then, let’s get your pants back on over those soggy pampers, hm? And, of course, don’t forget to wash your hands.”

This goes on for another week or two. In the next three visits, when I go into the restroom at the Paradise Diner, she’s the one peeing into my diaper. It’s like a switch has been flipped–as I can’t quite recall the thrills I felt when I was the one peeing into her diaper now. This is all I want now, and I want it more than anything.

The flipped switch seems to have ramifications well beyond the diner’s restroom, though. I suddenly feel tremendously out of place at the office. I can’t seem to focus or concentrate. I’m falling behind in my assignments. A representative from HR has even summoned me to a private meeting to talk about my ‘hygiene,’ as there was a complaint from another coworker that I ‘smelled of urine.’

I assure her that I’m going to take care of myself and turn things around. But I don’t entirely believe that myself.

Things at home aren’t much better. The divide between Clara and I seems to have gotten too expansive. We rarely talk at all, and when we do, it’s usually her asking if the time seems right for a separation.

There’s no concrete evidence to support my theory yet, but I’m almost positive that she’s seeing someone else. She’s taken to leaving the house at night herself, and she’s often not home until very late–hair tousled and clothes askew.

But, at the very least, I still have Kimmie. I still have diapers.

And then, one Thursday night, I roll through that mysterious bathroom door in between the women’s room and men’s room doors, ready to see Kimmie. Except she isn’t there. The garbage can is still in one corner–empty now. A box of diapers–recently replenished, it seems–is in the opposite corner.

For a moment, I feel more lost than I’ve ever felt in my entire life. I tell myself that it’s just one night–she’ll be back the next time I come. But I’m not so sure that I believe that. Up until now, she’s always been here. And the empty trash can–she hasn’t been here all night.

I need her.

I need her to fill my diaper.

A thought comes over me. For a moment, it seems kind of insane–the thoughts of a crazyman. But the longer I roll it around in my head, the more it makes sense to me.

I could still get my diaper filled by someone else tonight. I’d just have to stay in the bathroom and wait for someone else to enter. What’s the harm in at least trying? For just a little bit?

I take off my pants and set them aside, and just wait. I don’t have to wait too long.

“Who are you,” says the tall bearded man as he enters the restroom. “Where’s Amy?”

Amy? Who is Amy? Unless, of course, ‘Kimmie’ was a fake name–just as ‘Amy’ likely is.

“Derek,” I say.

“Alright, then. I guess you’re the new guy?”

“Guess so.”

“Well, I haven’t got all day,” he says. “Turn around. I gotta piss like a sonofabitch.”

Soon, I feel that comforting and naughty rush as the warm stream of piss floods the back of my diaper. Tremendous bliss washes over me as I feel the padding grow heavier and sag from my hips. Gone is the stress about Clara. Gone is the stress about work and what people there may or may not smell when I’m around. It’s just me in the Paradise Diner, getting pissed on like I should be.

“That ought to do it,” the man says, zipping up his fly. “I’ll probably see you next week.”

Will I be here next week? Oh, probably. I think this is where I’ll be spending most of my nights for a while.

I have only one response to the man: “Please make sure you wash your hands.”