Baby Becca (Is Real) [Tier 3 Story] (Patreon)

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Trap

All day, blank-faced students stare in my general direction as I talk and point at things. Theoretically, they should be paying attention to me–but I don’t get all that worked up if they’re staring at their phones or a laptop. After all, they–or someone they know–is paying for them to be here.

It’s not couth to say that I’m doing the bare-minimum in a position like mine, so I just won’t say it aloud. But here? Between you and me? I’m doing the bare-minimum for my students–just as they’re doing the bare-minimum to get by.

Oh, sure, there’s one in every class. That one student who cares. Who tries. Who thinks that there’s something important or life-altering to glean from listening to me talk about Faulkner or Stein. If only I was allowed to tell them: All I ever did with that information, when I learned it, was to turn around and teach it to someone else.

I have a reputation, I suspect. The ‘easy’ professor. The lady who just doesn’t care. By and large, I’m fine with this being my reputation. College–life itself, really–is hard enough as it is. You don’t need some frizzy-haired woman pushing 40 to be making life harder by acting like Introduction to Modern Literature is the most important thing in the entire world.

Show up. Pretend to give a shit when it matters. Pass the final. That’s all you have to do.

“Dr. Pena?”

I don’t get to know many students. They come and go so quickly, it seems. Unless you stand out–usually the brightest, dumbest, or loudest–I probably won’t remember your name while you’re in my class. I might not even recall your face.

I don’t know him. He looks familiar to me. Maybe he attends my lectures on Tuesday morning? I’m actually kind of relieved that I don’t know his name. He’s not the brightest, nor the dumbest–neither of which I’d want to deal with.

“Good afternoon,” I say, forcing a smile. I’m already preparing an answer for whatever question he might have: “If you’d be interested in discussing this further, you’ll find that my office hours are posted on my door, as well as being on the syllabus.”

“I, uh, had a question for you,” he says, rubbing the hair on the back of his head as if he was concerned that it was sticking up in the air.

He’s kind of cute. Not handsome. I doubt the girls are peeking over their shoulders at him as they walk past him. But he has that boyish face that you just can’t help but want to smoosh between your palms. If I was to call him a ‘good boy,’ I suspect he’d roll over on his back and let me scratch his belly.

I pause, giving him time to ask his question. He remains silent–clearly waiting on a cue from me. “Okay? Uh, go ahead and ask away.”

“It’s actually a, uh, personal question?” He says it like it's a question, but I’m not sure that it’s supposed to be.

My hand makes a rolling motion. On with it, boy. “Go on.”

“I mean…” He looks up and down the hallways, observing the packs of students slowly drifting from one place to another. “...I was hoping we could do it somewhere more private. Your office, perhaps?”

My eyes narrow. I don’t like this one bit. A ‘personal’ conversation in some place ‘private.’ With a student?

I should keep my thoughts to myself, but I can’t help but blurt them out anyway: “Do we need to record this conversation?”

“N-no, uh…” He seems stymied. Frustrated. However he imagined this conversation going, it’s not panning out. “Forget it. I’m sorry for holding you up, Dr. Pena.”

Oh no you don’t. I’m curious now. “I have a few minutes. Do you wish to follow me to my office?”

He nods.

This is part where I hold out a treat and get him to follow me across the building to my office, right? I just start walking again. If he’s still hovering around behind me when we get to my office, he’s welcome to come in and chit chat. If he’s gone–so be it.

At my office door, where I pull out my keys to unlock it, I see that he’s still there.

“Is this important?” I ask. I worry that he may take this question as a sign that I want to postpone this impromptu rendezvous. But, no, I’m only trying to prepare myself.

“It’s important to me,” he shrugs.

I don’t really like that answer either.

I keep a relatively tidy office–as far as the lit professors go. There’s plenty of books lying around–too many, most would say–but there’s plenty of room to maneuver still. I take my seat on my side of the desk, leaving him to take one of the chairs on the other side. They’re metal folding chairs. Once upon a time, I had rather comfortable chairs in here–real plush things that you could easily fall asleep in if you wanted to. Alas, I find that people stay for shorter amounts of time when the chairs aren’t as comfortable.

He’s closed the doors behind him. I’ve folded my hands in front of me on my desk. All he has to do is talk now.

“So…this is going to be really hard for me to say, so bear with me.”

Is he in love with me? I hate to kill the mood–what little of it there is, but I feel like we have a small amount of housekeeping to take care of first. “I’m so sorry, but… Real quick. What was your name?”

“Oh, uh…” He isn’t expecting this question. “Terrance Whilby.”

I’m tempted to say that it’s a pleasure to meet him, but that might not sound the best if he’s been attending my classes for the better part of a semester. “Ah yes. Thank you, Terrance.”

“Terry,” he says.

“Very well. Terry. Now what is this personal matter of yours?”

“I know you.”

I narrow my eyes again. “I’m sorry?”

He says it again: “I know you.”

I sigh as I shrug. It feels like a game, and I’m just not very interested in playing one right now. “Terry, I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

“When I first came to your class, I couldn’t get over the fact that you looked so familiar to me,” he says. “But that didn’t seem right, you know? I grew up a few states away from here. I doubt you and I have ever been at the same place at the same time before now.”

An alarm bell is going off in my head. I don’t know where he’s going with this yet, but I know that I don’t like it. There’s a smugness creeping into his tone. I can almost see it in his face: “The trap has been set, Rebecca Pena. And you’ve walked right into it.”

“Terry, I suggest you either get to the point or schedule an appointment to come back and see me during my office hours.”

“Alright,” he says. He looks a little nervous again. Good. Whatever brief moment of cockiness he had just enjoyed seems to have dissipated. I half expect him to stand up and excuse himself from my office–the metal folding chair reminding him that he’s not welcome to stay long.

He pulls his phone from his pocket, tapping and sliding his finger around the screen a few times.

He wants to show me something, I realize. What’s the worst thing he could show me? I was almost scared to answer that question. Bad poetry? Pictures of his latest murder victim–just before he looks me in the eyes and says: “You’re next”?

No. It’s something more personal. He mentioned how I looked familiar to him.

As he passes the phone across the desk–just before it enters my hand–I realize that I think I know what this is all about. And when I look at the screen of his phone, I realize that I’m right.

I was right to have sounded the imaginary alarm bells.

“Where did you get this?” I ask.

“The internet?” He almost laughs as he says this, like it was the most obvious answer.

“And you saw this before you were in my class?”

He nods.

“And you recognized me as the person in this photo?”

“Not right away,” he shrugs. “Like I said–you looked familiar to me. It took me a little while to realize why.”

“And so is this the part where you start making demands?” I ask. “You want a passing grade? You want to get out of doing a few assignments?”

“Woah,” he says. “What makes you think I want something?”

“Because you went out of your way to get me alone in my office with you so that you could show me your phone,” I say. “Otherwise, you’d have kept it to yourself.”

“Fair enough,” he says, once more rubbing the back of his head like he was concerned that it was sticking up. “Well…there’s just one thing I want. I don’t think it’s asking all that much.”

I stop just short of rolling my eyes. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

“Do you think I could see you in a diaper?” he asks. “Like the one in this picture?”

Picture

I imagine that when people look at me now, they see me as some fuddy-duddy. A bookworm with an ever-steaming travel mug of coffee and a wardrobe that was purchased on the cheap from Goodwill. Or, perhaps, that’s how I see myself when I look in the mirror.

Picture a middle-aged professor, and I doubt you’re imagining anyone that looks fun.

I used to be fun. I’d like to think I was fun not that long ago. Recently enough that ‘fun’ still feels like something I could reach out and grasp again, if I really wanted to.

Ten years ago, I was an assistant professor by day, and drinking away the last of my youth by night. I was in the final stretches of my own studies–most of the hard work had been done at that point–so I was making up for lost time with my friends.

It was an eclectic horde of supposed ‘adults.’ The lifetime students, like myself. The dropouts. The trust fund babies. The wannabe indie-rockers who weren’t ready to shake their dream yet, despite not being signed after ten years of playing in every bar on the east coast. People came and went from the group often. The group of friends I had one month might look totally different the next.

Claude was one of those guys. A friend-of-a-friend. Maybe he knew one of the band members?

We hit it off quickly. That we hit it off, at all, seemed like a big deal to me. I had largely abstained from romance during my studies–with a smattering of bad decisions spread out along the way–and I was finally feeling like I was ready for regular sex. He was handsome and charming. A photographer, he said–though when I asked what sorts of photographs he took, he just laughed it off like it wouldn’t be anything I was interested in.

Our first few encounters were drunken make-out sessions in the alley behind O’Toole’s on 23rd Street at around 2 AM. Finally, as we were stuffed into the backseat of my tiny Chevy in a mostly-deserted parking lot–his cock deep inside of me–I proposed that we go out on a date, to which he agreed.

Over time, he revealed more and more about the nature of his photography. He photographed people, I learned first. Then, he refined that a little more for me–he photographed women. Later, he’d elaborate, he photographed mostly nude women for the internet. Pornography, he confirmed when asked.

Despite my inner-feminist’s objections, I was surprisingly fine with it. The way that Claude talked about the women he worked with, and the websites he produced content for, seemed to show compassion. He truly didn’t seem to think he was exploiting anyone–he was empowering women who enjoyed showing off their sexuality. He saw it as art. And he was such an impassioned speaker on the subject that it was easy to just roll with it myself.

There was one final revelation about his photography to be made. It came when I finally asked if I could see some of the pictures he had taken. He warned me in advance: “The sites I work for–they cater to specific fantasies, Rebecca. Fetishes and kinks and the like. I’ll show you. But I need you to be open-minded.”

For one, I believed that I had never been anything other than completely open-minded. Too, when he said ‘kinks and fetishes,’ I imagined women being tied up or spanked with comically large paddles. Close-ups of feet, perhaps. A woman in a police officer’s uniform. So, of course, my reaction was: “I think I can handle whatever it is.”

What he showed me were women in diapers. Women crawling around on all fours. Women drinking from baby bottles. Women lying on their backs with their feet straight up in the air–as if ready to be changed like an infant with soiled pants.

I was surprisingly fine with this. I didn’t quite get it, but I could see the ‘art’ in his captures. Whether it was intended or not, the photos seemed to make statements about the necessity for women to ‘grow up’ too soon. Or something like that. I was envious of the women in the pictures. Maybe they were acting, or maybe I was just projecting, but I swore I saw authentic delight in their faces. They had found the closest thing to the fabled Fountain of Youth–shedding their adulthood and allowing themselves to get silly for a few minutes. I wanted that.

I was the one who proposed it to him: “What if I wanted you to take pictures like that of me?”

It took some convincing–he didn’t believe me, initially. At one point I was practically begging him to let me wear a diaper–one of the strangest things I’ve ever begged for in my entire life. Eventually, he folded.

I insisted that he treat me like one of the models he worked with–not his partner/girlfriend/whatever-we-were. I studied the pictures he had shown me. I did my own research–looking at other photos and videos from this corner of kinkdom to get a better feel for how people acted in these scenes.

I treated the session as if the photos would actually end up online. I didn’t think they would–it was just a role that I wanted to get into. I wore a blonde wig, concealing my trademark frizzled red mane. With his help, I slipped into a diaper–clearly he had done this before. I was a little jealous, but I was even more excited.

He snapped some photos, and I did my best to slip into the role of Baby Becca. He said he’d share the results with me after he worked some editing magic on his PC–which I almost took offense to, except he reassured me that he made edits on every photo he took.

And so I waited. I expected it to be a day or two, but suddenly a week had passed. I asked Claude every time I saw him–”Where are my pictures?”

“They’re coming,” he’d say. He smirked when he said that, as if he knew something about them that I didn’t. I’d demand he elaborate, but he’d just tell me to be patient.

The day finally came, and a rather large email appeared in my inbox.

“Before you look at these,” his email read, “I just want you to know that I think we’ve done something very special here. You have an energy about you in these photos that it’s very hard to get from the models I usually work with. I hope you don’t mind–but I’ve shared some of these images with some trusted individuals within the community. I know I should’ve talked to you before I did this–but I simply couldn’t help myself. You look INCREDIBLE in these photos, and that opinion is shared by my friends.”

I was mad about this. Furious. I hadn’t been able to see the photos for myself yet, and some strangers had? Folks I hadn’t even met? Folks who I hadn’t been given the privilege to vouch for and vet before my images were shared?

The photos were amazing. I loved the way that I looked. So free. So vibrant. So silly and innocent–like I never actually had to grow up before. And that lighting? The way it made my skin look so pure and smooth? And, I fucking rocked that diaper so well.

But I was done with Claude, and I told him so. “Thank you for these amazing photographs. Also? Fuck off and never show them to anyone else again.”

I never revisited diapers after that. I’d think about it from time to time, but I kind of liked the idea of it just existing in a single moment of my life. It was forever captured in the best photos ever taken of me, and that was all it ever had to be.

Daddy?

“You say you found this online?” I ask Terry, slowly reaching across the desk again to hand him back his phone. I don’t need to stare at the photos too long–I know them incredibly well. Years later, I still regularly revisit them.

“Yes,” he nods. “I don’t know if the website exists anymore, though. It was just, like, a repository. A, uh, aggregator of sorts. Yours was just one of thousands of photos I had seen there. But I really liked it, so I saved it. And now…here you are. I mean, it is you, yes?”

“You already know the answer to that.”

“You looked beautiful.”

“How long ago did you find this picture?” I ask, ignoring his commentary. “Because you can’t be any older than 19 or so now, right?”

His cheeks turn pink as contemplates how to respond to this. “W-well…I mean, does anyone really expect teenagers to stay off of the internet?”

I can’t get a good read on the kid. He comes in here with a request. A fucking demand, like he’s got the power to make me do anything he wants to do for as long as he has that photo. But he’s squirming in his hard chair. He looks increasingly nervous–perhaps even regretful of having this conversation. It probably seemed like a very good idea in his fantasies.

I’m disturbed by the fact that my photo was out there on some website. It means that it’s probably somewhere else out there in the world. On some other website. On some hard drive. In some other young man’s spank bank. But I’m not as worried about it as I think I ought to be. Between the blonde wig, the ten years of additional youth, and the diaper itself, I’m just not sure how obvious it is that it’s me. Nobody else in my life has ever indicated that they recognize me from such a picture.

“What if I refuse?” I ask my would-be blackmailer. “Are you going to show that to someone else? Other students? The dean? University administration?”

“Well…I could.”

“You could, yes. But I could just as easily go to them first. I could explain the situation, and explain that a student is trying to extort me. I could even skip past the middleman and go right to the police.”

I don’t think I could actually do any of those things. I almost laugh just imagining the scenario where I go to the police and show them a picture of me in a thick white diaper, my thumb in my mouth as I stare at the camera with a vacant look in my eyes.

Terry sighs. He slumps in his chair a little. He looks tired. Out of his element. Maybe this conversation isn’t going the way that he thought it would.

“May I ask you a question, Terry?”

He nods.

“Are you a baby? Do you wear diapers and crawl around your dorm room when nobody else is around?”

He laughs nervously, rubbing his hair again.

“Or are you a…daddy, perhaps? You’d want to change some little girl’s diapers?”

“Yes,” he says. “That. I think.”

I have no idea how I’m supposed to feel. Part of me is angry at this young fool for barging into my day with a half-assed plan steeped in fantasy. Part of me is angry at ghosts–Claude and his cronies clearly hadn’t been as careful with my pictures as he said they’d be. But then part of me is a little titillated. I feel guilty admitting this to myself, but it can’t be denied. I’m reminded of the thrill I felt when I posed in the diaper. The feeling of surrender when I was on my back, allowing Claude to put me in the thick padding.

“That picture did not belong to anyone else,” I say. “And it certainly doesn’t belong to you. If I learn that anyone else has seen it–if I learn that you’ve even mentioned its existence, I will make you regret that. Understand?”

He nods. “I promise. I’ll keep it to myself.”

“We’re not finished with this conversation, Terry. But I want to think about it before I say anything else.”

“Yes, okay,” he says. He looks mostly anxious. Regretful. Still, I see the tiniest glimmer of hope in him–like he actually thinks that one of the possibilities is that I actually say “Yeah, I need you to put me in a diaper, Terry.”

“Go,” I say.

“But… Uhm, when do you think we might finish this conver–”

“When I’m ready to talk again, you will know. Understand?”

“Yes. Of course, Dr. Pena.”

Chaos

I remain surprisingly calm for the rest of the day. The situation, at most, is just irksome to me–and I feel like I can deal with irksome.

I don’t fear Terry. Maybe I’m naive–maybe I should fear him, but I’ve seen enough freshmen coming through my classroom doors that I truly believe I have a sixth sense when it comes to identifying types of students. There’s always a chance that he’s a wild card–he might have a little more chaos in him than I’ve seen. Chaos–even a tiny bit of it–can be dangerous.

For now, I’m just cautious. And curious.

It’s interesting to me that he recognized my face from one photograph. One photograph taken years before–one that I’d argue captures a side of me that’s never been seen before or after.

That feels like a cosmic-level of serendipity. Not that I believe in such things.

By the time I’m home, I’m no longer thinking about Terry. I’m thinking about diapers. I’m remembering the thrill of standing in front of Claude with my thumb in my mouth as he snapped photos of me. I’m remembering the bulge he had in the front of his pants when he finished, and how he told me how badly he wanted to fuck his baby. I’m remembering how I felt like the hottest girl in the universe when he told me about how much his friends liked the photos.

I also remember how fucking pissed I was about that. But so it goes.

I think about diapers from time to time. Perhaps more often than I care to admit. I like the fantasy of traipsing around in a thick nappy while dressed like a little girl. It seems like the sort of thing that would be quite liberating. Of course, I laugh when I consider how much I likethere’s another part of me that wants to relive the fantasy of being fucked in my diaper–like the dirty little girl that I could be. It seems at odds with the first fantasy, though I can almost imagine there being a place for both.

“Was it an especially long day?” Ram asks.

“Oh,” I say, surprised to learn I was carrying around this introspection on my face. “No, not really.”

“Your face is in ‘serious-mode,’” he shrugs. He’s a wonderful partner with a gift for reading me like a book–but I doubt he’s ever seen the pages that I’m currently on.

“Just thinking about, er, some lesson plans I’m thinking about making changes to.”

“I don’t envy that,” he says.

He doesn’t envy much that I do. His seems like a much more comfortable life–he makes furniture for a living. And he’s at a place in his career where his customers are willing to grant him all the time he needs to finish a piece. As he describes it: he simply gets paid for enjoying his hobbies.

I’ve never told him about my diapered photos. Nor have I even mentioned the kink to him. I’d like to think that he’d at least be curious about it, if I stated that it was something I truly wanted to explore–but I just don’t know. He’s got a tiny bit of chaos in him.

Everyone does.

“Well, if you need a distraction,” he offers, “I was going to go for a hike after dinner tonight. Maybe up to the old bridge? You’re welcome to join me.”

A nice long walk sounds pretty nice–and a hike to the old bridge would certainly be long. But I think it’d be time better spent alone. Ram’s long walk to the old bridge gives me plenty of time to be alone.

“Tempting,” I reply. “Why don’t you go on without me? I think there’s a few things I need to work on.”

“You sure? I’ve been practicing my bird-calling and I was going to show off a little.”

I laugh–he’s such a lovely man. “I am staying home. But please don’t take that as a rejection of your bird-noises.”

“Your loss.”

Alone

I stare out the window, watching Ram get smaller and smaller as he walks down the road, until he finally just vanishes. Truthfully, I didn’t need him to be out of the house–I could easily get the same amount of privacy by just closing the door in my home office.

I just feel a little more comfortable being completely alone right now. The mystery of whether or not Ram is going to pop into my office with a question about where we keep the popcorn has already been solved. He’s out in the woods now, and he’ll be gone for at least two hours.

The first thing I do is pull up my photos. I still have them. I think I’ve saved copies of them on almost every laptop, tablet, and phone I’ve owned in the last twenty years.

Sometimes I feel like I don’t know the woman that I’m looking at. Sure, it’s me. But it’s not even the ‘me’ I was when I took the photos. I’ve never had hair that color. My skin has never been that perfect. It’s all an illusion of wigs, lighting, and Photoshop.

So maybe it’s not that strange that I find myself attracted to this young woman.

There’s another life–a forking path in my existence–where I become that woman. I wish I could check in with her now and see how she’s doing. “Twenty years later, Baby Becca, how do you feel about it all? Are you happy with your diapers?”

Maybe, one day, I’ll be in diapers again–regardless of whether I want them or not. A depressing thought, but these things happen as I get older.

I ask myself: “Wouldn’t it be nice to try them again? On your own accord? Before it’s too late and they’re not enjoyable anymore?” Once, just once, I want to be Baby Becca.

For as much as I think about diapers, I rarely devote any time to keeping up with the online communities interested in such things. I’m nervous that they’d send me spiraling into my own wants and fantasies, and who has time for that? Tonight, though, I want to make an exception. I want to spiral.

The most immediate change to the community, that I see, is that it’s become an industry of sorts. No longer are people making the best of what they can cobble together with medical-grade adult incontinence briefs. There are so many adult-sized diapers now, with cute patterns and colors. Onesies and clothing. Adult-sized pacifiers. Oversized baby bottles. Furniture, even.

It’s never been easier to be Baby Becca, it seems. Happiness is just a few credit card transactions away.

I place an order. And, while I wait for Ram to come home, I slip my hand into my panties and daydream about my diaper being changed.

Lecture

“...obviously, there were a number of well-known criticisms to the label of ‘modernist’ to writers’ works. Look no further than…”

Another day. Blank faced college students point their heads to the front of the small auditorium, though they don’t all look focused or engaged. There’s stories on each of their faces. Regret for whatever they got into the night before. Stress. Exhaustion. This one young woman with long brown hair–Kacey, I think–looks like she wants to kick me, for some reason.

I see Terry, four rows back on the left side. He’s got this goofy smile on his face whenever I look in his direction. “Hi, Dr. Pena. It’s me! Remember our conversation the other day? About diapers?”

I wish I could say that I was paying him no mind, but I’m definitely thinking about him more than anything else at the moment. My body–my lecture–is on autopilot. I’ve given the same spiel so many times that I wonder if Ram hears me murmuring it while I sleep. While I speak, I’m keeping him in my peripheral vision, analyzing every twitch of his face.

Do you see it, Terry? Can you tell that I’m wearing a diaper?

The dress is tight, but not too tight. I stared at myself in the mirror for an hour this morning before coming to work, and I came to the conclusion that you probably couldn’t tell I was wearing a thick diaper under it. But if you were looking for one–maybe you’d be pleasantly surprised.

I try not to think about the diaper too much. I can’t, for my own good. No sooner than I had carefully put the diaper on this morning, in the comfort of my bedroom with the door closed and locked, my hands were all over it–squeezing and rubbing the crinkling plastic exterior of it. Were I to think of the diaper while I taught, I’d probably get all hot and bothered.

“What you end up with,” I say to the class, “is a sense of developing a sense of self as the author. Maybe even multiple selves. And, uh…well…uhm…”

Suddenly I’m thinking about the diaper.

My pussy’s wet. They don’t know. They have no idea. Even Terry–who is at least hoping that I’m wearing a diaper–has no idea that my vulva feels like it's pulsating as it drips into the thick padding.

I sigh, running my hand through my hair. “Why don’t we take a little break. Ten minutes?”

Some students stay in their seat, taking out their cellphones to catch up on what text messages and social media notifications they’ve missed out on. Others get up and leave the room, in search of snack food or bathrooms.

I could use a toilet myself. But I’m also wearing one.

I watch Terry get up and slowly walk past me. He’s got a little smile on his face. It’s smug, but I can’t determine how smug it is. He leaves through the doors on the left. For a moment, I’m tempted to let him go, but I quickly change my mind.

No. Fuck it. I want someone to know.

I march out into the hallway, finding that he’s standing just past the door. Is he waiting for me, or did he just so happen to be standing there.

“Terry.”

“Dr. Pena.”

“Do you have a few minutes?”

“Yes,” he nods. “What’s up?”

“Follow me.”

I’ll be pushing the allotted ten minutes if I go all the way to my office and back, but I don’t actually need that much time. It should be a pretty short conversation.

“I wanted to follow up on our conversation from the other day,” I say, closing the door behind him after we both enter my office.

“Y-yeah?” He seems nervous. Maybe I’m a little too confident and self-assured sounding. Would that translate as someone who wanted to ruin him, instead of rewarding him?

“How do you think I look today?”

He seems unsure how to answer that. His eyes flicker back and forth–as if unsure if he should, or shouldn’t, be staring at me. “You, uh, look good. But…you always do.”

“Nothing that’s obviously out of the ordinary?”

“Uh…I don’t know.” His hand tries to flatten his already-flat hair. “I mean, you look as fantastic as you always do.”

He’ll make a good husband someday. I can almost hear my Ram in him, responding to a question about whether or not a new outfit makes me look fat.

I assume, then, that he doesn’t know I’m wearing a diaper.

But he’s piecing it together–I see the gears turning while I watch his face.

“Oh,” he finally says, eyes wide and mouth hanging ajar. “You, uhm… You’re wearing one? Now?”

I shrug. “Does it look like I’m wearing a diaper?”

It’s a devious question–a trap of my own that I’m tempted to call revenge for when he came to me with his photo in the first place.

“I…I don’t know. I mean, I didn’t think you were, but…”

“Were you staring at my ass, though?”

He laughs. “Honestly?”

I nod.

“I mean, I always do.”

“And how does my ass look today?” I spin around and jut my ass out a few extra inches so that he can get a better look at it. “Look, but don’t touch.”

His cheeks glow a vibrant pink. I am loving this moment. I feel younger. I feel hot. I feel desirable and powerful. All that from a diaper, of all things.

“Plump,” he says. “Round. Smooth. Perfect. Probably, uhm, better than it’s ever looked.”

Baby Becca finds this answer to be acceptable.

“That’s all I needed to hear,” I say.

“So…you are wearing a diaper?”

“Why don’t you head back to class,” I say. “You wouldn’t want to be late.”

Lecture II

The tension feels electric. It’s the most thrilling sensation I’ve ever felt. I continue my lecture, slowly shuffling back and forth in the classroom. I have a little bit of a waddle, I realize. Most don’t seem to notice.

Terry notices. His eyes are locked on my body now. His cheeks are red. He may not be 100% that I’m wearing a diaper, but he’s sure enough that he wants to take in every moment of this lecture and burn it into his memory.

If only he could see the inside of my diaper. It was damp earlier–just from the wetness of my excited pussy. Now, as of my walk back to the classroom from my office, it’s wet for another reason.

I simply cannot put into words how it felt to empty my bladder into the diaper as I walked down the hallway. I passed my students and my colleagues, offering friendly waves and salutations–all while soaking myself like a toddler.

As much as I like the power I seem to have over Terry, I wouldn’t mind losing all of that power in an instant. I want to be caught. I want to be called out. I want to be exposed.

I want Dean Wilkins to bust through the door right now. “Rebecca, is it true that you’ve been having a conversation with a student about diapers? Is it true that you’re wearing one right now? Pull up your dress right now. Show me. Show everyone.”

I want the students to gang up on me. One of the popular girls, like Samantha Jonas, might raise her hand like she had a question. “Yes, Samantha?”

“Actually, this has nothing to do with any of the bullshit you’re babbling about right now. What I’d really like to know is why your ass is crinkling. And why do you smell like piss?”

The other students would start laughing. Maybe some of the other students have questions and observations of their own. Soon, they’re all coming together and have decided–as a group–to demand that I show them my secret shame.

“Show us what a baby you are.”

“Do you have more to do? Go on, pull up your dress and pop a squat. Show us what you need your diapers for.”

It’s a miracle that I don’t break down in front of the class, collapsing to my knees as I frantically rub at the drooping garment between my thighs.

Terry feels my pain, I suspect. I wonder if he can see me daydreaming as I lecture. I’m sure he’s daydreaming himself. What’s going on in his mind? Is he ‘daddy’ enough to take me back to my office and offer to change my diaper? Or would he just want to gawk while he clumsily grabs at his shaft?

Somehow, I get through it. The clock strikes 3, and I thank everyone for their time.

Terry lingers after everyone else has gone.

“I…I don’t think I listened to a single word you said today,” he admits. “I was distracted.”

“The recommended reading is on your syllabus,” I reply. “That should catch you up.”

“You are wearing one,” he says.

“You’re sure?”

He nods. “Quite.”

“Was that exciting for you?”

“Yes.” He seems to hem and haw for a moment, debating if he should say anything else. “I, uhm, want to see it.”

“It?” I know damn well what he means. I just want him to say it.

“I want to see your diaper.”

“Terry, you know we can’t do this, right?”

He opens his mouth to respond, but closes it, saying nothing.

“There won’t be any further conversations about this,” I say. “If you bring it up again, I’ll deny any knowledge of it.”

“But…”

“I could ask you to delete my photo in front of me, but who knows how many different places you have it saved. If I had to, I’m pretty sure I could feign ignorance and claim that I don’t know who the girl in the photo is. Of course, if I had to say that–it would mean that somebody else saw the photo you have. And, well, I wouldn’t want to be you if that happened.”

He desperately looks like wants to say something.

“Yes, Terry?”

“I…I just need to know. Definitively. So that when I look back on this day, I know that I wasn’t just seeing what I wanted to see. You are wearing a diaper, yes?”

“Come by my office today. 6 PM?”

“Yes.”

Office

I am not in the office at 6 PM. At that time, I’m somewhere between the university and home.

Terry will initially be disappointed by the fact that when he strolls up to my office door, he finds that the lights are off and the door is closed. But, just for the sake of trying, he’ll turn the doorknob–finding it unlocked. He’ll peer up and down the corridor, looking to see if anyone is watching him as he opens his professor’s office door. At that time of day in that building? I doubt anyone will see him. Or care.

Inside my office, sitting atop my chair, he’ll find a white shopping bag that has been tied shut twice. There’s a post-it note affixed to the bag.

“Terry,” it reads. “Would you be a dear and dispose of this for me?”

I’d love to know what he says when he reads this. Something like “What the fuck?” I hope.

But he’ll pick up the bag, feeling how heavy it is. And maybe he’ll open the bag right there, or maybe he’ll squirrel it away and run off to some secret place of his to look at it. And when he does open it, he’ll find a large disposable diaper–pink with cute little white clouds printed across it. It’ll be obvious that it had been worn. And used.

And what he does with it after that is up to him.

Tea

“What’s with you tonight?” Ram asks as he finishes pouring us each a cup of tea.

“Hmm? Do I seem off?”

“You’ve got some extra pep in your step or something,” he shrugs.

“Is it suspicious that I’m in a good mood?”

“Sometimes.”

“I had a little revelation this week,” I say. “Something just clicked for me?”

“Oh yeah?” I love the way his head cocks to the side like this. He looks interested. It’s a genuine sort of interest that I never see from my students. The way that he looks at me in these moments, it makes me feel like I could tell him anything.

I wasn’t sure if I would mention the diapers to him or not. But now, I’m thinking: Why the hell not?

“It just dawned on me that it’s never too late to just be whoever the hell I want to be.”

He chuckles. “You’re making me nervous, Bec. Did you decide you want to be a witch? Gay? A juggler? Please don’t tell me that you want to juggle.”

I slowly pull my dress up my legs, my heart beating faster and faster as the hem approaches the new fresh diaper I’ve put on since I’ve come home. I watch his eyes as its finally exposed. It takes an extra second or two for him to realize what he’s looking at.

“Is that a…uh…”

“Diaper,” I say. “I’m not a juggler.”

“Did something happen?” he asks, concern in his voice. “Do you, uhm, need them?”

I shake my head. “No.”

I pull up the photos of Baby Becca on my phone, figuring I might as well start at the very beginning.

I don’t tell him about Terry. I suppose I should, but that feels like an isolated incident best left in its own moment. But I tell him everything else. I tell him what I like. What I want. What I’d love to experience. It’s a lot, and I know it is, but I also know that if I don’t get it off my chest now, I might never work up the guts to do it again.

When I finish, I watch Ram’s face as he mulls it over and contemplates this new information. It’s another thing I love about him–he’ll never give you a half-assed answer.

“Well,” he finally shrugs. “Do you want a crib? Because I could build you a crib.”

New

It’s a new classroom of students–same as the old classroom of students. Blank-faced zombies that stare in my general direction as I talk. In a perfect world, they’d be hanging on every word I say–but I can’t expect any of them to care that much.

I pace back and forth as I go over the broader strokes of my plans for the semester. I think I’m doing a decent enough job, but I find wet diapers to be extremely distracting. With every step, I feel the saturated padding rubbing on my moist vulva. Hundreds of diapers later, you’d think the thrill would’ve worn off–but I don’t think I’ll ever get sick of this.

I catch the faintest hint of urine coming from the diaper. Have I been in this diaper that long? Have I wet it that many times?

There’s one in every class. That one student who suspects that something might be off. Do they hear the crinkling of my bottom? Smell something a little off? Do they wonder why I walk like I have a towel shoved down my pants?

Identifying that student is only the first part of the game. The next part is a subtle game–one I’m mostly playing with myself–where I just bring my diapered bottom closer and closer to where they sit as the semester progresses. I watch their faces as I do, and it's my favorite thing when they notice me watching.

Do you notice something? I want to ask. What do you think it is?

I see Terry around campus once in a great while. We say nothing to each other. Most days, I pretend to not even see him. But then, on occasion, I look him right in the eyes and smile, and he smiles back. I never turn around to check–but I assume he’s checking out my ass when I walk away.

“All done for the day and about to head home,” I say to Ram on the phone as I finally throw my bag over my shoulder and head towards the parking lot.

“Long day?” he asks.

“They all are.”

“Well, when you get home, I’ve got a fresh diaper here with your name on it. I imagine you did quite a number on the one I sent you to school with?”

“I had to change at lunch,” I confess. “Otherwise it would’ve started leaking.”

“And how is this one holding up?”

“Well…it’s wet now. And I can’t make any promises that it won’t be worse by the time I get home.”

“Another stinky one, huh?”

“Well…”

“It’d be your third this week. Up one from last week at this time.”

“You keep track?”

He laughs. “A good parent knows.”

Parent. He’s teasing, but I feel like we’re getting closer to when I start calling him ‘Daddy’ around the house.

“I’ll see you soon,” I say.

“You be a good girl,” he replies. It makes my pussy pulsate in my diaper.

Ram is a man of many hobbies–he refuses to let himself be bored. His latest hobbies have included building pieces for our in-progress nursery, changing diapers, and photography. I’ll take some credit for inspiring the first two, but the last was all his.

As he explains it: “Well, sure, the girl in this photograph is pretty cute–but I don’t think it’s you. I think I’d rather see a photograph of the real Baby Becca.”

Honestly, I’m delighted by the idea. No wigs. No extreme studio lighting. No Photoshop. I’m looking older, of course. But I don’t think I’ve ever looked like the girl in those original photos. I want to see the baby that Ram sees when he looks at me now–blemished skin and all.

I’ve deleted the old photos from my phone. I’m confident they’re still out there–either on an old device of mine or on some forgotten corner of the internet I haven’t traversed to yet. If I really want to see them again, they’re there.

Baby Becca is real now, finally.