Spring, I decide, has definitely sprung, in fact it’s more like summer. I stretch luxuriantly in my bed - all alone, unfortunately. Oh well, can’t win them all.
Now, normally I’m a self-sufficient, sassy little piece. Been looking after myself for years and coping kinda well thanks. I ain’t ashamed of my body, and show as much as I choose, like tight pants and short skirts, but that’s my choice. I’m the equal of any man and don’t play the helpless female. Except…
Well, sometimes a girl does like to be looked after, to be fluffy and dependant, same as sometimes the strongest guy wants mummied. Today, I decide, is gonna be one of these days.
I get up, go to the john and empty my bladder carefully. Like many women I’m prone to stretch incontinence and I don’t want to pee in my leotard and soil the carpet. Exercises, then I look out my clothes for the day. Not my usual tight, brief clothing, a very feminine bright yellow knee length dress, real flouncy underskirt, very thin bodice and low cleavage (I’m still an extrovert). I decide to wear a bra for once, white and frothy and lacy, the type that gives lots of uplift, half cup, so I can let a nipple peep out if I wish to, white sheer stockings, a garter and… I hold the sexy white panties in my hands and think about this. No, I’m not a baby, I don’t need protection, but I do get the urge to pee sometimes when I get sexually excited. And today I don’t think I’ll be suppressing urges. Now, a damp spot on my tight jeans doesn’t worry me, but I really don’t want to soil this pretty outfit. Also, a loose skirt can hide a bulky butt, and any crackling or rustling can be blamed on the underskirt. I look out a packet of attends and my frilly rhumba plastic panties. Today, I really am going to be helpless and needing looked after.
I feel a sense of release, a lightness, a lack of responsibility, a relinquishing of control. Is this what real 7/24 adult babies get turned on by? I decide not to pursue that line of thought, when I kinda warm, wet feeling tells me I really have relinquished control, and my leotard has caught the results in spite of my precautions. Just a little, no puddle as yet, and I walk calmly into the john where I sit on the pan and soak myself properly before stripping off and showering. Nice.
No point in putting on my good clothes until I’ve breakfasted and put on my make-up, so I slip on my towelling trainer panties. Of course I’m not going to have another accident, but there’s no point taking chances. I dress and make up carefully. I’ll change my underwear last. There, I knew I could control myself if I wanted to, trainer panties quite dry. I put them in my purse with my lacy knickers and a spare attend. Hope the clasp stays shut! One last visit to the john for a dump and I tape myself into my diaper. Feels good.
The doorbell goes. My friend Mo, and a gaggle of girlfriends. They inspect my dress with (I hope) slightly jealous oohs and ahs.
‘Hey Chelle, ‘ says Mo. ‘Aren’t you wearing anything above the waist?’ Cheek. She’s in black leather hotpants so brief that a line of blue lace from her underwear shows at the leg, and a tank top so skimpy that you’d miss it if you blinked. Hey, it may be unseasonably hot, but it’s still April, in Scotland, sorta a hundred yards from the Artic Circle! She’s gonna suffer! Not that her pals have much more on, skin tight jeans and tiny tops being the order of the day. I pull a dainty lace shawl over my bare shoulders, and, a final touch, pick up a little parasol. I ignore the comments.
A group of girls in a public park on a Spring day can expect to attract the attention of the opposite gender. We need only walk sedately and look demure. Some dishy guys pass. Mo puts two fingers in her mouth and emits a wolf whistle. Sometimes I think she carries equality a bit too far.
Normally, of course, I’d be in there wiggling my butt and exchanging repartee with the best of them. Not today. Shy and ladylike, I hang back from the main group. It works. The guy who falls back beside me is dark, tall, good looking but a little shy. Hamish, a good Scots name. Speaks with a Yorkshire accent. Oh well, one more stereotype shattered.
We head towards the boating pond. Rowboats. I hang back dubiously, eyeing the wooden seats. My swain selects the cleanest vessel and spreads his jacket on the seat. I get in the boat, carefully holding my hemline, then give him a flash of everything as I sit down and wonder if he realises some of the pretty frills he saw were on plastic panties. Carefully I adjust my dress so the garter shows and no more.
A water-fight develops, but my palladin keeps me well clear. We admire the swans. Some of my companions are quite wet, especially their tops. Ain’t it sweet how a wet top clings, showing firm little nipples. I bend forward to give Hamish the full effect of my cleavage. One girl has a well splashed butt, and I wonder if it’s all pondwater or whether she’s disguising an accident.
Back on shore, a dripping Mo, shivering slightly, takes two men into the woods with her to warm her up. Wonder how. I sit on a bench wit Hamish, chat, slide my fingers into his, give a little nod and receive my first soft but lingering kiss. He doesn’t know it yet, but I’ve just elected him bedwarmer for the nite. I kiss again, relaxing my lips, but no tongue work as yet.
Usually at this point I want to go in my panties, but don’t. If a girl wants a sex life, I found out long ago, she can’t pee herself every time she gets kissed. Counter productive. Now, of course, I can wet as I will, in fact I should. I’ve diapered often enough to know that you get much less risk of leaks if you dribble a little into them every so often, rather than holding back and giving them a bladderful. Paradoxically, because I know I can wet I find I don’t need to. We kiss once more, and he suggests lunch, then, nervously, a drive into the country. Naughty boy Hamish! My diaper dampens a little, and it’s not with pee.
I visit the washroom, and make a decision. My companion will be investigating my underwear before the day’s much older, nothing surer. Should I remove my babyish diaper and change into grown up panties, to be removed later for grown up activities? I decide not to. It’s risky going straight from diaper to panties, a girl forgets, and accidents happen, besides, being diapered suits my helpless, fragile mood. I touch up my make-up, but my underwear remains undisturbed.
A nice quiet parking space, among some trees, and we kiss fiercely. His hand is on my knee, but I push it gently away. Not yet. I usually allow success at about the fourth attempt, He concentrates on my upper half where there’s very little to stop him, least of all me. I gurgle with delight. A girl hasn’t been properly introduced until she’s had her nipples squeezed. I’m hot between my legs, wriggling with desire, and a warm, glowing, tingly feeling tells me I’ve wet myself. More than I intended - a second spurt gives the rattling sound of pee hitting plastic panties and I hope I’m not about to leak. Dinner tonite is suggested and I agree eagerly. I’m at the stage of agreeing to everything eagerly. His hand slides up my thigh, pausing for a moment at my garter, before continuing on it’s way. Suddenly he stops.
‘Bad time of month?’ he asks.
‘No.’
‘But…’ He slides a gentle hand over my butt, to the obvious accompaniment of crackling plastic.
‘Yes, I’m wearing plastic panties.’
‘Are you… er… incontinent?’ He blushes.
‘No, but when I get excited I sometimes have accidents.’ I gaze into his eyes. ‘Hardly ever happens, but I didn’t want to risk my good clothes. Hope you’re not put off.’
‘Er… no.’ He swallows. ‘And did you get… em.. excited?’
‘Let’s look and see.’ I lift my skirt and we both examine the little puddle of pee trapped in my rhumba panties. ‘Seems I did,’ I say. ‘You should be flattered.’
‘Is that a pad or something you’ve on underneath?’ He’s too interested to be embarrassed.
‘No, it’s a diaper.’
‘Pardon?’
‘A disposable diaper, sorry, nappy. Occasionally I wear nappies. Now you know my guilty secret.’
‘Safe with me,’ he grins. ‘Looks like you need changed.’
‘Wanna change me?’
‘Er, not here. Too public. Besides, I’m not sure I’d know how. I’ll keep watch while you change.’
He drives me home. Seems I’m not getting my sex alfresco, but few men can resist the lure of a coffee… or something. I do a careful anticipatory wet. Better. Diapers aren’t designed to be dry.
At the door I get a polite kiss. ‘You’ll need time to change,’ he says. ‘See you at eight.’
OK, so that dumb I’m not. Hamish is turned off by diapers. If I want sex tonite, and I do, I’m gonna have to wear grown up panties and visit the john. I give my diaper a farewell pee as I run the bath. Afterwards I choose a real slinky blue trouser suit, filmy blue panties, no bra. Tasty. I admire myself in the mirror, think about later, and watch the spreading stain at my crotch in horror. Oops, forgot. A quick strip wash and this time I select a flowing long gown. Before donning it I empty my bladder thoroughly, then put on the trainer panties. I can change later, and the trainer will deal with any minor leaks without being as bulky as a diaper.
Hamish is charming, I enjoy my meal. He’s amusing, great sense of humour, and I giggle a lot. Oh dear! I excuse myself and head for the washroom. Not as bad as I thought, the trainers stopped most of it, just one stain on my dress and it’s not obvious in the dim light. Cleaning myself up, I slip on my lacy, transparent white panties. No stopping power there, so I’ll have to be careful.
I stay carefully dry, even during a very smoochy last dance to the restaurant’s small band. Dishy drummer. Home we go. I’m getting very hot indeed. Heavy snogging in the lift. I’m out of control. Carried into my own flat, giggling, put gently back on my feet. Suddenly he stops.
‘Oops, he says. Did I get you excited again?’ I look down. The stain on my skirt is worse than I thought, and It seems pointless to explain that my current underwear is dry or, to be accurate, not peed in.
‘I’ll go and slip into something more comfortable,’ I say. In my bedroom I disrobe completely, then slip into something much more comfortable. The bed.
‘Hamish!’ I call.
He’s considerate, gentle, and rather skilled. Some girl has taught this one well. We experiment for a while, but there’s only one position for me when I’m this randy. These missionaries knew a thing or two. He works on the outside of my sex, just touching the clitoris. I orgasm, and again, beg him to thrust home, speed up. He slows down. I rake my nails down his back, arch towards him, cum. He thrusts, we find a wild rhythm. He hits my g-spot! I scream, cum hard, a full squirting g-spot orgasm. I’m shivering, sobbing, screaming, climaxing with every atom of my being. We slow, kiss. He withdraws, stands up, looks down at me.
‘Enjoy yourself?’ he asks.
‘Uhuh.’
‘Better change the bedding.’
I examine the sheets. I’m lying in a veritable puddle. For some reason I feel embarrassed.
‘It was a g-spot orgasm,’ I explain, ‘I squirted.’
‘Don’t worry love. I know women sometimes pass water when they climax.’
‘No, it was a squirt.’
‘Best change the bed anyway before the mattress gets soiled.’
‘I’ve got a mattress protector.’ Somehow this strikes me as the wrong thing to say. He lifts me, deposits me on a chair, finds the liner cupboard, changes the bed, starts to put on his clothes.
‘Hey!’ I protest.
‘Sorry, Michelle darling,’ he sounds embarrassed. ‘I can’t stay.’
Or won’t. I recall the wet diaper, my accident in the restaurant, the soiled bed, the mattress protector. He reckons I’m totally incontinent, who can blame him, and he doesn’t want the responsibility. Nothing I can say will change his mind, and I’m not into begging guys to stay with me. Pity, I kinda liked him, but there’s lots more where he came from. We kiss a gentle goodbye, exchange phone numbers. I won’t be calling him and I don’t think he’ll be calling me.
Oh well.
Still, I enjoyed my diaper day.
Michelle
Michelle
 Front page |
 Main Menu
|
 Story Menu |
