It still amazes me where a little nudge of boldness in a bar can lead. I sat beside a hunky total stranger. Saying nothing. Doing Nothing. Nothing special. I just listened to the music till the tracks switched up.
The Beach Boys' Surfin' U.S.A. popped on, encouraging me to jiggle to the beat. My lips synced to the lyrics when I glanced over at the hunk. He mouthed the words of the song too. Catching each other in the act, we turned away, our faces deep red.
I thought of moving over one seat when I heard him starting to sing along. Looking away from me, he pretended not to care though the red emitting from his cheeks spoke otherwise. I swigged my beer, and joined him, turning his solo into a duet.
We got louder. Faced each other. Met the other's eyes. Looked like idiots. And laughed together by the end of the song.
A cascade of follow up drinks loosened our mouth holes. We swapped tales from each about our respective wild backpacking excursions or road trip misadventures. Leading one of us to ask, though neither of us remembers who, whether a pull-up or a diaper makes the drive easier.
I insisted pull-ups worked better since you could slip them on and off easier when you wet them. He argued diapers held more and felt better. I countered pull-ups felt comfier.
Our soberer thinking catching up with the embarrassing topic shelved our discussion behind an awkward silence. We turned away, sipping our fifth (or was it sixth?) beers. We took intermittent glances at each other, reflecting on the hints the other had laid down.
We at first sniffed. Then nibbled. And at last swallowed the underlying message we had given each other.
Leaning in close, we at the same time asked, "Are you wearing?"
"Pull-ups," I said.
"Diapers," he said.
We glanced down at each other's nether regions. He nodded. Then I nodded. We smiled. And then we laughed out loud.
Once our fits ended, we turned to non-diaper related topics.
I continued thinking about them the whole time, of course. I suspected he did the same. We kept spying for bulges and white rims sticking out of our pants.
We ended up sloshed, staggering out of the bar together. Since I lived a short walk away while he would have to order a ride, I offered to let him crash at my place. I, sure enough, hoped to see his diaper.
He hesitated to answer though, worrying me I acted too forward.
He managed to mumble, "Yes," plus a nod.
Wabbling up the street, sleep at last caught up with me. I exaggerated a stumble to see how he would react.
"Want me to carry you?" He spoke.
That almost perked me out of my inebriation. "Sure," I replied.
Even tired and drunk, he seemed to lift me onto his back with ease. Wherever our bodies touched, I paid special attention to his firm, flexible muscles. At the same time, I directed him to my apartment.
After fumbling with my keys, we slogged inside.
I went from his back to his arms as he carried me to my bed like a princess.
Setting me down, he turned around to leave, so I lunged and grabbed his hand.
"You can stay," I said.
"Thanks," he said, but then shook out of my grasp.
He closed my bedroom door and left.
Despite how tiring our tirades of the night left me, I struggled to fall asleep. I speculated whether I did anything wrong, or he just was not interested in me that way. Somewhere between my thoughts, I lost consciousness.
The morning sunlight shined in my eyes, telling me to wake up. Before getting out of bed, I wet my pull-up. I liked starting my day that way.
Heading for my kitchen, I saw he had crashed on my couch. Still passed out, and having taken off his pants, he exposed his diaper.
While I stepped closer, he started talking in his sleep. I blushed when he called my name. Looking at his diaper, his bulge in front grew. Thinking about me made him hard. The butterflies in my nether awoke at that.
He moaned.
"I want...I want...I want..." he said in his sleep, luring me closer.
"...I want...to feel your breast."
"Please. Please, please." He begged. "I'm sorry. I can't help staring at them."
He really wanted me, which made it so bizarre that he had refused to sleep in my bed. We could've at least snuggled.
His moaning intensified. He gripped tight onto the red pillow under his right hand. The bulge in his diaper shook. His other hand clutched it. He looked desperate holding it. His enthralling yells rose and rose and then...he went quiet.
Without needing a second guess, I knew he had cum in his diaper. After just meeting me, and from just dreaming about touching my boobs, he had cum so hard. That pretty much proved that he was still a virgin.
Gazing at him going through his stimulating ordeal released the urges beneath my pull-up too.
Returning to my room, I locked the door and lay on my bed. I put my hand down my pull-up and stroked. I replayed him calling out my name and remixed it with the warm firmness of his muscles carrying me home. Finishing on him gripping my red pillow as he came for me in his diaper, I blew up my insides to my best climax in a long time.
Even after resting from that incredible compulsion, I so wanted to take his virginity.
He woke up when I returned to my living room. Before he noticed me, I spied him checking and adjusting his diaper. He just learned that he had creamed his diaper dreaming about me.
I squeezed in my giggle thinking about his reaction.
"Good morning," I said to him still in mid diaper inspection.
"G-good...morning," he replied, searching for his pants.
He stopped though seeing me strut about in my wet pull-up.
We ate breakfast together with our padded butts on display.
"You should come over for dinner sometime," I said to him between bites.
First, he just nodded because his mouth was full of waffles.
"I'd like that," he said.
He looked straight at or away from me several times while we talked. His strong gaze told me he resisted his need to look at my chest.
I giggled, noticing where his eyes went despite his efforts.
"What is it," he asked about my little laughs.
"Nothing," I replied. "Maybe I'll tell you later."
At my door he asked, "Do you want pizza the next time I come over?"
"Sounds good." I liked the simple choice.
"I'll handle it," he told me.
Right as he opened my door to leave, I leaned up and whispered, "Wear your diaper again when you cum."
Almost closing my door on his foot, he mumbled some incoherent words. He ended with, "Sure," and went on his way.
I second guessed my choice to say that to him. The longer I waited to hear back from him the greater my agony stretched.
When he at last texted me a date, I relieved the mounting tension by collapsing onto the same couch where he had slept.
The day of his return, I wore my pretty pink princess pull-up and my cute frilly matching bra. By covering my bosom with a white, thin fabric blouse that he would be able to see through, I ensured an inevitable dead end to his virginity.
