Page 30 of Asher's Answer
Couches line the wall to my left, presumably for Mommies and Daddies who want to watch their littles play. In the middle of the carpeted floor, there are mats and rugs and buckets of toys. To my right, there’s a massive train set, bean bags and brightly colored tables laden with paints and crayons and markers. It’s like a giant day care center…with a bouncy castle.
“There’s a change room across the hall,” Charlie says. “Did you want to see that, too?”
I shake my head again. “I’m imagining it’s like a giant nursery? Change tables and all that jazz?”
“Pretty much.”
“Good to know.”
We’re the first to arrive tonight, and I’m not wearing little clothes. I just wanted to see what the place was like. Charlie doesn’t push me, and we settle into a corner as a group of littles and their caregivers enter the room, laughing and chatting.
For this first time, I’m too shy to do more than sit in a corner and watch the other littles play and participate in the evening’s organized activities. The second littles’ night we attend, I ask Daddy to dress me in my training pants, a onesie and some play shorts and I join Josh, Matt and Emma in some fingerpainting (which leads to an awesome bath time experience later that night because Iaccidentallymanage to get painteverywhere). On the third, I’m in another onesie, this time wearing a diaper I’m still not ready to use, but I’m playing with littles I’ve never met, and interacting with Mommies and Daddies that aren’t Charlie or his friends.
This is when I finally realize that there is nothing shameful in my kinks. Most people havesomethingthat makes them tick, and to be ashamed of what I share with Charlie -with my Daddy- is unfair to him and our relationship. I’m still not going to walk down the street broadcasting our lifestyle, but I no longer panic at the thought of someone discovering that I’m kinky, even if the kink I’m into is sometimes even looked down on by others in the BDSM community, which I think is ridiculous.
When I see her next, my therapist says this a huge breakthrough for me, and I suppose it is. This is who I am, and I’m happy to embrace it.
So it’s no surprise that, the next time Daddy has Ted and Chance over for beers and grown-up time, I’m beyond comfortable being little. I’m kind of disappointed that Spencer and Emma couldn’t make it, and that Josh and Matt had other plans, but not enough to hide this part of me from the others. It’s not like it’s the first time they’ve seen me in little space, anyway. It’s become more and more regular, especially when they tend to visit at random. The fact that they’re involved in the lifestyle helps, too.
Daddy and his friends are on the couch talking while I’m sprawled on my stomach on the play mat in front of them, kicking my socked feet back and forth in the air behind me. I’m thoroughly entertained by the water mat Ted bought me on a whim. It’s like fingerpainting without the mess and I’m mesmerized by it. I lose myself in play, and it’s the deepest I’veeverbeen into my little space, to the point where I don’t even notice just how far gone I am. It’s glorious. It feels like complete freedom from my adult responsibilities and worries. I play, and I giggle, and I’ve tuned out everything Daddy and his friends are saying.
Every so often, one of them asks me to show them my latest picture or joins me to play with a different toy for a while, or hands me a snack or my sippy cup, but they’re all just as content to let me float in my happy space as I am to do it. It’s a magical afternoon.
I’m so far into little space that I don’t even notice how badly I need to pee until I sit up. Lying on my stomach has dulled the urge and distracted me from needing to potty, but as soon as I’m vertical, gravity’s not my friend. I’m on my knees, but as soon as I move one leg out to try to stand, my bladder gives way a little bit.
I go straight back to my knees and bite my lip.
I’m diapered, as I happen to be more often than not when I’m in my little space nowadays, but to this point it’s been a comfort thing. And that’s probably part of how I got so far into little space this time, really. I’ve let go and embraced my little urges completely because I felt safe and relaxed.
Besides, Daddy’s made it clear that he’s got no issues when I do wet my diaper -or even if I have accidents in my training pants, though I know that’snevergoing to happen because the thought of deliberately pushing that envelope when I’m a bigger boy doesn’t appeal- however, I’ve been good with the status quo. I’ll admit that I have been curious to the point where we’ve both started saying ‘when’ I use my diaper, not ‘if’, but I’ve still never been in the right headspace to just let go and try.
Today, though, I’ve let myself get there and it’s not scary.
I know I could try and crawl to the bathroom, but I decide not to. I decide to just let go. And, when it happens, I’m not hit with the panic or feeling of wrongness that I expected this moment would bring.
Instead, aside from the relief I feel as my bladder empties into the absorbent material, I feel the strangest surge of absolute freedom and a tiny bit of curious excitement. Maybe there is a mild bit of humiliation kink somewhere deep in my psyche, too. I know public humiliation isn’t my thing, but maybe a little embarrassment in front of my Daddy does give me a thrill after all. Who knows? Either way, I know that Daddy’s got this. He’s going to change me, and it’s going to be just another thing we do together. I trust him completely.
Was I planning on having this revelation with two other daddies in the same room? No. But I’m not worried.
“Hey little lamb,” Daddy’s voice startles me because it’s much closer than where he’s been sitting on the couch. He’s crouching beside me, his head tilted to the side, his blue eyes warm but cautious. “You okay? You’ve been sitting here really still for a minute.”
I turn into him, hiding my face in his neck. “Daddy…” I whine because the situation in my diaper is now weighty, a bit damp, and becoming noticeably uncomfortable.
He rubs my back. “What’s wrong, baby?”
Even though I know he’s not going to react badly, the part of my brain that’s still an adult knows that we haven’t discussed this recently. The last time we did, I said I’d let him know when I felt ready.
I’ve blown past giving him the head’s up that it was potentially going to happen, haven’t been able to warn him that I was ready today. And as my headspace clears with that knowledge, a tiny bit of embarrassment sneaks in after all. Maybe I should have waited until it was just the two of us? Too late now.
Burrowing my face further into him and feeling my cheeks burn, I whisper, “I…Daddy, I…Iwet.”
Daddy doesn’t miss a beat, but I imagine he’s a little surprised -I’m sure he didn’t think this would happen with company around, either- and his hand sneaks between us to pat the front of my diaper through the onesie. It’s not a sexual touch, but I feel a short thrill of some convoluted, bubbly feeling at the action anyway.
“So you are,” he observes, and I can hear him smiling. “You’re such a good boy for telling me.” Then he’s pulling me to my feet and telling the others we’ll be back in a minute.
Ted and Chance are both Daddies, too, and neither even blinks at the situation. It’s perfectly normal to them, and my momentary embarrassment fades.
This is when I discover that walking in a heavy, wet diaper is not fun. I’m waddling worse than usual, and the sensation against my skin is not pleasant. Climbing the stairs is even worse, and I cringe my way through it.
