Tuesday, December 17, 2013

Diapered in the land of urolagnia, part 2

(Please vote for the best spanking books of the year, over at the wonderful Spanking Romance Reviews! Note that I wouldn't object if you voted for The First Notebook in the historical category!)

(We're continuing from here with more of this specialized kind of ageplay. For more general ageplay purposes, it might be worth checking out Caroline's Rocking Horse, which comes out tomorrow!).

I can't honestly say that I didn't smile in triumph as I went upstairs, without pulling my jeans up, just because it felt so marvelous to have them around my thighs because my daddy had put them there, to get a lovely cloth diaper from my secret stash.

OK, I know that it's perverted by any standard, old-fashioned measurement. Wearing a diaper and nothing else, though. . . I'm not sure I wouldn't choose it as my desert-island kink. I mean, as long as you assured me I'd get spanked, little-girl style, for any infractions I committed while wearing it.

I'm sure Charles was expecting I would be right back to tell him I'd wet the diaper, but he didn't yet quite understand, as far as I could tell. I wanted to fight it, to think about how I was just big enough to know that I should try to hold my pee in. I didn't want to be toilet-trained--not yet--but I did want to be a big girl, and so the conflict within me was very real.

In the end, I went to him, wearing only the diaper. He looked expectantly at me. I said, "Daddy, I think I'm going to. . ." and I did, right in front of him. The eroticism of the feeling of release was so great that I had to put a hand out to steady myself against his bookshelf, and I poised myself there for a moment, with my eyes closed, just feeling myself pee into my diaper.

I heard him approaching with rapid steps, and he had me around the waist, and he was pulling me towards him, against his chest, and I felt his hand on my bottom, and I cried out as if he had caned me. "Shh," he said, "such a bad girl." But I knew he meant good girl.

He spanked me, as we stood there--being spanked in a wet cloth diaper is an absolutely unique feeling: it doesn't hurt; it doesn't even really sting, but it feels so very, very naughty that you want it to stop and want it go on forever. He spanked me five times, and then he turned me around, like a little girl, and gave me one more spank on my bottom, the way Captain von Trapp does to Marta in The Sound of Music, and said "Get upstairs to your room, and lie on your bed. I'll be there to change you in a moment."

The changing is, I think, the whole point. To have one's diaper changed goes beyond the wonderful unveiling moment of, for instance, having one's panties pulled down, whether for a spanking or for anything else your daddy wants to do with you. Not only does the person changing your diaper assert his right to uncover your nakedness for your own good (and also for his convenience--and pleasure, should he choose to use you that way), but he also returns you to a state of ultimate vulnerability, in which state his assertion of his right to keep you dry, and warm, and safe, feels like a kind of transformation--if only for a little while--of your entire life into something that glows with love, that has meaning: an existence unfortunately utterly dissimilar to what real life feels like for grown-ups.

When your daddy decides that he wants to fuck your little-girl pussy, after taking off your wet diaper, and wiping your private parts clean, or even your little-girl bottom, the fact that he was the one to take off the diaper, for the purpose of changing you to make you more comfortable, makes that very grown-up activity into a sort of initiation into the ways of daddies that feels both terribly, thrillingly naughty and warmly, lovingly affectionate. Even when, as Charles did that afternoon, your daddy becomes a little severe with you, and seems to care more about his own rough pleasure than about yours--or even about your comfort--, your daddy's assertion of his authority feels lovely because you can tell that your body is making him feel so good he can't help himself, but must use you roughly.

All the above under the lovely triskelion of paradox, for me at least. Above all, that relationship can only exist when you trust your daddy completely. I absolutely have to feel, when my husband is, say, riding my backside like a farmer, hobbledy-hoy hobbledy-hoy, that he is going to cuddle me afterward, and tell me that I'm a good girl. Otherwise, everything that's such an unbelievable turn-on when I trust him would instantly become an atrocity.

(If you like this kind of story, try the Companion to EXPLORATIONS!)

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