It was then that I knew there was something about Johnny.

He had taken it in stride months ago that I wore diapers. That was prologue.

I have worn them about five years. After my spinal injury I wet myself in public twice, then wised up. I stopped wearing jeans, only knee-length plaid skirts, and after some shopping around I’d found a brand of plastic diapers that I could rely on. I rarely come home without a slightly heavy, yellowish diaper under my skirt.

And for a while that was that. I stopped trying to date. Twice I had even messed in my diaper. As long as I was wearing it already, right? One was while I was in a movie, trying not to miss anything. I had wrestled back the movement until it became a strain, and then for just a moment I let go and let a little out. I had found that there was no smell, and after a few moments longer I pushed the rest out.

The second time had been in a math lecture I couldn’t afford to miss. I like to believe my expression didn’t even change as I fully shat myself in the lecture hall.

But mostly I would wet it when I had to, then shamefully wore it for however long it took for me to get home, feverishly ripped it off and put it in a trashbag in the bathroom, then showered until I felt clean.

I had tried to make myself invisible to men. My skirts and sweaters weren’t frumpy or styleless, but I stopped wearing elaborate makeup, stopped talking with the cute, feminine voice I had learned in middle school, and just tried to be plain Meg that men wouldn’t notice.

Johnny had somehow gotten inside my world. He had noticed me alright, perhaps (sickeningly) for my brain. He had asked me to coffee, and somehow his utter lack of guile got me to say yes. I think it was some kind of delicate tone of voice, like he would never bother me again if I turned him down with a little force.

But somehow I found myself stringing him along, despite myself, until one day I was determined to show him why we couldn’t be intimate. I had pulled him into an empty classroom and raised the hem of my skirt. And he had just said “oh, ok. Do you need them all the time?” That was the beginning, but it was not when I knew I had to marry him.

I had let him be the first boy since the car accident to make love to me. I had hoped even that this part would send him away. I was not determined to make this any sexier for him than it was for me. I laid on my back on a towel on his bed in only a plain black bra and my shiny white plastic diaper, then pulled off the tabs and opened the diaper, which I kept under me. It was weird, dutiful starfish sex at first, my legs spread, my arms spread, letting him do as he pleased. But he had known how to do it and I came near to orgasm that time, and at the end I had wrapped my arms around him and kissed his lips as he shuddered with the mysterious male orgasm.

He pulled out and I saw the prodigious amount of cum he had loaded the condom with. I realized that it had been good for him, somehow. I diapered myself freshly with a new diaper from my purse, in the standing position, and excused myself, knowing that I might very easily wet myself after, what was, considering my lack of work, one of the firmer dickings I’d ever received.

I found myself regrettably needing it again. He had not been huge or particularly long, and he was no great specimen of male beauty, neither virile and hairy nor particularly muscular, but he cared about me and desired me, and that had made the sex intense for both of us somehow.

Several more times I had sex with Johnny, finally in my apartment with just an underpad and a towel under me. I would raise my legs up and throw my arms around him and feel his entire body moving against mine. His technique was good, his shaft managing to rub my clit, until I was having weak orgasms just from him fucking me. I started whispering sweet nothings in his ear. Apparently that drove him wild the first time, and he came a little quickly, then actually did me the digity of finishing me off with his hand while he kissed my lips and began to figure out how to french kiss me–I realized he was less experienced than me, despite his stamina and good technique.

The dates started getting better. I started wearing a little more elaborate makeup, then cut back to just a little powder and nude lipstick when he complemented my bare, pale face when he visited me early in the morning the day before spring break.

Then came the time that I squirted. I had visited him at his parents’ house over the break and let him do me from behind in the woodshed, over a dirt floor with my hands pressing into a workbench and my legs spread, the diaper sitting in front of me on the bench as if a reminder not to get too attached to this lovely man.

Thank god, he had said, we’re the right heights for this. He had thrust and thrust into me, reaching a depth no one had been inside me since high school. At the same time, bereft of his magical technique, he’d reached around and started working on my clit with just one gentle finger. He’d been pulling on me gently as I thrusted back onto him, his free arm wrapped under my belly, and I suddenly felt very warm and fuzzy about him. Taking care not to lose my balance I took my right hand off the bench, found his hand under my body and forcefully intertwined my fingers with his. We reached a fever pitch and I think I was half in love with him and then…

Now, squirt, they say, is mostly piss. It comes out in a great rush from only the hardest of orgasms. And it was like a tidal wave within me. His one hand squeezing my little fingers as if they were the most precious treasure in all the world, his other hand gently rubbing my clit as if it were the most delicate thing in the world, it just felt so overwhelming as his hard cock went deep into me again and again–I could not feel the thin layer of rubber between him and me. I think I even imagined with a bit of a thrill that he would shoot his warm cum into me. And then I squirted all over him forcefully.

I did not realize until later that he had immediately made a sound like he had just filled the condom earlier than expected. From my perspective I had pissed on him. Like a frightened deer I stood up straight and let him slip out of me, let go of his hand and quickly collected my clothes and the unused but ripped diaper, the only article of clothing I hadn’t let him remove himself, then rushed to get dressed and out of the shed.

He found me in the guest bathroom crying a little, having just rediapered myself. Luckily he didn’t come in a few moments earlier or he would have seen me washing the little dab of zinc cream off my hands and asked question I was not ready to answer for him.

“What’s wrong? Was it not good for you? Why do you always rush off?”

“I don’t want you to see me wet. You won’t want me,” I said, almost sobbing.

“Meg, I don’t care about that. Meg, if you get wet in front of me, lay down and I’d change you. It’s no big deal to me!”

“It’s disgusting!”

“Not if its someone who… Meg! I love you!”

I looked at him and at his completely guileless face. I suddenly believed him.

He closed the lid of the toilet and sat on it, motioned for me to sit in his lap.

Gingerly, not fully trusting the old, old toilet to be sturdy enough, I straddled his lap and looked down at him through misty eyes.

“If I changed you to show you that I could love you even like that, would it make you feel better about yourself, about your condition? Meg, one day we’re going to get old and then we’ll all be in the same boat. Let me make you feel loved now.”

After that conversation I knew I would marry him.

Some time later it happened for the first time. I wet myself in front of him, as I’d had to many times. But I fought the instinct to instantly excuse myself, and I looked at him and said “Johnny, I think I’m in need of a change.”

He dutifully layed down two towels and pulled out wet wipes. I sheepishly brought out a new diaper and the zinc cream, as well as a small garbage bag, the kind I used to hide the evidence if I absolutely had to stay out in public and needed to change.

I stripped down, not sensually but with a kind of brazenness like stripping down for the doctor when you’ve done it a thousand times and one more time is just an inconvenience, not a humiliation.

Then, for the first time, I layed down in just a diaper (yes, for some reason I had found it weirdly important to remove everything) and raised my legs to be changed, frankly, like a baby.

I let him open the tabs and pull the diaper open for the first time. I hid my face. I think I heard him sniff.

“Up,” he muttered, and I arched my back to lift my ass off the towel. He pulled out the diaper and, without rolling it up or taking much care not to touch the yellowed inside, put it in the plastic bag. Then, an entirely new sensation, as he started with a wet wipe, getting up all the old, piss-contaminated diaper cream from around my cunt and the thick layer down my crack.

I startled a little when the wet wipe touched my asshole. He was determined to get me completely clean. I felt sudden emotions. This man wasn’t just cleaning up a spot of pee, he was wiping my entire ass a little tenderly. I felt a little swelling and flush in my lips, which he surely noticed.

I realized that going back into a fresh diaper was going to be extremely frustrating now that he had made me wet.

Now he was squeezing out a little dab of the cream and mimicking the pattern he had seen earlier. He put a great deal of it between my ass-cheeks and almost directly on my asshole. I didn’t tend to put a ton of it that far back, since I had usually no intention of messing.

Next he massaged it over my pussy lips and the area around, then down just a little between the inner and outer lips. Before long I was all prepared to go back in the diaper, but I almost wondered if he would fuck me all creamed like this.

But he tenderly applied the new diaper, setting the tabs quite tight around my waist and thighs.

“Johnny, I almost want to rip this right off and take your cock in me. You made it so…”

“Sexual?”

“Yes.”

“Is that so terrible? I love your little puss. Cleaning it and putting the cream on it didn’t bother me at all. In fact it was a little sexy, getting to touch you there in that way… by the way, I have a present for you?”

“What is it?”

“Didn’t you tell me you had a thing called a magic wand but it overheated and stopped working?”

He pulled a brand new thing quite like a Hitachi but wireless out from under his bed.

“You said when you were too horny in your diaper that you would use this on yourself. Can I use it on you?”

“Oh, yes, please. Thank you, Johnny–Oooh!” He had already started it on the low setting and touched it gingerly to my diaper. My legs were still spread and my knees were in the air, almost as if to take him, right there on the bed.

When he kicked it up to full I almost immediately took it from his hand. For once he didn’t know what he was doing, and I knew that he was quite hard himself.

I told him to strip down, which I watched while I vibed myself. Then I made him sit on the bed and I gave him a teasing look. By this time he was rock hard. I ran to the bathroom and applied some scarlet lipstick, almost not sloppily, and ran out with the vibrator in my hand.

I knelt on the carpet, pursed my lips together and let the smooth tip of his dick part them, lubed a little by the lipstick. I started vibing myself like there was no tomorrow at the same time.

It was not long before we each reached our destination, me feeling the zinc cream in my ass like I had messed, his fingers in my hair, pressing me gently down onto his cock, the shaft smooth and kind of good-tasting against my tongue, the powerful vibrations playing havoc with my clit and lips through the padding, and finally, the feeling of him letting loose down my throat with a powerful blast of cum pushed me over the edge. I came hard.