Bear giggles delightedly, while Anson splutters, “You’resucha brat, Benji!”
Anson’s declaration isn’t laced with the irritation I’m used to hearing from people when they say that, though. It’s full of laughter and even a hint of fondness. My heart races for a moment, my eyes burning with the sudden realization that this must be what real acceptance feels like.
I blink rapidly to get rid of the uncomfortable feeling.
“Maybe we should find you a Daddy to tame some of that attitude,” Anson continues, making a show of looking around theroom. It’s a Saturday evening, and while it isn’t a themed night or even Littles Night, The Playroom is getting quite busy.
I bite my lip. “Nah, I’m good.”
In the couple of months since I left the camp, I’ve been tempted to seek out a Daddy, but never quite able to pull the trigger on the urge. I just know that I will compare whoever I end up doing a scene with to Kris and that’s not fair on any unsuspecting Daddy. Not until I take Daddy Kris down off the pedestal I’ve built in my memories.
He probably wasn’t even as amazing as I’m remembering,I think to myself, trying not to pout.I’ve romanticized it, or whatever.
That is the only explanation I have for why I am still so hung up on the two —seriously, it wasonly two— scenes we shared. Yes, they were longer than my usual kink play, and yes, Kris introduced me to sides of myself I hadn’t known existed, but it was still only two scenes in the grand scheme of my entire sexual and kinky history. I’ve got to get a grip. Fixating on how good it was and how wonderful he was isn’t going to help me going forward.
Anson raises his eyebrow knowingly. “Uh huh. And I’m a great Daddy.”
“From what I hear, you weren’t theworstDaddy,” Bear offers, making me blink.
“Wait, what?”
Anson waves Bear’s confusing as fuck statement off as though it doesn’t necessitate an actual backstory. “What I’m saying,” he clarifies, “is that Benji’s whole ‘I’m good’ mantra is bullshi—um, shirt. Bullshirt. Hi, Daddy.” He grins up at Drake beatifically, batting his lashes to complete the effect, while Drake just snorts.
“Good save,” he acknowledges, shaking his head. “Time for a potty break?”
Anson considers his options while I squirm where I sit, reminded that I haven’t been in a while, either. Unlike Anson, I’m not diapered.
Drake catches my movement and cocks his head. “Do you want a Daddy’s help, Benji?”
I scrunch my nose at his gentle offer. “No, thanks.” I don’t particularly want to explain how it all ties in with my sexual kinks. “But I should go pee.”
I get to my feet, the shift in position making me realize that my bladder is probably on the wrong side of ignored by this stage. Clenching up and hustling towards the attached bathrooms makes my cheeks get all warm. I can’t help but remember the last time I tried to hold on like this…which takes me right back to thinking of Kris again.
That only makes the ache in the vicinity of my bladder even more pronounced, like thinking of him when I am desperate to pee elicits some kind of weird Pavlovian response to open the flood gates.
“No, no, no,” I mutter to myself as I reach the bathroom door, an embarrassing dampness forming in my underwear, “not today. Not like this.”
It’s one thing to deliberately wet for the embarrassment kink. Another to play the desperation/holding game with a partner. But to have a legitimate actual accident in public? I am not that regressed…am I?
My heart thumps rapidly in my chest the closer I get to the wall of toilets that are all painted to look like oversized potties within their stalls. I know I’m blushing madly and possibly even hyperventilating a little by the time I reach an open stall and burst inside, slamming the door shut, my fingers trembling as I turn thelock to read ‘occupied’. I’m leaking in my pants despite my best efforts and that’sterrifyingright now.
“Shit.”
Spinning back to face the potty, I clumsily pull at the front of my shorts before—
“Oh no!”
It’s too late.
Mortification washes over me as my fumbling leads to my body letting go before I can get my shorts and underwear down.
The hissing sound seems to echo in this small space, as does the splatter of liquid hitting porcelain and tile. A puddle forms over the seat of the potty and on the floor between my feet.
I stare down at the mess in disbelief and horror, my lower lip wobbling dangerously. My throat tightens up, and I try to swallow. Try to breathe. Try to make sense of what just happened.
This hasneverhappened before.
Ever.
