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It was Saturday. We slept in late, Sherman curled up beside me, head resting on my chest. Only his pink nose emerged from a pile of blankets. I lay awake for a long time, feeling his warmth against me. I had longed for this while he was away.

"Time to wake up," I whispered, sliding one paw under the blankets to scratch the fur between his ears. It took a few moments for his breath to quicken, but soon his muzzle pushed forward, sliding through my pelt, out from under the blankets. I was greeted with a wide rabbit yawn, an excellent view of his well-kempt front incisors, and more than I may have wanted of his morning breath. A wide eyed, blinking bunny face followed from under the covers.

"Good morning," I whispered to him. With my head on two pillows, and his on my chest, our eyes were almost level, our noses almost touching. I had to suppress a giggle. "What do you think of brunch at Evelyn's?"

Evelyn's is a diner in town. Nothing all that special, but they do great breakfast.

"Mmmhhh sounds good, Otis . . ." he breathed, eyes closing. I could feel him relaxing, falling back into sleep.

"Alright, up we get!" I announced, throwing off the covers, and swinging my feet off the bed. He flinched, curling up at the sudden exposure to cold air, rolling to a sitting position as I got up from under him. I stood up, and turned back to look at him. I could see his expression drop as he wakened enough to remember.

"Otis . . . Master, do I really have to . . ." He looked up at me pleadingly, too embarrassed to even say it.

"Yes, my Pet. You'll be wearing your diapers all week, so you'll have to wear one in public at some point."

He seemed so conflicted. He'd accepted this, but the immediacy was hitting him.

"It's going to be ok." I sat down next to him, wrapping one shoulder in a broad paw. "If you don't want to go out for brunch, we'll stay in; but if you want to go out, I'll be right there with you, to make sure nothing goes wrong."

He thought for a moment, and nodded: "Let's go. Besides, I wouldn't want my . . . first time to be work."

"Ok then." My paw moved down to his diaper, pressing it gently, checking for wetness. "As you still seem to be dry, time to get dressed." I helped Sherman into a pair of loose-fitting jeans that did nothing to show the bulk of his padding. He picked out a dark collared shirt. You could see his leather collar underneath, but only if you were looking for it.

He froze again just as I went to open the front door.

"Everything ok?"

"It just feels . . . I can feel it with every step, and . . . what if somebody hears?" He looked so nervous. He was blushing, just a little, his ears were alert, and he couldn't meet my eyes.

"I know it feels odd, but you look fine. As for the sound, there's a lot more noise out there than there is in here, and it's much less audible if you're not the one wearing it." I put a paw on his shoulder again, and lowered my voice. "I also noticed something last night. You crinkle a lot less when you're wet." That really got him blushing. I know it may not have been what he wanted to hear, but it's true, and he may want the information. Moreover, I really can't resist the way his snow-white face looks when his cheeks turn pink under his fur.

"Tell you what, what if I get the leash?" That brightened him up a bit. He always feels better if I'm leading him with it. Maybe he feels he's handing the responsibility to me. I took the black strip of leather from its hook on the wall, and clipped it to the D-ring in his leather collar. We've perfected a way of winding it through his shirt-collar and walking with my arm around his shoulders that makes it almost impossible to see it's there. I know it's there, and he knows its there, and that's what matters.

We walked, side by side, my Pet on his leash, held firmly in my paw, all the way to the restaurant. With every step, his puffball tail swayed back and forth over his diapered rump, eliciting a tiny, nearly inaudible crinkle. With every pedestrian we passed, I could feel him cringing in fear, wondering if they'd notice, what they'd do if they caught him. He pressed into me for support. I did my best to keep my stride swift and confident, for his sake. I can't say anyone paid us the slightest attention. Even if someone had noticed, and chosen to fixate on the diaper, I suppose they'd be more likely to assume it was a medical necessity than anything else.

When at last we arrived at Evelyn's, we went through our routine of removing his leash. It's something we've practiced, and unless you're actually watching us, it looks like I'm adjusting his shirt. Unfortunately, I think being untethered made him nervous. I almost had to push him through the door. He was trembling as we approached the hostess. This was the first time he'd faced anyone other than me while diapered, at least in many years.

"Just the two of us," I replied to her as yet unspoken request concerning our seating requirements. I tried to keep my voice nonchalant, casual.

We were seated at a table for two by a window, a sill with a few flowers at elbow-level. The chairs were wooden, the table laminate: nothing special. As soon as the hostess had handed us menus and left us to pour over them, Sherman leaned across the table to whisper to me:

"It's like I've got an extra seat cushion." He smiled and sat back. He was starting to feel just a little more comfortable. His trembling was settling down.

"I almost envy you." I spoke in a conversational tone. I'm a large bear, and a small wooden diner seat isn't always the most comfortable.

We got on to talking about food, about the weekend, remaining anecdotes from the week. When the time came to place our order Sherman had almost forgotten anything was unusual. The main abnormality was the way he sat still as stone, afraid the slightest movement might give him away. Normally, he's quite animated when he talks. I had french toast, he had banana pancakes. We split a set of popovers, fruit, and yogurt. We drank a small pitcher of blood orange juice, and I finished with espresso. The meal was lovely, the view of the street was idyllic, my Pet was perfect. I savor these moments of contentment.

We must have sat there for well over an hour, and it became apparent something was bothering Sherman.

"Is everything alright?" We must have been sitting there for well over an hour, and it had become apparent something was bothering Sherman.

"It's . . . nothing."

"Sherman?" My tone carried only mock sternness.

"I just . . . my bladder is really full again, and something about sitting like this . . . I'm having trouble again." His voice had lowered to a whisper.

"I'll call for the bill and we'll stand up for a moment before we leave. Sound ok?"

"Thank you, Master." His voice was still barely audible. He likes to keep many details of our relationship private, except from certain friends or certain . . . communities. I respect his boundaries. That in combination with some things we like do outside, like the leash, have lead to certain habits. We don't use words like "Master," or "Pet" when the public can hear. For him to say it at all in a place like this, without prompting, is a compliment. I can feel a warm smile force its way from inside me, breaking out over my face, before I motion to the waiter.

I handed the waiter a credit card on arrival, and a few moments later, I was signing the receipt and we stood up to leave. I took a moment to stretch. Sherman stood still, feet shoulder width apart, eyes closed, taking deep calming breaths. I leaned over to whisper into one long ear:

"It's ok. No one will notice a thing. I'm right here." I kissed him on the cheek.

A keen listener would have heard two more of his deep breaths before the faint hiss of padding absorbing liquid. A dedicated observer could have caught the soft swelling in his jeans, the increased bulk and weight. It took only a quick glance around the place to be quite certain that I was the only one who noticed.

His eyes eased open. "Just a moment," he breathed. I waited patiently for him to finish, until at last he took a couple of halting steps away from his chair, experimenting with the new, warm, wet bulk between his legs.

"It's . . . even stranger now. Could you . . ." He whispered to me. I could see the fear in his wide blue eyes as he looked up into mine. We'd been standing for a while now, almost too long.

"Of course." He didn't need to finish. If he wanted the leash to walk home, I'd gladly help him. I reached out, as if to adjust his shirt, drawing the black leather from a pocket, folded in one broad paw, and we began our ritual.