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ONE

In early fall of 1996, I had just turned eighteen when I learned my step-father was returning home after his third tour of duty overseas. I was excited to see him return, but terrified. While he was away, I was going through some embarrassing growing pains, which included -- but not limited to -- having untimely accidents. When I would exercise or physically stimulate myself with some rigorous activity, I wet my pants. I wasn't sure why that happened. Then I would occasionally wet the bed, feel ashamed and wonder if God was punishing me for something. This adolescent-linked condition motivated me to take on laundry chores, which my mother appreciated and assumed I had an innate desire to be the responsible man of the house. It wasn't like that at all, but I let her believe it.

This condition evolved into comfortable circumstances. I remember sitting at my desk at school, suddenly wetting myself. My pants crotch wasn't completely exposed, so I felt comfortable enough to let it happen. The warmth expanding around my waist and the wetness trickling down my leg was exciting. I was doing something I wasn't supposed to do. I was rebelling against "the system" and "the man" without necessarily willing that rebellion to happen. By the end of class, my pants would dry enough to partially mask the stain I made, but certainly not the puddle that occasionally formed on my seat. That's why I would bring with me tissues to wipe away the evidence. Students were too busy passing notes and talking to each other to notice anything. But in a strange way, I was hoping they'd notice -- at least in theory.

It was like I was testing out my superpowers. I had this instinctive desire to normalize changes happening in my body that I couldn't explain. But then I felt oddly empowered by it, as if I was daring someone to do something about it. They could point at me and laugh, but if I fully embraced the fact that it wasn't something I could "fix," there was nothing anyone could do to shame me into fixing it. I may be vulnerable on the surface, but I felt unbreakable.

I left my last class of the day and was getting ready to walk home. My high school was located about three blocks from my house. I left the school and saw my stepdad's car parked right in front. And there he was, this tall and handsome orca, dressed head to toe in his military camo uniform. Clearly he just returned home and wanted to surprise me. Unfortunately for me, I was leaving school with wet pants, now shamelessly shining under the broad daylight sun. At that moment, he was the last person I wanted to see.

"I'm looking for Connor Wells. Have you seen him?" he asked me with a playful wink. He removed his sunglasses to study me.

I stood for a moment, smiled, then shrugged and pretended to walk away.

"Thought I'd ask. Thanks." He put his sunglasses on and drove away in a hurry. Typical Neal.

---

Two years earlier, my mother brought me to a dinner party. She wanted to introduce me to Lieutenant Neal Resnick, a man she was dating. She was comfortable enough with him and spent enough time with him to arrange this meeting. I was happy to see my mother moving on after leaving my father and escaping that abusive relationship. She found someone who seemed disciplined, well-behaved, courteous and had a goofy sense of humor. And when I first laid eyes on him, that's when I started seriously questioning my sexuality.

For an orca in his late forties, he was youthful. He had a slick but rugged exterior. When he flashed a smile at me, I felt like my heart melted. He shook my paw with a firm grip. I wasn't going to complain if he didn't let go.

"Nancy told me all about you," he said to me in his smooth, almost booming baritone voice. "She wouldn't stop talking about you, so I asked her to invite you, maybe get your autograph."

He got me to chuckle. "Yeah, well, I'm one of the least popular kids at school, so chances are that mom exaggerated my resume."

Neal put his hand on my shoulder. "Don't sell yourself short, kid. I'm sure you're full of potential and maybe a few surprises."

I wasn't super jazzed about the flattery. At first glance, I assumed he was inflating my ego to stay in my mother's good graces. After all, I've heard the same words before from other men she dated, but they would all disappear into the ether, never to be mentioned again. But mom said this man was different. He had a swagger, but a healthy amount of it. Nothing obnoxious or invasive. He showcased a warmth and charisma that inadvertently made me hover around his orbit, at least at a safe distance. When he looked at me, I wanted to remain affixed to his gaze.

I didn't exactly know what was happening with me. There was a part of me that was grateful that mom finally found someone to settle down with -- something who appeared to be a gentleman and not the newest flavor of the month. The other part of me wanted to sit down with him and personally get to know him better, but I couldn't fathom why. At the time, I identified as a heterosexual male, always had platonic relationships with men and the occasional romantic endeavor with women. Why would I think of this person as anyone other than being my future stepfather?

Growing up in a household dominated by male testosterone for years, I was under the impression that being gay was somehow a sign of weakness. And when my father left, I became the proverbial man of the house, taking care of business and running errands. I couldn't possibly be gay due to the role I naturally assumed. I was going to take care of my mom. But when I started having accidents, I was second-guessing myself due to my sudden and unrelenting vulnerability. When I saw Neal or when I thought of him, I started to perceive him as the man I wanted to be but couldn't. Back when I first met him, I realized later that I was subconsciously cultivating that perception.

After a while, Neal moved into my house. Because he was a military man, I caught myself rigidly answering him with a crisp "yes sir" and "no sir." He appreciated the formality, but requested that I call him by his first name. Though he wanted me to act more casually around him, I couldn't help but remain cautious. He had a hulking presence. Yet he had a warm and inviting personality, which helped me thaw over time. I wanted to do nothing more than to impress him somehow, especially when my mom told me of their engagement.

After they married, he went on his last tour of duty. I was getting involved in activities that he wouldn't necessarily approve of. He struck me as someone who would spring into action and disciplinary measures if I acted inappropriately. Then one night, when I was laying flat on my back in bed and looked up at the ceiling -- while nested cozily underneath soaking wet blankets --- I considered the possibility that maybe, just maybe I unintentionally willed myself to be exposed to his wrath. At the time, I didn't consider this possibility to be sexually stimulating in nature.

---

I arrived home from school, and there was Neal in the living room, engaging in an animated but pleasant conversation with my mother. He took off his camo top, revealing his brown tank-top and wide, muscular chest. He looked over to me, smiled like he usually did from the corner of his lip, and gave me a friendly two finger salute around his right eyebrow. I saluted him back, put my backpack down on the couch, and walked over to him. He rested his hand on my shoulder and asked me, "How was school?"

"Pretty good. Can't complain," I breezily replied. "Glad you made it back in one piece."

"Oh gosh, yes. I'm glad too. All I could think about was you and Nancy. I was just -- well, looking forward to hanging up my boots."

"No more tours?"

"No more tours. I served. I'm done."

I gave Neal a high-five. "That's great!"

"Got a few things to catch up on with your mom," he said. "But would you mind hanging out in the backyard with me in a few minutes? Think I want to enjoy some fresh air and appreciate not inhaling in sand every time I want to freakin' breathe."

"Don't mind at all."

I decided to visit my room, change out of my underwear and pants, put on my cargo shorts and head outside. Though I changed out of my wet clothes, I still had that lingering urine scent. Tried not to dwell on it. Thought about taking a quick shower, but I wanted to spend a few minutes alone with Neal, hoping he might share some entertaining war stories. But now that he was actively back in our lives, my routine was disrupted. I was able to keep my mom at bay, but Neal was the type to quickly point out any abnormalities in my behavior. When I was bullied at school one time, returned home without saying a word and kept my head lowered, Neal was able to soundly deduce the source of my depression. That time, he told me to "man up," and I took his advice as an existential threat to my manhood. After a short period, my cooler head prevailed and I treated his conversation with me as a nonevent.

And then we were in the backyard, relaxing. He asked me if I was interested in attending any particular college and discussed majors worth pursuing. "You could always join the military you know," he said. "There's even room for techie wolves like you in there. You don't have to be in the trenches if you don't want to."

"I'm definitely college-bound, no question about that," I told him.

"You got your aspirations, I understand. You got your shit together, which is cool. At your age, I didn't."

As I sat on an outdoor lounge seat, I looked down at the grass beside me. "But you turned out okay, right?"

He stood a few feet beside me, lit a cigarette and smoked. "I suppose so," he said, looking at me like he wanted to tell me something.

We sat together quietly by awkwardly for a few minutes. I couldn't shake the feeling that we were going to have some sort of memorable conversation. It was unlike Neal to act this hesitant around me. That cool, confident orca exterior was quickly melting away. Naturally, I deduced he had a secret as well.

"Your mom told me about your 'problem,'" he muttered. Then he quickly cleared his throat. "Though I've lived through war, I'm not used to being 'dad' so --"

I could play dumb, confess to everything or seek clarification. My mind was racing, so I had to improvise. "What do you mean a 'problem'?"

Neal turned a little red. "Well, if it's not a 'problem' to you, it doesn't have to be. She wanted me to tell you that." I sensed there was no judgment in his voice. In fact, he seemed more nervous than I was. But what was he referring to?

"Well, okay, I guess," I said, trying my best to be nonchalant.

With his face continued to redden, he slowly pulled down his camo pants. I saw him doing this from the corner of my eye and immediately decided to say nothing.

"That's good to know," he said. He was sweating hard.

With his pants now down to his ankles, Neal was standing beside me with his gray boxer-briefs. I could see his nicely chiseled calves. But what struck me as odd was how thick his waist was. I looked at his boxer-briefs and noticed there was a white elastic waistband peeking over. Oh my God. Is he wearing a --

"I, uh -- been meaning to tell you," he said as he pulled down his boxer-briefs.

Naturally, there were a lot of thoughts running through my mind. For one thing, seeing this older military man in a visibly wet adult diaper nearly caused my whole body to convulse with excitement. Why? Oddly enough, though I was wetting myself more frequently, the thought never crossed my mind of wearing diapers. But why him? And Jesus, he looked good in them too. Then I had a sudden, almost raging desire to confess everything to him. Somehow, I felt comfortable enough to confide in him. Then I developed a more peculiar thought: I wanted to make out with him. But wait. My new step-dad? No, that's not possible.

"I have questions," I said while crossing my legs, hiding my arousal. Sweat was beading up and trickling down my neckfur.

"I'm sure you do." His wet, diapered bulge was only a few feet from my face. Now he was just torturing me.

"Why?" I asked.

"Long story short, during my tours of duty, I saw things no man should see. Violence. Death. Seeing brothers live one moment, then die the next. My nerves got to me. And so I had these 'accidents,' which were embarrassing at first. Not going to lie. They were embarrassing because I bunked in close quarters with other guys. They knew when the sheets were wet. So I felt I had to balance the scales by laughing it off like, 'Oh, maybe I had too much water to drink the night before,' or something. Some of them were assholes and they'd say to me, 'You're just a baby,' but most of them were supportive. Ultimately, we kinda had to be if we were going to survive and preserve our bearings at the end of the day."

"Did you wear while you were there?"

"My bunkmates suggested I consult the psychologist on base and receive treatment for possible PTSD. What ended up happening was I went to the psychologist, tried again to play it cool. Yeah, it's nothing. I was just that one time when I -- but no. I had several accidents. It didn't take long for me to break down. But after a few sessions with the doc, I had a strange breakthrough that changed my perspective of the situation almost entirely."

"And that was --"

"I was having these so-called 'accidents' on purpose," he said. I thought my heart was about to leap from my chest.

"Really?"

"I think the best way I can describe the feeling is... that I held so much tension inside me that when I instantly let it go, it felt nice. It was like this strange reprieve from all the craziness happening around me. Honestly, I was okay with my pants being wet, warm and maybe a bit loaded. But it would prove to be quite a distraction for everyone else around me, understandably so. So doc looked at me right in the eyes and said, 'You need diapers.' The thought of wearing them sent shivers down my spine. Oh, I can't do that. I'm a grown man. But having someone tell me I needed diapers was -- uh, how should I put it -- exciting."

I tried to be composed throughout the conversation, but my calm veneer was slowly being chipped away. "What are the odds?" I said.

"So you like to have 'accidents'?" he asked sternly. The tone of his voice made me melt.

"Yes," I answered sheepishly. It felt oddly nice to admit that out loud.

"God," he said, exhaling in relief. "I sure hope so. But seriously, though, you can spare all the laundry work if you put a diaper on."

And I did. Eventually. We could've ordered diapers online, but the Internet was a relatively new phenomenon at the time and Neal was understandably hesitant to put his credit card information out there. There was a pharmacy down the street that sold "Fitted Briefs," but he insisted those diapers weren't absorbent enough. We ended up ordering diapers in my size from a medical supplier affiliated with the military. We practically got them for free because of his benefits. And my mother was completely in the loop. In fact, she even offered to diaper me for old time's sake!

When the diapers arrived in the mail, it felt like Christmas morning. But my feelings remained complicated. It was certainly liberating to be told it was okay to wear diapers and use them responsibly, but I opted to diaper and change myself privately. I didn't want my family to know how stimulated I was from the experience. For the time being, I was perfectly comfortable with them knowing I wore diapers voluntarily and out of convenience -- and that was it. When I closed the door to my bedroom, I diapered myself while standing up and facing my long wall mirror. I could see my hard dick fully exposed from my sheath, helplessly drooling precum onto my carpet floor. Though Neal taught me how to diaper myself and provided a demonstration on himself, I could barely handle the process. My heart was pounding as I leaned against the wall and felt the crinkly, cloudy texture caress my balls. I could barely fasten the tapes. It wasn't surprising to see my first self-diapering job was nerve-wracking and messy, but I persisted. It only took thirty, agonizingly long minutes. I knew one day, I would muster the courage to ask Neal for help.

Then there was Neal, wandering around the house in his tank-top and diaper. The big orca would occasionally joke about needing to wear "those orca stacks."

"I drink too much coffee and it goes right through me," he explained. But I still kept my diapers hidden from view in public, school and at home. But it was nice to see Neal being comfortable with himself to wear around mom and I.

School proved to be a more challenging environment. I walked around in a thick diaper, with my waist noticeably larger and wider than before. You could hear the diaper rustling if you were close to me. Though I was more brazen about wetting myself in public before, I was now keeping a low profile. I felt there was a whole new level of embarrassment associated with wearing diapers at school. That concern was heightened when I was wetting. I could be sitting at my desk or walking to class when it would happen. I couldn't help but stand there and feel the warmth rapidly expanding around my diaper, starting from the front to the back. Instinctively, I'd look down to see if there were any leaks, but to my pleasant surprise, there weren't any. It was like I got away with a crime of passion.

Then I had to change. During class, I'd ask to be excused to use the restroom, carry my backpack of "school supplies" and leave without incident. I did this because I figured the restrooms around campus wouldn't be as well-populated during the class period. The first time I attempted a change, I was upset to learn that some of the "cool kids" decided they were too cool for class and hung out inside the restroom I chose to change in.

It was almost the end of the school year. As finals and graduation was steadily approaching, some of the students would sneak into certain places around campus to smoke weed, make out, relax and generally get into trouble. I didn't think they would make the men's room one of their destinations when I stepped into one of the stalls and quickly got undressed. I stood in front of the toilet, marveling at my diaper, which was heavier than I thought it would be. Without anything to secure it in place, gravity took control. I remember feeling accomplished as I stood there and grabbed myself. The acoustics inside the restroom made the crinkling that much louder. Anyone else inside the restroom would instinctively know that someone in there wore diapers.

Before I started to unfasten the tapes and change out, I heard the restroom door swing open. I heard about four to five guys walk in. Since my stall was immediately adjacent to the urinals, I didn't hear any of the guys approach them. They were deep in conversation and had every intention of loitering for as long as they could, potentially until the period ended. I checked my watch and observed the period would end in twenty minutes. The original plan was to change out, powder, wipe, put on a new diaper and discard the used one in the trash. Now I had to rethink everything, but I couldn't even do that once I heard someone rattle my stall door.

"Are you going to finish up in there or what?" one of the guys teased. There were four other stalls that were unoccupied. They were going to give me a hard time.

"Buzz off," I said.

"Okay," he said. Then there was silence. Uneasy silence.

Suddenly the stall door was kicked open. And there I was, standing motionless in a soaked diaper, with my pants down to my ankles and my opened backpack, which had all the supplies you'd readily find in a baby nursery. I was seriously fucked.

"Dude..." The tiger that was teasing me was glaring at my diaper. I shot a frightened look back at him, observing his mullet, dusty leather jacket and acid wash jeans. I knew who he was: Kent. "Connor, are you a baby or something?"

I tried covering myself with my backpack, but was unsuccessful. "Go! Get out of here!" I shouted.

Kent gestured his friends to come over and see me in my most vulnerable state. There were three guys looking, pointing and laughing at me. This was definitely going to be the talk around campus, I was sure of it. Slowly, they approached me. I took a few steps back. My heart was pounding. Palms were sweaty. I was feeling light-headed from suddenly being exposed. My stomach was tied in knots. I wanted to escape, but they blocked the exit. I was in no position to fight them nor did I have the desire so. And while I was incapcitated from being in this sorry state of despair, something strange happened.

My stomach started to noisily groan and set into motion a familiar jolt of discomfort. As soon as Kent and the other bullies were starting to push me, I quickly and clearly soiled myself. They could see my diaper suddenly expand in the back and turn a darker color. Horrified, they took a step back. "That's sick, bro," one of the guys said while the other held his nose, tripped over his shoelaces as he lost balance. They soon left the restroom in a hurry. Though I remained concerned that news was going to spread about me, I was grateful they were gone.

Across from the stalls were a row of sinks and mirrors. I could see myself in the mirror with a thick, full diaper. Once the adrenaline washed away and I returned to my normal pulse, I felt pride. I was proud of the way I looked and how I felt in diapers: soaked in the front, loaded in the back. The fact that I went so effortlessly in the moment affirmed in my mind that I truly needed diapers. The prospect of being fully dependent on diapers and everyone knowing that was not only real, but deeply arousing. Like a mindless, horny monster, I rode the momentum of my arousal right then and there, furiously rubbing my diaper until I came.

As soon as school ended, I raced home; I didn't even change. By the time I got home, I looked for Neal to show him the mess I got myself into. I wanted him to see that I went all the way -- that it wasn't some sort of fad or puberty-inspired curiosity. Then I saw Neal sitting in the backyard on our lounge chair with a beer in hand, sunglasses on, catching some sun while wearing a diaper. Before I could say, "Hey Neal!" he removed his sunglasses and looked at me with a what the fuck have you done look on his face, but then quickly smiled and gestured me to come closer to him.

"I'm proud of you, boy," he said, patting my dirty backside. Then he left his hand there for a few seconds. "That takes some serious chutzpah to walk around school like that."

"But I wore pants over it." We laughed.

I told him the story. He was furious that I was bullied in the restroom, but I told him the experience was a mixed blessing. Had they not aggressively cornered me in the restroom, I wouldn't have obtained a greater appreciation for the circumstances I was in. Though he chided me for not doing enough to stand up for myself, Neal could see that I was actively turning a bad situation into a high-yield benefit.

"I'm happy you're embracing that part of yourself," he said before sipping his beer. "But you look like you need daddy and possibly hazmat to change you."

"Yeah. Definitely."

TWO

"Thank you for helping me out," I said to Neal, who laid me on the bed in his room and was cleaning me. He was skilled and awfully smooth with the baby wipes, neat. When he rubbed me down and carefully wiped me from front to back, I had a suspicion that he's changed other people before. For a big, masculine orca, he was gentle and kind -- making me feel like there was no one else in the world but the two of us.

"Of course, but I'm afraid I've been a bad influence on you," he said, diligently rubbing inside my tailhole with a wipe. "I'm afraid I've been too headstrong with you, enabling you into getting caught up in situations like that at school. If I told your mother, she'd be furious with the both of us."

"Dad --" I caught myself saying to him, and he froze after hearing that word. He gave me a hard stare. "What's wrong?"

"I -- uhhhh, nothing," Neal said breathlessly.

"Do you not want to be called 'dad'?"

"Well, here's the situation. Nancy, your mother, and I have a great relationship, and as such, it's something that I don't want to mess up. Now, here we are; I'm not sure what to do." He looked over at my groin and observed my clear and present erection. Realizing that I inadvertently showed my step-dad that I was rock hard from having my diaper changed, I kept mouthing to myself oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.

"I'm so sorry," I told him. "It's just that --"

Neal flashed a smile for the briefest of moments, then recovered. "It's fine, really. You're certainly not the first guy to be that happy to see me," he said.

"This is getting complicated," I said, slightly nervous but deeply intrigued.

"I believe this is probably a good time to say this, but I'm bisexual," Neal confessed. "Come to think of it, I had this feeling about you for awhile. It was a hunch. I saw the way you looked at me when we first met. And I thought, 'Well, this kid is making some serious eye contact with me. And I know that look.' You were smitten."

Felt like I was hit by a truck full of revelations, I shot back with a terse "What?" I wanted to tell him that he was full of himself. I wasn't smitten, but I was certainly curious.

He picked up on the awkwardness and paused for a moment before he doubled down and continued to change me. "So what's your deal, Connor? Mom told me you've never once expressed interest in going out on dates or having any romantic relationships. She thought you needed someone to talk to about that sort of thing. She looked at me like I knew what's up, but I assumed you were just figuring things out so I left you alone."

Neal was pushing me into a corner with this conversation, but since we were comfortable enough to wear diapers around each other, I figured there was no use holding back. "I've always looked at guys differently than girls. With girls, I saw them as 'friends' and if that friendship blossomed into something more than that, okay. But with other men, I would find myself thinking, 'Oh, he's cute.' Cute? Why am I thinking another man is cute? That's weird, and I would end up in cycles of denial."

"Have you ever wanted to experiment with another man?" he asked me.

"I have."

He appeared interested in me. And he seemed to know I was interested in him; he kept telling me it was okay if I wanted to "fool around," but my conscience resisted. And once he cleaned and changed me, he left the bedroom for a minute and returned with our cordless phone. Mom was on the other line.

"Hey mom," I said, just as mom was saying my name. We both chuckled.

Right then, she said, "I'm at work still, but I wanted to tell you that I'm fine if you and Neal wanted to -- how should I put this -- figure things out together."

No, this was insane. Did my mother seriously give me the green light to essentially fool around with her boyfriend?

"There must be some kind of mistake," I said.

"Connor, I want you to be happy. Neal and I -- well, I'm sure he told you about his preferences. And look, I'm a child of the sixties. Free love. All tolerance. Full acceptance. That's how I lived. That's how I want our family to live and love. I don't care if my beautiful boy is straight, gay, bisexual or transgender. I want you to live your truth."

"Isn't this a conversation that's too uh... personal to have over the phone?"

"Maybe so, but I just want you to hear it from me."

"Thank... you..." I said before quickly handing the phone back to Neal. Neal spoke with her briefly before hanging up. "I hope you don't mind that I need to process this."

"Of course."

One week later, Neal walked into my bedroom. I asked him to come in and shut the door. Before we could figure out what the next steps would be, he told me about a romantic rendezvous with another male soldier while he was on his third tour of duty. This happened about a year before he met my mother. He told me how awful he felt wearing adult diapers around the other soldiers, especially when they slept in close quarters, and how badly he wanted to feel "normal." Then he got to know a kangaroo named Gabe who timidly confessed to him one day that he was an occasional bedwetter. Gabe was surprised to see a fellow soldier in diapers, but was also appreciative that Neal was not shying away from his personal circumstances.

Neal's voice started to rise with excitement when he talked about the night it finally happened. He and Gabe found a bar in a civilian area secured by allied forces. They spent the evening drinking and dancing. All the other soldiers had their suspicions about the pair. They spent a lot of quality time together. And the others sometimes goaded the two to "kiss and make out already," but they resisted the urge, considering the fact that the "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" policy remained in effect, and the country their base was located in had laws prohibiting homosexuality and sodomy.

They stumbled back to their base and somehow ended up in their barracks' shower and restroom area, which was unoccupied at the time. There, Neal dared his friend to pee his pants in front of him. To his surprise, Gabe did just that, soaking his camo pants until a puddle saturated his boots and the tiled floor underneath him. Acting on his sudden, primal urges, Neal touched Gabe in a way he never touched another man before: by grabbing his sopping wet crotch and stroking him. Eventually, they kissed on the lips and masterbated each other until they both climaxed. This would become a daily ritual they did in the dead of night. And so they went their separate ways once their tour of duty ended, but became pen pals and wrote each other letters for nearly a year until Neal met my mother.

He told the story so effortlessly, and I didn't want to believe a word of it. It felt too relevant to me and I still didn't want to admit to him how stimulated his story made me. I started to mutter incoherently to myself, second-guessing everything up to this point. Was this something I really wanted to follow through on? The fucking indecisiveness nearly drove me insane, and I was on the cusp of turning my adolescent fantasies into reality. What was I going to do?

I had a clear moral quandary. Despite my mother telling me she was completely fine with me essentially sleeping with her boyfriend, the circumstances felt odd. But here Neal was, ready, willing and able to satisfy my sexual whims. And he didn't feel obligated to do so. He wanted to. My mind was still wrapped around the fact that I was allowed to wear and use diapers around them -- and that it was encouraged! Though I grew to be more adventurous and daring at school, I felt a lot more accustomed to having these experiences remain my personal joy. Now I was sharing this strange joy with people I never, in my wildest dreams, would've shared with.

Suddenly, he ordered me to kiss him. The older orca was taller than me, so he picked me up with ease so my head was even with his. He held onto my sides as I locked lips with him. It was a delightfully surreal moment. I could feel his slippery, smooth skin, his muscles and broad shoulders. Managed to even observe the black dragon tattoos on his arms and shoulders. He turned me around and leaned me against the wall. I was trapped underneath his shadow and phenomenal musk. And all I could hear was the sound of our soggy, drooping diapers rustling together. No wonder why mom fell for him. He could sweep anyone off their feet.

I got lost in the moment and felt almost feral. It was just the two of us, acting on pure impulse and desire. Moments passed and the concept of regret soon faded into the ether. I couldn't understand what was happening, but I knew I had to commit and keep moving forward. I reminded myself to explore anything I could.

Neal loosened his grip around my waist long enough for me to slide back down. When I did, I immediately collapsed to my knees and pressed my muzzle into his diaper.

"This is a new experience for me," he said. "Never had anyone worship my diaper before. But while you're doing there, what do you think? You like the smell, boy?"

I did. This was a first for me as well. Up close, the diaper looked wonderfully plump and swollen. Because he was one size larger than me, there was a lot more surface of the diaper for my nose to travel. I could tell right away that he was the kind of guy that would put off a change until it was absolutely necessary. He certainly reeked, but it was the kind of odor that provoked my senses into pleasurable submission. He definitely wasn't wearing for show. And I think he was excited that I was down there. When I pressed further into his diaper, I could feel how hard he was inside. He could barely contain myself. To be fair, I barely could either.

"It's almost full," he said ominously.

"What do you mean by 'almost'?" I asked.

"Just watch."

He quietly stood in the middle of my bedroom with a confident smirk. I had often fantasized about "going all the way," but never acted on it because I had far better control over my bowel movements than my bladder.

"If you're going to wear diapers, you might as well make use of them," Neal said to me. I was still getting used to wearing, so my brain was like, Hey, you need to use the toilet for that. You can't do that here. Yet by reverse psychology, it was the resistance that piqued my curiosity to do the unfathomable. And it didn't take Neal long to drop a sizeable load in the back of his diaper. He was apparently used to the circumstances to mess himself in front of me or probably anyone else. Maybe I could be like that one day.

Now, as he soiled himself and rubbed his squishy backside as confirmation, I slowly approached him. I felt sweat dripping from my brow, my tail cautiously wagging and my nose trying to process the fact that a grown man proudly messed his pants in front of me. His diaper no longer showed white anywhere. I didn't have the attention span to study all of it from front to back, top to bottom, but I noticed his legs gathers drooped low enough that I could glimpse at the slightest patch of brown inside. I didn't want to see the inside of his diaper. That was a bridge too far. I wasn't ready. The wetness indicators were long gone. This was a diaper worn by someone who accepted himself. I wasn't prepared to be this around from seeing another man in this compromised state.

Neal sighed happily as I went back on my knees. This time, I quietly pulled down his diaper from the front. While he stood stoically before me, Neal swiftly retrieved his hard, meaty cock and conveniently let it flop before my face. I couldn't resist anymore. I wanted to taste him. His dick was salty, sweaty and covered in piss. He needed to air out a bit. The stench was, in a word, overwhelming. However, it was something I could handle. I took the damn thing into my maw -- at least as much as I could before feeling like I was choking. He chuckled a bit, rubbed my headfur and teased me for being new to the "oral game." To be fair, I watched some porn. I knew what I needed to do to satisfy him while satisfying myself. He was surprised to see that I tucked my teeth back a little, lapped around his wide shaft, and bobbed my head back and forth. I looked up and could see him smiling with his eyes closed.

"You're pretty good for a newbie," he said. "And if I may be so bold, I think you're pretty damn cute wolf too. Enjoying my pacifier?"

The flirting only propelled me further into my lust. In a way, I was paralyzed. I couldn't move and didn't want to, quite frankly. However, if he wanted to toss me onto my own bed like a rag-doll and fuck me, I wouldn't object to that either. But in my momentary state of sexual bliss, I couldn't help but savor what we had. I suddenly wet my diaper out of sheer excitement and wasn't fazed at all by it. I could hear my diaper gurgling from the heavy pour into my padding. My diaper was getting heavier. My waist was warming up. It felt like an act of loyal submission before a horny, diapered giant who evaluated my every move.

"Good boy," Neal said, noticing I was flooding my diaper.

The orca's trademark would soon give way to a concerned expression. I looked into his eyes. He shook his head and tapped my shoulder as if he wanted me to stop. I complied, but before I could fully extract myself from his cock, he started to urinate. Right. He was incontinent. He repeatedly apologized to me. "I didn't mean to do that obviously," he said. But here's what he didn't realize: I didn't care. I was going to take all of it inside my mouth, consequences be damned.

I didn't know what I'd expected from doing this, but it was similar to drinking out of a water fountain. I tasted the saltiness, but it didn't inconvenience me. I slowly swallowed with heavy gulps and looked up at him lovingly, letting him know everything was fine. I guess he ultimately realized that I did this because I wanted to without feeling obligated since his shoulders relaxed and he let out a contented sigh. This was the moment he finally relaxed and gave into the same kind of sexual euphoria I was electrified by. To make sure everything went smoothly, I swallowed every last drop.

He got hard again when he started thrusting into my maw. This was the first time he developed a rhythm and I could feel his dominance finally taking hold. It was like a fantasy that spilled from the depths of my adolescent mind into reality, but it was better than fantasy. We were trapped in what felt like an eternity, but between the two of us, we were more than happy to ride it out. And after a while, he came. This time, he managed to pull out before climax. I was hit in the face with his sticky, warm, pent-up spunk that drenched my muzzle and dripped to the floor. I climaxed in my diaper moments earlier, moaning loud enough for the neighbors to hear. I felt like a slut, but loved every second of it.

We collapsed on my bed together. Since I had a twin bed and he had the body of a able-bodied football lineman, there wasn't enough room for the two of us side-by-side. I ended up laying on top of him and he spooned me from behind. It was a cozy embrace. But after the sexual bliss tapered off, we were questioning ourselves. What the fuck? Step-dad shouldn't be having sex with his step-son. Despite being given the green light to explore ourselves and each other, we were inherently ashamed by what we did. But make no mistake: we loved it. The room smelled like dirty diapers in a locker room. There were a bag of opened diapers at the foot of my bed. A box of baby wipes and a bottle of baby powder were on the dresser. This was an aesthetic I never knew I needed or embodied. And all my feelings, all the risks I took led to this point. I was grateful to Neal for taking my there.

"What now?" I asked Neal.

"Hell if I know."

"But if there's one thing I know -- or maybe I'm pretty sure that I know... I'm gay." My confession was real. And saying those words out loud felt completely natural.

Neal laughed out loud. He turned what could've been a tender moment of self-reflection into hilarity.

"What?" I snapped.

"Well, I guess I am too."

He held me in his arms. We were quiet for a few minutes, feeling the breeze enter through my open window and carefully caress our bodies. We didn't say anything to each other. Both of us were processing the situation. It became increasingly clear to us that we couldn't hide this part of ourselves. When he told me he still loved my mother, he was sincere, but he realized the love between them was platonic.

"You're not mad, are you?" he asked while rubbing my furry stomach.

"I don't know," I said. I knew my answer had to be delicate. "My mom saw you as a golden opportunity for her to move on from dad, my biological dad. She really does think the world of you. I certainly do. But most importantly, I want her to be happy."

Neal took a deep breath. "It's not like I was living a lie with her, you know. I told her about me. Then she told me about you. She had a hunch. She said you never expressed interest in girls and never talked about going on dates or going to the prom. She said you isolated yourself a lot. You reminded me of how I used to be."

"You've always seemed to be so outgoing and charismatic. I don't share those traits," I told him.

Neal took another deep breath. "It's called 'acting.'"

Without skipping a beat, I asked him, "But you really are a baby, though?"

"Takes one to know one." He chuckled and shifted around a little. "My first girlfriend was my childhood sweetheart. I was around your age when we dated. I dated her because I was raised to believe a man could only be with a woman, and that's the way it is. We enjoyed each other's company, but wasn't interested in taking things to the next level. We drifted apart after a while, but I figured I was going through some sort of phase. Needed to figure things out. And I thought the best way to get my shit together was to enlist in the military. That's when I had a clearer understanding of who I am, but I was actually frightened about people knowing. I became the jock, the stud. That one guy you'd never want to mess with. I put a nice guard up as a survival mechanism and people bought it."

"But you could only keep up appearances for so long."

"Right. Maybe I've gone a little crazy. Might be the shrapnel in my head," he joked. "But maybe I'm crazy with the right person."

I pointed to myself. "Me?"

Neal shrugged. "You're a lot more together than I used to be. Took me more than a few decades to get to where I am now, and even now I'm not sure where to go from here. Maybe it's the fun we had a short while ago, but I feel like I'm more... myself... when I'm around you."

"And here I was, looking up to you for inspiration and guidance."

"Oh, you still could," Neal said with a wink.

"I think you should let mom know," I told him.

"I will."

"Here's the thing: I don't know how we can classify this relationship, but I am grateful to you," I said.

"You can show your gratitude by changing me out of this diaper," he said.

I couldn't yell "Hell no!" loud enough.