Adult Content Warning - This book contains mature themes, explicit language, and adult situations intended for a mature audience. All depictions of sexual activity involve consenting adults aged 18 years and older. Reader discretion is advised. This work is intended for readers 18 years of age and older.
I braced for distance. He gave me arms instead
Soaked Morning
The rain had started sometime in the night.
Barry heard it before he opened his eyes—soft and steady against the tall glass patio doors, a low rhythm that echoed through the stillness of his eleventh-floor condo. Edmonton was soaked. He could feel it in the weight of the air and the muted light seeping through the blinds.
He was soaked, too.
He blinked into the grey morning, shifting under the covers, and the heavy squish between his legs confirmed what he already suspected. The Mega diaper—his favourite blue one with rocket ships and stars—was swollen, sagging against his hips, the saturated core pressing warmly between his thighs.
A deep breath. Not of frustration. Of relief.
He needed it last night.
It had been a shitstorm of a Friday. A key team member quit. The project timeline got pushed up two weeks. And the site delays—none of them his fault—landed squarely on his shoulders anyway. He’d come home with clenched teeth and a bottle of scotch, pouring himself a double and sinking into the familiar embrace of his thickest padding before the first sip even hit his tongue.
He sat up slowly, the old T-shirt hanging loose over his chest, its hem brushing the bulge of his soaked diaper. He ran a hand over the front. Mushy. Heavy. Comforting.
There was nothing to be ashamed of. Not here. Not in his space.
He shuffled to the kitchen, barefoot, the laminate cool under his soles. He didn’t bother changing. The diaper still held. He poured water into the kettle, grabbed his favourite ceramic mug—a chunky, speckled one with a worn rim—and added a splash of cream.
The city outside was as drenched as he was. Mist hovered over the North Saskatchewan River, and the towers across the valley were ghostly in the drizzle. He opened the blinds all the way and stood, legs slightly apart, in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows. The view was stunning, even on a day like this.
If the neighbours across the street saw him—forty-eight years old, sipping coffee in just a soaked diaper and threadbare T-shirt—they could think what they wanted.
This was his home. His life. And his body had earned the peace that came from not giving a damn.
Behind him, jazz played low from a Bluetooth speaker. He exhaled. A full-body release.
Some mornings were just like this. And Barry wouldn’t trade them for anything.
Dinner Plans
Barry met Malcolm at a friend’s birthday barbecue about six weeks ago. It had been one of those reluctant show-up-for-appearances events—too many people, too many unfamiliar faces, and the faint promise of overcooked burgers. Barry had almost skipped it entirely.
But Malcolm had smiled at him across the backyard from behind a red Solo cup, made some dry remark about the state of the potato salad, and just like that, the evening had shifted.
They’d found a shaded corner near the fence, trading quiet conversation while the louder crowd played lawn darts and got steadily drunker. Malcolm was calm. Funny in a low-key way. Mid-fifties, short silver hair, square shoulders that hinted at decades of trades work. He wore it all like it didn’t occur to him he was handsome—which, of course, made it worse.
Barry hadn’t dated in a while. Not seriously. And definitely not since the last guy had ghosted him the second he mentioned wearing diapers at night.
But coffee with Malcolm had turned into another coffee. And another. They always kept it light—music, books, architecture, some shared gripes about the state of Edmonton’s downtown bike lanes. Barry wasn’t sure if they were dating or just easing toward something more. Malcolm never pushed.
Until last week.
They were seated by the window of a quiet café in Glenora, half-finished mugs between them. The afternoon light made Malcolm’s eyes look greener than usual.
“I was thinking,” Malcolm said, resting a hand lightly on Barry’s. “We’ve done coffee. How about dinner? At my place. Something a little less… neutral territory.”
Barry froze for half a second. Malcolm’s fingers didn’t press, but they lingered.
“I make a mean chicken piccata,” he added, mouth twitching into a smile.
Barry swallowed. He liked Malcolm. A lot. The kind of man who smelled like cedar and machine oil and wasn’t afraid of silence. But a dinner at Malcolm’s place came with the possibility—maybe even the assumption—of an overnight stay. And that meant complications.
He glanced down at their hands, then back up.
“I’d like that,” Barry said slowly. “But… how about we do it at my place?”
Malcolm didn’t seem surprised. “Sure. You’re more central, anyway.”
Barry smiled. “And I make a decent risotto.”
Malcolm leaned in slightly. “Then it’s a date.”
The Dinner Prep and the Missed Detail
By five-thirty on Saturday evening, Barry’s condo was glowing with soft light, the scent of lemon and roasted garlic lingering in the air. The risotto was resting on the stove. A bottle of red sat uncorked on the counter, breathing beside two short tumblers. The jazz station played low from the kitchen speaker—piano and brushed drums, warm and un-intrusive.
Barry moved through the space barefoot, his nerves disguised beneath the comfort of routine. He’d tidied earlier that afternoon, wiping down surfaces, fluffing the pillows on the sectional, and even folding a spare throw blanket across the armrest like a man who had his shit together. Which, mostly, he did.
Mostly.
He’d changed into dark jeans and a slate-grey button-up—nothing fancy, just fitted and clean. Comfortable, but presentable. He’d thought briefly about wearing a diaper earlier in the afternoon, especially after the stressful week, but decided against it. Not tonight. Not for this.
Instead, he focused on being grounded—clean clothes, good food, and maybe the chance to connect with someone who made his chest ache in the best possible way.
At 5:40, just as he was double-checking the wine glasses, his phone buzzed on the counter. His sister.
Barry sighed and answered, wedging the phone between his shoulder and ear as he rinsed a few remaining dishes.
“Hey, Jen.”
“Hey, just a sec,” she said, muffled, followed by the shuffle of background noise. “Okay. So. That thing with mom’s meds? It’s a bigger issue than I thought.”
Barry’s gut clenched.
He leaned against the counter as Jen launched into a detailed explanation—something about insurance, a delay with the refill, side effects, doctor’s office mix-ups. He half-listened, half-paced, head nodding, mouth making sounds of acknowledgment while his mind was elsewhere.
The conversation stretched longer than he expected. He stepped into the bathroom mid-call, wiping the mirror and tossing the used cleaning rag in the bin.
The bin.
That’s where he’d tossed this morning’s soaked diaper—wrapped neatly, sure, but undeniably there. One of the brightly printed ABDL brands he occasionally ordered, just for comfort and variety. He wasn’t into the baby play aspect. Not remotely. But the medical white ones got dull after a while, and he liked the softness of the others.
He’d meant to take it out.
He always did before company.
But tonight, distracted and a little flustered from the call, he didn’t. When the conversation ended and he finally clicked off, he washed his hands, adjusted his shirt, and lit the candle on the kitchen table.
By the time the intercom buzzed with Malcolm’s arrival, Barry had completely forgotten about the bathroom bin.Scene Four: The Reveal
Dinner had gone well. Better than well, actually.
Malcolm had arrived with a bottle of Rioja and a box of pastries from a bakery Barry liked but rarely visited. Conversation over risotto flowed naturally—lighthearted stories mixed with thoughtful moments. Barry had felt himself relaxing in Malcolm’s presence, drawn in by his warmth and the quiet confidence he radiated.
They lingered in the living room afterward, jazz humming softly from the speakers. Malcolm’s hand had found Barry’s, fingers curling gently. A kiss followed—tentative, then deeper, fuller. Barry’s heart thrummed with a fragile mix of hope and want.
At some point, Malcolm stood. “Bathroom?”
Barry gestured down the hall. “First door on the left.”
As soon as Malcolm disappeared, Barry blinked, then sat up straighter—something tugging at the edge of his awareness.
The bin.
His eyes widened. Shit.
He hadn’t emptied it. The rocket ship printed diaper from that morning still sat there, wrapped up but unmistakable.
Now all he could do was wait.
When Malcolm returned, something about his expression had shifted. He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He moved more slowly, as if weighing something, and his gaze flicked around the room before settling on Barry. Curious. Not distant, but quieter—like someone deciding whether or not to speak. Barry’s stomach tightened as he tried to read the subtle signals, a quiet dread blooming under his skin. Barry straightened up, muscles taut, then shifted to the far end of the couch like it might offer a safer distance. The fabric crinkled beneath him. He rubbed his palms over his thighs, suddenly hyper-aware of every sound in the room—the ticking of the wall clock, the quiet hum of the fridge, the hush of Malcolm’s footsteps. His pulse throbbed in his ears. He dared not meet Malcolm’s gaze, afraid of what might be reflected there.
“You okay?” Malcolm asked gently.
Barry hesitated. Then nodded, too fast. “Yeah. Fine.”
But Malcolm didn’t let it go. “Was it something I said?”
Barry shook his head.
Malcolm paused, eyes drifting to the nearly empty wine glasses on the coffee table. "This Rioja’s better than I expected," he said, tone casual.
Barry forced a smile. "You’ve got good taste."
A few seconds passed. Malcolm shifted in his seat, picking at the label on the bottle. "You’ve lived here long?"
"Couple of years now," Barry replied, voice a little too brisk.
The silence returned. He could feel Malcolm watching him, weighing the moment.
Finally, Malcolm asked, more softly, "Was it the diaper in the bin?"
The silence that followed was sharp and heavy. Barry’s face flushed hot.
He looked away. “I meant to take it out. I forgot. I got distracted.”
Malcolm waited.
Barry’s fingers fidgeted in his lap. Then, in a low voice, he started explaining.
“It's not something I usually talk about early on. But yes. It was mine. I wear at night. Not every night, but most. It started as stress incontinence years ago and just… stuck. It’s easier than waking up wet, easier than changing the sheets.”
He exhaled slowly, the words tumbling faster now. “And yeah, sometimes it helps me relax. I’ve made peace with it. It’s not a kink for me. It’s not about regression or anything. I just… I sleep better. It feels safe.”
He finally glanced up, unsure of what he’d see.
Malcolm wasn’t smirking. He wasn’t uncomfortable. If anything, he looked thoughtful. Curious, even.
“Thanks for telling me,” Malcolm said quietly. “You didn’t have to, but I’m glad you did.”
Barry’s shoulders slumped slightly with relief. “I’ve had bad reactions before. Guys who bolt or make it a joke. It’s made dating... complicated.”
“I can imagine,” Malcolm said, shifting closer. “But I’m not those guys.”
Barry blinked. “You’re really okay with it?”
Malcolm nodded, then smiled. “I’m not freaked out. Honestly? I kind of admire how open you are. And—if I’m being real—it was kind of hot seeing you in that shirt and nothing else when I showed up. Even before I knew.”
A slow flush crept up Barry’s neck. “That was just... me being comfortable at home.”
“And I liked it,” Malcolm said, his voice low and sure.
Barry let out a small laugh, somewhere between disbelief and relief. The tension in the room broke a little more.
They sat like that for a moment longer—close, silent, listening to the low hum of jazz in the background.
Then Malcolm stood and extended a hand. “Come to bed with me?”
Barry hesitated, just a second. Then he reached out and took Malcolm’s hand.
They moved slowly through the condo, past the soft pools of lamplight, toward the bedroom. As they crossed the threshold, Malcolm pulled Barry close again, kissing him under the doorframe. It was tender and reassuring, but laced with promise.
Letting Go
They moved through the condo slowly, hand in hand, the glow of the city casting shadows along the floor. Barry's heart pounded—not from fear, but anticipation, vulnerability. He hadn’t expected the evening to go this far. Not after what Malcolm had found in the bathroom. But here they were, fingers laced, bare feet padding toward the bedroom like something real was unfolding.
Malcolm paused in the doorway, turning to face Barry. He cupped Barry’s cheek and kissed him—no rush, no pressure. Just warmth. Barry leaned in, letting the kiss deepen, and his hands slid under Malcolm’s shirt, fingertips grazing warm skin. They undressed each other in between lingering touches and murmured encouragements, laughter softening the edges of their nerves.
When they reached the bed, Malcolm guided Barry down gently, kissing a slow path across his chest and down his belly. Barry gasped, a mix of surprise and relief—being seen like this, without judgment, lit something in him he hadn’t felt in years.
Malcolm's mouth worked its way downward, lips brushing over Barry’s abdomen with reverence. He knelt between Barry’s legs and took his cock into his mouth with a slow, practiced ease. Barry moaned, his hips lifting, overwhelmed by the wet heat, the steady rhythm of Malcolm’s mouth, the soft press of hands on his thighs. His toes curled against the sheets as he surrendered to the sensation.
Malcolm pulled back, licking the head before looking up with a grin. “You taste good,” he said, voice thick.
Barry pulled him up for a kiss, tasting himself on Malcolm’s lips, their bodies sliding together, hard cocks brushing as they shifted. Barry pushed Malcolm onto his back, trailing kisses down his chest, letting his tongue swirl around each nipple before moving lower. He took his time, exploring every inch, teasing the soft trail of hair down Malcolm’s belly.
When Barry took Malcolm into his mouth, Malcolm let out a low, guttural moan. Barry worked him slowly, hand wrapped around the base, sucking and licking with growing hunger. Malcolm’s fingers tangled in Barry’s hair, guiding him gently, his hips twitching with every pass of Barry’s tongue.
Eventually, Malcolm pulled Barry up, breathing hard, face flushed. “Condom?” he asked, reaching toward the drawer.
Barry nodded, grabbing the lube while Malcolm rolled the condom on. Barry lay back, spreading his legs, and Malcolm positioned himself between them. He kissed Barry again, slow and deep, as slick fingers prepared him with care. One finger, then two, stretching him open, coaxing him to relax.
“You okay?” Malcolm whispered.
“Yes. Please,” Barry breathed.
Malcolm pushed inside with excruciating slowness, filling him inch by inch. Barry clutched at his back, overwhelmed by the sensation—the burn, the stretch, the emotional weight of being so open to someone.
Malcolm began to move, each thrust deliberate, grinding into him with a rhythm that stole Barry’s breath. He angled his hips just right, and Barry cried out as Malcolm brushed against his prostate again and again. Their bodies slapped together, slick with sweat, the sounds of sex filling the room—grunts, moans, the creak of the bed.
Barry wrapped his legs around Malcolm’s waist, pulling him deeper, harder. “Don’t stop,” he gasped. “Fuck, don’t stop.”
Malcolm buried his face in Barry’s neck, murmuring praises—how good he felt, how tight, how beautiful he was like this. Barry felt himself unraveling, every nerve lit up, every breath ragged. His cock throbbed between them, untouched but aching.
“I’m close,” Barry warned.
“Let go,” Malcolm whispered.
Barry did—coming hard between them with a strangled cry, his body seizing beneath Malcolm’s. The orgasm rocked through him, wringing every drop from his core. Malcolm followed moments later, groaning as he buried himself deep one last time, hips jerking with release.
They collapsed together in a sweaty heap, hearts pounding, bodies tangled. Barry’s chest heaved as he came down, Malcolm’s weight grounding him in the moment.
After a long pause, Malcolm kissed his shoulder. “You okay?”
Barry nodded, still catching his breath. “Yeah. Really okay.”
They lay like that for a while until the sweat cooled on their skin and the quiet turned comfortable.
Eventually, they made their way to the bathroom, showering together under the warm spray. They soaped each other slowly, more intimate than sexual now, exchanging small smiles and light kisses. Barry felt the knots in his chest loosen with every touch, every rinse, every shared silence.
Back in the bedroom, Malcolm bent to grab his clothes from the chair, but Barry reached out. “You don’t have to go. Not after all that wine.”
Malcolm straightened, a slow smile tugging at his lips. “You sure?”
Barry nodded. “I’d like you to stay.”
Malcolm returned to the bed, dropping his clothes on the floor. “Then I guess it’s time to get you ready for bed.”
The teasing lilt in his voice made Barry laugh, but his chest tightened too. It was a line. An invitation. And Barry knew what it meant.
He hesitated. “I usually wear something at night. For… protection. You already know why.”
Malcolm didn’t flinch. “Okay. Where do you keep them?”
Barry pointed to the nightstand. Malcolm opened the drawer and found two different diapers inside—one plain white, the other with rocket ships and stars.
He turned to Barry, holding them both up. “Which one would you like to wear?”
Barry’s heart gave a little flutter. The question wasn’t mocking or embarrassed. It was sincere.
“The rockets,” Barry said quietly. “They're my favourite.”
Malcolm smiled, set the white one aside, and unfolded the printed diaper with care.
“Lie back,” he said gently.
Barry obeyed slowly, heart pounding. He tried to still the flutter in his chest as Malcolm helped him into the thick garment, taping it snug around his hips. It was intimate, tender, reverent. Barry’s cock twitched involuntarily, and Malcolm chuckled.
“Later,” he whispered, brushing a kiss across Barry’s lips. “Right now, we sleep.”
They slid beneath the covers, Malcolm spooning up behind Barry. Barry could feel the warmth of his cock pressing against the back of the diaper, not urgent, just present.
Barry let out a slow breath and melted into him. For the first time in years, he didn’t feel ashamed.
He felt safe.
Morning Light
The soft grey of early morning spilled into the condo, casting pale reflections across the hardwood floor. The city beyond the glass was just beginning to stir, a slow-moving glow behind clouds still heavy with the promise of rain.
Barry stretched under the covers and blinked at the ceiling, Malcolm’s steady breathing at his side. For a moment, he just watched him sleep—hair tousled, the lines around his mouth soft in the early light. Then, slowly and quietly, Barry slipped out of bed.
His diaper was soaked. The padding sagged low on his hips, squishing faintly as he moved through the bedroom and into the kitchen, tugging down the hem of his oversized T-shirt. He didn’t bother putting anything else on. Not in his own home. Not after last night.
The smell of coffee soon filled the air, sharp and familiar. Barry leaned against the counter, one arm crossed, the other wrapped around his warm mug, staring out through the floor-to-ceiling windows at the slow crawl of the river and the quiet rhythm of downtown coming alive.
He didn’t hear Malcolm at first—not until the quiet rustle of bare feet on tile and the yawn behind him.
Then Malcolm’s arms wrapped around him from behind, warm and firm. Barry inhaled sharply in surprise, then relaxed into the embrace.
“Morning,” Malcolm said, pressing a kiss to the side of Barry’s neck.
Barry tilted his head slightly. “Hey.”
Malcolm’s hand slid downward, over the hem of Barry’s T-shirt, settling on the front of his thick, swollen diaper. He gave it a gentle squeeze. The crinkle and squish were unmistakable.
Barry tensed.
But Malcolm didn’t pull away.
Instead, his voice came low and sure against Barry’s ear. “God, you look hot like this. So fucking sexy.”
Barry let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. His body softened against Malcolm’s, heat blooming across his chest.
“Wasn’t sure how this would feel this morning,” Barry said quietly.
“And now?” Malcolm asked, his palm still resting against the front of the diaper.
Barry smiled into his coffee. “Better.”
They stood like that for a minute—still, close, breathing in sync—before Malcolm released him and reached for a mug of his own. They moved to the window together, standing side by side, watching the soft spill of clouds drift above the buildings.
Barry sipped his coffee, still in nothing but his soaked diaper and shirt. Malcolm didn’t seem fazed in the slightest. If anything, his glances lingered more now—comfortable, curious, maybe a little turned on.
“You’re staring,” Barry murmured, teasing.
Malcolm grinned. “You’ve got rocket ships on your ass. Of course I’m staring.”
Barry chuckled, cheeks warming. “It’s one of my favourites.”
They stood a while longer in easy silence until Malcolm suddenly glanced at the time on the microwave.
“Shit,” he said, rubbing a hand over his face. “I was supposed to meet my sister for brunch. Totally forgot.”
Barry’s smile faltered, but only briefly. “Of course. You should go.”
Malcolm leaned in, kissed him again—slow and deliberate. “Last night was amazing.”
“It was,” Barry said, trying not to over read the moment.
Malcolm got dressed quickly, pulled on his jeans, found his shirt. At the door, he paused.
“I’ll text you later?”
Barry nodded, hand still curled around his coffee mug. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
And then Malcolm was gone.
The quiet settled in again, thicker now. Barry stood by the window for a long time, the last of the coffee cooling in his cup. The crinkle of his diaper reminded him of how exposed he’d been. How much he’d shared.
Was it too much?
The hours passed. Around one in the afternoon, his phone buzzed.
Malcolm: Thanks for everything last night. And this morning. Really.
Malcolm: Can’t wait to see you in your soggy morning diapers again soon.
Barry grinned, warmth spreading through his chest and deep down, lower still.
Maybe it wasn’t too much after all.
Copyright © 2025 TJ Holt - All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher at the address below.
