Chapter Four: Drake

I am so fucked.

My plan to get to know Anson as one Daddy to another is going sideways fast. How am I supposed to convince my brain to let go of its crush on him if he’s going to be parading his adorable ass around my cabin in a onesie and a diaper?

I haven’t been with a man in…well, in an embarrassingly long time. My last breakup was brutal and even though I have continued to visit The Grove to play out sweet or disciplinary scenes with Littles or to socialize with other kinky people, I haven’t considered getting involved sexually or romantically with anyone.

Well, not until I started looking at Anson like I’m a starving man and he’s a Snickers bar.

And now he’s planning on wearing that cute-as-fuck outfit in front of me after calling me to come and rescue him…I’m so, so fucked.

I desperately search through cupboards, drawers and even the big, timber storage boxes at the ends of the two beds in the cabin, hoping to find just one outfit that might fit my guest, but I come up empty handed. I even dig through the bag on Anson’s bed, but the other outfits are just as Little as the one he’s taken into the bathroom with him, and he wasn’t lying: the only items of underwear I can find are diapers.

There are also a couple of pacifiers, a bottle, a sippy cup, and a pink pig stuffie, too. I’m still clutching the stuffie, toying with the soft, curly tail, when Anson’s voice startles me.

“Oh, I see you’ve met Oinker McOinkface,” he says, oblivious to the rapid beating of my heart, “I just call him Oinky, though.”

I turn to admonish him for sneaking up on me, but my words die in my throat. The onesie clings to him like a second skin, leaving no inch of him to my imagination. He’s well-toned and, if his bare chest earlier was any indication, waxed within an inch of his life under the warm material. He doesn’t have a six pack, but he’s got defined pecs and biceps, and his thighs appear firmly muscled, too. I’m willing to bet that he puts in a lot of hours at the gym.

But what’s really got me struggling not to swallow my tongue is just how Little he looks. His hair is damp and obviously tangled by his attempts to towel it dry. His skin is flushed from the warmth of the shower, no longer pale from the cold. His long, elegant feet are socked in the footed onesie, and he’s got the tell-tale puffy bulge of the diaper around his crotch and butt.

He’s perfection , I think to myself, wanting to reach out so I can pull him into my arms for a cuddle. Against the pale blue fabric he’s wearing, his wide blue eyes seem even bluer and brighter.

He really does look like a picture perfect Little. I know he’s recently hit his thirties, but in this outfit, I’d argue that he looks almost a decade younger. It almost makes me feel like a lecherous old man, despite only being thirty-four.

“Drake?” he asks, forcing me to give myself a shake and re-enter the conversation. He tilts his head to the side and smiles. “You okay?”

“How, uh, how are you feeling? Are you comfortable enough in that? It looks—” Amazing. Gorgeous. Sexy. Perfect. “—good.”

I die a little inside.

‘It looks good?’ Could I be any lamer?

Anson looks down at his feet, which he shuffles adorably. I can see his skin flushing a deeper pink again. “It’s better than I thought it would be.”

What does that mean?

Am I just being hopeful, or is there a possibility he actually likes being dressed like a Little? And, if he does, does that mean he might want to try regressing? Maybe some Little play? Using a pacifier? Letting me feed him?

I am getting way ahead of myself. It’s just a fantasy, that’s all. It’s my crush putting additional emphasis on the things he’s saying, twisting his perfectly innocent words in my head.

Making sure to keep my tone level and light, I cock my head and nonchalantly ask, “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he looks back up at me. “Is…is it weird that I don’t hate it?”

My mouth works emphatically before my brain can catch up.

“Absolutely not.”