Roughhousing [Tier 3]

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One

Sammy was wearing my old Flaming Lips t-shirt and it looked like she was wearing a dress. I’m not that much bigger than her, but age hadn’t been kind to the tee–which might have been older than she was. It was stretched into oblivion, with most of the screen printed words and images having faded long ago. As she walked around, it almost looked like she wasn’t wearing anything underneath it–though I was pretty sure I saw some shorts earlier when the wind blew up the bottom of the shirt.

I shouldn’t gawk at her like I do. We might not be related by blood, but she calls herself my sister, and that puts an awkward barrier between us. So I’m careful. I don’t let her catch me staring. I don’t let her catch me rifling through her panties in the hamper. I don’t let her catch me rubbing my cock while I daydream about her.

She was mowing the lawn. Usually, that was my job, but she sometimes liked to go and grab the old push-mower from the shed before I got around to it. Especially in the fall–she liked the sound the dried leaves made when they were obliterated into little particles as she drove over them with the mower.

“Kellen. What are you staring at?” she shouted as she passed by me, her voice just barely registering over the sound of the machine.

“Uh…nothin’.”

“Make yourself useful,” she said. “Go get me something to drink, maybe?”

“What do you want?”

“Surprise me.”

I hate it when she says that. How am I supposed to know what she wants to drink? It’s her drink–not mine. I’ve told her this countless times, and yet she continues to tell me to ‘surprise her.’ Fine, fine. One of these days, I think, she’s going to think better of that when I fetch her a glass of white vinegar.

I half expected to see my mother in the kitchen when I came in through the sliding glass door from the backyard. This is usually where I’d find her on a Saturday morning–making a cake or maybe something for lunch. Instead, the house is completely silent–Mom was still in Ohio for the month, caring for Grandma after her hip surgery.

I wasn’t mad to have the house mostly to myself, save for Sammy. But I did miss Mom doing just about everything for me. I rarely realized how much she spoiled us until she wasn’t around.

There was a full pitcher of iced tea on the top shelf of the fridge, but my eye caught the cap to some bottles of beer on the bottom shelf. I was sure they were Mom’s, but she had, like, one beer a month. It was safe to say she wouldn’t notice if a few went missing while she was away. Hell, I was 21 now–and Sammy was 20. I’m sure my mother was probably expecting us to drink all the beer in her absence.

I grabbed two bottles and brought them back outside–just in time to see Sammy shut off the mower so she could wheel it into the garage. She looked hot and sweaty, and her dark hair was sticking to her glistening forehead. I wondered what her armpits smelled like after labor like that. I wondered what her panties smelled like.

Fuck. Keep it to yourself, man, or else you’re gonna pop a big ol’ boner right in front of her.

“Beer?” she asked, taking a bottle from me. She looked pleasantly surprised. “Stealing from your Mom’s stash, huh?”

“I can buy some to replace it if I drink it all,” I said.

“You don’t drink it very often though, do ya?” she asked, handing the bottle back to me.

“Huh?”

“It’s not a twist-off cap, Einstein. You need a bottle opener.”

I was at a party a few weeks ago where Donnie Brentwood decapped a bottle by resting the lip of the cap against a picnic table and–I don’t know–slapping it? Some sort of party trick that impressed the girls in the crowd. I’d have loved to have done the same thing for Sammy, but knowing me, I’d probably end up shattering the bottle or hurting myself. Or both.

“Oh, uh, right,” I shrugged. “One sec.”

Back inside, I used the bottle-opener on the fridge to remove both caps. Just before heading outside again, I looked through the window for a moment to gaze at Sammy again. She was shaking her head and chucking to herself as she ran through her long hair. She could’ve been laughing about anything–but I wanted to believe she was laughing at me. No, I suppose I’d rather her not be laughing at me, but I liked the idea of being on her mind. I wondered, as I often did, if she thought about me in the way that I thought about her.

I’ve known Sammy most of my life. She was about a year younger than me, give or take a month. My mother and her mother were inseparable, and I’d end up seeing Sammy almost everyday. My house was her house, and her house was my house. We were friends, which was probably all our mothers ever dreamed of. I can even remember being a little boy and playing in the lawn with Sammy while our mothers talked about what our wedding might be like someday.

After her mother passed away, Sammy had been living with us for the last few years, and my mother had more-or-less become her mother-figure. There’s much more to that saga, but it seemed less and less important as time went on. Sammy was here. We were all happy–or as happy as we could be. Sammy and I were seen as more brother and sister, and the playful jokes and speculation about our inevitable nuptials slowly faded into silence.

“How long does it take you to take a cap off a bottle?” she hollered from the back yard, hands on her hips. I was tempted to stay inside for another minute, if only to see her get a little more flustered. She did this thing where she’d huff and blow this little string of hair out of her face–it melted me everytime.

I returned, cold and opened libations in hand.

“I, uh, had to find the bottle-opener,” I lied.

“There’s one right on the fridge, dummy.”

“R-right. I just forgot.”

She kicked back the bottle and took an enormous swig of it, swallowing it so naturally that I could’ve been convinced she was a hard-drinking lumberjack who did this on the reg. Meanwhile, when I took a sip from my bottle, I cringed a little. People like this?

“What were your plans today?” she asked.

“I dunno,” I shrugged. “I really ought to finish this book so I can get it back to the library before I get an overdue fee and…”

She scoffed and rolled her eyes. “Boring.”

I could see the restlessness in her eyes, and just knew that it was going to be one of those days. Every once in a while she’d be in a mood like this, where she needed to do something, though she had no idea what that something was. Then, it was usually my responsibility to either help her figure it out, or to at least commiserate with her until she was sufficiently stimulated.

“Well…did you have something else in mind?” I asked.

“I got energy,” she shrugged, taking another swig of the beer. “I need to do something with it.”

“A hike?” I asked. “We haven’t been down to the cliffs in a while.”

To my surprise, she seemed to consider this for a moment. “Yeah, it has been a while. I miss when we used to go down there. Remember when you had that slingshot and we’d bust up all the bottles the big kids left behind?”

I laughed and nodded. “Yeah, and remember when the slingshot broke because you got mad that you missed a bottle and threw it against a tree.”

“I merely tossed it, Kellen. It’s not my fault that the craftsmanship on the slingshot was so poor that it couldn’t withstand a simple toss.”

“So, I don’t have a slingshot anymore,” I shrugged. “But it might be a fun walk anyway. We could bring our own bottles if we wanted something to break.”

“I dunno,” she said, scratching her head. “It’s the right sort of idea–something active and kinda nostalgic. But then I’ve got to watch out for snakes and poison ivy and…”

“Alright. So, what do you want to do?”

“You know what I miss?” she asked with a smug grin. “Wrestling?”

“Oh… You don’t really think that we should–”

“Remember how fun that was, though? We’d make up these fake wrestling personas and dress up? And then we’d roll around on the bed or in the backyard.”

“Or…until our moms told us to knock it off. Or, until one of us got hurt.”

“One of us? Kellen, it was almost always you.”

“Yeah, well. You played rough.”

It was surprisingly hard to talk about this old game with Sammy now. These days, I’d give anything to be rolling around on the floor with her like that. We’d grab and grapple each other. She’d sit on me. Her signature move was to slap my ass. Goddamn, I’d love to feel that again.

It was a more innocent time, for sure. Now, I don’t think we could play a game like that. Not without my cock growing so hard that it tented out the front of my pants. She’d either be so disgusted that she’d never talk to me again, or I’d never hear the end of her mockery. Neither seemed like a consequence I wanted to experience.

“I’m not going to wrestle you,” I sighed.

“Oh come on,” she said. “It’d be fun.”

“Fun for who?”

“You just don’t want to lose.”

“You don’t fight fair,” I said. “Remember when you’d rub your smelly feet on my face to distract me?” Fuck, I had forgotten about that until the words came out of my mouth. I could feel my dick twitching–if she did that now, I’d probably cream my pants.

“Oh come on, Kellen,” she sighed. “Don’t be a lame-o. I just wanna, like, put you in a headlock or something. Can I at least just tackle you?”

It was such an absurd request that I had to laugh. “No! You can’t just tackle me!”

“It won’t hurt! Please!”

When Sammy got an idea in her head, it was hard for her to let it go. And I supposed I should be happy that the answer to her restlessness was something as simple as a tackle. And…well, I wouldn’t hate having her body crash into mine. I wouldn’t mind her landing on top of me.

“Wh-what if…” I started, still mulling over how much I wanted to commit to. “What if I let you tackle me once? And then you have to leave me alone so that I can go and read my book. Deal?”

“Just once?”

“If you want to tackle someone more than once, you should, like, get a boyfriend or something.”

She laughed at this. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll go get one later. I want to tackle you right now, though.”

The topic of dating had been a strange thing. We were both out of high school now. I was in my second year at college, and had been on a handful of mostly uneventful dates. Sammy, meanwhile, was in her freshman year and would occasionally hint at having been on a few dates herself, but rarely ever provided details. Each of us knew the other was dating–but we just never really talked about it together. It was as if the topic was taboo.

“One tackle,” I said. “Then I’m done. Got it?”

“One tackle,” she repeated.

“Alright. So…how do you want to do this? Should we at least go inside so that I can fall back onto a couch or bed or something?”

“A bed? Yeah, you wish that I’d jump into a bed with you.”

Did she know more about my lust for her than I realized? Or was this just the same playful teasing she’d used against me our whole lives?

“Right here is fine,” I said, overcorrecting a little in order to get us away from the talk of sharing a bed together.

“Here on the grass?” she asked.

“For old time’s sake,” I replied. “Like we did when we were kids.”

“Oh man,” she said, rubbing her hands together. “This is gonna be so much fun.”

“Alright, well, just tell me when you’re ready so that I can prepare myself for–”

But I hadn’t taken enough notice of the fact that she was slowly backing up as we talked, and by the time I realized what was happening–it was too late. Suddenly she was charging towards me. My last thought before impact was wondering where her beer bottle had gone–did I miss her setting it down?

CRASH.

If I had any more warning, I could’ve braced myself for impact. I could’ve found firmer footing. I could’ve at least put my beer down. Now, I was getting hit with all of Sammy’s force. She was never a ‘big’ girl, but she had always been a powerhouse. She had been on the track team in highschool, and she still went to the gym far more often than I did. Even if I had been completely prepared for her, she still could’ve brought me down with ease.

I was on the ground, and she was on top of me. My beer bottle was a few feet away from me, lying on its side and spilling its amber liquid into the freshly-mowed grass.

It was as if her tackle had activated a part of our brains that we had forgotten about for years. Suddenly, I was 11 years old again, and I was wrestling Sammy like she was dressed as a mummy. Or a ninja. Or whatever character she was that day. My arms wrapped around her and I tried to roll her to the side so that I could have the upperhand, but I found her body to be immovable. I squirmed and struggled, but she easily had me pinned down.

Then, she grabbed one of my hands in hers, playfully slapping my face with it. “Stop hitting yourself,” she laughed, sounding like the 10 year old bully I forgot that she could be sometimes.

“Kn-knock it off, Sammy.”

“What’s wrong,” she said. “Gonna run and tell Mommy?”

“N-no…”

“Go on,” she teased. “See if you can get me off of you.”

“I…I’m trying.”

“Really? Is that all you got?”

I tried pulling my arms out from under her, but found that I couldn’t. When one of her arms finally did relinquish, it was only because she chose to move it–not because I freed myself. But this was only so that she could try out her next punishing move–she lifted her arm into the air and shoved her armpit into my face–still sweaty from her lawn-mowing.

“Get a whiff of that,” she said.

Oh, I was. It smelled of stinking sweat mixed with a floral deodorant that was working overtime. Disgusting…but stimulating.

Fuck. I needed to get her off of me. I wanted, even more, to stop myself from getting aroused by this–but it was too late for that. The next best thing would be to get away from her, run inside, and hide.

All I had to do was…

“What the fuck?” she said, her hands finally releasing me as she slid back from my body. She was staring at my crotch. She saw–and probably felt–what had happened.

“Uh…I’m sorry, I just…”

“Holy shit, Kellen. Did you just get hard because I was wrestling you?”

“N-no…I just…”

“Un-fucking-believable,” she uttered, shaking her head. “I can’t believe you. You’re actually hard as a rock.”

She playfully swatted at the front of my pants–though neither of us realized what that would do. Suddenly, I let out a single inhuman grunt, and a dark stain appeared on the front of my blue jeans, slowly spreading.

I literally creamed my pants right in front of her.

“Oh. My. God. You…came in your pants? Jesus, Kellen.”

“I…I gotta go,” I said, quickly scurrying to my pants. I needed to go inside, lock myself in my bedroom, and then never come out again. I just needed to say one more thing before I went into exile: “I’m so sorry.”

Two

A few hours had passed, and I remained undisturbed in my bedroom. The door was shut and locked. My stained pants and boxers were buried at the very bottom of my laundry basket, and I busied myself with all the reading I said I was going to do.

Unfortunately, every hour or so, I’d suddenly remember how humiliating it had been to literally blow my load in my pants in front of Sammy and I’d start blushing and breathing heavily all over again.

But the silence was good. It was good that she was leaving me alone. It was good that she wasn’t knocking on my door or texting me–begging for me to talk to her about it.

Of course, that could mean other things too. It could mean that she was mad at me. And I wouldn’t blame her. We were practically siblings, and siblings just didn’t do that sort of thing. Even if we eventually got past this, it’d change things forever. We were never going to roll around in the grass again. She probably wouldn’t even touch me. It felt like a definitive end to an era that always just felt like it had ended earlier.

But we weren’t kids anymore. And for as much as we wanted to pretend we were siblings–we weren’t. This sort of altercation always felt inevitable–and it may have only been previously avoided by my carefulness.

I had to pee. I needed something to eat. I couldn’t stay holed up in my room all day. I’d have to leave my fortress. Maybe I’d see Sammy. Maybe it’d be awkward. It was just going to have to be what it was. I got myself into this mess, and I couldn’t avoid it forever.

I took a piss, checked the mail, and got myself a bottle of water from the fridge before I finally saw Sammy again. She was playing video games in the den–one of those anime fantasy games where everyone had giant swords.

I probably could’ve just gone back to my room without having to face her, but that didn’t seem right. This was Sammy–the person I knew better than anyone else on the planet. I couldn’t just leave us in limbo for the foreseeable future. I needed to start whatever awkward conversation we were going to have.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey,” she replied. She didn’t look away from her game. She didn’t look mad–I could usually detect her angry-face pretty easily, even when she was hiding it from me.

“Look,” I said, sitting down on the other end of the couch from her, “I just wanted to say…”

“Don’t worry about it,” she shrugged. I didn’t think she sounded upset. Perhaps just reserved. Like me, maybe she just wasn’t sure what to say.

“I can’t…not worry about it.”

“Stop,” she sighed, still staring ahead. “It’s over now.”

“We can’t just ignore it.”

She paused her game, slowly turning herself so that she was facing me. “Okay, fine. You wanna talk about it? Let’s talk about it. What did you want to say?”

This already felt like a mistake. She had a slightly combative tone in her voice. I paused for a moment, my mouth hanging open.

While I tried ro figure out what I might say, she seemed to have something ready to go: “I’m just not going to touch you anymore, okay? Does that work for you? That way, you’re not gonna, uh, have an accident.”

“It wasn’t an…accident.”

“So you did that on purpose?”

“No, no. I just mean…it’s not like I pissed myself.”

“No,” she said. “You just jizzed yourself instead.”

“Ugh,” I groaned. It sounded so much worse when she used that word.

“What did it?” she asked.

“Huh?”

“What made you hard? What made you, uh, squirt in your pants?”

“Oh, I dunno,” I said, running my hand through my hair.

“Get the fuck out of here,” she said–a common Sammy-ism that usually meant: ‘I don’t believe you.’

“We don’t have to talk about that,” I said. “Maybe it’s better that we don’t get into the details.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I need to know. Was it just being pinned down by someone? By a girl? By someone younger than you? Is that, like, a kink of yours now?”

Being completely honest didn’t feel like a great idea, but it somehow seemed even worse if I just kept the entirety of the truth to myself. “I mean…I liked that, yeah. But there’s more to it than that.”

Her eyebrows lifted with curiosity.  “Okay. What else is there?”

I sighed. Here goes nothing. “It’s…you.”

Her head tilted. “What do you mean?”

“Like…I’m attracted to you, Sammy. I’m crazy about you.” Now that it was pouring out of me, I couldn’t stop it. “I think about you all the time. I think about you when I, uh…”

“Oh,” she said, her cheeks glowing pink. “Y-you do?”

I shrugged. I had said enough. Too much, even.

“So when I tackled you and was pinning you down…”

“It was like a fantasy I had a million times,” I found myself saying.

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” she finally said, throwing her arms up in the air. She was even chuckling a little. That seemed good.

“Why?” I asked. “I…I’ve never done that before. Why wouldn’t that surprise you?”

“We used to wrestle all the time when we were kids,” she shrugged. “‘Roughhousing’ as our moms would call it. And you lost every single time, yet you kept coming back for more. So…I just assumed that you liked to lose.”

“Oh…”

“And I knew you liked me. How could I not know? You’ve always been so obvious about it.”

I suddenly felt silly and stupid. All this time spent trying to hide my feelings, when she knew the entire time. What would things have looked like if we had this conversation months–years–ago?

“I…had no idea you knew.”

“Kinda sucks it took that for us to have this conversation, huh?”

“You’re telling me.”

“Fair is fair, though. You told me something about you and how you feel. Maybe I ought to let you in on a secret?”

“Sure,” I said, leaning forward with excitement. Was this it? Was this going to be when she revealed her feelings for me too? “What did you want to tell me?”

“I…actually kinda liked making you splooge yourself.” It wasn’t the confession of her love for me–and there was nothing sexy about the use of the word ‘splooge’–but I still liked what I was hearing.

“Really?”

“This shouldn’t be a surprise, Kellen. I’ve always liked having power over you. This is just a new kind of power.”

“But…” If she wasn’t going to say it, I thought that someone needed to–just to get it out of the way: “Isn’t that weird? Since we’re, like, so close?”

“We’re not actually related,” she laughed. “And didn’t our mothers always expect us to get hitched one day anyway?”

“Yeah, well…that was before you came to live with us, and before…”

“I know,” she said, nodding. “But…we’re still allowed to do whatever we want. And if I want to pin you down again and make you squirt in your pants…”

“You want to do that again?”

“Don’t you want the same thing?”

“Maybe…”

“I could even do it right now, you know.”

This was not the direction I saw this conversation going. Suddenly, she was standing up–a big grin on her face as she slowly began to approach where I was sitting.

“You wouldn’t,” I said, in genuine disbelief.

“You wouldn’t say no to me, would you?” she asked. “What if I said that after this morning’s bout, I wanted a round two?”

“L-look,” I said, still feeling the need to be defensive, even though she had essentially admitted liking . “This morning was just a fluke, okay? We can roll around and wrestle all you want. But there’s no way in hell that I’m going to…”

“If you’re so sure about it,” she said, “put your money where your mouth is. Get up and come over here.”

Un-fucking-real. Was this actually happening?

Three

I had everything to lose, and very little to gain. It was unlikely that I could actually best her in any sort of physical altercation–and so the best case scenario for me was to just…not cum in my pants. That was probably as close as I would get to a victory.

And yet, there I was–standing up. With so much of my dignity at stake, it seemed foolish–but Sammy had already called it a few minutes ago: I liked to lose, and I’d keep coming back for more defeat.

“So we’re doing this?” she asked.

“Y-yeah,” I replied. I wished I sounded a little more sure of myself, but I still meant what I said.

“I’m not going to go easy on you.”

I rotated my arms and moved my head in a circular motion with my neck–readying my body as best I could for whatever came next.

“That’s fine,” I said. “I’m not going easy on you either.”

She laughed at this, a genuinely hearty chuckle that seemed to even make her eyes water a little. “Kellen, no offense, bud–but you don’t stand a chance.”

It felt like we were 9 or 10 again, and it was another Saturday morning where we were overstimulated by cartoons and soda.

“Should we, like, set some ground rules?” I asked. “Or, like, should we just…”

She charged forward, catching me off guard. I should’ve seen this coming–she was always a dirty fighter. Her shoulder was lowered and she rammed into my gut like a speeding football player. I was immediately knocked backwards onto my ass as she hovered above me, that patented Sammy smug-smile on her face.

Her arms were outstretched, and she shoved my shoulders down to the ground. This was usually how it went–once she had me horizontal on the ground, victory was always hers. She’d put her weight on my midsection and on my shoulders, and there was usually no getting out of that.

Not today, I thought. I had something to prove. Or, at the very least, I needed to make up for my humiliating display earlier that day. I couldn’t go down so easily again.

There weren’t a lot of options, and I only had a moment to make a move before I was rendered completely immobile. I saw only one opportunity, and I had to take it. I quickly brought my knees  up as much as I could, bringing them through her legs and towards my chest. Then, I pushed up and out, pushing her off and away from me.

Holy shit–that worked!

All was not lost. I was still in the game. And my pants? Bone dry.

I used the moment it took her to get back to her feet to get back to my own. Then, before she had a moment to make another move, it was me who was lunging at her this time–my hands extended out in front of me. I didn’t know what I’d do with my hands once I got them to her–but I just assumed I’d figure it out when I got there.

I imagine she could’ve stopped me, or at least blocked me, if she wanted to. She was quicker than me, and my poorly planned maneuver was probably pretty easy to avoid. Instead, she remained in place–perhaps just to see what I was going to do.

I reached, and I grabbed.

“What the hell? You’re grabbing my tits?”

Sure enough–I had one hand on each tit, my fingers squeezing shut.

“Couldn’t do that when we were kids,” I said.

“Couldn’t do this either,” she said, her own hand shooting between my legs to grab at my crotch. She found the stiff lump in the front of my pants rather easily. “Oh my. What’s this?”

I swallowed hard while looking her in the eyes, my hands still on her breasts. “I’ll take my hands off of you if you take your hand off of me.”

“What if I don’t want to?” she asked coyly.

“Then, uh, I guess I don’t want to either.”

Her hand cupped my clothed shaft, slowly sliding it up the length of it, pausing, and then slowly sliding it back down again. “Okay, fine. We can just keep our hands right where they are.”

Now, I wasn’t grabbing her chest so much as I was just resting my hands on the pillowy mounds.

It felt wrong, but it also felt right.

“You like that, huh?” she asked. “Getting your willy rubbed while you feel up my chest?”

“I do,” I said, unable to lie about it. “But…do you like it too?”

“It’s nice,” she shrugged. “But it’s not really the victory I wanted.”

“Huh?”

I had fallen into her trap yet again. Her hand suddenly tightened on my balls, causing me to pull back my own hands as I recoiled in pain. Once more, she was barreling forward. When her body struck mine, we both tumbled to the floor–her body atop of mine.

Now she was sitting on my midsection. Now she had my arms pinned down at my sides in that way she always had before.

“There,” I said. “Happy?”

“Not yet,” she replied. “I told you what I wanted. I’m not done until you cream your pants again.”

“Sammy…no…”

“What’s wrong, Kellen? Gonna get all embarrassed about it?”

“Can we…just…not do this?”

“Oh please. You knew what you were getting into when you stood up. You wanted this to be how it ended.”

She was right, though I couldn’t bring myself to say it aloud.

“You know, while I’m up here…I could probably get you to do whatever I wanted.”

She lowered her ass down on top of the tent in my pants, slowly rubbing it against me–forcing desperate little moans out of my mouth.

“Wh-what else would you make me do?” I asked, equal parts terrified and excited.

“I already know I could get you to jizz in your pants. But…what if I wanted more than that.”

“More? What’s…more?”

“You said something earlier that got me thinking,” she said. “You said that jizzing your pants wasn’t an accident–because it wasn’t like you had pissed your pants.”

I did remember saying that, but I wasn’t sure where she was going with that. “So?”

“So… What if I want to see you have an accident? An actual accident.”

“You want me to…piss myself?”

“I think I might,” she said, her bottom once again bouncing on the stiff lump in my pants.

“You can’t be serious…”

“Oh, I’m very serious,” she said. “From up here, I can make you do anything I want you to. All we have to do is wait.”

“Pissing myself?” I asked. “Seriously? You…really want me to do that?”

“Mmhmm,” she nodded. “I really do. I want to see the look on your face when you soak your pants because I won’t let you get up.”

“I…I won’t.”

“You will,” she said. “You’ll do anything I tell you to do. You always have. You like losing to me, remember?”

“Well…”

“You said you fantasize about me, right? So, tell me about those fantasies, Kellen. What happens in them? Do you overpower me and dominate me?”

“No…”

“So?”

I sighed. I could’ve lied, but what would be the point? “Yeah, okay. When I think about you like that…you’re always on top of me. You’re in control.”

“That’s what I thought,” she said, her voice sounding like a victorious hoorah. “So, here’s what’s going to happen: I’m going to stay right where I am–holding you down–and I’m not going to move until you’ve pissed your pants for me. And when you have? Then I’m going to make you cum. You’d like that part, wouldn’t you?”

I didn’t answer, but my rock-hard cock was doing all the answering for me. She lowered her ass onto it again, feeling its firmness for herself.

“So, the sooner you make pee-pees in your pants, the sooner I can get you to blow your load. And the sooner that happens, the sooner I can get off of you. Got it?”

“You’re insane.”

“You like it,” she quickly retorted. “You fucking love it.”

To my own surprise, I was actually considering her plan. I was no longer thinking about ways to escape from this situation–I was thinking about how I could comply with her requests. Do I have to piss? Can I piss while my cock is hard like this? What about the carpet–will I have to steam clean it tomorrow?

“I see those gears turning,” she said. “Thinkin’ about it, aren’t ya?”

“A…little.”

“Don’t think. Just do.”

“I…I need time, I think. I just don’t know if I can go yet.”

She shrugged. “I’ve got all the time in the world, and therefore, so do you. But…I’ll take that as an admission that you’re going to piss yourself for me?”

I rolled my eyes, flustered that I had to say it out loud: “Yeah, whatever.”

“No, no,” she said. “Not just ‘whatever.’ I want you to tell me that you’ll piss your pants for me.”

I didn’t want to say it, but we were in too deep to start arguing now. “I’ll…piss my pants for you.”

“Tell me that you’ll cum in your pants for me.”

“I’ll…cum in my pants for you.”

“Tell me that you’ll do anything I tell you to do.”

“But…”

“You would, though. Wouldn’t you? You’ll do anything I ask of you.”

“Yeah…probably.”

“So say that to me. I want to hear it.”

“I… I’ll do anything you tell me to, Sammy.” I meant it. I wished I didn’t–it was like signing a deal with the devil herself–but I meant it.

“I want you to know that I think about you too, Kellen. Like…those fantasies you have about me? I have fantasies about you too.”

“Really? What kind of, uhm, fantasies?”

“They’re kind of like this,” she said. “They all start with me on top of you.”

“And then what?”

“Oh, well…there’s lots of possibilities. Sometimes I make you say things that I want to hear you say. Kind of like I just did, y’know? Things like…how much you love me. Or how you’re just a little boy who still loves to lose.”

“And pissing myself?”

“Mm,” she nodded. “I like to think about making you do that too. I’ve never really thought about you spurting in your pants like you did this morning…but I think it fits into my fantasies rather nicely.”

“What else do you fantasize about?” I asked. I was nervous to know–but I needed to.

“Oh, Kellen. Are you sure you want to go down that path? It gets weird.”

I nodded. I was sure enough.

“They all start right here,” she said. “With me on top of you. I make you tell me you love me. I make you tell me you’ll do anything for me. And then I tell you to piss your pants. You do. And I make you tell me how much you loved doing that for me. Of course, it’s not really a lie–you do love pissing yourself for me, even if you don’t know it yet. So you tell me that you do. And that’s when I decide that we can’t just have you pissing your pants every time I want you to–that’s a lot of laundry. You’d need, you know, some sort of protection…”

I couldn’t say that I was completely onboard with her scenario so far. I didn’t dislike it, and I could even see myself growing to enjoy it more if it made her happy–but these just weren’t things I ever fantasized about myself. But I wasn’t completely sure what she meant at the end.

“Protection?” I asked. “I don’t know what you mean.”

She smirked, leaning in a little closer so that she was now talking directly into my ear as she pinned me down. “Diapers, Kellen. I’d make you wear diapers.”

The fuck…

It wasn’t that I thought the idea was repulsive, I just couldn’t comprehend it. Diapers? Of all things? That’s what she fantasized about?

I had plenty more questions, but I wondered if they’d be answered by just letting her continue. “Uhm, so… What then?”

“Well, I start making you wear diapers, silly,” she continued. “And you’d wear them all the time. You get all fussy about it at first–trying to insist that you’re too big for diapers and that you’re not a little baby. But I wear you down. Probably faster than you thought I would, too. Soon enough, you’re begging me to change you and take care of you. And you come to find out that nobody else ever makes you feel as good as I do–so you ask if we can do this forever.”

I couldn’t help but laugh a little. “That’s your fantasy? You make me dependent on you, and then we just live happily ever after?”

“That doesn’t sound nice to you?”

“It…it does, I guess.” It was a lot to consider.

“You said you were crazy about me?” she asked. “Well, I’m crazy about you. Always have been. And, you know, you like to lose. And I like to see you lose. Maybe we could make something out of that?”

It was a strange way to approach it, though it still–more or less–felt like we were on the same page. The concept of the two of us being together forever wasn’t just an idea put in our heads by our parents–it was something we both believed in too.

Though I didn’t foresee the part about diapers being involved. But that didn’t even seem like a dealbreaker to me. Hell…I found myself quickly warming to the idea. Perhaps even literally.

Just as she wanted me to–I was wetting my pants.

She didn’t even know. She was continuing to stare down at my face. I was sure she could see the subtle changes in my expression as a wave of humiliation washed over me, but she seemed to remain oblivious. I decided not to say anything–she’d figure it out for herself soon enough.

Very soon, in fact. Moments later, she lowered her bottom onto my cock again, giving her ass a sexy little shake atop my crotch when she landed. I watched her face, waiting for the moment when she realized what had happened.

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. And then…her face contorted a little.

“Kellen?”

“Y-yes?”

“Why does my ass feel wet all of a sudden? Wet and warm?”

I sighed, somehow finding it harder to tell her what I did than it was to actually wet myself. Honestly, pissing myself had actually been easy to do. Too easy, in fact.

“I…uhm…”

“It’s too wet for you to have just jizzed yourself again, so it’s not that…”

“Right, well…”

“You did it, didn’t you?” she smirked. “If I look down at your pants, they’re gonna be soaking wet, huh?”

“Uh, you don’t have to look for them to be wet,” I answered. “They’re wet.”

“Ah,” she said. “You held up your end of the bargain…”

Her ass was on my crotch again, grinding against me. The way she worked those hips–had she done this before, or did it just come naturally to her? It certainly didn’t matter–in just a few seconds, the only thing I was thinking about was how I was going to…

“Uhhhhhhh…” I muttered, feeling my cock spitting up into my already-soaked pants.

“That was quicker than I thought,” she shrugged.

Four

Everything seemed to change in an instant. Our entire dynamic–the way we talked to each other and the way we acted when the other was around–it all felt new and completely refreshed.

Better.

Suddenly, there were diapers–thick monstrosities with infantile prints and colors, despite the fact that they clearly weren’t for actual infants. They just appeared in a box a day or two after I had pissed my pants beneath Sammy. Either she ordered them immediately after she finally climbed off of me, or she had already ordered them–anticipating that she’d be introducing them to me soon.

“Well?” she asked, handing one to me in the living room. “What do you think of this?”

“Wh-where in the hell do you even find something like this?” I asked. “Who is it even for?” Certainly not babies. And I was sure that the last thing an adult suffering from incontinence wanted was to dress up like an infant.

“It’s for people like you,” she said. “Big boys who keep making oopsies in their pants.”

“But, I…” I wanted to remind her that I wasn’t just walking around and peeing myself–it was only when she was forcing me to do that it happened. But she already knew that.

“It’s a good thing,” she cooed. “I want you to make oopsies for me.”

Yeah. I wanted to keep making them for her too. That was the way things were going to go now–though there were a few details to work out.

“How often do you expect me to wear these?” I asked. “Because if it’s only when you’re trying to pin me down, then…”

“What if you just wore them all the time?” she asked. “Or, at least, when you and I were in the same place at the same time–I’m not sure I could expect you to wear them when you go back to school.”

“Y-you’d want that?”

“What if I did? Do you?”

I supposed that I never had any previous desire to wear a diaper. But…if she had asked me to pour a hot bowl of soup over my head for her pleasure, I’d have probably done that too. By comparison, diapers sounded pretty good.

“I’ll do whatever you want,” I said.

“I know.”

I felt the giant piece of folded padding in my hands, continuing to admire how absurdly thick it was. The plastic backing crinkled and rustled with even the slightest movement, causing my cheeks to blush as I tried to imagine the sounds it’d make while I wore it.

“So…should I go and put this on?”

“No,” she said. “I think you should let me do it for you.”

I was surprised by her answer, though I probably shouldn’t have been. She would always be in charge. “Right now?”

“Right now,” she nodded. “Right here.”

It wasn’t that different from how we’d wrestle with each other–we were just skipping a few steps. Soon, I was lying on my back, and she was hovering above me. No tackling required. She didn’t need to pin to the floor–I wasn’t going anywhere.

“I have to take off your pants,” she said.

I nodded. I assumed this was the next part, though it wasn’t until she said it aloud that the words really registered with me: She’s going to take my pants off. For the first time ever, she’d see all of me.

Even in our awkward and curious teen-years–when we were navigating co-ed friendship and puberty at once–we never made an attempt to explore each other’s bodies. Long after the fact, it was hard to say if we just didn’t realize that was an option, or if it was just a line we each decided we weren’t going to cross.

I expected her to be slow and methodical about removing my pants, but she seemed to jump right into it–as if it was something she had done a million times before. She grabbed hold of the waistband of my pants and just pulled, tugging them and my boxers down my legs. Past my knees, past my feet, and then just thrown aside.

And so there was my erect manhood, fully exposed and bobbing up and down.

“This is it, huh?” she asked.

“The one and only.”

“Not bad,” she shrugged.

“Yeah?”

“If i’m being honest, it’s one of the nicer ones I’ve seen.”

“How many have you seen?” I asked.

“Enough that you should feel proud when I say that.”

We rarely, if ever, talked about our dating and sexual exploits with each other. Another one of those dark spots that was either an oversight or by design.

“Have you been with a lot of girls?” she asked, her hand wrapping around my stiff shaft.

“A few,” I said, my tone low while I was distracted by her hand’s placement.

“I always thought you’d make a good boyfriend,” she said. “You’re cute. You’re nice. And, well, now I know you also have a pretty sweet package too. It’s crazy to me that you don’t have a girlfriend.”

“I could say the same about you, Sammy. You’re only, like, the coolest person I know. You’re funny. Strong as fuck. Guys should be lining up for you.”

“I guess I’m just picky.”

“Yeah? What are you looking for?”

She grinned as her hand began to stroke me, sliding up and then down my shaft. “Oh, you know. Someone I can push around a little–but they like it. Someone who might look cute in a diaper. Someone who might look cute while using said diaper.”

“Oh…”

“What about you?” she asked. “Who have you been holding out for?”

I laughed. “You know…it’s funny. I never really knew what I was looking for before. I just assumed I’d know it when I found it. But, all of a sudden, I think I have a pretty good idea of what I want.”

“And what’s that?”

“Someone who knows me better than anyone else. Someone who’s not afraid to put me in place–even if that place is…in a diaper.”

“Ah,” she smiled. “I hope you find someone like that.”

“I think I’ll be alright.”

All it took was a few more tugs of her hand, and suddenly I was cumming–my cream spurting out of the tip of my cock and oozing down her hand and into my pubic hair.

“I think I got the hang of this thing,” she purred.

It took me a beat or two before I was able to respond. “It…It’s really not that hard to use,” I said, my breathing still labored. “Especially in the right hands.”

“Well now, with that out of the way, maybe we can get you into your first diaper?”

“Yeah, sure,” I said. I was in a state of bliss–just barely tethered to my physical body. “Do anything you want.”

“I’ll remember you said that,” she replied, reaching to a place just outside of my vision. When her hand returned, it was holding one of those enormous diapers she had ordered. While I had gotten the gist of the pastel colors and infantile print earlier, it wasn’t until now that I took a look at the details of the designs. There were little teddy bears, rocking horses, and letter blocks scattered about, each in different colors. It was cute…for a baby. The idea of being made to wear such a thing as an adult? Well, the embarrassment was quickly pulling me back from my blissful floating.

“D-do you know what you’re doing?” I asked.

She shrugged. “I watched a few videos. I think I’ve got the basic idea. Besides, you know what they say? Practice makes perfect. Now, I think I need you to lift your bum so I can get this thing under you.”

Just as she had an idea of how to put a diaper on someone, I thought I might have a basic idea of how to be diapered. I had seen it enough while growing up–my mother had a lot of siblings, and all of them had a lot of children. I had always been the anomale–the older only-child–but that also meant that there was almost always a toddler around me who needed his or her diaper changed.

Now, somehow, that was me.

I lifted my bare butt up from the ground, giving her the clearance needed to unfurl the bulky garment and to slide the sheet of padding beneath me.

“Good! Now, go ahead and plop yourself down again,” she said. Her tone seemed softer, somehow. Almost condescending, but not quite. It was like…she was talking to a baby. I couldn’t tell if that was intentional, or if that was just traces of a maternal instinct shining through because her brain was fooled into thinking she was looking at a big baby.

“Sammy?”

“Yeah, hon?”

She had never called me ‘hon’ before. I liked it.

“Uhm…just wondering. I know you talked about, like, making me wet myself in these. But…what about…?” I couldn’t finish the question, but I thought I was getting to an obvious enough point that she could figure out the rest.

“Huh?” she asked, tilting her head slightly. “What about what?”

I sighed. “D-don’t make me say it.”

“Say what, Kellen?” I honestly couldn’t tell if she was just playing dumb, or if she really didn’t know.

“Uh…what if I have to, like, go…number two?”

“Oh,” she said. She said it again, stretching it out and almost making a little song out of it: “Ohhhhhhhhhh.” She paused for a moment–mostly to giggle to herself. “Yes, well…that’s what diapers are for, aren’t they?”

“You can’t actually expect me to do that in a diaper.”

“But what if I wanted you to?” she asked. “What if I told you to? What if I…demanded it?”

I would’ve liked to think that I’d have said no to such a request–that there’d be a line in my dignity that I wouldn’t cross. But as I stared up at her beautiful body, and her smiling face looked down at me, I knew the truth–I’d do anything she asked of me.

“Is that what you want?” I asked. “You want me to, uhm…poop my pants?”

“Baby steps,” she cooed down to me. Then she giggled again. “Quite literally, I suppose. We’ll start you off with just wetting yourself while we get used to them. Well…you getting used to going potty in your pants, and me getting used to changing you. I’d have thought getting you to cum in your diaper would be another step–but apparently you’re already pretty good at that. Eventually I’ll tell you to do it. One day, when you least suspect it, I’ll snuggle up beside you and whisper into your ear: ‘It’s time, Kellen. Make a poopy in your diaper for me.’ And you’ll do it.”

I was sure that she was right about that.

“What about you?” I asked. “What do you get out of this? You get to change giant diapers? Is that what you want?”

“I get you, silly. I get the boy I’ve always loved, wrapped around my finger for the rest of my life. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

Her hands had been moving the whole time we were talking, tucking my slowly shrinking cock into the diaper as she folded it over me and pulled the tapes taught to seal it in place. Suddenly, I was done. I was wearing a diaper, for the first time in a very, very, long time.

My hands reached down between my legs, feeling the thick padding crinkling beneath my fingers. “Yes. That sounds really nice.”

Five

That night, she invited me to sleep in her bed with her. It was something we had done when we were kids–though not since we entered our teens. Back then, we were just having sleepovers.

Now, we were horny. Between the time she had entered her bedroom and when she slipped between her covers, she removed all of her clothes in a series of amazingly fluid and efficient moves. Meanwhile, I sluggishly kicked off my pants and struggled to pull my shirt over my head.

“Leave the diaper on,” she said from the bed.

Quite possibly the strangest thing a nude woman had ever said to me.

I nodded as I flung the last of my clothing across the room and dove under the sheet where she was waiting. Finally, I was seeing her–all of her.

She pressed her body against mine, her thighs rubbing against my diaper, rustling loudly with the friction. Her tits–those goddamn amazing tits that were even more amazing in person than they had ever been in even my wildest fantasies–were pressed against my chest.

I couldn’t believe it. This was happening. Sure, I probably didn’t think diapers would be a part of this day when I dreamed about it–but I was starting to see that as an improvement.

“Wanna wrestle?” she asked.

“My mom would warn us that we shouldn’t be roughhousing.”

“Well she’s not around, is she?”

I shook my head.

She slid a hand between my thighs and squeezed the front of my diaper. It was wet–she had been sitting next to me on the couch when I wet it, too. She kept her hand on my crotch while it happened so that she could feel warm and squishy it got. “Mm. Still warm.”

“I hope I don’t leak in your bed.” I told her.

“It’s okay if you do. I can wash the sheets later. Or…you can sleep in the wet spot.”

I nodded. “WIth pleasure.”

Moments later, I was tasting her lips and she was tasting mine. Our hands explored each other’s bodies. The firm lump in my diaper pressed against her wet cunt as she rubbed it against my infantile padding.

“I want you, Kellen,” she finally said, pulling her lips away from mine long enough to whisper into my ear. “Can you leave the diaper on? Can you just, like, pull your cock out and fuck me while you wear your diaper?”

“Yes,” I said. I really liked that idea. “Of course.”

I was on my back, my diaper pulled down just enough to free my stiff shaft, and she was riding on top of me, said shaft deep within her.

I moaned a lot–I couldn’t remember myself ever being so loud during sex before. She was loud too–though it was more than just her moaning and grunting. She was also a bit of a chatterbox. Fucking me seemed to open a faucet in her mind, and every stream of conscious thought poured out of her.

“You’re such a little baby, you know that? Always have been.”

“Pissy little thumbsucker.”

“You like that? You like fucking me in your pissy diaper?”

“You ought to call me Mommy from now on.”

“I’ll fuck you in your wet diapers. Hell, I’ll fuck you when you’ve filled your diapers with a nasty, stinky, load. In fact–the first time you fill them up for me? I’m going to fuck you before I change you.”

I loved every word of what she was saying. I loved how it gradually seemed to get more and more unhinged as we each edged each other closer and closer to climaxes. If I was capable of responding with words–rather than just moans of varying lengths and tones–I’d have told her how much I wanted to fill my diapers for her.

Six

My mother ended up staying in Ohio for a little longer than expected, which seemed like a blessing for Sammy and I. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect–we needed more time to explore the new iteration of our relationship, and now we had weeks of extra time to ourselves.

Diapers were wet. Diapers were filled. Diapers had to be reordered twice–with each order increasing the number of diapers that were received. There was a point, in our last week alone, where the trash can seemed to be 90% filled with just bags of dirty diapers.

By the time my mother finally returned, Sammy and I were very much an item. We were spending every second together–either having sex or playing with diapers for most of them–and I hadn’t slept in my own bed for weeks. Needless to say, we needed to catch my mother up on what she had missed while she was away.

We didn’t mention the word ‘diaper’ once–we simply explained that we finally realized there was a romantic connection between us, and that we were going to pursue a relationship together. My mother, initially, seemed torn on this–stuck somewhere between being happy that her and her best friend’s wildest dreams from years and years ago were finally coming to fruition, and concerned that if this didn’t work out, we’d be damaging a friendship we’ve had our entire life.

Sammy, ever the optimist, summarized our feelings about it quite well: “We won’t know unless we try. But…this feels right.”

Seven

Every once in a while, I’d think about pizza. I loved pizza. Everybody does, I guess.

In my teens, I got my first job–working at a pizza parlor, making pizzas in an insanely hot kitchen with no windows or air conditioning. The job was fine, and the pay wasn’t all that great–not that I needed that much as a teenager. But the biggest perk of the job was that at the end of every shift, my boss would tell me that I could make myself a pizza to take home with me.

So I did. I never ate the whole thing by myself. I’d eat what I wanted, and the rest would go to friends. Sammy was usually good for a few pieces if she was over–and she seemed to always know when I’d be wrapping up a shift and had a fresh pizza in hand.

The thing was–I got really sick of fucking pizza. I was sick of crust–doughy or crispy. I was sick of melted mozzarella. I was sick of the sweet tomato sauce and the oily pepperonis.

I didn’t eat pizza for a long time. Years, in fact. I’d go through most of college without eating a single slice–which seems crazy, considering that the college years seem like the prime time for pizza consumption.

Whenever I liked something–anything–a lot, I’d think about pizza. I’d wonder where the line was where, when crossed, I’d no longer be interested in it.

I loved diapers. I loved that Sammy kept me in them. But I assumed that, one day, it’d have run its course. And what then? Did we move on to something else? Or was that part of our lives over? I was confident that Sammy and I had enough genuine love for each other that we didn’t need for there to be diapers, or an equivalent, in our lives to keep us together. But it just felt like a huge gap to fill with something, and the prospect of figuring it out worried me.

But in the meantime, the diapers remained.

We waited until we had both finished school–well, our undergraduate degrees at least, as Sammy was planning on getting her masters–to get married. By the time we did, three years had passed since she had first put me into a diaper. I wore diapers to our marriage ceremony–and by the time I kissed the bride, I was in need of a change.

Two years later, as we held hands and walked down Avenue des Champs-Élysées together, my diaper sagged a little in my pants.

Three years after that, when Sammy gave birth to Hannah–named after her mother–she told me that I would be mostly responsible for our daughter’s diapers. Which only seemed fair, since Sammy would still be responsible for mine. She told me the same thing when we had our second and third children.

As it turned out, pizza was pizza and diapers were diapers. It was possible to love something and never get sick of it.

Eight

In another room, the kids could be heard causing chaos. Be a parent long enough, and you learn to identify the various levels of chaos. There was chaos that you needed to put a stop to, and there was chaos that you just let happen because it at least meant that they were distracted.

“They never stop, do they?” my mother asked as she, myself, and Sammy sat around the kitchen table. It was the same house Sammy and I grew up in.

“They’ll tire themselves out eventually,” I shrugged. “Hopefully.”

“You two used to be like that,” my mother said. “Remember? You were always…wrestling. Rolling around on the ground. Roughhousing.”

Sammy and I both laughed at this. We talked about the word ‘roughhousing’ a lot over the years–so much that we sometimes forgot what the word originally meant. To us, it was symbolic of a very specific point in our lives–the moment where we stumbled into something weird and wonderful, that would end up shaping the next few decades.

“Ah yeah,” Sammy said, smiling. Under the table, her hand had found my lap, and she was squeezing my crotch, where my wet diaper was concealed by my pants. “Those were the good ol’ days, huh?”

I nodded. “I wouldn’t have changed a thing.”

Sammy looked at me and smirked. I was sure that I knew what she was thinking: ‘No, you’ve never had to change yourself, did you?’

This was followed up by a wink–likely an indication that there’d be some more ‘roughhousing’ in our bed later, after everyone else was sleeping.

She gave my diaper one more squeeze–a firmer one this time that fully awakened my semi-firm cock. I’d probably have to stay at the table for a bit longer to wait for it to dissipate again.

Such was our perfect life, and I’d never trade it for anything.