A Thirst for More - Chapter Seven (Silver+ Exclusive)

And so pass the next few days.

After the turmoil of my tumble down those stupid stairs, and the ensuing trip to the hospital, and all the fallout thereafter, the calm days that follow are a welcome respite. I still can't get to campus for class easily, which kind of sucks. Because it's really not the same to sit up in your bed and stare into a computer screen for an hour or two while the teacher does their best both to focus on the class in front of them and to ask you occasionally for questions or comments...

Yeah, like that's not awkward. Though I guess they're just doing their best, right? Even if some of them do forget about me... not to mention use the wrong pronouns?

But if nothing else, the enforced downtime is making it much easier to focus on my assignments. I mean, when you think about it the entire college schedule is kinda inefficient, isn't it? Walking to and from the campus, and half-hour breaks between classes that aren't long enough to do anything but grab a soda, and waiting around to ask the prof a question after class... well, there's a lot of lost time. Time that I can finally use to crank out these pesky assignments!

Oh, not that I've been completely dedicated. It wouldn't be a good day if I didn't scroll through social media and click around to check out weird "guess your personality" quizzes. But on the whole, I like to think I've been pretty productive...

Yeah, who am I kidding? Honestly it's probably just because I'm trying to think about anything other than my novel new kind of underwear.

Oh, don't get the wrong idea. I still have to admit it's the best and most sensible solution to the problem. And I know Mrs. Fenoli isn't really trying to, I dunno, baby me or anything like that. It's just... well, you know. It's kind of embarrassing to just sit there and deliberately pee your pants, even when there's literally no one besides yourself who has to know.

Not even Mrs. Fenoli, really. Because of course she doesn't help me put the things on or anything – not a chance. I do all that myself, like the responsible person I am. After all, it's not like I'm suddenly an infant who can't take care of themselves! I simply change when they feel too wet, and put on a fresh one, and throw the old one away in the trashcan she moved to beside my bed. Not a big deal.

Except the whole thing has made for a bit of a wardrobe change for me.

"Aww, you shuah about these?" Mrs. Fenoli queried one afternoon, the day after my tumble. She had brought a stack of my fresh laundry up the stairs, and was clearly surprised when I'd asked her to leave my favorite pairs of jeans out for me. You know, the nice, tight ones – the ones that hugged my legs and felt so good and soft against me when I walked. "They're nice, shuah," she shrugged. "But they just don't look like they'll be the easiest to weah ovah yah cast and yah dipah – let alone take down when yah need tah change..."

Why was she always so unblushingly matter-of-fact about what I was wearing? Could she really, genuinely not mind? Did she actually see the- the diaper as being no different from normal underwear?

"Yeah, I guess," I'd admitted. Because she had a point. Now that I thought about it, it would be a heck of a struggle to get them over the cast, if they even fit at all. "But what else can I wear?" I'd queried, shifting self-consciously under my covers. "I mean, these pajama bottoms are okay, I guess. But I can't wear them every day, let alone out of the house..."

"Oh, doncha worry!" she smiled, waving away my protests. "Yah can jus' weah those PJ's 'round heah, no prahblem. I don't mind! An' when they need washing, honestly, yah can jus' go without them, hun." "Without?" Her words had taken me aback. "Shuah!" she'd smiled, waving away my protests. "Not like yah got anything I ha'nt seen befoah. Besides, having no pants to mess with'll make everything lots easier for yah when yah change..."

***

Dammit, Mrs. Fenoli! I rage inwardly now. Sure, only last night I'd been reflecting on how undeniably nice it actually is to go pantsless. It does make changes easier. And it is more comfortable under the covers at night... But why, oh why do I have to be caught sitting here with no pants on the very afternoon Brianna decided to pay me a surprise visit?!

At least the covers are thick enough to hopefully muffle the crinkle of the diaper beneath. Now if only they could muffle the anxious pounding of my heart in my ears...

"No, no, I'd rather not," I protest lamely when Brianna asks if she can't take a peek at my cast-imprisoned foot and leg. "I'd rather not think about it, you know. But hey, I, um- I almost forgot! Have you decided what to do for the research paper?" Mercifully she's cool enough not to press the issue further, and against all odds we manage to complete the visit without either (1) her finding out that I'm wearing a freaking diaper, or (2) me collapsing of a heart attack.

But holy hell, I need something different. And I tell Mrs. Fenoli so that very evening.

"Yah, of coase you'd rathah not let people see yah undahweah!", she smiles apologetically when I ask her over my dinner in bed if we can't find something to fit over my cast. "Though even yah PJs aren't gonna hide everything, I guess. I mean, yah booty's gonna be pretty thick..." She pauses for a moment, looking reflectively about the room before brightening with a fresh idea.

"Now, I've got an idea! Hones'ly, deah, it's up tah you. But why don' I see if I can find yah some of my dwaghtah's old skirts, huh? They'd be nice and coverin', and yah wouldn't hafta feel like yah sitting around in yah PJs all day..." I swallow, my mind suddenly awash in a sudden rush of memories and – if I must confess – sudden longing. Wait, could this be- Would I even dare- It could be just like I dreamed, just like-

She, not hearing any objections from me, continues on cheerily. "I mean, I don' know whatcha think. And I don' wanna presume. But well, if yah do prefer they them pronouns, and if it jus' makes sense... I think you'd be a whole lot bettah off – and moah comfahtable, too." She shrugs and smiles a trifle apologetically. "How does that sound, honey?"

"Um, well, I mean-" I'm at a loss for words, my mouth suddenly dry, my heart thumping anew. "I guess it would be a bit easier than- I mean-" All the while my mind is racing, a flood of elation and barely contained excitement coursing through me. For years I've never dared to try, to venture to wear something I want more than anything. She'd do this for me? Find some beautiful, feminine skirts for me, and- and let me wear them? At the very idea I can feel my dick growing tense, tightening oddly within the cottony padding around my groin. Oh my god, that will feel so, so-

And so, I finally manage to spit it out. "Um, yeah. I wouldn't mind, I guess..."

To which Mrs. Fenoli merely beams and pats my leg affectionately. "Aww, look at us, figuring it out togethah! You hold on – by tomorrah I'll be shuah to have jus what yah need!"

Is it too much to confess that I find my hand slipping down to stroke softly at the front of my padded crotch that night? That even as I drift off to sleep, I find myself shivering with delight at the thought of cool, flowing fabric slipping sensuously around my bare legs?