Shop Rags and Diapers

[Mary Beth Sanford]

How to explain this without making me sound like some kind of nut?  Truth is I can't, so I'll simply try and tell you all of the circ-umstances and, in the end, if I do sound slightly off kilter, so be it.  



Anyway, red rags and diapers are at the heart of this and, of course, my neighbor Marge who, I've just recently discovered, likes being called mommy when she's treating me like a baby.



Those rags first, because they are a lot of the reasons for the girlish stuff I'm being put into.  Red rags or those mechanic shop towels are dyed red, or so the story goes, so you can find them easier when working.  Anyway, I've got a ton of them and because of the red dye, I'll wash them first before using them.  I hand paint motorcycles and cars for the record and anything that goes on my fresh paint needs to be fresh.



I had twenty four new rags in two bundles of twelve sitting on my washer when my sister called.  Sis, also for the record, is the night manager of a private nursing home and she often calls just to gossip, but this time she was asking if I could use a bunch of diapers.  Diapers are 100% pure cotton and make excellent polishing clothes so my answer was yes.



All pretty innocent so far and it should have stayed that way but didn't.  First of all sis dropped the bag of diapers off, that following morning early, with a note telling me that she'd need the bag back in a couple of days.  Sis has access to my garage and the bag was next to the washer when I got up.  The rest home was shifting from cloth diapers and plastic pants to disposables and that particular bag had four or five dozen diapers in it.



What I didn't know was that between every two neatly folded set of diapers was a pair of plastic pants.  Evidently that was the way they got put away and that was the way they were packed.  When I counted the edges for half a dozen diapers that I was about to wash, I also included three pair of plastic pants.  



I hadn't had my coffee yet, but had forgotten to wash those new rags so I hurried that first load.  Six diapers and three pair of sight unseen snap-on plastic pants went into the washer with six new red rags.  Honestly, I wasn't worried about the color bleeding into the diapers, because they would soon become rags.  I didn't much care that they were pink when the wash and rinse cycle would finished.  Of course the plastic pants had taken on a hint of pink as well.



None of that really mattered when I rolled my Harley out of my garage for the trip into town, and I was just about to kick start it when Marge, my landlady, waved her hand to get my attention.  Her washer had quit on her and the repairman wasn't going to be able to fix it till tomorrow and she wanted to use mine.  



Now Marge and I were not all that close, but I'd been renting my side of her duplex for nearly two years.  I was damn handy with most things and she was an excellent cook so we often bartered those two things to our mutual benefit and I'd joked that she now owed me at least a slice of pie.  I told her to toss my stuff in the dryer, left her to close the garage so she could unlock the side door, and road off into the sunrise.



Life for me changed before I hit the freeway that morning only I didn't know it.  What I didn't know was that Marge had tugged out one of the diapers and with it a pair of snap on plastic pants.  A pastel pink diaper and with that diaper a pair of light pink plastic pants.  Plastic pants with a light tint of pink, and pink diapers all in a size clearly near mine was damaging.



Marge deftly slipped that diaper and pair of plastic pants back into the washer and spent another two cups of coffee wondering what she'd discovered and what to do about it.  There were hints that I was different before this, but in this new context Marge began making assumptions.  



My long hair, like my motorcycle, was part of my years of rebellion before that morning and now a hint of my femininity.  My near fanaticism for keeping my place clean, and often a joke by my peers, was simply because I'd grown up with mom and sis and they were clean freaks.  Keeping my room clean, growing up, was simply to keep the nagging down and now a habit.  That too hinted at a feminine side.



That more or less explained the pinks but not necessarily the diapers and those plastic panties although there was even a hint for those as a context.  That hint came when I'd fallen asleep on Marge's couch after a meal fit for a very large king and not all that long ago.  



I was stuffed and had worked a twelve hour day and before she could serve the coffee that night I'd dropped off.  Now I'm one of those that can sleep almost anywhere and it only takes a moment to do so but I wake fast, too fast and did.  I panicked first, apologized second and ran off to use her bathroom third.  It was nothing until now as she sat there sipping her coffee - remembering.  



Obviously I was a bed wetter or at least that's what she reasoned based on that one single incident.  My panic and rush to use the bathroom, my apparent fear of wetting her couch, or so she reasoned, and she had those diapers and plastic pants to add to that reasoning.  It was odd, a man my age still wetting his bed, and even more odd to favor pink, but not odd enough to deter Marge.



What you don't know about people can often fill a book and the chapters I might have liked to read on Marge would have satisfied a lot of my curiosity later.  Marge grew up with a brother that wanted to be a girl and later married a man that loved wearing her lingerie.  One a life style, the other a fetish and both lending their unknowing support to a new chapter Marge was drafting on me.



Marge knew I had an older sister and was the second of two children so that was pretty much that with her new reasoning.  Obviously and unjustly, my sister had a brother not too unlike hers.   To Marge's credit and perhaps later to mine I'd made a significant jump "up" in status in her eyes and all of it positive.  Her only regret, and this was over a third cup of coffee, was not including diapers and plastic pants into some of the things she often made her husband do before she'd let him have sex.



And there I was at the end of that particular day believing "same old stuff, different day" as I mounted my hog to make my way home.  Almost everything I did was more or less routine but getting clean, first thing, was a ritual.  I don't mind getting dirty but I hate staying that way, so I showered before calling Marge to say yes to her offer of dinner.



I have, according to my sister, beautiful hair and also, because of my sister, almost the same set of tasks as she when I showered.  I shampooed, conditioned then spent a casual few minutes running a brush through it before anything else.  And I didn't put it back into it's usual ponytail, because you just didn't right away, and that was also according to my sister.



So there I was, at Marge's door almost exactly at the stroke of six, wearing a clean white tee-shirt, white shorts and sandals with silky fine hair flowing easily over my shoulders, smiling.  That image, and this would include the fresh scent of an apple smelling shampoo, simply confirmed most all of Marge's new assumptions.  



Had I known what she was thinking, right then, might very well have given me a panic attack but thankfully I didn't.  I would know some time later, and it would have a lot to do with diapers, plastic pants and a nightgown.  A nightgown short enough to make a fine looking baby dress with my nearly golden locks separated to both sides by ribbons that match.  I honestly can't remember if she licked her lips or not before I stepped into her home and I've tried.



Dinner was beyond my imagination and filling long before I had seconds and that slice of pie was put off till later.  For a short time all I could do was savor the meal and help with the dishes.  I'd discovered, and this was clearly a fib, that she didn't need to use my washing machine because the repairman had someone cancel on him and he'd fixed hers that morning.  I also discovered those plastic pants later when I went to put those red rags and diapers into the drier.  



It was funny seeing plastic pants in a tinted pink and meant for an adult.  Without them those diapers were just soft cotton rags perfect for polishing.  With them those diapers were actually diapers and matched the panties in an odd sort of way.  It had been a good day and an even better evening and I was still satiated from my dinner when I began folding the diapers and rags from the drier.



Two things came together and only minutes apart as I yawned and looked at the clock above my mantel.  Those two things was one pair of pink tinted snap-on plastic pants I'd hung to dry, and one of those pastel pink diapers still warm from the dryer.  I found two safety pins in the kitchen junk drawer and my curiosity over if they would fit and what it might feel like was soon to be solved.



Another two things happened that sealed my fate a few minutes after I'd finished snapping on that pair of plastic pants.  The first is that I'd forgotten to get the coffee ready for morning and the second is I'd forgotten to take my slice of pie home with me.  



That was the reason Marge was in my part of our yard and about to knock on my sliding glass door.  The reason she didn't was because of that diaper and those plastic pants she saw me wearing.  A diaper and pair of baby pants I was going to remove right after I made the coffee and should have removed before.



It would be a remarkably odd twist of fate that Marge and I would have nearly the same fantasy at nearly the same time that night.  In both she was the mommy and I was the baby and that was the reason I left that odd feeling diaper on under those plastic pants.  



I had no desires, prior to that night, for Marge to mother me, but I did have desires to share her bed on more than one occation.  That was the only thing truly different when I fell back happily satisfied after imagining, with a slight sense of guilt, over nursing on her bre.ast.  Likewise for Marge till that day and it was well into the early hours when the batteries of her vibrator finally gave out.



You would have thought we'd had a torrid love affair that following morning when our eyes met.  Of course it was my guilt and fantasy that gave me my flush and her own causing the blush that I noticed as I kicked my bike alive.  She was radiant in the mornings, I thought, as I waved good-bye.  I could hardly remember the ride to work as my fantasies continued.



I could, and I'm being honest here, remember how long the day was before I finally pushed my bike towards home.  It was an odd mixture of thoughts that filled my head as I sanded the car I was working on and some of it those thoughts centered on the diapers and that pair of plastic pants again.



Did I tell you that I added the second diaper to the first right after I'd masturbated?  OK, so I did and while that might seem odd I was still curious.  Wearing a diaper and pair of plastic pants is truly alien, but adding that image of Marge breast feeding me took some of that oddness out of it.  There was guilt, a lot of it, but there was that dream as well.



Marge was in that dream and it was her breast again, and you can't blame someone for what they dream, but that was definitely the reason for the blush that morning when I saw her.   I'd looked first at her breast then at her face and I knew I'd been caught looking when she clutched her robe after picking up her newspaper.  I didn't know that it had thrilled her as much as I.



Now I have a towel that wraps and closes with Velcro and it's all I wear after I've finish my shower and drying.  My only skirt and that a little tease from my sister more than once.  I was wearing that and nothing else as I sat on the edge of my couch bushing my hair.  I'd had that towel for years so I didn't give it a thought as I rose to confirm I'd heard the knock on my patio door.  It was Marge and in her hand that slice of pie.



I folded my arms across my chest feeling foolish doing so but I wasn't sure Marge had ever seen me just out of the shower.  I felt even more foolish when I left one arm across my bre.ast while the other took the pie.  Guys don't have to hide their bre.ast, I chided myself, because guys don't have bre.ast I reasoned when Marge apologized and left.



It was a skirt for Marge and another bit of a hint and, so too, that hair brush that had the sparkles in it, even though it was green, it still had sparkles in it.  Now I've had that brush for years as well, my sister's old brush I think.



It didn't matter because Marge had all she'd needed and I another reason for being embarrassed.  A guy wearing something of a skirt and bushing long hair with a gold specked hair brush is not exactly a masculine image although it was exactly the image Marge now had of me - and it wasn't masculine.



Marge inviting me for dinner twice in one week was unheard of but there is was that following day and of course I said yes.  I said yes mostly for the dinner but there was also that thought of being near her fueling my fires.  I should also confess that I did the diapers, those snap-on panties and another palm full of baby lotion that second night, but also swore a second time it was just an odd sense of curiosity and it had been satisfied.  



Even more odd was that lack of guilt that second time and I could thank the image of Marge I'd added to my fantasies for that.  I even joked with myself that morning that I'd slept like a baby, and while it was figurative the image of my diaper and those plastic panties made it also literal.  What was it about those things that touched me so and that I wondered about right up to Marge's invitation just before leaving for work.



If she only knew, I mused, as I knocked on her sliding glass door.  I'd used the backyard access this time as she had with the pie and something I'd never done before then.  I was also sure I'd never seen that robe although I was sure women called it something else.  It was white, silky, flowing and covered nearly every inch of her but it left my imagination to work out what was under it and I imagined all sorts of things.



There was small talk, but it was strained and that was clear as we ate and sipped our wine.  Worse than a first date, I mused again, and it was I'd discover.  I wasn't nearly as full when dinner ended and instead of coffee she insisted we finish the wine first.  It was only slightly romantic but highly charged when we sat down in the living room and more so when she patted the couch and invited me to sit with her.



I felt like a love struck teenager in those seconds.  Why is it we... we as in men, can't act perfectly normal when we get into these states, I wondered.  I felt silly asking her what was for desert but honest to Pete, I couldn't think of anything else to say.  That's when she smiled and said she'd like to discuss something different with me for tonight.  It was the tone, then her look that made me decide we wouldn't be having any desert.  



I was shaking, only a little, but bad enough to make me sit my wine down and that gesture was all she needed for her to do the same.  The rest, I'm sure, has been happening for as long as there have been couches and I no longer needed my imagination to know what she was wearing under that robe - nothing.  I was so badly charged it was up to her to manage the foreplay because I didn't necessarily care if there wasn't any.  I wanted her and it was in the worse sort of way.



We were folded into and around each other and I was trying desperately to undress myself without letting her go when she said she wanted me to spend the night with her.  That, I'd already assumed was a given, but I said yes anyway.  It was like a splash of cold water when told me to go ahead and get my night things.  I wasn't sure what she meant till she lovingly took my chin and told me softly that she knew about my bed wetting and those diapers and plastic panties.



I was nearly frozen solid and not sure what to do, let alone say in those seconds.  She knew about the diapers and plastic pants and that was first because I'd only worn them twice so far.   She'd said the words "bed wetting" as well and were it not for that I might have easily denied what she obviously was thinking.  That bed wetting thing was justification for the diaper thing I suddenly realized.



Hard to justify bed wetting for a guy my age, but I couldn't imagine trying to explain getting off on wearing diapers so I grabbed hold of that as a reason instantly.  When I hesitated she rose and took my hand and walked me to the door.  She was going with me and we walked those dozen or so feet in silence.  I didn't even think about the damn color till I saw them again but oddly grateful I'd folded the ones I was playing in on top of my bed.



She took them up, grabbed the large safety pins I had also left on top of that pile and took my hand again for her place.  I was confused over what she might think about me wearing pink, then confused more since she'd simply took them up without a word.  What did she think, I wondered.  What was going to happen was also a thought but I also knew most of it I'd like and did...



We passed her living room, the hall and I stood like a child as she laid my so called night things on her bed.  I was every bit an active participant with most women most times, but not this time.  I'd left that part of me somewhere else and didn't want it back as she readied the diapers.  I did wonder how we'd make love?  I mean given what was clearly her intent, but that was cleared up instantly when she told me she'd like to put me into those things so she could take them off of me again.



Say what you will and it's nothing I haven't said since, but all I could do was nod a sort of yes and wonder if I could speak at all.  Her robe was still open and my focus was shared between what I'd be wearing and those magnificent bre.ast I was getting peeks at.  



I wasn't sure what it felt like to be a baby but I was sure I was ready to be babied and smiled...



End of Part 1



Hugs

Mary Beth

[Mary Beth Sanford]

Truth is I was in no condition to argue, and was sure I wouldn't anyway and a second later that was even clear to her when I laid over the diaper.  Marge is a kind of Renaissance woman, and the only way to explain that remake is that she reminds me of women painted by the masters.  Ample breast, large rounded hips and a small waist.  Plump to some perhaps, but not to me, and definitely not when she slipped down to sit alongside of me.



I didn't see the baby powder, oil and wipes till she tugged one of the wipes loose.  It had a baby powder scent and almost silky when she began to use it and I could hardly breath.  I was nearly gasping for breath when she stared with the baby oil and completely at her beck and call with the baby powder.



I was an active participant then, moving my legs so she could tug those two diapers between them.  I had fantasized this a few times in the past two days but those fantasies were not even close.  She was gentle, loving and had me anyway she wanted me as she pinned the diapers closed.  A few seconds later those snaps on the baby pants took on a kind of finality as each was snapped around me.



My reward came then when she laid down beside me, but slightly higher for the bre.ast she was about to serve.  suc-kling a bre.ast is foreplay for most men but I was thickly diapered under a pair of noisy plastic pants when I eagerly took hold and began to nurse.  I hadn't forgotten about sex but I could have spent a lot more time nursing.



I heard or thought I heard her soft voice saying "pretty baby" and "good baby" and "does baby like that" but I can't swear to it because she was playing over the baby pants before slipping that same hand under the diaper.  There is a point, a very desperate point, when nothing matters save that one thing and that's when the baby pants and diaper came open.



Now I've made love or if you prefer, had sex a number of times and it's all good but this sex, this love making was unbelievable.  I was on my back laying over the open diapers and baby pants and she was straddling me.  She was above me in all things as I laid there fighting against those final seconds.



I fight it happily but there is also that inevitable, and when it took hold nothing in the world could have stopped it. I was falling into a blissful mental ravine that I hoped was as deep as the forces gripping me.  She was incredible and there were still those bre.ast I'd kept fondling before I could no longer concentrate.



When I was spent and that seems too light a term for what I really was, I melted away.  There was no muscle working and none I wanted to work as I allowed myself that final slump.  That's when I felt the soft rubber nipple tease my lips.  I didn't open my eyes, didn't dare and took whatever it was she was offering. I felt the plastic covering my mouth when I took the pacifier fully.



I didn't open my eyes then nor when I felt her ease off of me and definitely not when she tugged the diaper up again.  I could have passed for a dead man when the last of the snaps on those plastic pants was closed.  It's a selfish sort of state, that state we find ourselves in at the end of an orgasm and mine was compounded by that other state.



Baby's don't have sex but I can tell you that for an adult being babied after sex is pretty spectacular.  I was completely self absorbed and she only made it better by stroking my hair till sleep took hold and that was within seconds.



I thought I was dreaming again when the sunlight tugged me fully awake. I thought I was dreaming because I was just beginning to nurse a baby's bottle and she was beatiful when I opened my eyes to confirm what I already knew.  I wasn't sure what to do, but do what I was doing and simply stroked the silky robe she wore.



She was smiling and I smiled back before she guided my hands to the bottle.  She was going next door to get a change for me with a promise of breakfast after that, and all I could do was nod.  Reality is a terrible thing but I couldn't escape the fact I was nursing a baby's bottle, had nursed a pacifier and was now waiting for my landlady to change me.



That's when it struck me that if I was a bed wetter, at least in her eyes, I should be wet.  I wasn't, obviosly and wondered what might happen if I wasn't.  I had to go to the bathroom badly, but I didn't want to break this spell I was in and under, and if there was any doubt before, it was washed away as I wet.



I was growing slightly uncomfortable as that new reality became obvious and felt a twing of embarressment that she'd find me soaked.  It wasn't a state I was use to nor one I was sure I wanted to get use to as she came into the room.  In her hands another set of diapers and another pair of plastic pants.



End of Part 2



Hugs

Mary Beth

[Mary Beth Sanford]

I had pulled the baby's bottle from my mouth feeling the pangs of guilt.  Guilt and no small amount of embarrassment over how silly I must look and more guilt that I'd actually wet myself.  Only it was clear, when she gently forced the baby bottle back for me to nurse, that she wanted me to finish what was left.



Marge also seemed pleased that I'd wet myself when she said it was obvious I would need to be changed.  I blushed a little more, but nodded.  I did want to talk about this, about last night and, even more, where this might be heading.



Marge asked me, still holding my "night things" and standing above me, what was on my agenda.  It was Saturday, and besides household chores I'd planned on going into work to sand and prep a small pick-up truck.  I had all sorts of things planned for that day but said I was open to suggestions.



She nodded, moved to the bathroom and I heard the water start.  When she returned, and with her that smile, it eased my anxieties some.  I wasn't sure how she really felt about all of this but it was clear from last night, and now even, that she was open to more than I'd hoped for.



She moved to the bed, sat next to me and again rested her hand over the baby pants and diaper.  She wanted to spend some part of today, if I was open to it, she noted, on exploring this side of us.  She'd said "us" which really had a big and very positive impact on me.  I told her I'd like that.



I rose then under her guidance, deciding again that I was her's to do with as she pleased, because so for everything she was doing was pleasing me.  I allowed her to take my hand after sitting the baby bottle down and replacing it with the pacifier.  The tub was nearly half full of water with inches more bubbles.  



Obviously I was going to get a bubble bath and clearly it was a baby's bubble bath even before I saw the Johnson's Baby Bath bottle.  She unsnapped each side of the plastic pants one snap then opened one diaper pin allowing the entire mass to fall.  She pushed it off to the side then guided me into the water she first tested.



The richest man in the world, with a hundred servants at his beck and call, would not have felt any better than I was feeling when she bent and took up a wash cloth.  She used a sweet baby powder scented soap and took loads of time washing me before she shampooed my hair.



We didn't talk all that much... actually I didn't talk at all because I continued nursing that pacifier as she cleaned me.  When she did talk it was mostly just cooing words like "such a pretty baby" and that I was "precious", "adorable" and so on.  Embarrassing perhaps, silly even, but I loved it.



I loved it and wondered why, while also wondering how magical it was this regression I was in the middle of.  Logic mostly dictates our lives but there was no logic in any of this and I stopped searching for it when she pushed the wash cloth down to clean my genitals.



I would have thought some of these feelings, this desire to be babied, had long since vanished and it had till now.  Even more odd this mixture between the nurturing and adult senses.  I was aroused, who wouldn't be, yet the undercurrent was different. I could have sex, easily but I could also simply lay in that tub forever.



She had taken more time than I do with my hair and rinsed it several times before allowing me to stand in the tub.  I rose and bent forward allowing my hair to cascade in front.  Then Marge, like my sister had sometimes done with her own hair, something I'd always thought slightly girlish, shaped a soft pink towel into a turban of sorts.



I then spent a few slightly embarrassing moments getting powdered with a very large duster and very large amounts of baby powder.  The talc-um and that sweet smell of lavender covered me before Marge took my hand again to lead me from the bathroom.  



There were another couple of seconds of embarrassment as I stood waiting for Marge to open the diapers and set those ready.  Oddly it was less embarrassing to lay over them when the time came.  I wanted to be diapered in the worse possible way, but I wanted to make love again. I'd hinted at that when I reached out and gently stroked her bre.ast over her robe.



I got a taste of her own feelings when she gently lowered my hand, smiled and said after I was dressed.  I assumed she meant after I was diapered and not to unlike the night before, but I was wrong.  I was wrong because after pinning the two diapers closed around me and when my baby pants were in place she pulled a nightgown from one of her dresser drawers.



I chided her a little that surely she wasn't expecting me to wear such a thing, discovering that's exactly what she was expecting.  Sex, she noted with a very soft and very sensuous voice, was something she wanted as badly as I, and if I was good and did only some of what she wanted, I'd have all the sex I wanted. I took a moment... what I hoped was long enough to foster the notion of a silent protest, and lifted my arms.



Marge lifted the towel off with one hand before using both to open the nightgown and slip it over my head.  I was sitting and looking at her before the nightgown, but lowered my head a little to avoid her eyes.  By doing so I'd caught a glimpse of my diapers and those baby pants pushing forward by the mass, then the nightgown when it cascaded down to my waist and thighs.



Two layers of nylon, one opaque, the other, the outside one, sheer and both pastel pink. The outer layer was edge in a wide dyed to match lace and the sleeves were gathered and puffed by elastic.  A baby doll I realized and not really a nightgown.  A baby doll I mused as in baby and doll.  Almost a baby's dress and definitely something out of the 1950s.



I discovered, after she fused with the puffed sleeves and my hair, that there were panties.  I thought it logical that baby dolls almost always came with panties but and these matched.  A short legged set of bloomers when she opened them as she kneeled.  That same dyed to match lace circling the waist and legs hinting at little petticoats and a new sissy.



That was the first time I thought of that word.  I was, by any guys standards, a sissy.  A sissy long before this because my diapers and those baby pants were pink but now it was definite.  It bothered me that word but I still eased my left, then right foot into them before I stood.  



It bothered me, that word, but I was sure it wasn't bothering her as she brought the panties to the baby pants.  She kissed me when she stood straight again.  It was a soft kiss, then a second slightly more firm and a little more sensuous. I kissed back before she backed away slightly and took my hand.



"Almost ready,"  She said leading me to her vanity and the bench.  Makeup I reasoned but that wasn't it as she picked up a hair brush.  My sister often brushed my hair and I hers at times but it was never as erotic or soothing as this.  When she parted it down the middle I almost told her I keep it together before banding it till I realized she wasn't done.



That parted side to the left was divided into thirds and with a smoothness I admired she began to braid it.  One time, not too many years ago, my sister did the same thing but that was Halloween, this wasn't.  A small pink rubber band kept the ends together before she did the right side.  



The ribbons, long strands of satin, had been sitting there all along and one of them was now being tied at the very start of my braid.  Marge fashioned each into a bow and I immediately was transformed into a very youngish looking girl.  I liked thinking I looked more like a girl than a sissy but a guy that looks like a girl is a sissy, at least that's what my friends might... no, would say.



What people do in the privacy of their bedrooms, I mused, is private, personal and no ones business, but I was thinking what part that would play if the guys saw me like this.  They would laugh, perhaps taunt me and tease for sure.  I was wearing diapers, two of them, and pink no less.  Pink baby pants, pink bloomers edged in lace and a pink baby doll and now pink ribbons.  How much more sissy could a guy get?



Of course that was easily answered by what sat on top of her vanity, but she stopped with the ribbons, announcing that I had been a very good baby girl and deserved a reward.  A baby girl?  She'd said baby girl, but before I could reason that out I was standing again and walking towards her bed.  Those words and meaning could wait, I mused, as Marge took me into her arms and kissed.



Last night, after a bit of foreplay and those bre.ast Marge had unpinned my diapers after unsnapping my baby pants and our love making followed.  This time there was two layers of nightgown to raise and a pair of panties to take down.  The panties were lowered and removed, but she left the diapers and baby pants on me as I was gently  coaxed back on the bed.



I wanted to continue to touch her bre.ast, but Marge took my hands and guided them to the very edge of the baby doll.  With her hands on my wrist she guided them, now holding the two layers of that baby doll, slightly back and then she unsnapped the baby pants.  I was holding fistfuls of silky nylon when the diaper was opened.  



I still was holding the edge of my baby doll when I arched my back slightly to share in the movements she began.  She had taken me, coaxing me a little, teasing, playing some before guiding us together.  Again she was above me and again that was in all things so far.



There is love making and then there is what we were doing and before this I couldn't imagine how much "this" could add to my pleasure.  "My pretty little baby girl,"  Marge moaned before moving her hands to my own bre.ast but over the baby doll.  She pinched each lightly, rubbed both then caressed me front to sides.  I would be anything she wanted me to be, I decided.



I felt the orgasm emerging and fought to hold it back till that was impossible.  I arched in a complete state of ecstasy reaching a point of pure rapture, and suddenly Marge shuddered as well.  We froze for a few seconds and our pace, when it began again, was slower, much slower, savoring every last second before it passed.  "Such a good little girl,"  She said but in a whisper and I wasn't sure I'd heard it.



End of Part 3



Hugs

Mary Beth