Decadent à Trois
Tonight’s pizza delivery was unusual. Not the pizza, I knew my favourite and so did the delivery company. But today it was delivered by someone new.
She was a little older than most of their delivery boys. They were university age, she was more mature, in her prime. A proper woman, not someone I could so easily embarrass, tease with sexual innuendo and a flash of thick padding below my skirt.
I’d opened my door coyly at her knock, hiding behind it, red lips and dark eye shadow looking down at her.
“Pizza,” she said, “Still nice and hot. Which one did you get, it smells fantastic!”
Oh, she was good. Maybe she was the manager, filling in for a missing driver. She was dressed like a manager, dark slacks, sensible shoes, a branded polo shirt and the obligatory smile. Hers wasn’t the usual fake one to comply with policy or a cheeky attempt at a tip, it was a soft warm smile, full of confidence, that widened as she saw me take all of this in.
I lost my own confidence at this, abandoned my plans of a sexy shocking reveal, kept hidden behind the door. Instead I extended my arm, reaching for the slim cardboard box she held. The sleeve of my onesie was visible to her, but not the rest, and many women wear childish patterns.
She ignored my arm anyway, not even handing me the pizza. Instead she stepped forward and pushed firmly on my door, making me take a step backwards as it came towards me. I was too surprised to try and stop her as she strode into my house, walked right past me, went into the kitchen. Now she’d come up my front steps she seemed taller, even in her flat shoes I would have to look up to make eye contact. In amazement at her brazen invasion of my home I turned and followed, finding she’d put the pizza on my table and had turned back towards me.
“As I thought,” she said, walking up to me.
I wondered what she’d thought, in the brief moment before she continued.
“You need a change.”
My eyes widened and my mouth fell open at this. Not gaping, maybe wide enough for a grape, or the nipple of a pacifier. Not having one she put her finger over my lips instead, a clear instruction not to speak.
“Come on, let’s get that sorted,” she said, “Do you have a changing table?”
I didn’t, but pointed through to the lounge where I had a small mat to keep the floor clean, let me change downstairs. Taking my outstretched hand she led me through to it and used both her hands on my shoulders to voicelessly encourage me to sit down.
Sat on the changing mat I felt even smaller, looking up at her. I tugged at my skirt trying to hide the bulge of my diaper, its swollen padding obvious beneath the onesie, but my efforts were futile. I’d chosen this skirt especially for tonight’s pizza, a corduroy dungaree style that I’d found in the children’s section. The embroidered butterflies weren’t really my thing but they were very cute, and although it was described as a ‘generous fit’ that meant it was for chubby little girls, not tall ones. So it came only halfway down my diaper, hid nothing, couldn’t be pulled into a modest position.
She laughed at that, my embarrassment obvious, but said nothing, just looked around and found my diaper bag.
“Lie back,” she said, “Let’s get you nice and clean so you can enjoy your pizza.”
Although I’d intended to tease the delivery boy, invite him to change my diaper, maybe enjoy some fun as he did, I didn’t actually expect it to happen. I certainly didn’t expect it to be a delivery woman. But she was being friendly, was offering to help and maybe this could be fun anyway. So I lay back, used my hands behind my head to prop it up, watch her as she kneeled between my legs and undid the poppers on my onesie.
“Why…” was as far as I got before she shushed me, reaching up with a finger on my lips again. An elegant finger, the nail clean and neat, quite short but nicely painted.
She answered the why anyway, as she efficiently changed my diaper. She must have done this before, didn’t hesitate with the tabs, a thorough clean, wiping me gently without tickling or playing.
“You’re famous, you know?” she said, then smiled at my surprised face. “The lady in diapers. Orders pizza, wants more than that.”
My used diaper was off by now, rolled up, in a disposable plastic bag.
“Took me a while to track you down. Had to wait for the job to come open. Been delivering pizza for three weeks waiting for your call.”
A clean diaper was already under me, and as she brought it up between my thighs, soft padding forcing them apart, she looked over it at me. “Waiting for you.”
I looked back, wondering what was going on. No threat here, and being changed by someone else was an absolute treat, something I could get used to. That pressure against me as she fastened the tabs, trapped me in the diaper, the sense that I wasn’t in control, the trepidation and excitement that caused.
“So what now?” I asked. My voice wasn’t its normal confident self, traces of shyness and uncertainty.
She didn’t answer immediately, concentrating instead of fastening my onesie. I could feel her fingers fumbling down there, realised I was enjoying it, jumped when it stopped and she patted me there instead.
“Now?” she asked playfully, “Pizza, of course!”
Well, I guess it was only a matter of time…