Elevator
You stand in front of the elevator in your thin purple tank top, with nothing below the waist but a thick diaper. Daddy took the skirt before you left the hotel room. He said you didn’t need it now. You’re unavoidable, the whiteness crinkling with every small shift, the top edge riding high on your hips. The bulk.
The cottony kiss of the diaper that envelops you lingers against your pussy folds, intimate and unhurried, pressing against the slickness every time you breathe, as if nothing public were happening at all. You keep your eyes on the floor numbers. You didn’t fight him when he pulled the skirt off you, didn’t even ask why.
Because you want His eyes on you. Because the need to be seen by Him matters more than the strangers who might glance your way now. The doors slide open. You hold the wet, cold can, angle the tote bag, and pray that He puts the skirt back on before you leave the hotel.
