14. Nikolaus
Nikolaus
My bedroom occupies most of the eastern corner of the upper floor, larger than some entire townhouses, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the river, an exorbitant master bathroom, and gilded sconces lighting the walls.
The bed itself is custom-made, wide enough to comfortably sleep four adults.
I wake to a spill of light inching across the bed. My phone glows with three silent notifications, but I ignore them. For the first time in weeks, my head is neither throbbing nor spinning, and I have the rare luxury of a full hour before I’m expected for breakfast.
I roll onto my side; the bedsheets are exquisite cotton and cool, and beside me, curled up in the crook of my right arm, lies Charlie.
He’s still deep asleep, mouth slightly open, faint lines creasing his brow as if the burden of dreaming is too heavy to release. Even in unconsciousness, he’s knotted, spine tight, knees drawn up, and arms wrapped around himself.
Charlie’s pajama top is cartoonish, covered in faded dinosaurs, and has ridden up in sleep, exposing a wide strip of pale belly where the diaper peeks above the waistband of the matching pants. There are faint impressions on his skin from where the fabric bunched and twisted in the night.
I shift my hand to stroke his hair, thumbing the messy strands.
He stirs at my touch, not quite waking. I spend a minute just watching him—memorizing, as Constantine would say, the subtleties.
The way his lashes stick together at the corners, the sleep-warm flush along the tips of his ears, and the way he looks so soft, almost cherubic, if you can ignore the dark circles and the way his hands clench at nothing, even now.
I peel the blankets back, careful not to wake him yet. His knees press together, legs angled inwards, the left ankle hooked over the right in a pose that manages to be both defensive and unconsciously trusting.
Most mornings, I like to start my day with an orgasm, and now that Charlie’s here, it only makes sense for that to extend to him as well.
I slip my fingers beneath the elastic of his pajama pants and gently tug them down, inch by inch, exposing first the diaper, then the soft roundness of his thighs.
He doesn’t stir.
I let the pajamas puddle at his knees, then set about unbuttoning his top, slowly revealing his bare abdomen and chest.
I run a hand down the outside of his thigh, cupping it.
The skin is warm, smooth in some places, and textured with faint stretch marks in others.
My thumb finds the line at his hip where the diaper ends, stroking the rise and fall of muscle beneath.
His body is still, but the quality of his breathing changes, a drift from deep sleep toward the surface as I press my palm more firmly against his thigh.
I am careful, both as a matter of principle and because I want this to imprint on him—the sense of being handled, doted on, and claimed before he even wakes.
Pushing the pajama pants off entirely, I set them to the side, then shift myself, so I’m kneeling beside him, looming over his small, exposed form. He is so soft. So easy to move or pose or open.
The diaper is dry, though that will not last. I press my hand to the front, cupping him through the thick padding, and savor the way he instinctively pushes into the touch, even in sleep.
It’s as if his body is already learning the rules I prefer.
As I stroke, his face twitches, the lines in his brow deepening, then smoothing again as my rhythm steadies out.
My cock is hard, straining obscenely against the confines of my own pants, ready for its regularly scheduled release. While I could just pull it out and jerk off leisurely as normal, that’s not what I’m craving.
I want Charlie to wake to the touch, to the certainty of being wanted.
I want the event of it to become as basic as breathing for him.
From the nightstand, I retrieve a bottle of lube and warm it between my hands before drizzling a generous line down the inside of his thighs, slicking the skin and the lower edge of the diaper.
Then I wedge my hand between his knees, gentle but insistent, parting his legs.
They yield, knees falling open in a V, which exposes the full curve of his body, and the scent of his skin.
I align myself, careful not to let the mattress shift enough to wake him too soon, and nestle my cock between the mounds of his thighs, right up against the soft edge of the diaper.
The lube makes everything frictionless, a slick and seamless heat, and the sensation is so immediate I have to pause, willing myself not to come at the first taste of it.
Charlie’s breath stutters, catching on a ragged inhale, which I take as permission to continue.
I move my hand to his waist and pull him closer, rolling his hips upwards so his ass is tilted towards me.
Then I slide my cock between his slick thighs, pressing the whole length of myself against the warmth of him, and begin to move.
He wakes in increments, a fluttering of the eyelids, then a sleepy, uncomprehending squirm as the motion registers. For a moment, he seems to believe he’s alone, still locked in some half-dream, until my hand cups the side of his face and turns him gently to look up at me.
His eyes are unfocused at first, then widen, the black of his pupils nearly swallowing the blue.
“Good morning, baby boy,” I say, my voice softening automatically. “Sleep well?”
Charlie makes a noise, a protest or a question, it’s impossible to tell.
He tenses, tries to close his legs, but my left arm is already there, a bar across his hips, and he only manages to squeeze out a tiny whimper before I start moving again, fucking the channel between his thighs as the lube slicks everything, every motion smearing the heat and the humiliation further up onto his skin.
He tries to twist away, a mindless reflex, but I just tighten my grip until he settles, panting.
It’s his first time waking up like this, and I adore the way he’s immediately overwhelmed, how the confusion on his face breaks into something raw and panicked, then into a kind of resigned, gasping helplessness.
I want to see him accept it, to have that moment where he stops fighting and just lets me use him.
“Shhh,” I say, and stroke his cheek with my thumb. “You’re safe. You’re doing so good for me, Charlie.”
He doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t try to pull away again.
His face is turned to the pillow, hot and blotched with shame, but his hips are tilted up, thighs trembling around my cock as I stay pressed between them.
I let myself go a little harder, savoring the slide, the way the lube gets sticky-warm and the diaper crinkles beneath my hand.
He makes a series of tiny, broken sounds, desperate not to give them voice, and I can tell exactly when the realization hits that he’s turned on, hard and leaking into the front of the padding.
I keep one hand on his neck, where his pulse flutters wildly, and with the other, I reach between his legs to squeeze the swollen front of the padding.
Charlie shudders, his whole body caught in an electric fence of sensation, and I can feel the pulse of his cock through the soaked diaper as he grinds down into my palm, frantic, not even aware he’s doing it.
I let him rut against my hand, stroking the length of him through the bulk, while I thrust between his thighs, and the friction builds into something blinding, dizzying in its inevitability.
“Such a good boy,” I breathe, the words ragged at the edges now, “let me feel you come for me. Make a mess, baby.”
He stiffens all over, and with a shattering sob, he does. The diaper floods with heat against my hand, and I keep stroking him, working the feeling deeper, until he’s limp and spent and whimpering into the pillow.
I don’t last much longer. The sight of him—wrecked, used, and flushed—is enough to tip me over, and I press my hips tight to his ass as I come, spilling between his thighs in hot, wet pulses, marking him, making sure he’ll smell me on his skin for hours after.
For a long moment, the only sound is our breathing, loud and uneven in the bright morning. My hand lingers at his waist, steadying him, then slides up to trace the sticky mess I’ve left behind. I want him to feel it every time he moves.
Charlie lies still, his face buried and hair plastered damp to his forehead.
The crying is silent now, but the aftermath is visible in his trembling, the way his ribs hitch even more than I’d like.
When I move to sit up, Charlie’s whole body tenses—the shudder of a small animal sensing it’s about to be picked apart.
I hush him, petting the back of his head with slow, broad strokes until his breathing isn’t so ragged.
He’s not going anywhere like this, so I decide to carry him. I scoop him up under the knees and shoulders, a gesture I intended to be gentle, and not at all for my own pleasure, but he’s light enough to cradle easily, his body curling in on itself as I lift him from the sheets.
He whimpers, and I shush him again, pitching my voice lower and sweeter. “It’s okay, Charlie. Just taking care of you.”
He doesn’t protest, only bunches his fists in the fabric of my shirt while I carry him to the bathroom. The room is warm, the floors heated, the lights set to a gentle morning dim. I perch him on the counter, his legs swinging off the edge, and kneel to peel away the soiled diaper.
He’s in no shape to help, but I like that—the blank, compliant way he lets me work the tapes and ease the mess away, his hands flat on the cool marble, eyes turned away from mine. I wipe him clean with a warm, damp cloth, careful to be extra gentle with his post-orgasm sensitivities.
It’s a ritual, after all: the undoing of the night, the start of the new day. I want him to learn how good it can feel to be looked after.