All Part Of The Plan, Ch. 3

All Part of the Plan, Ch. 3

This caption is the third of a four-part series I'm writing with @boysrbabies! Catch up on Part One and Part Two first!

“Where do you think you’re waddling off to, mister?”

She caught me red-handed and she knew it.

“I….I…I…”

Why do I feel like some misbehaving toddler?

“You…what, baby?”

I race to think of an excuse. Any excuse. Anything but the truth.

My shorts are at my ankles before I utter a single syllable. Her hand grabs at my soggy diaper, squeezing it inquisitorially. She turns me around, peeking into the seat of my diaper.

This diaper check is no different than any other the last few weeks. She doesn’t ask to check my diaper—not since my first messy accident three weeks ago—she just does it, no matter what I’m doing. I doubt it’ll ever get any less humiliating.

What is different is the look in her eyes. Her sweet smile replaced by anger and accusation. She knows I tried to sneak off to change my diaper.

“Honey, what did I tell you about changing your own diapers? That’s my job. If I ever catch you sneaking off like this again, you’ll be very, very sorry. Do you understand me, sweetie?”

“I…yes…I’m sorry,” I mumble. It’s easier not to dwell on the endless baby names coming my way.

“Good boy,” she says before spanking my soggy diaper, firm enough to feel through my padding.

She wouldn’t actually spank me, would she?

As I waddle behind her to the changing table, silence only interrupted by the crinkling of my diaper, I can’t help but wonder how it ever got this far.

I used to be her boyfriend. Now? I hardly feel like an adult. She did just catch me trying to hide my dirty diaper like a toddler after all…

We haven’t had sex since she taped me in that first diaper. Sure, there used to be the soul-crushing handjobs on the changing table, but even those have become nonexistent.

“Baby, we need to talk. I’ve been thinking and, well, I don’t think it’s right for a diaper-dependent like you to have sex. My body is off limits to diaper boys, sweetie.”

“And it goes without saying you won’t be receiving any blowjobs, that would be…gross. Or handjobs. So from now on, your widdle guy will stay in safely wrapped in your diapee as long as I’m changing your diapers.”

Now all I can hope for is one-minute (if I’m lucky) “diapee rubbies,” the horribly condescending name she gave them. And only when I’ve been a “good boy” for a few days.

The longer I go without sex, or really intimacy of any kind—and despite what she says, diaper changes are not “intimate moments”—the more I slip into docile obedience. I feel fuzzy, lost, desperate to make her smile. I can’t explain it.

But…it’s more than that. The more control over my body I lose, the more control she gains over my life. The further I slip into diaper dependency, the more dependent I become on her—and she knows it.

It’s not like I could ever leave her. The cold, brutal truth is no woman would want to be with me. Not anymore. I’m not foolish enough to believe there’d be a second date after I load my diaper in the middle of a crowded wine bar.

I’ll do anything to keep her happy. Anything. Whatever it takes to keep her from leaving me.

Even if it means letting her treat me like a toddler to keep her happy. She won’t admit it, but she’s definitely encouraging and rewarding infantile behavior. I can tell she’s enjoying this.

Even it means surrendering my dignity, privacy, and independence. And enduring the never-ending, relentless humiliation that defines my new life.

I’m trapped. I know it. She knows it. I’ll eventually have to put my foot down and fight for my adulthood that’s slipping away piece by piece, diaper by diaper.

I’m a grown man, I don’t need my girlfriend to make sure my diaper isn’t leaking. I am perfectly capable of changing my own diapers.

“Hop up on the changing table, sweetums! Such a great job!”

But how can I stop this? What if I lose her?

“Wow, baby, you must love your diapers! You sure know how to keep a woman busy!”

What other choice do I have but to submit to this humiliating new life?

“Legs up, sweetums! Gotta get all the poopie you left for Mo—me!”

Did she almost say what I think she said?

“All fresh and clean! Doesn’t that feel so much better? No more ickies in your diapee!”

Ugh. It really does.