How Did It Come To This? How Did It Get This Far? How Did You End Up In This Position?

How did it come to this? How did it get this far? How did you end up in this position?

You were asking yourself those questions as she leaned over you. All you heard was, "laisse-moi vérifier ta couche bébé" and "ta couche est trempée bébé." Your one semester of French back home was wholly insufficient to understand her.

This was not how you expected your year-long study-abroad trip to Paris to go. You thought you'd spend the year chasing after beautiful French women, eating delicious food, and sipping wine at bustling cafes.

It turns out the stress of moving abroad did not mix well with your bladder. Two weeks into the program, you had already wet the bed five times and even wet your pants during your French language class.

You met with your program director to discuss the issues. They scheduled a doctor's appointment for you, ordered diapers in the meantime, and gave you your own private room.

She was the program director's assistant. To your great embarrassment, she sat through the whole meeting silently but followed you out of the office.

She asked if you were okay, concern on her face. Her English was flawless. She was so lovely, her charm disarming. You didn't even feel embarrassed she knew the situation anymore. She invited you to come out with her that night, telling you it would be good to relax and let a Parisian show you the best local spots tourists have yet to discover. You agreed.

You met her outside your dorm. She lead you out to the city. Ten minutes later, she was leading you up the stairs to her apartment. It was a nice apartment, complete with a fantastic view of the Eiffel Tower. She poured you a glass of wine.

"I'm going to take you to my favorite restaurant, the boeuf bourguignon is simply superb," she said smiling, "but before we go, I think we should take care of your, uh, little problem."

"What do you mean?" you ask.

"Well, you see, the restaurant is quite nice. I don't want you to have an accident on their furniture. So, I think it is best if you wear this," she says, showing you a thick diaper, "lay down so I can put it on."

"I really don't think that is necessary, I'll be fine," you furtively respond.

"That is not what it sounded like today," she said with an air of authority, "it sounded like you were having problems controlling yourself. Now, lay down."

You don't know why you laid down. Maybe something about the way she said it. All you knew was you meekly agreed. She unbuttoned your jeans and pulled them off. You unconsciously tried to cover yourself as she reached for your underwear. She brushed your hands away.

She expertly put you in your first diaper, complete with rash cream and baby powder. She tapped your diaper and told you to stand up. When you did, she put your jeans back on for you.

It's been two weeks since that night. Everything has changed. You've been in diapers ever since. She had full control over your diapers. Checking them, changing them. All of it.

She convinced your program director that it would be best if you moved in with her, as your continence problems had worsened, and she could help you manage them. You had no idea about this until the program director informed you that your things had been moved.

Your "room" in her house, if you could call it that, turned out to be a chic nursery. Expertly painted in a shade of baby blue that managed to look entirely babyish, yet, somehow, sophisticated. Your twin bed had rails to ensure you didn't fall out of bed. Your changing table managed to combine refined craftsmanship with its necessary function. It was exactly how you'd expect a nursey to look in a well-to-do Parisian apartment.

Your nursery was just the beginning. You were no longer allowed to do anything on your own. She walked you to and from your classes. During breaks, she checked your diapers and, if necessary, changed them.

Your friends from the program no longer invited you out to party with them. Your status as a diaper boy made it clear you couldn't go even if you wanted. When they acknowledged you, it was done with that sickening tone used for babies and puppies.

You did go out quite often, though. She was quite the socialite. If there was one thing you could say about the experience, it was that you saw Paris as if it were lived by the locals. She had beautiful, well-connected friends. Her power and privilege made abundantly clear as you toddled behind her in a soggy diaper.

But it wasn't the frequent public diaper changes, your nursery, or lack of autonomy that made you feel so infantile. No, it was that since you moved in with her, she spoke nothing but French to you.

You didn't understand anything. Things just happened. You'd hear a jumble of words and suddenly your diaper was being checked. You'd hear another jumble of words and a beautiful French girl is pinching your cheek as she laughs. On it went.

And it was this lack of understanding that made you feel so infantile. You had absolutely no idea what anyone was saying to you. You sat there in your diaper as people spoke down to you, not taking in a word of meaning.

But you did understand their tone—the tone was the same in any language. They spoke to you like a baby. Your blank expression and confused nods making you look identical to a baby.

Nor could you communicate your own needs. You knew she, at least, understood you. But she ignored you as if you were nothing more than a babbling baby. None of her friends spoke any English, so your words were as intelligible to them as if you were actually babbling. You were helpless, trapped in a world you didn't understand, unable to communicate.

As you stare up at her, you have no idea what she's saying. All you know is that your diaper is wet, and your tummy is rumbling. As you feel her check your diaper, you aimlessly wonder how much French you'll pick up in the next eleven months.