Hey, I Don't Know If You Do Requests, But I Was Wondering If You Could Do Like An Unfair Regression Story.

Beast of Burden

You barely had time to pull up your pants to cover your diaper when she barged in. If she was surprised by your awkward position on the floor, she didn’t show it.

She walked straight to you. Her smile never faltering. She kneeled uncomfortably close, without any regard for the situation or your personal space.

You shivered as she got closer to you. The way she moved—the confidence in every movement—terrified you. It was like watching a tiger stroll through the jungle. She moved like her place atop the food chain was her divine right. Unquestionable.

She had nothing to fear. Unlike you.

It happened before you could react. Before you had any chance to stop her.

She reached down at your diaper, grabbing a handful of your soggy megmax and squeezing it, testing its fullness.

It was so casual. As if she had every right to check your diaper. As if your diaper was as much hers as the contents of her purse.

You were paralyzed by shock. Nobody knew about your incontinence or the diapers you’ve worn for the past 3 months.

“W-who…who are you?” you manage to say with great difficulty.

She just smiled, wordlessly pulling down your pants, exposing your soggy diaper.

“What the fu—!” you start yelling.

“Hush,” she chided, her tone leaving no room for disobedience. Despite every instinct telling you to argue, you stay silent.

“Good boy,” she purred, “you don’t need to be embarrassed. Now lay back and let me take care of this diaper for you.”

Her hand presses against your chest, forcing you down. She’s surprisingly strong. You couldn’t resist even if you wanted to.

She reaches into your bag, grabbing supplies without a trace of uncertainty. She pulls out a spare megamax, wipes, and powder, her gaze never leaving you.

Your first tab is ripped open, sending a wave of terror through you. Then the second. A terrible, horrible countdown to your embarrassing fate.

The third tab rips. No, no, no. This can’t be happening.

A final rip announces itself. You’re powerless to stop her. You close your eyes, hoping it’s a dream.

You feel the soggy diaper pulled away from you, cold air assaulting you. You wince in utter humiliation.

She giggles. A short, playful giggle. Barely audible, yet it hits you like a sonic boom.

A cold wipe is thrust unceremoniously onto your delicate areas. Nothing about her businesslike efficiency giving any hint of flirtation.

The wiping pauses. You hear your next diaper being expertly fluffed while the cold air assaults your exposed privates.

Your legs are suddenly thrust into the air. You squirm ineffectually as she wipes your bum clean. Your face burning violently in embarrassment.

You’re lowered onto a freshly fluffed diaper. Powder snows onto you before she diligently rubs it in, her hand showing no hesitation in rubbing your sensitive areas.

She claps her hands in finality, still smiling down at you, her condescending gaze drilling a deep hole in your ego.

Your diaper is pulled up. She quickly fidgets with the fit. Once satisfied, she gets to work taping you up.

“There. All clean, little one! You did such a great job for me! You weren’t fussy at all!”

All you can do is stare up at her. Somehow, the completely exposed diaper she taped on you is the least of your concern.

Why is she talking to you like that? You’re not some baby!

“Oh stop looking so surprised, cutie! Your soggy diaper was so obvious I couldn’t help myself. We both know you weren’t at this party to get laid. Diaper boys like you don’t get laid—they get diaper changes.”

“W-what?! These are my friends!” you whimper.

“They were! Well, before your diapers! They’re not your equals anymore, honey. They’re your superiors. You’re in diapers.”

“It’s just a medical condition!”

“Then why didn’t you tell anyone? That’s what I thought. Because you know what being in diapers means. You know you’re a diaper boy. And yet you had the audacity to show up and pretend you’re not a whiny diaper boy. That’s not okay with me, baby.”

“I was just waiting for the right time to tell everyone!”

“Well, don’t you worry about that. I’ll take care of telling the party about your diapers. You can either take my hand and follow me to tell everyone. Or, you can run away and I’ll still tell everyone anyway.”

“Or you can not tell everyone..”

“I could! But I won’t. You’re lying to everyone here pretending to be something you’re not—an adult. If you come with me, I’ll take care of you. I’ll make sure your diapers are changed and nobody teases my diaper boy. Maybe I’ll even give you diaper rubs when you’ve been extra good!”

“And if I don’t?” you say with a false bravado that she sees right through.

“You’ll be all alone. Your friends will know what you are: a diaper boy. You’ll stop being invited to parties because they don’t need some diapered baby bringing down the vibe. No girl will ever give you a second glance. You’ll be all alone in soggy diapers.”

You stutter randomly trying to comprehend your fate.

She gets up, heading towards the door. “Up to you, diaper boy.”

“I-okay! I-I’ll do it!” you plead.

“Good boy,” she coos, reaching out her hand, “you’re such a cutie. Mommy will take great care of you, I promise.”

“M-mommy?” you mutter as she pulls you out the door.

She ignores your concerns, squeezing your hand.

“Ready to start your new life, baby?” she whispers in your ear.

She’s already getting everyone’s attention before you can respond.

You stare at her captive audience, waiting for your life to change forever…

You might wonder what your doing here. You seem scared and distraught. Well being kidnapped can have that effect on you.

You remember reblog those tumblr pages “reblog if you want to be diaper dependent “ or “I dare you to reblog this post it ,will make you urinary incontinence and dependent on diapers for life“ and my favorite “ reblog this post if you fantasize about being kidnapped and diapered against your will”. Well no more fantasize about it, today it be comes a reality.I monitor all and follow all who reblog my post. You know you be more careful who you talk to on the internet , there a lot of weird psycho people out there.

Your just lucky I’m not one of those people. I’m like fairy godmother, I grant wishes for people.

Don’t worry you will feel a little discomfort. The numbing gel will help things. You be restrained, and your legs , will be in stirrups for safety. At any point you don’t want proceed just tell me “stop” and I will.

Oh are you trying to say something? It hard to make out with that huge ball gag in your mouth.

Oh I see , your so excited to proceed you can barely contain enthusiasm. Now !!now !!you don’t want to make a mistake, you need to calm down so I can proceed.

First I’m going to slowly insert this micro optical camera into the head of your penis. I’m going to be able see if there any abnormalities in your urethra duct with build in camera in the end. Then if we see any abnormalities I will be to pinch them a use a build claws and use a special laser to cut them out.

Then when I reach that pesky sphincter muscle in the neck of bladder , the muscle that holds all that yellow urine back. I’m going so gently carve away at it with my tiny laser. I’m to cause the muscle not function anymore it will remain open so urine can dribble out slowly, and diapers will be requirement for life.

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Hi! I'm waffflecones! I'm a 30-something guy into abdl, ddlg, and sometimes mdlb (when you can get me to admit it). My pronouns are he/him, I'm single, and I live in New York.

This blog is 18+ only.

Below are some of my more popular stories and other posts that you might enjoy. Also, feel free to ask me literally anything.

Stories

Sunday Morning: part one, part two, and part three

Ice Cream Diaper Girl

The Big Girl Challenge

Shorter text posts

Send her to bed early...

I'm not doing it because I'm mean...

You know what's hotter than checking her diaper?

Let's sleep in until noon...

Come stand next to me while I'm working at my desk...

Let's get in bed and I'll touch you through your PJs...

Game Over

Author's Note: This story is for readers 18+ only. All characters depicted in this work of fiction are 18 years of age or older.

Parker slapped his bedwetting rewards sheet on the glass countertop like he’d played a royal flush.

My stomach tightened into a knot.

The clerk glanced at the paper, then up at Parker, then through Parker and into the middle distance. “Reading rewards are redeemed at the pizza barn,” he said in a monotone. “One personal pan pizza with a single topping, excluding sausage and bacon. Not redeemable for anything from the prize counter. Not redeemable for cash. Not—” 

“Do I look like I’m in elementary school to you?" Parker interrupted. "I’m not in the reading program.” He turned around and shot a ‘can you believe this guy’ face at me because somehow being part of a diaper rewards program was less embarrassing than a reading program in his mind.

Parker jabbed his finger on the logo at the top of the sheet. A diaper with a crown on it. Then he pointed at a vinyl banner with the same logo on it that hung, half-obscured by poorly stitched elephant and zebra stuffies, on the wall behind the counter. “Royal Rumps Rewards,” it read in a blocky font. 

When I heard the words ‘Royal Rumps Rewards’ I wished my hoodie was the Big Daddy suit from Bioshock, insulating me from judgments and the sneering laughter of those in earshot. Or at least what I’d imagined they’d say. Not Parker. This was his superpower: he was fundamentally incapable of feeling shame or embarrassment. I suspected he’d done some arcane ritual that transplanted all his anxiety and self-consciousness into me at birth. 

I scanned the room, ears perked up for half-whispered laughter and pearl-clutching questions.

“Royal Rumps? Is that the diaper brand for adults?” 

“You must suck at games to wear diapers for prizes.”

“Is he wearing one now? I think I see some extra padding in his jeans.”

I didn’t hear anything like that. Not out loud, at least. Hearing them in my head was bad enough. 

The clerk turned and looked at the Royal Rumps banner as if seeing it for the first time. “Oh, right. Forgot about that.” He turned over his shoulder. “Clara, we have a couple of guys here for the weird diaper thing.” 

I drew my hoodie strings tight again. 

Clara was a senior citizen by Slice Shak staff standards. Early 30s with a smattering of 1990s pop culture buttons on her vest. She wore a strained smile. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail so tight it served as a facelift. She took a laminated sheet out of a drawer. “Diaper Partner Program,” it said simply at the top. 

“You’ll have to excuse Aden. It’s his first week. We’re proud of our partnership with Royal Rumps, aren’t we, Aden?” 

Aden grunted. I preferred Aden’s response to this whole thing. Wearing diapers when you didn’t have to, strictly speaking, was kinda weird. Dancing around it just felt patronizing. Condescending. 

“Show her your sheet, man,” Parker said. 

I slid my sheet onto the counter and stepped back. Parker could serve as the spokesman. I would’ve been happy—thrilled, even—to stay home and let him bring my sheet in with his, but that was against the rules. Or so Parker said. He was probably telling the truth; he didn’t hesitate to break a rule if he could get away with it. But he also hated doing anything alone. It was like he’d cease to exist if he didn’t have an audience. 

“Alrighty, let me look at these,” Clara said. She pulled out a calculator and ran her finger down Parker’s sheet, noting the unbroken rows of crescent-moon-with-a-raincloud stickers set against the night-sky background. She flipped the sheet over and continued to run her finger down that side, punching numbers into the calculator. “Wow. A perfect two months. That’s 500 points. Nice work, sweetie.” 

‘Sweetie.’ Was that part of the script as stipulated by Royal Rumps? Or was it impossible to look at someone who proudly admitted they woke up in a wet diaper every morning and not call them sweetie, cutie, or baby?

Parker snorted. 

“And do you solemnly swear, as a Knight of Castle Crinkle, that your account of your adventures in bedwetting is the truth?” Clara asked. 

‘Adventures in bedwetting.’ Royal Rumps loved that phrase. They plastered it all over their website and marketing materials. They even had an app—a mobile game of sorts—with that title. You filled in this cartoony map of a medieval fantasy land, accruing XP as you used your diapers. 

Parker stared at Clara, then he looked behind himself meaningfully. The line of impatient patrons grew by the minute. I could sense annoyance that we were taking so long. “Of course we did. I’m not a liar.”

Clara peeled a sticker off the Diaper Partner Program sheet and pressed it against Parker’s chest. A stylized diaper with a golden crown and “Nappied Knights,” with the ‘k’ tilted off at an angle. “Thanks for sharing your journey back into bedwetting with us.” 

She turned to me. “Now, let’s look at yours.” She ran her finger down my sheet, flipped it over, and did the same thing. “Excellent. 497 points. Great job.” 

“Wait, what?” Parker said. “There should be 500 points. Check again.” 

Clara’s strained smile faltered for half a second. “Yes, well, if you look here, there’s a day missing.” She pointed at the blank spot on the chart. A tiny blue-black square in a sea of stickers. 

“Bro,” Parker said to me. 

I shrugged.

He turned to Clara. “I’m sure it was a mistake. Can’t we just put a sticker on there and call it good?” 

Clara shook her head. “‘fraid not. That’s specifically forbidden in our agreement with Royal Rumps.” 

“See, but the thing is, we need 1,000 points for the drone. What if we throw some tickets in the mix?” He leaned forward and rested his fists on the countertop, favoring Clara with his cockiest grin. “I’m a wicked shot at skee ball.” 

“No combining offers,” Aden interjected.

Parker shot him a withering glance. 

“What about the boombox,” Clara said. She pointed at the dusty box. “That’s only 750 points. Or the MP3 player. That looks nice, right? You can put a bunch of songs on that thing.” 

“I have an Iphone. I don’t need a fucking MP3 player, Clara.” He spat her name like it was a curse. 

Clara’s professional smile evaporated. “Then I suppose you’ll need to come back tomorrow. Oh, wait. The half-off discount ends today. That’s a shame. I guess your ‘adventures in bedwetting’ will need to continue for another two months. Give or take a few nights.” She stared down Parker. He looked like he was ready to vault over the countertop and strangle her.

The chatter behind us had dropped to a low, whispery murmur. We were moments from brazen snickers. Pointing fingers. Frantic, emoji-laded texts to friends about the freaks holding up the Slice Shak line. 

I elbowed Parker’s arm. “Come on. Let’s go. ” 

He snatched his sheet off the countertop and stormed off, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like ‘uptight bitch.’ 

I grabbed my sheet. I considered apologizing to Clara. But that’d mean another few seconds in line. 

She beat me to it with a “Thank you for sharing your journey back to bedwetting with us.” She mashed a sticker onto my chest. A diaper with a pirate hat and a saber floating off to one side. Beneath it: “Sailing the Soggy Seas.” 

I gave her an awkward smile, mouthed ‘sorry,’ and walked away.

Check out Ream to read the rest of this story, along with a TON of others, including my other brand-new story: Letting Go. I also have two long, ongoing stories that get weekly updates.

Peaches

a caption story i found a long time ago. not made by me... enjoy

Stupid Baby Story Club: Locker Room Trash

Hello, hello. I've recently started a new story series on my Patreon called Stupid Baby Story Club. It's about a young woman named Sasha and her recent admission into a secret club of college students who tell each other stories about diapers, ageplay, and humiliation. Each chapter of the story is split between the life of Sasha, and then a smaller story-within-a-story, as told by one of the members of the Story Club. Today, I thought I'd share one of those stories-within-stories with you.

This particular story is being presented by one of the club's members, Chuck. He's on the university football team - which is why he's especially paranoid about anyone else finding about his kinks. Here, he shares the tale of the one time these two separate worlds collided.

And if you want to read more of this series, c'mon down to my Patreon. Part 3 of this series just posted today! A membership in Tier 2, for only $6 a month, will get you access to the current chapters, as well as a boatload of other stories exclusive to my Patreon.

Locker Room Trash

I don’t know–have any of you ever spent time in a locker room before? And I’m not talking about high school gym class either. I’m talking about the locker room of a team. It can be a crazy place. Everyone just feeds off of everyone else. 

Like, before a game. We’re all excited, individually. We want to win. We want to show off everything we’ve been practicing. We want our family and friends and school to be proud of us. We want to defeat the opposing team so badly. And each of us just amplifies the emotions in everyone else. Crazy things start happening when you get twenty-something guys pumping each other up. Songs break out. There’s cheering. Chanting. Sometimes things get broken.

And the inverse is just as possible. If we’ve had a particularly grueling practice or, god-forbid, we lose a game–the locker room is like a funeral. Everyone’s bitter and dejected. Everyone wants to blame everyone else. Again, some crazy things can happen when you get twenty-something guys acting miserable around each other. I’ve seen fist-fights erupt over some guy’s water bottle falling off a bench.

I was new to the team two years ago, but I wasn’t new to football locker rooms. I knew what to expect.

Sure, there was a little bit of hazing. Nothing too bad. People get whipped with towels in the shower. Your face gets drawn on if you fall asleep on the bus to a game at another university. Whatever. Just brush it off.

There’s a few ways to make the experience easier. For one, you can just prove yourself out on the field. Make a few good plays–score a few points if you can–and suddenly the team stops giving you as much shit. 

But also? It helps to just not be a baby about it. The guys who get picked on the most? The ones who let everyone know how much it bothers them. The ones who try to run away and hide. The ones who try to say something to the coaches. The ones who plead for people to leave them alone.

We had a guy like that on the team last year. Andy Dimpton. He was a wide receiver from some high school in, like, Rhode Island? Fast as hell, and I had never seen the guy drop a ball–we were lucky to have him on the team. Of course, he was also built like a scarecrow and the wind could blow him over. The most timid guy I’d ever met, too. 

As you can imagine, he quickly found himself in the role as the team’s favorite punching bag. Some of the guys on the team–the ones who had been around the longest–they were merciless with him. They’d break into his locker and hide his clothes on him. They’d pull his towel off from around his waist whenever he came out of the shower. They started calling him Big Baby because he perpetually looked like he was about to start bawling at any moment.

And me? Well, you know, it was my first year too, and I wanted to fit in. I didn’t want to be another Andy Dimpton. So, you know, I…played along. Did a little teasing when I could.

I fucked up one day. Pretty badly, too.

So, I like…diapers. I mean, that shouldn’t come as a shock, considering that we’re all here right now, right? Some people say that they don’t know how they got into their kinks–they just stumbled into it and it just fit, right? But not me. I know where the diaper thing came from.

I used to wet the bed when I was a kid. My mother did her best to have patience with me when I was younger, but the older I got, the more pissed off it made her. By the time I was 12, if I wet the bed, she’d immediately empty my underwear drawer and get me a pack of those Goodnights training pants. Then, I’d have to wear those–and only those–until I could keep them dry overnight for a week. This went on for a few years…longer than it should’ve, probably. The most goddamn humiliating years of my life too. Can you even imagine being 13 and going to school in a pull-up because your Mom hid all your underpants?

Later in my teens, it stopped being as much of an issue. I was doing my own laundry, and I think Ma realized she couldn’t keep me in diapers while I was in high school. We never talked about it. She never asked if I was still having issues, and she never apologized for how she used to treat the situation. It was just…out of sight, out of mind.

But…diapers. They were the naughtiest, most shameful, thing in the world. Exactly the kind of thing that a sexually-awakening teen needed to jump start some fucked-up kink. 

Anyway, I’m in college. I’ve graduated from pull-ups to, like, the real deal. The big diapers. I know you know the ones. 

I kept a stash in my dorm room. Still do, too. I don’t get a chance to wear them all that often, though. Between football practice, games, and…well, having a social life, there’s really never a time when I’m by myself to piss in a diaper and masturbate.

Maybe you know the feeling–that one where you’ve been away from your kinks and private time for so long that they slowly become the only thing you can think about? Weeks had gone by without me touching my stash, and I had diapers on the fucking brain. All I wanted was just enough time to crawl around in one and, uh, you know…use it. 

The more desperate I got, the more chances I was willing to take. Normally, I’d never wear a diaper out in public. The absolute last thing I needed was to have the top of a diaper peaking out over the top of my pants. University Athlete Charles Stone Wears Diapers–I could just imagine that being the headline on the campus newspaper. But I needed to wear a diaper.

So one afternoon I took a chance. I put on a big thick diaper, pulled up my pants, and went to class. And for a while, it was good. I had wet myself once or twice and I had a little bit of a waddle as I walked around. I was extremely self-conscious of it, but the thrill of strolling around in my wet diaper was worth it.

But then I met up with some guys from the team. They were going to head over to the field and run some drills and they wanted me to join them. I tried to get out of it, saying I had other places to go or be, but… These guys, you can’t really say ‘no.’ Remember, it was my first year on the team and I didn’t want to be Andy Dimpton. So I went over to the field with them.

All my gear was in the locker room, so it wasn’t like I had to go back to the dorm room. As terrified as I was of getting caught, I thought I had a pretty good plan: Once we got to the locker rooms, I’d duck into the adjoining bathroom, take off the diaper, and toss it in the trash before getting changed in the locker room. 

And that worked. Flawlessly. Soon, I was on the field with the guys, and nobody had any idea that just a few minutes before, I had been a pissy little bitch.

I honestly had forgotten about the diaper. After a few hours of running around, it was the furthest thing from my mind. The diaper was gone, and I knew that I wasn’t going to make that mistake again.

Of course, things didn’t exactly go to plan. Kyle Wallace–this massive bear of a guy, and a senior–he was all hyped up after running all those drills. And, of course, you get one guy riled up and suddenly the whole locker room gets riled up. Everyone’s just being especially rowdy. People are playfully throwing things at each other. Calling each other names. Lots of laughter. 

Andy Dimpton is there too, and he heads off to take a shower. And Kyle’s got this shit-eating grin on his face. 

“Watch this,” he says to the rest of us. 

We watch. He goes to the bathroom and returns a minute later with the trash can. The whole fucking trash can.

And we can all guess what he’s going to do. He’s probably going to dump the trash on Andy while the guy is in the shower. Even if I didn’t know what was in the trash can, I’d have probably thought it was a bad idea. It felt like a step over the line between hazing and just being a complete fucking dickhead. 

But, also, I know what’s in that trash can.

Now, I can’t just tell him to stop. I mean–I should. I know I should. And in the thousands of times I’ve replayed this moment in my head since, I truly wished that I had said something instead. But at that moment, I didn’t want to be that guy. I didn’t want to be another Andy Dimpton.

So I said nothing, and let it play out.

It went about exactly as you’d have expected it to. Kyle went into the showers and tried to dump the trash on Andy. It wasn’t all that successful, honestly, the trash just kind of fell on the floor around Andy instead of on him. But there, among the wads of paper towels and energy bar wrappers, was a giant balled-up diaper.

I thought to myself: It’s just garbage. Nobody cares what’s in the garbage. They’re not going to look at it. Study it. Analyze it. Because who would do that, right?

But Kyle sees it, and for reasons that I still can’t quite figure out, he goes in for a closer look.

I’ll never forget his words, hearing them echo off the tiled walls of the shower as we watched from the locker room: “There’s a fucking diaper in here.”

Everyone rushes to see it. I don’t know why people need to see this diaper so badly–maybe it’s just the absurdity of it. Maybe it was just the way Kyle had said it. He could’ve said “There’s a fucking banana in here” and we’d all have come running, just because of how surprised he sounded.

There it is–my bloated diaper, isolated on the floor of the shower, kicked away from the rest of the trash.

Everyone is laughing. It’s obvious that this isn’t a baby’s diaper. There are no babies on campus, and this thing is huge. There’s only one question everyone has now: Who wears diapers?

Everybody huddled in that shower is looking at each other suspiciously. Me too–I’m glancing at everyone wildly, as if I was just as confused about where that diaper came from.

“Is it yours?” Kyle asks Andy. He picks it up–he literally picks up the dirty diaper in his hand and holds it near Andy’s face as he asks. “Do you piss yourself like a little baby?”

“Fuck you,” Andy says. “I don’t wear diapers.”

“Are you sure?” taunts Kyle. “Is that why you don’t like to hang with anyone? Because you’re afraid that we’re going to smell your dirty pampers?”

But, for once, Andy isn’t backing down: “How do we know it’s not your diaper? Maybe that’s the reason you’re always a dick–you need to get your diaper changed!”

It’s a pretty good comeback, and it summons an epic “Oooooooooh!” from the other guys.

It escalates into a fight. Very quickly, it’s not even about the diaper anymore–it’s about a guy who is sick of being picked on and a guy who isn’t about to back down while thinking he’s the alpha. 

There’s not much to say about the fight. You see one locker room fight and you’ve seen them all. They barely even touch each other–there’s a horde of sweaty guys between them, trying to keep the peace. 

The aftermath is pretty ugly, though. When the coaches demand explanations, Kyle’s seniority has most of the guys taking his side, insisting that it was actually Andy who had instigated the fight. Andy ended up getting a thorough tongue-lashing before being made to do a deep clean of the shower. 

I felt for him. I felt guilty. Even if I wasn’t the one who had gotten in his face, it was my diaper that threw the locker room into chaos. Still, I wasn’t about to say anything to anyone–including Andy. I just hoped that, in time, we’d all forget about it and move on.

But nobody forgot about it. People started calling Andy ‘Baby.’ They’d tape baby diapers to his locker. They’d steal his water bottle from the sidelines and replace it with a baby bottle. 

Heaven forbid the guy made a mistake on the field–as it would cause the rest of the team to mock him with questions about whether or not he needed his diaper changed before the next play. 

I could tell that he wanted to let it roll off his shoulders, but it was wearing him down. 

One night, as I sat all alone in my dorm room in a diaper…

One night, as I sat alone in my dorm room in a diaper, I realized what I had to do. I had to come clean to Andy about where the diaper had come from. I needed to let him know that it was my fault.

I had no idea what was going to happen after that. It wasn’t going to fix the problem with everyone else making fun of him–and I certainly wasn’t going to tell the truth to the rest of the team. But maybe Andy and I would have a good conversation about it and we could figure something out together.

In hindsight, it wasn’t a good plan. It was barely a plan. But I was so overcome with guilt that I felt like I had to do something.

One night, after practice, I asked if he wanted to grab some food with me. He agreed, and honestly, I think he was pretty thankful that anyone was giving him the time of day without teasing. We went out and grabbed some fast food burgers and went back to my dorm room. My roommate, at the time, was out off campus and it seemed like a good place to have a private conversation.

Things were actually going well. We were hitting it off, and I think we were both in need of some friendship. The more we talked, the more we seemed to have in common. We could’ve actually been friends. If it wasn’t for the fact that he brought it up himself, I had been thinking I’d skip the entire diaper conversation.

“So, hey,” he says. “What’s up with the whole baby thing? Why can’t anyone just let it go?”

“You know how the guys are,” I say. “They get something in their head and… Well, it’s like a fucking hive-mind. Nobody thinks for themselves and they just go with whatever someone like Kyle says.”

“I just…I’d love to know where that fucking diaper came from,” Andy says. “Because it doesn’t seem fair that it’s my problem now.”

I took a deep breath, not sure if I was actually going to go through with this conversation or not. 

“Andy, I, uhm, need to tell you something.” The words just sort of popped out of my mouth before I was even ready.

“Oh, okay.” He looked a little worried. I guess, if I was in his shoes, I wouldn’t know what to think either. 

“I, uh, know where the diaper came from.”

“What? You do? Where?”

“I… Well. It was my diaper.”

“Wait, what? Did you try to set me up with the diaper?”

“N-no,” I say. “I didn’t know Kyle was going to throw a trash can at you. I mean that I…”

“Oh,” he says, the truth suddenly clicking. “It was your diaper. You wear diapers and you had just…thrown that one away.”

I nodded. I had no idea what else to say. 

We sat there in complete silence for a minute or two, though it felt like an hour. I kept hoping he’d say something, but he just stared off into space.

Finally, he did speak: “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Huh?”

“When Kyle got in my face in the shower? Or when Coach was talking to everyone after. Or…in all the days since while people have been harassing me and calling me a baby. You knew that it wasn’t my diaper and you never said anything.”

“I mean…it’s not like I could tell everyone it was my diaper.”

“But you didn’t have to,” he says. “All you had to do was have my back. All you had to do was stand up for me. Fuck. I mean, now that I think about it, even if it wasn’t your diaper, it’d have been cool if you were on my side.”

He was right. “Yeah. I’m sorry.”

“Why the hell were you wearing a diaper anyway?”

It’s another one of those moments that I’ve come back to countless times since, trying to think if there was a better way to have handled it. But as I sat there in my dorm room with him, I felt like I owed him the truth. I thought, maybe, if he knew the real reasons why I wore the diaper…he’d forgive me.

I told him the truth: “I sometimes like to wear diapers.”

The look on his face was simultaneously of surprise and disgust. Of all the reasons that he might have guessed, me liking diapers was clearly not one of them.

“You like diapers?”

I immediately knew I had said the wrong thing. I couldn’t have told him it was for a medical reason? I wanted to go back and try again, but the cat was already out of the bag.

“You’re, like, one of those guys who get off on acting like a giant baby?” he asks.

The question feels like a punch to the gut, it’s so full of judgment. And he’s right, but not completely right. I’ve never been an ‘adult baby.’ My kinks tend to start and end with just diapers. But I wasn’t going to try and explain that to him.

I decided to try taking the conversation in a different direction. “Maybe you and I can talk to Coach about this. Like, we don’t have to tell him the entire truth…but we can team up and see what we can do about the harassment you’re getting from the other guys.”

He shakes his head, still stuck on an earlier part of the conversation. “You like wearing diapers?”

“Yeah…”

“Are you wearing one now? Is that why you brought me up here? To, like, show me your diaper or something?”

“N-no way, man. I just wanted to talk. I just wanted to–”

“Show me.”

“What?”

“Show me your diapers.”

“I’m not wearing them right now.”

“Wherever your diapers are, take them out and show them to me.”

Of all the possible outcomes, this was the one I had expected the least–Andy revealing himself as just as much of an alpha as any of the other guys in the locker room.

Look, I’ve been playing sports all my life. I’ve been on all sorts of teams and I’ve been around a ton of guys. I’ve managed to never be the guy getting picked on–so I thought that made me one of them. One of the alphas. But the truth, as I learned in that moment, was that I wasn’t one of them. I had just been lucky. Lucky that there was always some guy on the team who was a bigger target. 

And now, in a room with just me and Andy, I was the biggest target.

I went and fetched my diapers from the box I kept under my bed. I didn’t keep many on hand–just two or three. But that was more than enough.

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” he spit. “I’m the guy getting baby bottles thrown at me, and being asked if I shit myself, and yet you’re the one who has actual adult diapers under their bed?”

I didn’t dare answer that question.

“Put one on,” he says.

“What?”

“You heard me, Chuck. Put one of those fucking diapers on, right now.”

“But, Andy, come on. I just…”

“It’s the least you can do for me. After all the humiliation and bullying I’ve endured, the least you can do is show me what a real diaper-wearing baby looks like.”

In the moment, that made sense to me. In hindsight, I’m not really sure why it would’ve. But, there in that room with him, I believed that I owed him that much. To show him what it looked like when I wore a diaper.

I tossed all but one of the diapers aside, tucking that last one under my shirt so I could leave my dorm and go to the bathrooms down the hall. I figured I could change into it in a stall and then come back and lower my pants for him.

“No,” he says, holding a hand out to stop me. “Do it here. I want to see.”

I can’t explain to you what I was scared of. I didn’t think he was going to hurt me, nor did I even think he was going to run and tell everyone else what he had seen. But I was terrified of him nonetheless. And, too, I wanted to do right by him. I felt I owed him this–no matter the discomfort to me.

So. I do it. I pull down my pants and boxers, and I awkwardly try to put a big diaper on myself while standing up. I’ve seen–both of us have seen–plenty of naked men in our lives. Such is life on a team. But I’ve never felt so ashamed of myself, fumbling with the thick padding as my dick just dangled helplessly between my legs.

He didn’t laugh. He didn’t smile. He just sat there and stared at me. It was like he was studying me, you know? Analyzing me. I almost wished that he would start laughing or calling me names. Anything would’ve been better than the cold mysterious quiet.

Somehow, I got the diaper on. It wasn’t straight, it wasn’t tight enough, and it probably looked like a literal toddler put it on himself, but it was on.

“There,” I say to him. “You happy now?”

“Not really.”

“What else do you want me to do then?”

“Get on your hands and knees,” he says. “Crawl like a baby.”

I lowered myself to my hands and knees. There wasn’t much vacant space in the dorm room to crawl around, but I took a few awkward and shaky strides forward. 

Still, he didn’t look amused. He didn’t look like he was enjoying this. He looked angry. It almost looked as if my eagerness to do as he asked made him lose even more respect for me.

“Do you like that?” he asks.

“No,” I say, shaking my head. I still wasn’t going to point out that this wasn’t the sort of thing that I did when I actually was enjoying a diaper–let alone the added scrutiny of him being in the room with me.

“I just wanted to see what a real baby looks like,” he says. “So that when the other guys start mocking me and putting goddamn baby diapers in my locker, I’ll remember that this is what an actual man in a diaper looks like.”

“What can I do?” I ask. “Do you want me to talk to the guys? Talk to the coach?”

He shook his head. “What for? Unless you crawl around the locker room in a diaper so that they can all see you as I see you right now, I don’t think you’re ever going to get me off the hook.”

“Well, I could–”

“Don’t bullshit me me,” he spits. “Don’t pretend you’re actually going to do that. Because you’re not, right? You’re not going to go and show the whole team that you’re a little diaper-wearing infant.”

“Okay,” I say. “So what do you want?”

He responded by unzipping his pants, opening them up. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to–it was clear what he wanted and what I was expected to do.

I’ve never sucked a man’s cock before. I’ve never touched another man’s cock. I’ve never even considered it. I’m not, like, homophobic. I just… Well, I just never thought that I wanted any of that. 

In that moment though, watching him reach into his boxers and pull out a cock that was easily bigger than mine–I didn’t bat an eye. I still thought that I deserved whatever comeuppance he believed I was owed. And if he wanted me to suck on his cock, while I was on my hands and knees–diapered–I was willing to do it.

I’m not gay. I’m not bi. I’ve never craved a dick since that moment. It wasn’t some sort of transcendent experience that made me rethink everything I knew about myself.

At that moment, though, I just knew what I had to do. And I was willing to take one for the team–even if the team was pretty much just me in a diaper. I thought about telling him that I didn’t know what I was doing, and that I had never done anything like this before. But he knew that already. The point wasn’t that I was to sexually please him–well, at least not primarily. The point was that I was to be humiliated. The point was that he was proving to me that even though he was getting teased in the locker room, I was the pathetic loser actually wearing a diaper and doing whatever it took to be respected.

I wrapped my mouth around his cock and tried my best. The first few minutes were pretty awkward. He took my head in his hands and guided me up and down his shaft, occasionally slapping the side of my face when my teeth were getting too close to his skin. But eventually we seemed to be in sync. He didn’t even have to guide my head anymore–I had found the right series of movements and the rhythm to pleasure him on my own.

And I was pleasing him. I knew this because of the way he moaned. The way he shoved his cock as deep as he could into my mouth–often until I had to pause and try to catch my breath. I knew it from the things he said.

“Are you sure you’re not some sissy little princess, diaper-boy? I’ve never had a girl suck cock as good as you’re doing it right now.”

I won’t say I hated it. I won’t tell you that I liked it either. But. I won’t say that I hated it.

He finished on my face. When it became clear that he did intend to keep me on his cock until he climaxed, I grew increasingly nervous about how that would go down. I was terrified of him pumping his load right down my throat. I just…I couldn’t even imagine doing that. But at the last minute, he shoved me off of him so that he could erupt directly onto my face.

And that was how he left me–sitting on my dorm room floor in a diaper, with my face covered in his cum.

I’ll tell you this now, since I told you everything else–and because I know that what we say in these stories doesn’t leave the group: I pissed myself in that diaper after he left. And after that, with my face still a mess, I jerked off in my diaper.

If he had stayed, I’d have done it in front of him, too.

Andy stayed on the team for the rest of the season. The bullying slowly diminished until it finally stopped. I heard some guys say that they had just gotten tired of the joke, but I don’t think that’s what killed it. I think Andy Dimpton was a different guy after that night in my dorm room. He started walking with his head held up a little higher. When people made jokes about them, he looked them right in the eyes–seeming to challenge them to say something else. 

In the locker room after our last game of the season, I watched him and Kyle Wallace give each other a hi-five. Andy had done it–he had managed to turn around his reputation and become one of the alphas. 

And I was still in the absolute middle of the hierarchy–mostly ignored.

Andy never said a word to me again. He didn’t so much as look at me. It was like that night never happened. Or, that night–and me–was so insignificant that he never bothered thinking about it afterwards.

He transferred to a different school last year. I couldn’t tell you why. As far as I know, he’s never told a single person about that night. Certainly nobody else from the team. 

Meanwhile, the team has forgotten him and moved on. There’s new freshmen on the team to tease and pick on now. I like to help out with the hazing when I can. It’s important to let the new guys know where I believe I am on the food chain. And, too, I like to remind the other guys on the team that I’m not on the bottom of the barrel. I’m not a baby.

So, no, I probably haven’t learned a damn thing. Except that I can’t ever let my interest in diapers come anywhere close to my life on the team. 

Padded Little Paradise

Naptime Thoughts

Image Credit: Ageplay247.com Quiet! You’ll wake her if you’re not careful. It’s her naptime, of course. She needs two, maybe three hours’ na

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