They had lived together for six months.
And in that time, she had become the envy of every man who laid eyes on her.
Tall, magnetic, with that effortless beauty that could stop conversations mid-sentence. Silky brunette hair that cascaded down her back in waves, legs for days, and a body that walked the tightrope between elegance and irresistible temptation. Her walk alone could leave men dazed. She didn’t try to be sexy—she simply was. Confidence radiated from her, and not in a loud way. In that slow-burn, intoxicating way that made it impossible to look away.
He, on the other hand, was… meticulous. A creature of control and habit. His grooming, his spreadsheets, his color-coded sock drawer—it all served one purpose: to hide the gnawing, humiliating truth he never dared speak aloud. He had lived his entire life fearing exposure. Every drawer was organized. Every routine, rehearsed. Every layer of his identity was carefully constructed to conceal the one part of himself he could never let anyone see.
Especially not her.
Their home was a temple of order. Their relationship, seemingly perfect. She’d often giggle about how easy things were with him. “It’s like living with a sweet little butler,” she once joked, tousling his hair while he blushed and busied himself with folding laundry. Everything just… worked.
Until Thursday.
It was meant to be a normal day. She had a morning appointment, he had a massive pitch with his firm. But fate had other plans.
A minor car accident. Her bumper was mangled, but she was fine—just a bit shaken. The tow truck was on its way, but she didn’t want to interrupt his important morning. He’d been so stressed prepping for the meeting. She knew he’d freak out if she called.
So, she quietly ordered an Uber and headed home.
The key turned. The door clicked. She stepped inside, purse still on her shoulder.
And stopped cold.
The lights were dim, but sunlight bled in through the blinds just enough to illuminate the scene before her. There, on the living room rug—kneeling, shirtless, and facing away—was her boyfriend.
And he was wearing a diaper.
But not just any diaper.
A massive, obscenely thick diaper, swollen with use and bulging under the strain of its tapes. Pink and printed, the padding was so thick he couldn’t have closed his legs if he tried. The unmistakable scent of powder and plastic hung in the air, mixed with the shame of being caught.
She blinked.
He didn’t move.
Her heels clicked once on the hardwood as she stepped in fully. “…Babe?”
His entire body stiffened. He turned, just enough to glance at her over his shoulder—eyes wide, mouth slightly parted in terror.
“You weren’t supposed to see this,” he whispered, voice cracking.
For a beat, she didn’t speak. Her face unreadable.
Then her gaze lowered, taking in the full scene—the crinkled disaster between his legs, the redness in his cheeks, the telltale damp patch creeping up the front of his babyish padding.
And suddenly… she laughed.
Not kindly.
It was a slow, growing, disbelieving laugh. The kind that could eviscerate someone. She covered her mouth, then lowered her hand and took another step forward. “Oh my god. Seriously?”
He tried to rise to his feet, but the bulk between his thighs made it awkward. She raised a palm and stopped him mid-motion.
“No, no. Stay just like that,” she said. Her tone had sharpened now—no longer confused, but cutting. “Is this what you do when I leave for the morning? Sit around pissing yourself like a helpless little baby?”
His jaw quivered. “I—I was going to clean up before you got back, I swear.”
“Oh, I bet you were,” she sneered, circling him now, eyes trailing him like a predator. “So this is your big secret, huh? My neat freak boyfriend… waddling around like a little piss-piggy.”
He nearly broke. His eyes welled.
And that’s when she grinned—wide, wicked.
“I knew.”
He blinked. “W-what?”
She crossed her arms and tilted her head. “You think I hadn’t noticed the missing space in the closet? Or that one time I opened your travel bag and found a weird rustling sound? Oh honey, when we moved in, I found a pacifier tucked into the lining of your suitcase. Not exactly subtle.”
He turned pale.
“But I didn’t say anything. Not because I was okay with it—oh no, not at first. I needed time to research.”
She stepped closer, crouched to meet his trembling gaze. “You see, I went down a little rabbit hole. ABDL. Diaper addiction. Sissy humiliation. All of it. I read forums. I watched videos. And after I stopped gagging… I realized something.”
He swallowed, his throat dry. “W-what?”
“You’re pathetic. But useful.” She smirked. “I realized you were giving me two choices: dump your disgusting, padded ass… or turn you into the perfect little diaper slave.”
He whimpered.
She reached into her pocket.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Her phone snapped picture after picture of him—crouched, humiliated, soaked and stunned.
“Smile, baby,” she cooed. “Your little fetish is adorable. I’m sure your friends on Facebook would agree.”
He gasped.
Something broke inside him—his shame, his control, his resistance. He let out a soft, breathy moan.
And then, he came.
Right there in his soaked, sagging diaper. Helplessly. Humiliatingly.
She howled with laughter.
“Oh my god, you actually came? Just from a few pictures? Oh, wow… wow. That is the saddest thing I’ve ever seen.”
He curled inward, face buried in his palms.
She stood tall, victorious.
“Well, Cucky,” she said, using the name for the first time, “I think you need some time to think about your future. So here’s what’s gonna happen…”
She led him—still trembling, still leaking—into the laundry room. The large dog crate sat in the corner, usually reserved for their German Shepherd.
Not tonight.
“You can sleep in here while you decide. The dog gets the bed. You get to think about whether you want to move out and be a normal adult… or stay here and become Mommy’s full-time diaper bitch.”
The crate clicked shut.
And the house fell quiet again.
But not their minds.
Not their dreams.
🩷 The Padded Secret: Dreamland
His Dream
The crate was barely large enough to stretch out in, and the thick diaper between his thighs felt even more suffocating now than it had earlier. Humid. Heavy. Shameful. His girlfriend’s cold command echoed in his head—“Sleep in the crate. Think things over.” But his thoughts had run away from him. Straight into nightmare.
He dreamt he woke up, but not in their apartment. No. He was in his childhood home, standing in the living room, the very one where his parents once hosted holidays and birthday parties. Except now, he wasn’t standing—he was lying on a baby playmat. In nothing but a fresh, crinkling diaper. A giant pink pacifier clipped to his chest, and a bib embroidered with “Mommy’s Messy Boy.”
He tried to cover himself but realized he couldn’t move—his wrists were secured in soft pink mittens, strapped together behind his back.
Then the front door opened.
His girlfriend strolled in, looking impossibly confident and gorgeous in her power heels and tight pencil skirt. But she wasn’t alone.
Behind her came his parents.
His older sister.
His college best friend.
All of them staring. Some confused. Others laughing. His mother blinked in stunned silence. His dad scratched his head. But his sister burst out laughing, pulling out her phone, recording him right there on the floor.
“Is this why you always locked your room?” she cackled.
His girlfriend stepped forward. “We figured it was time everyone knew,” she said sweetly. “He’s in diapers now. Full-time. And he’s going to need lots of help staying in them.”
That’s when the babysitting schedule came out.
Printed. Laminated. Color-coded.
Monday and Wednesday afternoons? His mom.
Friday evenings? His sister.
Weekends? His old best friend, grinning and shaking his head in disbelief, would take the “naughty boy” out for public walks in his stroller.
The humiliation was endless. They discussed his feeding schedule. Changing chart. Nap times. A “discipline log” his girlfriend planned to leave on the fridge.
Then the worst came.
She squatted beside him, reached under his diaper, and loudly announced, “Aw, he’s already wet. So eager to prove he belongs in diapers.”
Click. Click. Click. Phones everywhere. Pictures being taken from every angle.
He screamed to wake up.
And he did. But not before feeling himself cum into the soggy padding, humiliated, broken, and trembling.
Her Dream
She slept peacefully.
Deliciously.
Her mind, unlike his, wasn’t tormented. It was blossoming.
In her dream, she was in a penthouse suite, city skyline glowing behind her. She wore a tight, latex dress, black as night and dripping with curves. Around her were three men—tall, chiseled, confident, and insatiably horny. They hung on her every word, every movement. Two of them kissed her thighs. One massaged her shoulders.
And behind them all… crawled her boyfriend.
He wore nothing but a soaked diaper, a little bell on his collar jingling every time he moved. He wasn’t even allowed to stand. She had him trained to crawl behind her—at bars, parties, private dinners. He was her diaper cuck now, and everyone knew it.
Sometimes the men would mock him. One even unbuckled his belt and rubbed it under the poor boy’s nose. “Smell what a real man wears,” he said, laughing.
She didn’t punish them for the teasing. In fact, she encouraged it.
He poured their drinks.
He cleaned up after their fun.
He paid for everything—after all, she’d made sure he had a full-time remote job now, one where he didn’t even have to wear pants. Just thick diapers under his desk and a productivity tracker to make sure he didn’t slack while her lovers rearranged her insides upstairs.
She had rules for him.
He couldn’t speak unless spoken to.
He had to ask permission to change.
He had to thank each of her lovers after they left—for “taking care of Mommy so well.”
But most of all, he had to stay in diapers. Forever.
And he wanted to. That’s what made it so delicious.
He craved her approval.
He crawled after it.
He soaked for it.
They both woke up panting.
He, hard, soaked, trembling.
She, flushed, heart pounding, smirking to herself.
But she didn’t rush to him. No. She let him stew. Let the dream linger
Instead, she made breakfast—loudly. Bacon sizzling. Coffee grinder buzzing. Letting the sounds drift through the apartment and into the laundry room where her diapered little secret sat locked in his crate.
As she set her own plate down, she spotted the dog’s water bowl on the floor.
A wicked grin curled on her lips.
She washed it. Dried it. Polished it.
Then walked down the hallway.
She didn’t say a word.
Just opened the door, held up the empty bowl, and tapped it gently against the bars.
“C’mon, Cucky. Time to make your own breakfast.”
🩷 The Padded Secret: Reflection
The key turned with a sharp click.
The crate door creaked open.
She didn’t speak at first. Just crouched, eyes scanning him—curled up on the thin dog bed, arms hugged around his knees, the diaper around his waist visibly puffed and yellowed in the dim light of the laundry room.
He didn’t dare meet her eyes. The smell inside the crate was unbearable—his own stale stink, sealed in overnight. It clung to him. His thighs were damp, raw from hours of being pressed into the swollen pulp.
“Good morning,” she said simply, standing upright and leaving the crate door open.
He slowly pulled himself forward, crawling out of the cramped space. As soon as he stretched, the diaper shifted—squelch—and fresh warmth leaked down the inside of his legs. He winced. His face burned with shame.
She was already halfway down the hall by the time he made it to the doorway, her silk robe flowing behind her, her bare feet silent on the floorboards. He followed her, awkwardly, walking bow-legged like a toddler overdue for a change.
When he reached the kitchen, she was sipping her coffee, back turned.
He cleared his throat.
“I think we should talk,” he said, voice cracking. “I don’t want breakfast. And why do you… why do you have the dog bowl?”
She turned, casually lifting the stainless steel bowl from the counter with one hand.
His eyes widened.
“I’m really sorry,” he rushed on. “Things got carried away. Can I… please just change out of this diaper, and we talk?”
Her eyes narrowed.
“Fuck no.” She set her coffee down with a sharp clink. “What did you decide, Diaper Loser?”
He swallowed. His throat was dry.
“I… I’ll stay.”
She stepped toward him slowly, like a queen approaching a groveling subject.
“No. That’s not good enough.”
He blinked, confused.
“You saying yes isn’t enough anymore,” she said, voice ice cold. “You don’t just get to say you’re mine. You have to become mine. Down to the bone.”
She paused, smiling. “And don’t worry. I’ve done my research.”
He paled.
“If you’re going to live here,” she continued, tapping the bowl with her nails, ting ting ting, “then it’s time for your initiation.”
She turned and pointed toward the stairs.
“Crawl. In that disgusting diaper. Upstairs. Bathroom mirror.”
He didn’t move at first.
“Crawl. Or you’re out that front door in what you’re wearing. And if you hesitate again, I’ll call your mother myself and tell her you had an accident.”
His legs buckled, and he dropped to his hands and knees.
The diaper groaned under him, sticky and bloated. Every movement sent a new wave of squelches and heat through his thighs. The padding had turned to soup overnight, and now it dragged beneath him like a heavy sack of pulp. Strings of gel clung to his skin, smearing across the floor as he crawled.
She followed behind him, slowly.
One hand holding her phone.
The other holding the dog bowl.
The climb up the stairs felt eternal. And humiliating. Every step was louder than the last—crinkle, squish, crinkle, squish. He tried to move quickly but the diaper’s bulk made that impossible.
When they reached the bathroom, she pointed to the mirror.
“Stand. Face yourself.”
He obeyed.
And gasped.
The sight in the mirror made him dizzy.
The diaper was soaked—slumped, yellowed, and threatening to fall off entirely. The leg gathers had darkened to nearly brown. The back sagged down like a wet grocery bag. His thighs were covered in shiny streaks of old leaks. His skin was red, his lips trembling.
He didn’t look like her boyfriend.
He looked like her pet.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” she said, setting the dog bowl on the counter beside him. “You’re going to take that disgusting thing off. Slowly. While looking yourself in the eye.”
He didn’t move.
“I said look at yourself. Not me. Not the wall. Not the floor.”
She turned her phone around. Recording. Already.
“You will wring that diaper out into the bowl. Every. Last. Drop. You don’t look away unless you’re making sure not to spill. You don’t complain. You don’t cry. You earn your place.”
He opened his mouth, but she held up her hand.
“And when it’s done,” she said, “you will look yourself in the mirror and say: I’m your Diaper Cuck, to do with as you please. I’ll never complain. You’ll say it like you mean it. Then you may come downstairs.”
She stepped out of the bathroom and closed the door.
And he was alone.
With the mirror.
With the diaper.
With the bowl.
He reached for the first tape.
Rrrip.
The sound echoed.
Then the second.
The diaper peeled forward with a wet slurp, sticking to his skin as if it had melted into place overnight. As it pulled free, a wave of warmth and stale odor hit him, sharp and unmistakable. The lining inside was drenched—discolored, glistening, and thick in places with the heavy dampness of hours gone by.
He lifted it with both hands.
It sagged dramatically, swollen and unbalanced. Moisture pooled at the lowest point, and small droplets began to patter into the bowl below before he’d even started.
His cheeks burned.
He raised it higher… and squeezed.
The first stream came slow—warm, thick, and deeply humiliating. It poured from the bottom corner of the diaper in a lazy spiral, hitting the steel bowl with a wet slap. Pale yellow, tinged with white, clouded like spoiled cream. The smell intensified—earthy, acidic, humiliating.
He gagged again, but kept going.
He squeezed harder.
The bowl echoed with every drop. Thick ribbons of foul runoff splattered into it, splashing against the sides. A few ropes of sticky liquid clung between his fingers and the shell of the diaper, stretching, refusing to let go. It got on his hands, his wrists, his thighs—he was coated in it.
He flipped the diaper and gritted his teeth.
The smell intensified—hot, fermented, vulgar. The rear end was the worst. He wrung it with both hands, pressing the bloated padding tight until it spilled out in bursts. What emerged wasn’t fluid anymore—it was sludge. A mix of ammonia-slick pee and sticky-white remnants of his release, melted together by heat and time. It oozed between his knuckles like custard left too long in the sun.
His stomach lurched.
His cock twitched.
He hated himself.
And yet… part of him burned.
Twist. Press. Wring.
It didn’t stop. The diaper kept giving, like it had stored every ounce of his surrender in its core. His hands were dripping. His chest was splattered. His thighs glistened with shame.
And the bowl?
Full. Nearly brimming. A toxic little soup of everything he was too weak to hold inside.
He dropped the diaper to the floor.
Trembling, he sank to his knees.
The bowl steamed faintly in the air.
He lifted it.
His lips met the rim.
And he drank.
The taste was worse than the smell. Warm, acrid, foul—like metal and salt and sweat and secrets. It coated his tongue and clung to his teeth. Each swallow took effort. His throat rebelled, his stomach twisted, but he kept going.
Because deep down, in the darkest corners of his shame… this belonged to him.
This was his life now.
Gag. Swallow. Gag. Swallow.
He could feel it sliding down, warming his belly with every degrading mouthful. Tears streamed down his face. His whole body shivered—but he didn’t stop.
Sip after humiliating sip, he emptied the bowl.
Then—shaking—he looked into the mirror.
“I’m your Diaper Cuck… to do with as you please. I’ll never complain.”
And deep down… he meant it.
🩷 The Padded Secret: The Long Descent
Six months.
That’s how long it had been since she locked the laundry room door behind him and watched her boyfriend crawl out of the dog crate in his soaked diaper, only to wring it out into a bowl and drink every last degrading drop. That moment didn’t mark the end of anything—it was only the beginning.
From that morning forward, her tone changed. There were no more emotional arguments, no more pleading. No more bargaining or apologies. She was in charge now, and he—no matter what he’d once thought he was—was hers to mold. Or break.
And she started with the simplest rules.
Every morning: diaper.
Every night: fresh diaper.
Chastity: always.
Bathroom privileges? Gone.
At first, he resisted. Not openly—he wouldn’t dare—but in the little ways. He’d whine. He’d take too long changing. He’d double up his boxers over the padding, or try to act normal when she took him out in public. She noticed it all. And she punished every bit of it.
“No boxers. Diapers only.”
“Arms at your sides while I change you. Don’t hide your little cage from me.”
“If you’re leaking again, you’ll mop the floor with your tongue.”
The consequences were swift. Some nights she wouldn’t speak to him at all—just gesture to the dog crate. Other days, she’d make him wear the same soaked diaper until he begged to be changed, then deny it a few hours longer. He learned quickly: his comfort didn’t matter. Only obedience did.
What broke him wasn’t the humiliation itself—it was the repetition.
Every morning, she laid out a fresh diaper on the bed like a uniform. She chose the pattern. Pink unicorns. Cartoon baby bears. Thick, crinkly, high-rising ones that bulged beneath anything he wore. And she expected him to lay down, legs up, and let her tape him in like it was nothing. Every. Single. Day.
She bought a full-length mirror and mounted it beside the bed. He had to watch himself during every change—watch the way his thighs lifted, how his little cock stayed locked in its cage, how his expression always flickered between shame and something else. She made him name that look.
“Say it,” she whispered the first time, smirking as she tugged the tapes tight.
“…I look like your diaper cuck.”
She smiled.
“That’s better. You’re learning.”
It took less than a month before he stopped asking for underwear.
She never said the word “forbid.” She didn’t have to. Every drawer that once held his boxers now held stacks of diapers—color-coded, thick, themed, folded into soft pastel piles. She lined them up by mood. Playful, pathetic, punishment. She always picked for him.
The few times he dared complain, she’d cock her head and remind him.
“You said you’d stay. Remember?”
And that was the end of it.
By the second month, she added rules. She typed them up on pink printer paper and taped them to the fridge. Big letters. Cute little hearts. Like a preschool behavior chart—but for a grown man in diapers.
Diaper Discipline Daily Rules
• No potty breaks. All needs go in your diaper.
• You must ask permission to change.
• Diaper must be used before requesting change.
• Diaper checks are random and non-negotiable.
• Leaks = punishment.
• Diaper visible at all times inside the house.
• Always curtsy and say, “Thank you, Mommy,” after changes.
He read them silently the first time, standing in the kitchen with his cage tucked beneath a pink, princess-themed diaper. She stood behind him, arms crossed, waiting.
“Well?”
He blushed. His voice cracked.
“Thank you… Mommy.”
“Louder.”
“…Thank you, Mommy.”
“Good boy.”
She patted his padded ass like she was burping a baby and walked off, leaving him standing there—thick, crinkling, and completely owned.
By the third month, she had him doing tasks.
Wearing an apron over his diapers to do her dishes. Vacuuming the house in thigh-high socks and nothing else. Crawling to her on all fours with his coloring book whenever he wanted attention. She added routines: morning check-ins, evening reports, little notes left on his pillow with instructions.
He never knew what to expect. That was the point.
Some days he’d find a pacifier in his work bag. Others, a printed photo of him mid-change, tucked into his wallet. When he got too quiet, she’d blast nursery music through the house and order him to waddle-dance for her phone camera. Sometimes she let him watch—just to see what she saw.
There was no escape. There was only adaptation.
And slowly, surely… he adapted.
He stopped hiding the diapers.
Stopped flinching during changes.
Stopped arguing when she taped them extra tight and slipped a pacifier into his mouth afterward.
By the fourth month, he started to do things before she asked.
Washing his own used onesies. Laying out his changing mat in advance. Texting her selfies when he leaked. He began to say “diaper” out loud without hesitation, and even learned to use the word “messy” without crying.
She noticed. And she smiled.
He wasn’t just accepting it. He was learning to live it.
By the end of the fifth month, he was a routine.
He woke in his crib—yes, crib. She replaced their bed with it in month four and sold the headboard on Facebook Marketplace with the caption: “Too grown-up for us now.”
He didn’t argue.
He crawled out every morning when the light-up stars above his crib turned blue, not a minute sooner. She diapered him on the floor, checked his cage, and handed him his daily assignment—whether that was cleaning the bathrooms in a bonnet or kneeling in the kitchen with a bib while she sipped coffee and read texts from strangers.
She barely needed to speak anymore. He just… obeyed.
And that’s when she started dating.
At first, it was subtle. Lip gloss. Shorter skirts. Late-night showers. She began wearing heels around the house—not for him. Never for him. Just so he could hear the difference: sharp, clicking, powerful.
Then came the nights out.
She didn’t ask permission or explain. She simply changed her clothes, touched up her makeup, and left. Sometimes she’d pause by his crate and smile down at him while he sat, thickly diapered, coloring or watching cartoons like the pathetic house pet he’d become.
“Be good,” she’d say, slipping on her earrings. “And don’t wait up.”
The first night she didn’t come home until morning, he cried.
He didn’t even realize it until he heard himself sobbing—muffled by his pacifier, curled on the nursery rug in a soaked diaper, phone untouched. She hadn’t texted. Not once. She didn’t need to.
When she returned, glowing and casual, she walked straight past him, to the bedroom, and dropped her heels beside his cage like they were trophies.
No explanation. No shame.
And he didn’t ask.
By the second week, she stopped using the crate. Not because he earned freedom—but because he didn’t need it anymore. His obedience had become reflex. She’d look at him once, and he’d lower his gaze. Point to the changing mat, and he’d crawl. Say nothing, and he’d stay quiet—unless she wanted a giggle, or a whimper, or a diaper check.
He was her constant. Her cute, pathetic, thickly padded pet.
But they—the men she was now dating?
They were everything he wasn’t.
She made sure he saw their shoes by the front door. Heard their voices downstairs. Smelled their cologne clinging to her blouse the next morning while she changed him with one hand and scrolled through messages with the other.
She let him know, without ever saying it:
You’re not the man in this house anymore.
You’re not even a man at all.
And he nodded.
Because by then… he agreed.
🩷 The Padded Secret: On Display
Another six months passed.
If the first six were about breaking him, these were about polishing him—fine-tuning his shame, routine, and total surrender until he stopped questioning what he wore, what he felt, or who he was. Diapers, chastity, babyish tasks, a pink plastic chart taped to the fridge—it all blended into his daily reality.
She didn’t have to remind him anymore. The rules had become him.
He no longer sat on the furniture unless told.
He didn’t speak unless spoken to.
And his eyes never left the floor when she walked in.
The cage stayed on 24/7. His diapers stayed visible unless guests were over—which, lately, had become more frequent. That was no accident.
By now, he worked from home full-time—a decision she insisted on. She didn’t like the idea of him out in the world unsupervised, dressed like a grown-up, pretending to be something he wasn’t. His new job let him clock in remotely, and that meant one thing: total monitoring.
She installed cameras. Parental controls. Software on his laptop that took random screenshots during work hours. If she ever caught him with pants on during the day, he knew the consequences wouldn’t just be embarrassing… they’d be brutal.
But lately? She hadn’t needed to punish him much at all.
He kept his bottles chilled in the mini fridge beside his desk.
He took his lunch breaks on his playmat in the corner.
He asked—quietly, humbly—when he needed a change.
He had become the perfect little housepet.
And she was so proud of him.
Which is exactly why she invited Jennifer over.
Jennifer wasn’t subtle. She never had been. She was 22, sharp-tongued, always laughing, and dressed like the word modest had been deleted from her vocabulary. Stripper. OnlyFans model. Twitter FemDom with a bio that read:
“Ruining boys for a living.”
She was chaos in heels. And the girlfriend loved her.
The moment Jennifer stepped through the door, her eyes went wide.
“Wait. He’s the one?” she asked, dropping her purse. “Omg, you weren’t kidding!”
He froze.
He’d been standing in the corner of the living room—his usual greeting spot. Thick white diaper with pastel blue bears. Locking pacifier around his neck. Pink T-shirt that read “Potty Training in Progress.” She hadn’t even let him wear socks.
He stood there trembling, unsure if he should bow or curtsy.
“Oh my God, he’s precious,” Jennifer cackled, walking straight toward him. “Turn around, baby. Let me see that big, padded butt!”
He obeyed. Of course he did.
She gave it a firm smack. The sound echoed.
“Daaamn, girl,” Jennifer turned to his girlfriend. “I can’t believe you actually did it. I mean, I knew you were kinky but this is…” Her eyes returned to him, smirking. “This is next-level.”
The girlfriend smiled, beaming with smug pride.
“He’s come a long way,” she said. “I had to be patient. But look at him now.”
Jennifer leaned in and gave his pacifier a tug, watching it swing.
“What’s your name, little one? Or does Mommy just call you ‘pants wetter’ now?”
He opened his mouth—but his girlfriend cut in.
“He doesn’t talk to other women unless I say so.”
Jennifer raised a brow. “Oooh. Strict Mommy.”
“The strictest.”
“Good.”
She leaned in again, her cleavage in his face, and whispered.
“I bet it feels so good being humiliated like this, doesn’t it? Just standing here while real women laugh at you… with your tiny little cage twitching inside that squishy, crinkly diaper?”
He whimpered.
She saw the twitch. Smirked. Took a step closer.
“Are you seriously trying to get hard in that thing?”
He tried to look away—but she took his chin between her fingers.
“Answer me, baby.”
His voice cracked.
“…Y-yes.”
A pulse. A warmth. His diaper swelled slightly, involuntarily. His hips rocked forward once—his body betraying him.
Jennifer’s voice dropped to a purr.
“You’re sick. And I love it.”
Then—sharp and clear:
“Enough,” his girlfriend said.
She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to.
Jennifer backed off with a grin and sat on the couch like nothing had happened. The control in the room had shifted right back to where it belonged.
“He’s cute when he squirms,” Jennifer said, sipping her iced coffee. “Like a confused puppy in a baby bonnet.”
“He’s mine,” she replied calmly. “He knows what’s expected.”
And just like that, he was told to go sit on his mat and color. Quiet. Thick. Shaking.
But close enough to listen.
“So,” Jennifer asked, “are you still getting what you need?
The girlfriend took a long, deliberate sip of her drink. “Not really. That’s why I wanted to talk.”
Jennifer leaned forward, eyes sparkling. “Ooooh. Spill.”
“There’s someone,” she said softly, her voice warming immediately.
“He’s… incredible, Jen. You don’t understand.”
Jennifer’s eyes lit up. “Tell me everything.”
“He’s tall. Like tall tall. Built like a Greek statue. Thick, tan arms. Big hands. Big… everything.” Her breath caught slightly. “God, when he hugs me, I melt. He smells like sin. He talks like he already owns the room—and me.”
She leaned back, glowing. Almost panting.
“I swear, I’ve never wanted someone this badly in my entire life. Every time he looks at me, I want to beg. I want to be on my knees before he even unzips his jeans.”
Jennifer blinked. “Damn, girl. You’re gonna drown the couch.”
They both laughed. But across the room, her diapered boyfriend sat frozen—crayons untouched, mind spinning. His stomach twisted. His cage throbbed. And yet… something in her voice stirred something else.
Pride. Longing. Submission.
“She’s happy,” he thought. “She wants this.”
And he wanted her to have it.
Even if it meant becoming… invisible.
Jennifer asked, “Does he know about our little diaper princess over there?”
“Not yet.”
“You’re gonna tell him?”
“Tomorrow.”
Jennifer laughed. “Brave.”
“If he’s the man I think he is,” she said, grinning, “he won’t just accept it. He’ll use it. He’ll bend my little sissy over the crib while I watch.”
The words hit like thunder.
And Cucky nodded.
Not because he understood…
But because it felt right.
Jennifer sipped her drink, then snapped her fingers.
“Oh! One more thing.”
The girlfriend looked up. “Hmm?”
“I want a turn.”
The room went still.
“With him,” Jennifer smirked, pointing toward the floor. “Not forever. Just… a weekend. Or a Friday night. You know, let Auntie Jenn do some babysitting.”
The girlfriend raised a brow, amused.
“A Cucky Sitter?”
“Exactly.”
“I like it.”
She turned to her pet, who had gone quiet again—eyes wide, mouth slightly open.
“Well, baby?” she said sweetly. “Would you like that? Some quality time with Miss Jennifer while Mommy’s out with someone big enough to actually satisfy her?”
He nodded, slowly. Embarrassed. Terrified. Thrilled.
Jennifer winked.
“Can’t wait, baby boy.”
To Be Continued. 🩷