They say it like it's fun. Like it's the next exciting event on a field trip.
“Tummy time!!” Amber announces in that singsong voice she always uses, clapping her hands like I'm supposed to be excited.
Kayla is already unrolling the blanket in the center of the living room. “Let’s get those wiggles out, stinker.”
I don't argue. There isn't any point. This is just what comes after breakfast bottles and “num-nums” in the highchair.
I waddle as best I can, the heavy sag of my soiled diaper rubbing between my thighs with every reluctant step. They don't even bother putting me in a clean one first. I got my change a few hours ago, so "maybe baby needs to stew in his mess for a while."
Tummy time is better than the bouncer, at least. That stupid harness seat with the dangling toys and the padded crotch strap that’s always just a little too tight, pressing the contents of your diaper into every crack and crevice it can. The thing that forces you to bounce, like some cruel mechanical rhythm, while they watch and giggle. I hate it.
But tummy time? Tummy time is softer. Slower. Deceptively kind. Lying flat. Arms pinned beneath me. Diaper ballooned out behind me. It almost feels like a break.
Because I always mess it up.
Try to stay still, try not to get worked up.
That’s what keeps circling through my mind, over and over, even as my hips twitch again, sinking into the bloated bulk of my diaper. The warm squish underneath is unbearable. The weight of a devil and an angel sitting on my shoulders.
But it's been so long! THEY are the ones that got you worked up. It's not your fault that you're horny, even with the disgusting state of your diaper right now.
If I keep it subtle. If I breathe slow. If I don’t moan. Maybe I can rock just enough. Just enough to take the edge off. Just enough to quiet the constant ache they leave me in at all times.
The teasing. The way they rub my cock with the wipe too long during changes, making sure it's "squeaky clean", fingers “accidentally” slipping into my hole while they wipe it clean and pretend nothing happened. "Why are you getting so worked up, baby?" Amber always says as she strokes me. "I'm just trying to rub the lotion in to protect you from a diaper rash!" They know exactly what they're doing, they've learned my mannerisms well enough to know how to stop when I'm right at the edge before pulling their hand off. "Such a squirmy baby!!" Kayla will giggle as she pulls a fresh diaper over my purple, twitching, dripping dick and tapes it up tight. Amber always tapping the crotch lightly and say something like, “Keep it in your pants, Romeo,” knowing full well I don’t have any.
Then they move on with their day like I hadn’t been left trembling and desperate in my own padded prison.
I groan into the mat, trying to stay still, but it’s no use. The pressure. The warmth. The weight of my hips against the swollen, messy bulk, it’s all too much. Even with the mush. Even with the smell. Or maybe because of them. It’s awful. It’s overwhelming. And it’s the only time I can get close. Tummy time is the only part of the day where I might get a little stimulation.
The only moment I’m not being spoon-fed, strapped into something, or hovered over so I don't get handsy. In the highchair, they’re right there wiping my chin and tapping the crotch of my diaper with condescending coos. During nap time, my hands are mittened and strapped to keep me from "getting any ideas."
Lying flat, arms pinned beneath me, diaper ballooned out behind me. If I keep it subtle, if I breathe slow, if I don’t moan, maybe I can rock just enough. Just enough to take the edge off. Just enough to quiet the ache they leave me with after every “innocent” diaper change.
I shift forward slightly. The mush spreads. The squish deepens. I exhale through my nose, slow. They’re talking on the couch, scrolling their phones, probably not even watching me. Just like always. Maybe I’ll get away with it this time. Maybe I'll—
“Uh-oh,” Kayla murmurs, like she’s caught me stealing cookies. “Somebody’s moving his hips again…”
Amber doesn’t even look up. Just lifts her tumbler and smirks. “He always does this during tummy time. Right when his diaper’s at its messiest. Like clockwork.”
I bury my face in the mat. My face burns.
“You are just the squirmiest little thing!!” Kayla coos, climbing off the couch and crouching beside me.
Her voice dips into that syrupy sing-song that makes everything worse. “I think he likes how it feels. Do you like that, sweetie? That warm mushy feeling smooshing under your wittle bum-bum?”
I groan into the mat, shaking my head.
Amber kneels down on the other side of me. “Tummy time strikes again!"
I go completely still. Like if I just freeze, they’ll stop. Like if I don’t move, maybe they’ll let it go. But their eyes are on me now. And they’re smiling.
“Oh, come on,” Amber teases, leaning in close so I can feel her breath on my flushed cheeks. “You were just rocking back and forth like a little puppy trying to make happy humps. Don’t be shy now.”
“You’re not in trouble,” Kayla coos. “Not if you admit it.”
I try not to move, but the pressure is building. The warmth. The need. It’s so much worse when I know they’re watching. I hate how turned on they make me. How horny all of this makes me...
“You want to rub your squishy diaper, don’t you?” she whispers, brushing my hair from my eyes. “That’s what tummy time is for.”
Amber leans over the side of the couch. “We made it nice and soft for you, didn’t we? Fresh blanket. Warm mat. Big stinky diaper, just how you like it.”
“I bet you can’t even help it anymore,” Kayla says gently. “It just happens. Like everything else now.”
They’re right. Of course they’re right.
My hips twitch again. Barely a movement, but enough. They both see it.
“There’s our baby boy,” Amber says with a smirk. “Go on, sweetie. Just slow and steady. Nice and gentle. Let that squishy diaper do what it’s meant to.”
My body betrays me again. I rock, slowly. The pressure is unbearable.
Kayla leans in close, her voice soft. “Good boy. Just like that. That’s it. Rock your little hips. You’re not even thinking about it now, are you?”
“You just do what your body tells you,” Amber chimes in. “It’s not like you’re in charge anymore anyway.”
I let out a pathetic little whimper.
Kayla grins. “Awwww, are you getting fuzzy? Is your baby brain starting to melt?”
They’re both so calm. So encouraging. Like this is normal.
“You can let go,” Kayla murmurs. “You’re already in a dirty diaper. Just give in, baby.”
“And we’ll be right here when you’re done,” Amber adds, crossing her legs with a soft rustle. “We’re not going anywhere.”
My eyes are wet. My face is burning. And still, I keep moving.
Slowly. Shamefully. My hips rock with that pathetic, traitorous rhythm. The squish beneath me spreads wider with every motion, heat blooming between my thighs like something rotten. The smell rises. Faint at first, then stronger. Rich. Humid. Unavoidable.
Kayla rests a hand on the small of my back. Firm, steady, grounding. “Uh-uh, sweet boy. No stopping now.”
Her touch pins me in place. “Tummy time isn’t over until that diaper’s really full.”
“Like emotionally full,” Amber adds with a laugh, swirling her drink. “Not just the squishy kind. The soggy, sticky, spent kind.”
I try not to whimper. Try not to drool around the pacifier. Try not to think about what I look like. Spread out like this, squirming in my own mess while two grown women supervise.
Amber leans forward, her voice bright and awful. “That’s it, baby. Rock those hips. Work it out.”
“Aww, you’re breathing so heavy,” Kayla coos. “Is your wittle diaper getting you all worked up?”
“So mushy,” Amber says. “So squishy and full. Can you feel it all smearing under you? That’s your own stink, sweetheart. Your mess. And look at you, humping it.”
I shudder, rutting harder now. I can’t stop.
They giggle like it’s entertainment. Like I’m just a toy winding down on the floor. Kayla gives my diapered bottom a light pat, and the resulting squelch makes me cringe so hard my toes curl.
“Oh yeah,” she says, drawing it out. “He’s definitely close.”
Amber sips her drink. “Think we should count it out for him?”
Kayla grins. “Or make him say what he’s doing first. In his big boy words.”
My head shakes wildly against the mat.
“Uh-uh,” she warns again. “We let you have tummy time. The least you can do is tell us what’s going on in that squishy little pampers of yours.”
I freeze, breath caught in my throat.
Amber crouches low, grinning like a wolf. “It’s not a secret, baby. We see those little hips moving.”
Kayla strokes the small of my back with maddening patience. “So come on, sweetheart. Use your words. What are you doing in your big poopy diaper?”
I shake my head. Pathetically. Hoping somehow that they’ll let it go.
Amber leans in, voice syrupy and smug. “What’s wrong? Too embarrassed to tell the truth?”
“I…” My mouth is dry. The smell is thick. My whole body feels hot and heavy and low.
Kayla taps the back of my diaper. Squish. “We’re waiting.”
I want to disappear. But the pressure’s too much. Their stares. The squelching rhythm beneath me. The ache between my legs. The baby talk.
Kayla’s tone sharpens just enough to cut. “Say it properly.”
I close my eyes. My voice cracks.
“I’m w-wubbin’… my messy diapee…”
Amber claps her hands, delighted. “Awwwwww! Did you hear that?”
Kayla giggles, brushing my hair from my forehead. “He’s rubbing his messy diaper like a wittle stinkbug. That’s so nasty, baby.”
I groan into the mat, humiliated beyond words, except they still want more.
“Tell us why,” Amber says. “Why are you rubbing it, baby boy?”
I can’t. I absolutely can’t.
Kayla pouts, mock-sad. “Do we need to get the paddle?”
I whimper. My voice high-pitched in fear and need. “Cuz… it feews… good…”
They both melt with fake awe.
Amber wipes a pretend tear. “He’s such a brave little stink monster.”
Kayla giggles again. “Tummy time really does bring out the best in him.”
I keep moving. Because Kayla’s hand is still resting on the small of my back, warm and heavy like she’s reminding me who I belong to. Because Amber’s crouched beside my face, close enough that I can smell the sweet mint on her breath as she grins.
“Go on, wiggle worm!” she whispers. “Wriggle in your muddy diaper. Rub it in. Just like that. Nice and slow. That’s what tummy time’s for, right?”
I let out a pathetic sound, somewhere between a groan and a sob.
Kayla hums gently, “Wub-wub-wub that mushy diapee… that’s a good baby…”
Amber bites her lip dramatically. “I can see your little bum trying so hard. Are you almost done, baby boy?”
The pressure is unbearable. The squish. The friction. The warmth smeared everywhere. The sound. The smell. But worst of all: their voices.
“Tell us what’s happening,” Kayla croons. “Tell us what you’re doing.”
Amber isn’t having it. “Use your words, mister. Or we’ll make you start all over.”
“I…” I’m breathless. Desperate.
Kayla whispers right above my ear. “What do you say when you’re making a mess, baby?”
The words fall out of me like a confession.
Amber gasps, hand over her heart. “Oh my god. You are. You’re making goo-goo in your diapee like a good little mushy huggie humper!”
Kayla pats my back, sweet as anything. “That’s it. Ride it out, baby. Rub your nasty little stink diaper. Let your body do what it wants.”
I’m shaking now. Rocking harder. I can’t stop.
Amber giggles. “Does that feel good? Does your mushy diaper feel soooo nice on your little bits? Aww, are you gonna make cummies in your poo-poo pampers??”
Kayla’s tone stays calm. Maternal. Inescapable. “Make your goo-goo, baby boy. Make it all gone!”
With a shudder. A gasp. A whimper into the mat. My muscles clench and tense. My knuckles turn white as my hands grip the blankie and my body rocks back and forth. All filth forgotten, only focused on the feeling.
Right there. Face-down. Diaper full. Everything sticky and awful and hot and wrong. Kayla strokes my back. Amber claps like I just took my first steps. And neither of them moves to change me.
Kayla giggles. “I knew he had it in him. Or, well… not anymore.”
They let me lie there. Chest rising and falling. Face burning. Pacifier half-falling from my lips.
The warmth isn’t comforting anymore.
The mess I made, the squish beneath me, the smell clinging to the air and my skin, it’s all too much now. My hips don’t move. My breath doesn’t hitch. It’s over. Whatever fog had taken over my brain is gone, and all I’m left with is the awful truth of it.
While they talked me through it.
Kayla must see it hit me, because her smile changes. Softer. Meaner.
“Ohhh,” she coos. “There it is. There’s that little crash. Poor baby. You’re all done now, huh?”
Amber leans forward, resting her chin on her hand. “What’s wrong, sweetheart? Not feeling so proud anymore?”
I bury my face deeper into the mat. I want to disappear. To melt through the floor. To not exist. But the diaper clings to me. It’s sticky and bloated and shameful. I can feel everything now. The squish, the smell, the cool air on the back of my thighs. Every word they say cuts deeper than before.
“You were such a little animal a few minutes ago,” Amber sighs. “Just humping and humping your poopy pampers like a good little perv.”
Kayla tilts her head. “But now? You look like you want to cry.”
Amber nudges my ankle with her foot. “Tell us what you did. Use your big boy words.”
Kayla’s voice turns mock-gentle. “Oh, honey. We saw. You might as well say it.”
Her palm lands hard across my diapered backside, making the mess squelch. I let out a sharp yelp.
My voice cracks, barely audible. “I… I made stickies…”
“In what?” Amber prompts. “Be specific, baby.”
I shut my eyes. “In my… m-my dirty diaper.”
They both squeal in mock delight, clapping like I just recited the alphabet.
“Yaaay! Honest little diaper freak!” Amber sings. “A gold star for stinky post-nut clarity!”
Kayla crouches beside me, fingers tracing lazy circles on my back. “And how do you feel now, hmm? All done. All empty. Just lying there in your own mess while two grown women laugh at you.”
“Do you feel like a man?” she asks sweetly. “Or do you feel like what you really are: a drooly little hump-toy who blows his load into his own mushy pampers?”
I flinch. My cheeks are wet. They’ve made their point.
Amber pulls out her phone again. “Smile. Or don’t. Honestly, the shameface is better.”
Kayla pats my head. “Maybe next time you’ll think twice before rutting like a horn-dog. But probably not.”
“Either way,” Amber adds, setting a timer with a cruel little grin, “You’re sitting in that mess another twenty minutes. Consider it part of your post-rut cooldown.”
Kayla nods, brushing imaginary lint off my onesie. “Let it really soak in, baby. That’s what tummy time’s for.”
Right there on the mat. No towel. No wipe. No change. Nothing left to say. Nothing left to do. Just lie there on my tummy.
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Thank you @imsycmrianzdy for providing the lovely images. To the others that submitted, I want to thank you as well, and I will try to show my appreciation by writing a different caption for them eventually. Thanks everyone for reading! I was really happy with how this story came out. Hope you liked it!
