the lurker

BIG DIAPER FRIDAY!! :3

Diapers soaked in pure kid core style!!

He gets to pick his outfit. I get to stock his wardrobe. (Spoiler: he looks adorable in onesies.)

He chooses his breakfast. I limit his choices to either diuretic-filled formula or laxative-laced gruel.

He does the laundry. I hang it outside so our neighbors can admire his cloth diapers and plastic pants.

He orders our favorite takeout ramen. I blend it into a lovely slurry and spoonfeed it to him.

He empties the diaper pail. I make sure the contents are bagged in transparent plastic bags printed with "ADULT DIAPERS."

He folds the laundry. I inspect it afterward -- and spank him whenever his mittened hands don't do it well enough.

He gets to hang out with his friends once a week. I get to ask one of them to call me when he needs a change.

He works hard paying the bills. I set up his live streams and shoot his custom photo sets so he can focus on twerking that diaper butt.

He gets his own bedroom. I choose the decor and furniture -- from the crib sheets down to the padded cuffs.

He sleeps with whatever stuffies he likes. I sleep with whatever partners I like.

He watches me shower. I watch him hump his stuffies.

He gets an orgasm every day. I get to say whether it's into a dry, a wet, or a messy diaper.

I smile malevolently as you thrash in the restraints of your stroller, screaming into the paci gag strapped around your head, eyes rolling back, as you try futilely to escape my clutches.

I lock the wheels of your humiliating chariot, and drop to one knee, and begin to unbuckle you.

"Don't worry though, you'll still get to put on a show for all of your little friends!"

Your thrashing stops as concern overwhelms desperation on your face.

"I'm sure they'll all want to watch as I change your messy little bum! I mean, it's not often little ones get to watch their old babysitters have their didi's changed."

Your screams become wordless pleas as I pull you from the stroller.

"Yeah… It’s not you… It’s me.” “I just don’t think we are the right fit.”

How many times can you hear it? How many times can you nod, make an understanding face, and be left alone? You knew dating was hard, and you’ve put yourself out there, but you’ll do what you can to just stop doing what you’ve done so many times in the past, and try to find someone.

“I just feel we are a bit different.”

“Can we be friends?”

For so long, you were trying apps, through friends, through relatives. Nothing sticked. Nothing matched. Every time you got rejected, you felt a squeeze in your gut. Close to the feeling of needing to go. There were those rare times when you got to touch another body. It’s been a long time since you’ve touched your own, not directly. But then you’ve been touched as well, and after that touch, it ended every single time.

“You know what? Maybe not now.”

“Maybe not here.”

“Haha, oh wow. Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean that.”

You knew what it all meant. On those occasions, after they wrapped it up, you said “Sorry, I need to go to the bathroom real quick.”

Over the toilet, you took a long, weak piss. You needed to piss, but not there. You wanted to piss, in your diapers back home.

You wanted your diapers so bad. They don’t reject you, they accept you. They are not cold to you, they are warm.

They are comfortable and put you at ease.

But you said you are done with it! You said they are pulling you back from a normal life. Don’t you want to feel a real grip down there?

No. It’s much easier just to be yourself.

At home, you pulled out one thick diaper from a pack that you hid inside your closet. You throw the pack you stored at the front, but you always had a backup one. Because you knew, you knew you’ll be back in your diapers. It’s just who you were.

In the morning, you woke up in a wet diaper. You don’t remember when you woke up to wet, but there it was. It felt so good, it felt like you. From your back to your stomach, you switched positions. For every “no”, you humped. For every rejection, you humped. For every mocking laugh, you humped. Lying in bed, wearing a wet diaper, you humped. It didn’t make you sad, it made you hard. It did make you go faster, humping your wet diaper.

Maybe all of them were right. Maybe they saw something, but didn’t have the words for it. But you knew the words, you knew what you were.

The stroller’s wheels squeak softly as Mommy pushes you through the front door, the sound of laughter and chatter spilling out from the living room. You can feel the weight of the thick diaper between your legs, the plastic backing crinkling with every slight movement. The shortalls do little to hide the obvious bulge, the fabric stretched taut over the padding. You wiggle your toes, the socks on your feet feeling absurdly small, like they belong to a child rather than a grown man. But that’s what you are now, aren’t you? Mommy’s little boy, strapped into a stroller, about to be paraded in front of people who once knew you as an equal.

You grip the tray of the stroller, your fingers tracing the edge of the plastic as Mommy steers you into the room. The conversations falter for a moment, then die entirely. You can almost hear the confusion in the silence. A few of your former coworkers glance over, their expressions shifting from polite smiles to outright bewilderment. One of them, Mark, from accounting, does a double take, his beer bottle pausing halfway to his lips.

“Uh…” he starts, then stops, as if his brain can’t quite process what he’s seeing.

Mommy doesn’t miss a beat. She stops the stroller in the middle of the room, her hand resting on the back as she beams down at you. “Look who I brought!” she announces, her voice dripping with that infuriating, affectionate pride. “Say hi to everyone, sweetheart.”

You squirm, your face burning. You want to shrink into the stroller, to disappear entirely, but there’s nowhere to hide. The diaper is impossible to ignore, the bulk of it pressing against the seat, the tapes digging slightly into your hips. You can feel the warmth spreading through the padding, you’d peed a little on the way over, nerves getting the better of you, and the wetness indicators are probably already an embarrassing blue.

“Hi,” you mumble, your voice small, your eyes fixed on your lap.

Mark, your old coworker, is the first to break the silence. He tilts his head, squinting at the obvious bulge beneath your shortalls. “Dude… is he wearing a diaper?”

Mommy doesn’t hesitate. “Of course he is.”

Sarah, from HR, steps closer, her eyes flicking between Mommy and the unmistakable outline of the diaper. “No way. Seriously?”

Mommy nods, her fingers already working at the snaps of your shortalls. “Seriously.”

Jake from marketing crosses his arms, his expression a mix of disbelief and amusement. “But does he, like… use it?”

Mommy’s grin widens as she unfastens the last snap and tugs the shortalls down your legs in one smooth motion. The fabric pools at your ankles, leaving you in nothing but your t-shirt and the thick, crinkling diaper. The room falls silent again as the full sight of you is revealed, the bulky padding, the plastic backing, the way the diaper forces your legs apart.

And then they see it.

The wetness.

The deep blue stripe on the front of the diaper is  impossible to miss, the plastic glistening slightly where the moisture has spread. Sarah’s eyes widen. “Oh my God. He peed in it.”

Mommy chuckles, bending down to pull the shortalls free and set them aside. “Told you he uses them.”

Mark lets out a disbelieving laugh, crouching down to get a better look. His fingers hover just above the diaper, as if he’s afraid to touch it. “That’s… that’s wild.”

Jake shakes his head, his grin spreading. “So he just sits there, in a wet diaper, like it’s normal?”

Mommy ruffles your hair, her touch affectionate. “It is normal. For him, anyway.” She taps the front of your diaper, the squish loud in the quiet room. “See? Nice and wet. Just like a good little boy should be.”

The room erupts into laughter, the initial shock giving way to teasing. Sarah reaches out, her fingers brushing against the plastic backing. The crinkle is deafening. “Damn. That’s thick. And wet.”

You squirm, your face burning, but you don’t protest. What’s the point? The evidence is right there, plain for everyone to see. The diaper is heavy between your legs, the wetness a constant, embarrassing reminder of your regression. But beneath the humiliation, there’s something else, something warm, something comforting. This is who you are now. Mommy’s little boy, diapered and cared for, and if that means being the center of attention for a while, so be it.

The teasing continues for what feels like an eternity. They ask if you can walk (you can, but Mommy prefers to keep you in the stroller for “safety”). They ask if you want to be like this (the answer is complicated). They ask if Mommy changes you (yes, and you hate how much you love it).

Eventually, though, the novelty wears off. The adults drift back to their conversations, work, politics, the latest sports game, leaving you and Mommy on the periphery. Mommy bends down, her face softening as she looks at you. “You doing okay, baby?”

You nod, but your throat feels tight.

She smiles, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. “Good boy. “Now go play.”

Play. The word makes your stomach twist, but you obey, shuffling toward the corner of the room where a few toys have been left out, a stuffed bear, a stack of blocks, a coloring book. You can feel the eyes on you as you move, the occasional snicker, the whispered comments. But you ignore them, because Mommy told you to play, and good boys listen to Mommy.

You sink down onto the floor, the diaper crinkling loudly beneath you. The blocks are in front of you, but you don’t reach for them. Instead, you sit there, your hands resting on your knees, the thickness of the diaper a constant, comforting presence.

Across the room, the party continues. Laughter, clinking glasses, the hum of adult conversation. And you? You’re just… there. A curiosity. A joke. A little boy in a diaper, left to his own devices while the grown-ups talk about grown-up things.

It’s humiliating.

It’s perfect.

I squirm in discomfort, wiggling in my rolling chair, as I pretend to stare at the numbers on the screen in front of me.

My bladder, full to bursting, screams out to me in agony.

11:30 am.

It's only been two hours since I peed last, but, my body doesn't seem to care about that. All it seems to be worried about is relieving itself.

I turn my head, peeking towards the hallway where the office bathrooms are located. A shiver of unease works its way down my spin.

The fluorescent lights in the hallway flicker. A dark, malevolent figure appears in the darkness before the light becomes steady again.

I wince as a surge of pain, radiates through my body.

Soft pastels, teddy bears, and a tiny peek… perfect recipe for the bear-y best playtime ever! 🧸💕

Who wants to join me for princess tea parties and peaceful naps in the nursery? 🍼🎀

Now, toddle over to her and apologize for teasing her about being a baby.

Maybe if you're lucky, she'll forgive you and let you be a big girl again before you have to use that didi for it's intended purpose.

For the third time.