🕑 Added 2024-12-10 02:51:06 +0000 UTC
Story #176: The Poopy Diaper Retard (Part 3)
(Part 6 and the penultimate chapter to 'The Missing Integer' Storyline)
(Content Tags: Messy diapers, seat sniffing, humiliation, farting, perceived loss of intellect, degradation, braindrain, giving in)
It had been nearly two months since the incident at the park. Two months since his outlook had taken a nosedive off a steep cliff. What had happened at the park was but a snapshot of a bleak existence, which made it seem insignificant, but it was what had finally broken him.
It was what had finally made him understand that there was no escape from his predicament, that even if he were to escape the bonds of SPED, then he would only return to an eternal prison of shame. Whether or not his student file had the right IQ score on it, the public perception would always be that he was a 'poopy diaper retard'.
The annuls of academic accomplishment would sufficiently scrub him away, even if he returned to its world. He was marked now, and that mark would never allow him to be completely respected as an intellectual, no matter how hard he tried to prove himself. The terrible truth was that he was damned on either side of the fence he decided to stand.
That's why he had given up on fighting the current. Life was pushing him in the direction of becoming a pitiable poobrain of a person, a pamper-packer of the highest order, so he was done struggling against it. Life would be easier if he just stopped swimming and let the flow take him wherever he was destined to be.
And that place was in special ed.
Like a home away from home, where he was both derided as the tard of tards and objectified by his dimwitted classmates for having the largest diapers to huff the fumes of. That was the only popularity he could rely on now, that other retards desperately wanted to sniff his thickly padded butt, because his diaper could hold the most amount of poo. It was his claim to fame, with the other being that he made the other morons feel smarter, because nobody's IQ was recorded as low as Rhys.
It had become quite the unending nightmare, and one that he'd had no choice but to accept. He had stopped fighting against that being his role and instead had begrudgingly embraced it; his brain had already begun to degrade like this, with the only thing guarding it being his will to remain intelligent, and without that will...
Rhys had fallen a far distance in the last couple of months. He was drooling on himself, losing precious vocabulary by the day, and forcing himself to enjoy the squishy sensation of his own fudged diapers. He stopped thinking so much and instead forced himself to enjoy the simple pleasures of the simple-minded. He started to enforce in his own mind that there was nothing more to his world than the loaded diaper underneath his butt.
He *wanted* to just become a poopy diaper retard, both inside and out. He wanted to become so stupid that he no longer had to feel ashamed or miserable because of his assigned lot. If he couldn't beat the system, then it was time for him to submit to it fully, and to give up on ever being normal again.
If nothing else, this plan of action was enough to bring some happiness back to his grey little world. Once he stopped thinking about thinking, once he gave in to idiocy, he stopped being so bummed out all the time, and his drooly lips instead curled into a big, dumb smile.
It was a series of steps that he had to take, and each one was like stripping off a piece of a 'genius' costume, so that the retard underneath could be revealed. It had started with the cessation of higher thinking, which had been hard at the start, but had gotten progressively easier as time had gone on. No more lofty machinations of higher concepts, no more anxiety driven diatribes in his mind, just a focus on the same dumb things that his classmates troubled themselves with.
Another big step had been not only accepting that he was a diaper-dooker, but that there were few grander delights than to soil himself. To be a happy retard, he had to learn to love his own poop; he had to learn to find ecstasy in the act of defecating on himself and love for the warm, squishy feeling on his butt that came after.
That part was easier than he thought it would be. He'd been helplessly and copiously pooping his pants for months, multiple times a day and sometimes multiple times in an hour. The act was already an established part of his daily life, so all that needed to change was his attitude toward it.
The other retards never found it gross, inconvenient, or embarrassing. Quite the contrary, they viewed it as their most important form of expression and their most important labor of love. Some were more vocal about their affection for their dirty diapers than others, but none held any unpleasant emotions toward the poosack around their waist.
So Rhys tried to get into that frame of mind. Instead of being annoyed or disgusted whenever he crapped his pants, he instead tried to associate the action with joy and a sense of productivity. He put the same importance to the deed as he had once put toward the accomplished feeling of studying for a big test.
Once he felt the mush entering his seat, usually accompanied by a rancid concerto, he would grope the back of his diaper and let the drool flow. He began to understand the appeal from a sensory perspective, and he began to feel a twisted pride in how dirty and stinky he could make each retard-diaper.
He watched his fellow mushbrains to mimic their tactics. He began to grind his squishy butt against the carpet, he began to knead his own padding to smear the contents within. After months of crapping himself every day, he was finally beginning to actually like it. Like his peers, he was learning it was something to look forward to.
And instead of longing for a diaper change, he grew instead to dread the prospect of a change. He grew attached to his 'poopies' and felt like an artist whose canvas was taken away prematurely whenever he was forced to get put into a fresh diaper. The sensory experience had become unparalleled, and to interrupt that was worthy of fussing.
Another big step was growing to appreciate the complex bouquet that radiated from these dirty diapers. It had to start with his own, where his sense of disgust was to be morphed into one of tranquility and joy. He started to take big whiffs of himself whenever he sat in a steaming pile of fresh manure. He didn't understand the appeal at first, having to effectively reprogram his nose to change the deep-seated perceptions that society had set.
The longer he spent smelling his own shame, over and over, the closer he got to understanding it. He would even fetch his own balled-up diapers from the pail at home and stick his nose up to the foul things. Over time, with enough contemplation on it, the smell did become something of interest.
The way it tickled his nose when he was done messing himself and had sat down to squish his mound; the way that he discerned the complex components of the odor, that each dirty diaper of his was similiar yet a little different. It was like being a wine connoisseur, except without the pretense or pride that should go along with it.
Once he'd learned to love his own brand, then it was a matter of learning to love others. All of his poobrained peers, at least the most retarded of them, loved to stick their nose in eachother's seats. They loved to snoof one another's filthy diapers, they basked in the malodorous miasma that trailed off of every lumpy, swollen seat.
To be a poopy diaper retard, like them, meant learning to do the same. The only times he'd done it beforehand had been times where he wasn't offered any option in the matter; whenever he had been bullied and physically forced to stick his nose in a squishy seat. He'd been positively disgusted on those occasions, and mortified beyond belief, but he'd never thought very deeply about the nature of the odor itself.
The first time that he decided to intentionally follow in the bowlegged footsteps of his drooling compatriots, he had been watching one of the boys in his class beginning to toot wildly in his tardpants. The whole class was an industrial poop factory with just how infinitely the sound of flatulence and defecation hung in the air, so he hadn't had to wait long for an opportunity to present itself.
So he had crawled across the floor, his own tremendous diaper swaying behind him, and he'd made his way up to the snotty boy who was now grunting and swinging his butt back and forth. Rhys waited for the boy's posture to stiffen, for his legs to buckle into place, and then he got closer. The boy was still ripping some devastating farts in his diaper, so Rhys went ahead and began to move his nose toward the big, white back of the garment.
He could never have imagined that he'd find himself in such a lowly position, and of his own browbeaten volition. The same boy that had scored the highest on the IQ test in the school's history, was now putting his hands on a retard's thighs and using them to keep balance as he drove his nose right into the puffy padding that was being relentlessly farted in.
With how his IQ score had been recorded, instead giving him the *lowest* in the school's history, there wouldn't be an outside outcry about such an event. Everyone watching him as already under the impression that he was a pathetic, pantspooping moron. Him huffing the fresh fudge in a classmate's diaper was an event that resulted in no attention from anyone important.
This was who he was now. This is who they had already believed him to be. This was what they already thought he spent his days doing, and only now did he feel stupid for not understanding that earlier. By fighting the flow for so long, he'd put himself through unnecessary stress, strife, and shame. If he'd given up at the beginning and accepted this life sooner, then he wouldn't have felt tormented for so long.
More sloppy toots peppered the back of the diaper, like a burst from a machine gun, and Rhys felt the material of the garment rumble with their advent. The smell was pretty faint, heavily muffled and subdued by the odor-blocking technology of the bulky diaper, but what did slip through was new and interesting to Rhys' nose.
And then the crackling came that signified that the time of this being a solely flatulent affair had ended. It was time for the poopies to come marching forward, and the red-faced retard didn't disappoint as he twisted his sweaty face up and grunted much louder. The diaper began to push out against Rhys' nose, the material growing rapidly in temperature as it expanded, and the smell becoming far more notable.
Rhys, for a brief moment, actually lost himself to it. The emptying of his mind, which he now sought as a mercy, had struck him while he was coming to enjoy the putrid notes of the poopy diaper coming to be. He had ascended, or rather devolved, in that moment to become a poopy diaper retard. The only thoughts bouncing around in his head had to do with the fumes in his nostrils and with what they were radiating off of.
Drool flowed from his mouth like a mighty stream and he began to sniff harder, more loudly, as he just couldn't get enough of the earthy aroma drifting off the smoldering pantload being created.
Nirvana, Shambala, Shangri-La, if any such place was to exist, then it existed in the exact coordinates of where Rhys' nose met the lumpy topography of that shit-packed diaper. It was a transformative experience, a heavenly one, where Rhys could finally realize the unbridled joy that his mushbrained peers had known all along. It finally became clear why they were so happy all the time, and why being ignorant was superior to being knowledgeable.
So caught in his revelation and reverie, the mindbroken boy had no idea of what was going on in his own oversized Pampers. While he slobbishly snoofed and huffed at the back of this boy's pantload in progress, Rhys had begun to kick up quite the foul wind in his own seat. Tumultuous tooting that made way for something big of his own; trumpets harkening forth a behemoth of biblical proportions.
It didn't go unnoticed by his classmates though. All the rancid gas that blasted away at his padding was like a dinner bell that called all the hogs to the trough, though in this case, it was for the dumb pigs to get a whiff at something amazing.
While Rhys was on his hands and knees, his tongue hung out and his IQ truly zeroed out while nose-deep. Entering the back of his gargantuan diaper was a turd whose size was befitting of the garment it was looking to fill; it was hefty leviathan that jus kept coming and coming, crashing into the padded confines of the diaper and beginning to tent the seat out to comical levels.
Rhys was unaware of it, at least on any intellectual level. All he was aware of was that the bliss in his brain was intensifying to higher and higher levels. He could feel the back of his diaper feeling heavier, he could feel the front of his diaper feeling a little tighter, and he was inundated with the euphoria of full release.
The turd he was squeezing out could only push the diaper out so far, and eventually the brown serpent had to instead coil up in the bottom of the thick garment. It didn't stop coming though, it didn't pinch itself off. The coiled pile instead would just continue to grow larger in size, easily surpassing two or three pounds of steaming hot stool by the time that someone had finally started to excitedly nose around the back.
Rhys was making great use of the unique diapers he'd been saddled with. There existed no better diaper on the market for a pantspooping retard of his caliber to wear, where the garment could hold over ten pounds of poop without running out of room. The absurd size of the diaper was directly intended to address the absurd amount of soiling that a retard of such a low IQ was capable of doing.
He'd never had one leak, and he probably had never come all that close. A diaper like his could probably be worn for a full day without approaching blowout, unless Rhys became as vacuous as his file proclaimed him to be. If he could truly let the rest of his mind melt away, if he could become the thing that everyone already thought him to be, then he might actually be able to make one leak at some point.
The class conga line had once again started, for any onlooker who passed by the window to see. A vile chain of mushbrained boys who were simultaneously seatsniffing and soiling themselves, with each sniffer getting someone to tend to their befouled behind.
It was the same event that had shown up online as a video, whenever Rhys had been forced into this humiliating position before. It was the thing that had effectively destroyed any hope that he'd ever be worthy of respect or dignity again. Now though, he wasn't being forced to be a link in this chain; he was very willingly participating, and in fact was downright eager.
Rhys was so engulfed in this newfound perspective of what he had thought was a personal hell, that he hadn't noticed someone new coming into the retard room with a wrinkled nose and a disgusted grimace. He didn't notice his name being used, or hear that all his pleas had been heard.
The reevaluation that he had clamored all this time for, the second chance to rewrite this injustice that had been put upon him... The administration of the school was finally willing to give him an opportunity to prove the algorithm that put him here wrong. To prove that a typo had ruined his life.
Two weeks. In two weeks, he would have one final chance to leave this class. One last chance to not be stuck in special ed for the rest of his academic career.
One chance to prove he really wasn't a 'poopy diaper retard', and the opportunity had come just at the time that he had finally decided to embrace the title.
