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Falling into Mommy’s Arms (A Diaper Regression Story) — Part 1
🕑 Added 2022-10-12 00:00:05 +0000 UTCThe following story contains adult content and is intended only for adult readers over the age of 18. Any characters depicted in adult situations are over the age of 18. This story is entirely fictional and has been written and shared for entertainment purposes only.
I clutched my tummy and wheezed with pain as I felt another seismic cramp reverberate through my bowels.
I was obediently following my Mommy through the crowded supermarket as she did her Saturday shopping. I had been desperately rocking back and forth on my feet for several minutes now as my need to go number two quickly grew more and more intense.
“Mommy, I have to go to the potty,” I whimpered to her for the fifth or so time in the last five minutes. My pleas were growing more and more urgent, despite me also desperately trying to avoid letting any of the other nearby shoppers overhear my humiliating predicament.
“Okay honey, we’ll go right over to the bathroom in just another minute. Just hang tight, okay? I just need to grab a couple more things,” my Mommy said without looking up from the shelf, speaking in her signature, confident, nurturing, and dominant ‘Mommy’ voice.
Every fiber of my being was telling me to turn around and start running toward the bathrooms across the store. I suddenly felt like I’d never had to poop so bad in my life.
But I also knew I was never allowed to leave my Mommy’s side in public, let alone pull my diapers down and use the potty without her help.
Both of those were part of the cardinal rules I had agreed to when I moved in with my Mommy several weeks ago in order to officially become her full-time little boy. And I knew breaking any of the cardinal rules would result in an unspeakably painful bare bottom caning.
Mommy reserved her canings only for the most severe infractions. That is, breaking any of the cardinal rules. And having received her caning only once before, I knew I never, ever wanted to receive one again.
(The cardinal rule I broke before, shortly after moving in, was leaving the house without permission. I had gone across the street to get the mail without thinking. And when I came back in the house, I was met with a caning that left me screaming and crying at the top of my lungs, followed by a two hour lecture about safety for ‘little boys like me’, and then finally an extra, extra early bed time.)
So I knew I had no choice but to continue waiting patiently for my Mommy to take me to the potty when she was ready.
I continued grunting and squirming and squeezing my eyes in agony as my Mommy now took her time carefully perusing the grocery store’s cheese section. The cramps were becoming so intense and painful, my need to go number two was becoming so extreme, it was taking every ounce of my self-control to keep from sprinting away to find the bathroom.
But the other thing was… I happened to also be wearing a diaper.
I could hear and feel it’s humiliating crinkling and warm puffy padding between my legs and against my genitals as I crossed my legs and squirmed in the crowded grocery store.
But even though I was desperately fighting the need to use the potty… the fact that I was wearing a diaper was no source of comfort to me. In fact, it only made my circumstances feel ten times more humiliating.
* * *
You see, my ‘Mommy’ and I were in a Little Boy / Mommy Domme relationship since shortly after we first met.
In the months of our relationship before I moved in with her, my ‘little’ age was always at least about five years old. And I was always definitely potty-trained.
Since the first moment we entered into a little boy / Mommy Domme dynamic, I’ve loved everything about it. It filled me with the most profound comfort and joy to have my new ‘Mommy’ care for me and treat me like a little boy again. I loved her very much, and in fact, the relationship seemed to fill a long-time emotional void I’d carried ever since I was a kid, due to not having a close relationship with my actual mother, nor a very fun childhood.
That being said, ever since we began our LB/MD dynamic (something we both expressed mutual interest in from the beginning), I had always been clear about having a hard limit about anything involving toileting, potty-training… or shudder… diapers.
I made it clear to my new Mommy from the start that I was only interested in regressing to a state where I was at least still potty-trained, because the idea of doing anything involving toileting aspects was just far too humiliating and uncomfortable for me to handle.
Using the toilet had always been a very private, embarrassing, anxiety-ridden affair for me for as long as I could remember, and I just couldn’t imagine regressing to the point of not even having that basic level of self control.
Fortunately, my Mommy was more than fine with this limit of mine from the beginning. And she expressed hardly having much interest in that aspect of a LB/MD relationship, either.
“The last thing I need to be doing at my age is changing diapers again,” she laughed and gave me a hug when we talked about it.
But where things got more complicated, is that about a week before officially moving in with my Mommy… I wet the bed. For the first time I can remember.
My Mommy seemed hardly bothered the first night I wet the sheets in her guest bedroom. In fact, she assured me it was totally normal for little boys and no big deal and that she didn’t mind at all, as I stood there in my pee-soaked adult-sized underoos, red faced and humiliated, as I watched her change my yellow-stained bedsheets.
I didn’t think much of it at first, taking my Mommy’s assurance that accidents like that ‘just happen sometimes’ at face value.
Until I wet the bed again. Two nights later.
My Mommy was equally nonchalant about changing my bedsheets and blankets this second time. And when I offered to help take the pee-soaked laundry down to her washer and dryer, she even told me, “No, no, little boy. Doing the laundry is for Mommy’s. You can go do your other daily chores though, like setting the table for breakfast.”
But when it happened a third time that week, it was hard for me to ignore that this was becoming a problem. A serious, deeply humiliating problem.
* * *
I was a wreck that whole next day. I couldn’t stop thinking about what happened. The humiliation of waking up in my stinky, cold bedsheets, with no idea or memory of when I peed… why was this happening?
But after dwelling on it all day, I started to slightly remember that on nights I wet the bed, I seemed to have a specific dream. Or rather, a type of dream.
It involved my new Mommy. She was holding me. Whispering in my ear. Telling me it was all okay. And that I could just let it all go. Let go of everything…
I would only vaguely remember the dream when I woke up in my wet bed in the morning. But it seemed that my subconscious was interpreting my dream Mommy’s words literally… as in I should literally let go of my bladder and wet the bed.
But figuring this out was hardly any comfort. I was still wetting the bed involuntarily, and it was deeply humiliating.
And that night, after dinner, my Mommy sat me down in the living room, and started the conversation I was beginning to dread would be coming…
“Honey, you know I’m not mad at you about your little peepee accidents at night. But I think we need to start looking at solutions that keep you safe and dry throughout the night. At least until your bedwetting resolves,” she began.
Suddenly, she reached into a bag… and pulled out what I feared most.
Pull-up diapers. Goodnites, specifically. Of course, they were marketed to be more ‘grown-up’ looking than baby diapers. But that hardly mattered to me. I knew exactly what they were.
I immediately burst into hysterical sobs.
“Mommy, I’m sorry! I don’t know why this is happening to me!” I cried, wrapping my arms around my Mommy.
“Aww, there, there,” she cooed, stroking my head and holding me tight. “It’s probably just that you’re adjusting to a big life change. It can be a big step to permanently move in with a new Mommy, like you’re planning to do in a couple days. And sometimes, little boys just start having accidents again. Don’t worry, it’ll get better. I promise.”
I nodded, tried to dry my tears, but then still only sobbed some more. “Mommy, I don’t want to wear diapers. Please, I don’t need them. I may not be a big boy in all the other parts of my life. I may be a little boy who still needs his Mommy. But the one thing I do know how to do is use the potty. I’m at least mature enough to be potty trained. Please, please don’t make me wear diapers…” I sobbed.
My Mommy just held me for a long time, rocking me back and forth until I finally started to catch my breath.
“Hon, I know you don’t want to wear diapers. And I don’t want you wearing diapers either. And guess what? These are just goodnites, not diapers. It’s okay for older boys to wear ‘just-in-case’ undies at night. That doesn’t mean you’re not potty trained. You’re still a big boy, I promise.”
I looked up at her sniffled, look back down.
“In fact,” she continued, “I think one way to demonstrate you’re a big boy is to take care of your bed-wetting by being responsible enough to wear your protection so you don’t make a mess. Babies don’t put their protection on by themselves, do they? Only big boys can do that, right? So if you put your protection on yourself, that makes you a big boy, not a baby.”
I looked up at her, then gave a teary nod of my head in agreement.
“So, hon, I’m going to put your new pull-ups—err I mean protection—on your dresser. Does this mean you’ll be a good boy and wear your protection tonight for me?” She asked.
I slowly, reluctantly, nodded my head yes. What could I say? I loved my Mommy. And I could tell she really cared for me. And I knew she was just trying to help me.
My Mommy beamed and wrapped me in a big hug. “That’s my good boy,” she said, holding me tight. “Go brush your teeth, and I’ll leave these in your room like I said.”
I realized that, my Mommy had just made a very considerate, respectful request that I help her out with managing a problem that neither of us wanted to deal with—my bedwetting.
And I knew she was right. Wearing my goodnites was the least I could do. My Mommy was being very conscientious about making me not feel like a baby, like I feared.
I realized if I just acted like a big boy and wore the goodnites, at least until my bedwetting got under control, everything would ultimately be fine and for the best. And I wouldn’t have to be made to feel humiliated or like a baby at all.
There was just one problem.
Keeping my promise to wear the Goodnites that night was going to be harder than I thought it would be…
* * *
That night, after I brushed my teeth and gave my Mommy a hug goodnight, I returned to my bedroom.
My Mommy was so considerate of my feelings of embarrassment, she deliberately left me alone to change into my Goodnites, so I wouldn’t have to worry about her seeing me in them.
But when I picked up the colorful package of plastic goodnites diapers, and pulled one of the crinkly pull-ups out to inspect it…
I broke down into tears.
Just holding the crinkly thin pull-up diaper in my hand filled me with profound waves of shame and infantile helplessness.
The idea of actually putting it on… of actually wearing a diaper to bed for the first time since I was a literal toddler… just made me want to die of humiliation.
For whatever reason, even though I loved regressing to my ‘little age’ of about five—and experiencing the innocence and childhood of acting that age and being treated and nurtured like I was that age—the idea of losing even my very potty-training filled me with a sense of indescribable shame about who I was and what I had become.
It was the ultimate visceral reminder that I was no longer a man. The idea of putting on the diaper made me feel like an actual baby. A pathetic, bed-wetting, baby.
Ultimately… I just couldn’t do it.
I didn’t know what my plan was. I guess I hoped that I would just get lucky that night and not wet the bed again.
Or even if I did wet the bed, I would apologize to my Mommy in the morning and explain why I just didn’t want to wear a diaper, no matter what. And we would figure another solution out.
But the point is, that night, I left the dry pull-up in a crumpled ball on the floor, climbed into bed, and fell asleep…
And absolutely drenched my bed with pee while I slept.
When I woke up in the morning, the first thing I noticed was the sickly sour scent of pee surrounding me.
Then I felt the cold clammy wetness drenching my underoos and forming a massive puddle in the sheets beneath me.
Then I finally opened my eyes to see my Mommy standing over me, her hands on her hips.
The blankets on the bed had been pulled away. And it was clear from the yellow-stained and drenched underoos on my waist she was staring at, I didn’t wear the goodnites like I promised.
“Get up, bud,” my Mommy said sternly. “It’s time for us to have a serious talk.”
* * *
I was trembling with nerves as I cleaned myself up after my accident and ate breakfast alone.
Then, a short while later, I sat down with my Mommy for that serious talk. The content of the conversation left me stunned and shaken.
“Honey, you know I want you to move in and live with me and be my little boy more than anything,” she began. “But it’s clear to me that what’s happening between us right now, isn’t working. Your behavior right now isn’t healthy, and I know it’ll only get worse without drastic intervention.
“The fact that you disobeyed and lied to me last night, and demonstrated that you weren’t even responsible enough to put on your own goodnites to keep yourself from soaking yourself and your bed with your stinky peepee, shows me that you need serious measures to help you with your behavior, hygiene, and even basic bodily functions.
“I know you want me to treat you like you’re potty-trained. And I want that for you too, believe me. I don’t like dealing with diapers any more than you do. No Mommy does. But sometimes, diapers are a necessity. And if I am going to be your Mommy, I need to know that I have the power to keep you safe, dry, and healthy. And that means making sure you’re wearing diapers at night if you still need them, whether you want to wear them or not.
“Therefore, if we’re going to continue this relationship, like we both want to, by having you move in, I do need your formal and unequivocal legal agreement to obey the rules and expectations I set for you while you’re living under my roof, as well as the subsequent disciplinary measures I deem necessary if you don’t.
“That way I can make sure I always have the power to take care of you in the way we both know you need to be taken care of. Otherwise, I just don’t think it’s going to work between us, after all, as heartbreaking as that is to even say,” she said.
There were tears in my eyes as I tried to come to terms with the fact that I was essentially being presented with an ultimatum. A condition for not just moving in, as we planned, but even staying together in a relationship at all.
I was hurt that she was even suggesting the idea we might break up. But I was even more shaken as I watched my Mommy pull out what looked like a substantive packet of legal paperwork. From across the table, I glimpsed words like Rules and Punishments and Transfer of Legal Custody.
Our relationship had always been so easygoing, and it was always so easy for me to tell her if I did or didn’t want to do something. I didn’t understand why this was happening. We had been planning for me to move in for a while now, and the day that was officially happening was tomorrow. It felt so unfair for her to present me with such a sweeping ultimatum so suddenly like this.
“Mommy, I’ll wear the goodnites, I promise!” I whimpered with tears running down my cheeks. “I’ll wear them to bed every night. I’m so sorry about last night, please, just give me another chance to prove I’m a good boy. We don’t need a contract, I promise I’ll be a good boy for you from now on, I swear!”
At this point, I wish I had a time machine to go back to last night and force me to wear the stupid humiliating goodnites myself. I couldn’t believe I caused this to happen.
“Of course, of course, hon, I know. But we still need to do this paperwork and have you agree to following all my new rules all the same if you still want me to be your new Mommy,” she explained, thumbing through the packet of papers.
“But Mommy, why? Please, I promise I’ll be good and wear the goodnites! I promise! I swear! Don’t you believe me?” I begged, tears now pouring down my cheeks.
“Of course I believe you, honey bunny,” my Mommy cooed. “But like I said, it’s more than just making sure you’re wearing your goodnites. Last night was a microcosm of our total relationship, and a test of your maturity.
“I’m not trying to rub it in, I know you already feel very bad, but last night, you failed that most basic test of responsibility. And for all we know, you might face a thousand more similar challenges going forward, as we realize you need more help than we thought when it comes to being a good little boy.
“I want you to be my potty-trained big boy. Because I do love you very much. But last night, it became clear to me that you may need help actually achieving that, whether you think you do or not. Does that make sense?” She asked.
I didn’t like what she was saying, but I found it hard to disagree with. I gave a reluctant, teary nod.
“That’s my wonderful little boy,” she said.
Then she pushed the contract across the table with a pen.
“You’re welcome to try to read the contract if you’d like, but it’s obviously going to be over your head. But basically, you’re just legally agreeing to obey the rules I set for you while you live under my roof, and agreeing to any punishments you might incur if you break those rules, because you agree that your new Mommy ultimately knows best for you in terms of your behavior and care going forward,” she explained.
I squinted at the pages, but between the tiny font, my teary eyes, and the legalese, it was too much for me to make any sense of.
“Can you just tell me the new rules, Mommy?” I asked, overwhelmed.
She smiled softly, came over to my side of the table, and put her arm around me.
“Don’t worry, little guy. I’ll explain all the rules as they come up, and we’ll take it slow, together. Whenever I give you a new rule, or punishment for breaking a rule, it will always be because I love you and want what’s best for you. Okay?” She said.
“And when I sign this, I’ll be able to move in and be your little boy again?” I whimpered.
“Of course, honey,” my Mommy said, rubbing my back. “Just like we both always wanted.”
Without allowing myself to think better of it, I finally grabbed the pen and hastily signed the document, tears dripping onto the page as I did. I just wanted things to finally get back to normal.
“Oh, that’s my good boy,” my Mommy said, wrapping me in a giant hug. “Mommy is so, so proud of you. I promise, you’re going to be my special, special little guy from now on. I’m gonna take such, such good care of you.”
I melted in my Mommy’s arms, tears falling down my cheeks as I swirled with mixed emotions.
I was terrified about whatever new rules I might be encountering. But ultimately, I was just too relieved to know I would still be her little boy. At this point, I couldn’t imagine living without her.
That night, I returned back to my normal ‘adult’ apartment to stay in for one last night.
But I hardly slept, too anxious about what might be to come under our new agreement, where I essentially promised I would obey my Mommy’s rules from now on, no matter what they were, and if I wanted to or not.
For example, I thought about how she wanted me to wear the Goodnites. And how before, that was a humiliation I just never pictured having to endure in order to be with her.
Even being forced to sign the contract, and formally give up my adult rights to her, felt like a humiliation I wasn’t prepared for.
Ultimately, I just hoped any discomfort or humiliation I experienced from her new rules would be temporary. And that if I just focused on being well behaved, things would return back to normal sooner rather than later. Even if I did have to wear goodnites to bed every once in a while.
Unfortunately for me, I was about to discover that, once I signed that contract and officially moved in, life living with my new Mommy was about to become more humiliating than anything I could have ever imagined…
* * *
The next day, I finished selling all of my belongings, moved out of my old apartment, and officially moved into the spare room at my Mommy’s place.
Shortly after I arrived that evening, I experienced my first jolt of surprise about what the new rules of the house would be.
“Come on, sweetie, let’s go get you changed for bed,” she said, leading me back to my new room.
I didn’t think anything of it at first, assuming she was just going to help me into my goodnites that I refused to wear the last night I was over.
But when we got into my new room… I saw that the room’s dresser had been swapped out for a changing table.
A diaper changing table.
“Come on, sweetie, time to get into your diapers,” she said, suddenly unfolding a massive, extra thick, crinkly diaper.
My eyes nearly bulged out of my head.
“Wha… what?” I stammered.
“Your diaper, sweetie. That way you stay dry overnight,” she said.
My heart was pounding. Just the smell of the baby powder alone in my new room was making my face burn red hot. I couldn’t believe this was happening.
“But… but… but Mommy. I thought you said I could wear goodnites? Not… diapers…”
My Mommy smirked. “Oh, so now you want to wear your goodnites? Sorry, stinker. You lost that privilege when you balled up your goodnite and threw it on the floor like a baby. So if you can’t handle putting big-kid protection on by yourself, your Mommy is going to have to put you back in baby diapers herself until you prove you’re mature enough to put on your own protection. Now come on, diaper time,” she beckoned, flattening out the crinkly diaper.
I started backing up in horror. My face was burning red hot. The idea of wearing the Goodnite was mortifying enough. I just couldn’t imagine the humiliation of wearing something as massively puffy and thick and crinkly as the ‘special needs’ adult disposable diaper she was now spreading out.
Let alone letting her change me into it like a baby! I didn’t want to be a baby! I wanted to be her little boy!
I suddenly turned around to try to start running when—
Wham!
My Mommy suddenly burst past me and slammed my bedroom door shut in my face, locking me in.
“I’m not going to ask you again,” she said in a dark tone of voice. “Butt on the changing table. Now.”
“No!” I squealed, tears suddenly falling down my cheeks. “Please! Not a diaper… I can’t… I won’t…”
I turned around to start running again, when suddenly—
I was yanked by the arm, spun back around—
And was suddenly looking down at the floor.
I was over my Mommy’s knee. And she was pulling my pants down!
“Naughty, naughty boy!” She scolded.
I screamed and cried in terror, but she gripped me tight with her expert hold.
And then she laid into me with a hairbrush for the first bare-bottom spanking I’d ever received in my life.
Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack!
“Naughty, naughty boy! You will wear what Mommy tells you to wear! Don’t you ever run away from Mommy like that again!”
Every blow on my behind was more painful than I could have possibly imagined. I felt so helpless, powerless, and utterly humiliated by the non-stop pain and scolding. She spanked and spanked and spanked me until I screamed and cried so long my voice went hoarse.
Then, when I was beaten to a state of total humiliation, exhaustion, and submission, she yanked me by the ear to the diaper changing table, plopped me up onto it buck naked, doused me in baby powder, and taped me up tight in the absurdly large, crinkly disposable diaper.
“Don’t you dare touch any of those diaper tapes, young man. If I find a single one of them have been tampered with in the morning, I will make tonight’s spanking look like a gentle tickle,” she threatened, before leaving my room, closing the door, and locking me into my nursery for the night.
I cried myself to sleep that night, rocking back and forth in my new, extra bulky padding, waves of shame and humiliation washing over me about my painful, humiliating spanking and forced diapering.
I felt like a pathetic, humiliated little baby. The bulk and crinkling of the diaper felt hot and invasive. I just wanted to fall asleep so I could finally take my diaper off in the morning, but my red hot behind from the spanking was still burning so bad, I just couldn’t get to sleep.
In that moment, I wondered if I’d made a terrible mistake committing myself to my new Mommy. She’d never even punished me before at all. I never would have dreamed that she would subject me to such a painful, humiliating spanking, followed by a forced diapering into the most humiliating diaper I could imagine.
But I also knew it no longer mattered. What was done was done, now. This was the only place I had to stay now, and the paperwork giving her parental power over me was signed and submitted. She was my Mommy now, whether I liked it or not.
That night I decided that I was never going to intentionally disobey my Mommy like that again, no matter how badly she humiliated and infantilized me. I never wanted to suffer a spanking like that again.
But despite my burning pain and resentment over my punishment, as I fell asleep that night, and I gently rubbed the outside of my strange, crinkly diaper, part of me still couldn’t help but wonder…
Maybe it was true what she said, anyway. Maybe I did need this. Maybe I did even deserve it. Because I was, after all, a pathetic, irresponsible bed wetter…
This thought was confirmed for me the next morning, when I woke up with my disposable diaper absolutely sagging with my warm nighttime pee.
I reached down to the yellow stained garment and cringed as I felt the humiliating squish against my genitals.
I let go of my diaper and sighed.
I suppose it worked. I was waking up totally dry, with my blankets unharmed, thanks to my diaper.
Maybe my Mommy was right to force me into a diaper, after all.
* * *
“Breakfast time,” my Mommy said with a big smile when she walked into my room to greet me the next morning.
I was very confused as she cheerily helped me up out of bed, as her mood seemed as if she’d totally forgotten about how mad she was last night.
I was also weary about standing up, because I was very self-conscious about standing before her wearing nothing but my absolutely filled-to-the-brim, yellow, piss soaked diaper. And I was even more self-conscious about the idea of her ‘changing me’, which is what I figured she was about to do.
But to my surprise, she didn’t even acknowledge or comment on my diaper being soaked.
Instead, she just walked me to the kitchen. Which I soon realized was a worse fate than having her take me over to be changed, as it meant I had to eat my breakfast while still wearing my soggy squishy diaper from the night before.
When we got to the kitchen, she sat me in my squishy diapee at the table, but this time, I was sitting in a new type of chair. It was a plastic sort of adult high-chair, with its own little tray table. I burned bright red in humiliation.
I was forced to use more babyish, plastic silverware. But other than that, breakfast was the same as usual.
And after that, she walked me back to my new nursery, plopped me up on the table, and smiled big as she lifted my legs and opened up my sopping wet diaper to peek inside.
“My, my, little boy! You were a little super-soaker with your stinky peepee last night, weren’t you? Weren’t you?” She teased, even tickling me in the tummy. I let out a reluctant giggle. “It’s a good thing Mommy wrapped you in such a massive disposable diapee, huh? There’s no way that thin little pull-up would have held up to the super-soaking wetting you gave it, huh?”
My head was spinning, trying to make sense of my Mommy. Last night, she was so, so mean and angry with me. But this morning… she was almost acting as if it didn’t even happen!
I was also filled with deep waves of humiliation at having my urine soaked diaper opened up and examined like this, with me laying helplessly on my back, my genitals exposed.
And as my Mommy took her time wiping me up and cooing over me, I was equally emotionally twisted by the pleasant sensation of being cleaned up and cared for… and the deeply mortifying sensation of being treated like I wasn’t even potty-trained!
After my Mommy finished wiping up my privates, she took away my sopping wet diaper, dropped it in the bin, and much to my immense relief, helped me step back into my big boy underoos.
“Now, listen here my little baby. I’m giving you back your big boy underoos. Which I’m sure you’re very happy about. After all, no big boy like you likes having to wear a stinky, squishy, peepee soaked diaper like a baby. Right?” She said.
I eagerly nodded my head.
“But just remember, big-boy undies are a privilege and a responsibility. You lost the privilege of getting to wear big-boy undies at night when you soaked your undies with peepee at night. Remember? And that’s why you have to wear embarrassing crinkly baby diapers at night, now. Right?” She asked.
I nodded again.
“Well, if you’d like to keep your underoos during the day, from now on, there’s a new rule you need to follow. For the time being, you are not to use the bathroom without my supervision. The reason being is that I’ve been finding some very yucky stains in your underwear over the last week or so.
“I found some yellow stains in the front, and some very naughty brown stains in the back. Both of those alone would be enough to persuade a Mommy like me to take away your day-time underoo privileges already. And you’d already be back in diapers.
“But since I’m such a nice Mommy, I’m giving you an extra chance, because I want you to learn how to use the potty properly just as much as you do.
“So from now on, you’re going to ask my permission to take you to the potty. Just like you were in potty training again, because you are. And I’m going to make sure you know how to sit on the potty properly, and wipe your peepee and poopy bumbum properly afterwards, so you don’t lose your underoo privileges with any more filthy stains.
“Oh, and if I ever, ever catch you in the bathroom without supervision, not only will you get a quadruple-long hairbrush spanking again on your bottom, but I will take a pair of scissors to each and every pair of your underwear right in front of you, and will make sure you only wear stinky crinkly baby diapers from now on. Is all that clear?” She asked.
I slowly nodded my head, absolutely terrified.
“Good boy,” she said, patting my butt and sending me off.
I remember going to the living room, laying back on the couch, and staring at the ceiling, wondering to myself… what on earth had I gotten myself into?
And vowing to make sure I did whatever it took to keep it from getting any worse.
* * *
As the days progressed, I managed to keep a pretty firm hold on obeying the humiliating diaper routine my Mommy had set up for me so far.
Getting diapered by my Mommy at night. Waking up with a sopping wet diaper in the morning (it seemed I always wet the bed now). Eating breakfast in that sopping wet diaper. Getting cleaned up and changed by my Mommy back into undies.
Fortunately, I hadn’t yet lost the privilege of underwear.
But unfortunately, this required that I was no longer in control of when I could go use the potty.
I always had to politely ask my Mommy, “Mommy, can I go potty?”
She would reply, “Do you have to go peepee or poopy?” Which would always make me blush.
“Umm… just peepee,” I would reply with red cheeks, for example.
“Alright, sweetie, I’ll be in to take you potty in a minute,” she would then answer almost always, no matter what she was doing.
It was always an extra humiliating feeling, having to go back to my room with an aching, painful bladder, unable to just go use the bathroom myself. Impatiently waiting for my Mommy to decide it was time for me to finally get to relieve myself.
And then the process of using the toilet itself was embarrassing, as she required that I sit on the toilet, even if I was just peeing. She would watch me like a hawk as I tried to relax and ‘go’.
Which was especially humiliating when I had to poop. I had always been so shy about pooping, it was hard to use a public toilet at all. Having my Mommy literally watch me while I did it always made me burn bright red from head to toe in unbearable embarrassment.
Then afterward, I would stand up, and have to ask, “I’m done on the potty, may I have the toilet paper now?”
And she would hand be the toilet paper roll, and again watch me like a hawk as I either wiped the tip of my penis… or my bum.
Finally, when I was done wiping, she would ‘check’ me with a wipe of her own.
And if it was ever the case that she found I wasn’t ‘clean’ enough, she would equip a pair of latex gloves, bend me over her lap, and give me a short but painful and humiliating bare bottom hand spanking right there in the bathroom.
Between the diaper wetting at night, and the supervised toileting in the day, I felt like I was in a constant state of humiliation and powerlessness under my new Mommy’s care.
It felt like my most intimate and embarrassing moments were under constant inspection and scrutiny. And every day, I was feeling more and more like the baby I so badly didn’t want to be…
But for several weeks, the routine was at least manageable.
I was frustrated that I didn’t seem to stop wetting the bed. It seemed I woke up with my diaper absolutely soaked every morning.
(I suppose it didn’t help that my Mommy gave me an extra tall glass of warm milk right before bed to ‘help me sleep’, put me to bed at 8pm every night, and didn’t permit me to leave my nursery at night under any circumstances.)
But despite the humiliation of my nightly diaper-wetting, I was still thankful that at least I was ‘only’ just a bedwetter. I could conceivably tell myself that lots of kids still wet the bed into their adolescence. Just because I still wet the bed, didn’t make me a baby…
I was desperate to hold on to the fact that I still wore big boy pants during the day.
I couldn’t imagine sinking so low as to be diapered all the time.
Which is why I followed my Mommy’s rules so closely, and tried so hard to be such a good boy for her, no matter how hard she spanked me, or how unfair her rules seemed.
And for at least a few weeks, it seemed that I was able to keep doing everything right to prove to my Mommy I was a big boy that deserved his big boy undies during the day. Which meant the world to me. Getting changed out of my piss soaked, heavy, humiliating baby diaper into actual big-boy undies every morning was the only saving grace of my new extremely humiliating potty-training like regimen.
But then the day came where that changed.
And that precious semblance of adulthood I was holding on to so dearly was taken away.
It was the reason why, on that fateful afternoon, I happened to be wearing a diaper while grocery shopping with my Mommy and desperately fighting my bowels…
And it was the reason why the idea of using that diaper I was wearing—especially for a poopy accident, which I felt myself on the brink of—was absolutely mortifying to me on a level far beyond anything else that had happened to me thus far…
TO BE CONTINUED
IN PART II
Comments
My goodness… *I shiver/shudder* at the realization that if a woman was beautiful, maternal, smart, witty, mentally/emotionally secure, and financially stable enough; I’d seriously consider signing up for a relationship like this. 😅😬
