Keep Me Safe - A Patreon Short Story (Patreon)

My wife had promised to keep me safe.

When my wife and I met, I was a ball of stress. But she had always told me, just like I promised to protect her, I would always be safe in her arms.

I was and still am a welder on the wall that we are building to keep the oceans rising too far. It didn’t rain too much, the ice caps just melted, and global warming did the rest. Now the sea wall is the only thing that stands protecting New York City, Florida, and towns like New Orleans from becoming the newest addition to the Atlantic.

But a job like that takes its toll. We lost a guy the other day. He just… fell. And with a wall this size, we aren’t even sure if you’re still around to hit the ground.

That led to something stupid. I came home, dropped my work boots on the floor, toolbelt on the countertop, and asked quite loudly to my shocked wife why dinner wasn’t on the table.

“Excuse me?” My wife laughed and said I’d better reconsider my words. But I was too angry to care. She brushed it off though - she’s a champ, and that night I made a point to wash the dishes afterward.

But people kept falling, and I kept yelling. It was like this vicious cycle that wouldn’t stop. While I was pretty sure my blood pressure was through the roof, my wife never flinched once. But one night, she came home and said this needed to stop, and she had an idea.

I was game. I love her more than anything. I’d do whatever it took to keep her happy. It’s why I make her gifts. It’s why she had a shelf full of tiny metalworks that I built from time to time. It’s why the ring on her finger is one I made.

She calls it “soft time”. Her therapist recommended it. Said it would be a moment the two of us could bond. And it was simple. When I came home from work, I would take a shower. We’d cuddle afterward. My head on her chest and we’d listen to each other breathe.

I have to admit, the silence was good and my head would soon become empty in that moment. It was peaceful.

After a week of this, the routine was baked in at this point. I’d come home from the wall. She’d be waiting for me. I’d shower and then we’d breathe together. But one day the routine changed.

This time my wife explained that the shower head was broken. So she had me sit down in the tub, give me a bath. She poured salts in the bath and bubbles. It was an odd sight, me easing my aching body into the bathtub, my muscles swollen from the day. But she lathered me down and had me relax.

After we dried off and reached for my shorts, my wife said not today, and we cuddled again. This time, she was still in the dress she was wearing earlier, and me naked and shivering from the bath.

But she held me close, patting my back, encouraging me to breathe softly. I needed her heat. I needed her warmth.

This happened over and over. And the water seemed to get colder and colder every night until it felt like an ice bath.

But people kept falling and I kept coming back home to her, the ice bath and her warmth.

One night my wife insisted we try something a little different. She brought a glass of milk to the bed. “You need to keep warm,” she said as I lay my head on her chest. She had sat up a bit so I could drink the warm drink while still resting on her. But it was difficult. It seemed as if each night the glass would be bigger and bigger and it would keep tipping further and further back.

What I didn’t know is my clever wife was purposely filling the glass up more and more each night, making the milk warmer and leaning further back, making it nearly impossible to drink. But I was so tired from the ice water that I didn’t notice.

Soon after the spills were becoming too much she switched over to a bottle. I protested but my wife just shushed me and said no one would know. It was just her and me.

A few weeks later is when she pulled out the diapers.

Because of the increased fluids, I’d had to get up a few times to use the bathroom, ruining the contact between the two of us, shattering the moment. My wife insisted the diapers would make sure I didn’t have to leave her chest, leave the therapeutic warmth and calming comfort to do the most menial of tasks.

“You need this…” she said quietly while powering me and wrapping the thick plain white diaper on me. The diaper felt warm between my legs, comfortable. It crinkled every time I moved. It felt familiar.

I didn’t know this, but my wife had been warming the diapers and making the bath colder and colder each night. She’d been turning down the heat in the house so it was colder than ever. She became the source of my warmth. The diapers became the source of heat. The bottles became the source of life.

So the routine was set. I’d come home from work disgruntled, angry and tired. And she’d give me an ice bath and wrap me thick diapers and lay with me as I suckled my bottle and watched my problems melt away.

But that wasn’t enough. The work was hard. My team kept falling. One of the sea walls breached. In my anger, I clocked my foreman and was sent home early. I arrived at my doorstep, dropping my tools on the floor in a range.

My wife, not one to tolerate bullshit sent me straight to the bath. “You are not going to be a toxic man in this house.” She had me fill the tub and sit in the ice bath. She scrubbed me all over, saying that I needed to be good because that’s what she wanted. That’s what mommy wanted.

I looked at her, questioning the word mommy.

“If you’re going to act like a spoiled child, then you’re going to be treated like one.” My wife… mommy replied.

This night the diapers weren’t plain white; they had animals on them. The diapers crinkled louder than ever as she wrapped the thick plastic around my groin. She’d powered me and lotioned me down right before. She then pulled out some plastic pants and worked them up my legs, then quads and placed three warm bottles on the table. She then pulled the plastic pants up my legs and then, to my surprise, pulled out a magnet and they tightened. I realized without the key I wasn’t getting out of these diapers anytime soon.

“I’ll come get you later.” Mommy said, then closed the door.

I sulked for a moment as I stared at the three large bottles. The sun was still filtering through the windows outside. She had a point. I was the only one kicked off the job site today. I was supposed to be in charge. I was a man, after all, I didn’t need to be sent home early like some petulant child.

I took the first bottle and sucked it down. It was thick, chalky and bitter. The second one was lukewarm and tasted odd. The last one was sweet and sugary, almost like a milkshake. Each one made me bloated beyond belief. The worst part was how long they took to drink. It felt like hours. Meanwhile, my diaper crinkled beneath me as I paced the room.

I could smell the food my wife was preparing downstairs. But the bottles made it so I wasn’t hungry. There was another problem. I could feel a grumbling down below. The bottles had made me full. And soon, I would have to void my bowels.

I wanted to call out for mommy, but I knew she was mad. She had told me to stay in this room and not make a sound. I knew she meant it.

So I paced. I crinkled. I paced. I crinkled.

The pressure grew and grew. I started to sweat.

Finally, I called down the stairs. “Sweetheart??” I was getting desperate. “I have to go to the bathroom. Please can you unlock me?”

Nothing. Just the sounds of music and the smells of a wonderful dinner drifted up the stairs.

“Please??” I cried as my stomach gurgled again. “PLEASE?”

But nothing.

I returned to the room, scratching at the magnet, but I doubled over in pain. My body, sensing weakness, took that time to push. The mess shoving itself uncontrollably into my childish themed diaper. I doubled over as more came out and squished its way through the back and front of the diaper—the crinkles mixed with my moans as I began to cry.

This isn’t what I wanted. I was a welder—a tough man. And here I was, messing my diapers while my wife cooked dinner downstairs.

I whimpered quietly as the sun continued to set and the cooking sounds downstairs quieted down.

Then I peed my diapers. The warmth spread through the diaper, causing it to bulge outwards more. I was more than aware that the full-length mirror in front of me told a horrendous story—a story of complete humiliation. A man forced to wet like an infant.

But then I realized I had been acting like a child; maybe this was the punishment matching my actions.

My wife returned to the room hours later and forced me to lay on her chest again as she patted my diapered bottom. She kept reminding me, if you’re going to act like a child, you’ll be treated like one. She told me I needed her to take control when I was at home because the world was stressful. But she would keep me safe. She would keep me in diapers to keep me safe. Because my diapers were safe.

She told me we'd do this every day this week while I was home from work to remind me that I was safe in my diapers, that I was safe with her. So the next day, the routine was the same. I woke up, she fed me those unbearable bottles, I messed, I wet, she cuddled me, she patted my diaper and reminded me my diapers would keep me safe. Every day was the same and everyday, I felt calm and at peace.

But one day I returned from work and there was a note from my wife saying she had to be out late and that I needed to start my warm time without her. Laid out on the bed was a thick diaper and a stuffer. Wear these and mommy will change you after I return home. Be safe.

So I complied. On the bed was a giant stuffed bear that said, cuddle me. So I hugged the bear that night. I felt safe. I felt warm. I felt at peace.

When my wife returned home, she saw me asleep and cuddling the bear-like I should and she smiled. This was the way life was supposed to be from now on. I’d come home, hide from the stresses at work, be put in diapers, cuddle mommy and be safe.

She'd promise to keep me safe. And she did.