QH Archives: Party Pooper (Patreon)

She had learned the truth early in our relationship.  It had been a particularly humiliating third date for the both of us after my little accident at the restaurant.  Still, it was a miracle that we got through it and that love still blossomed.  Five years and a wedding later, she did her best to look the other way in regards to my little “problem,” as hard as that was.

Perhaps the last straw was an ill-fated trip to the mall for Christmas gift shopping.  She would later cite the humiliation she felt when I filled my pants in line at the food court as the exact moment she knew something needed to change.  “Considering the similarities between you and a toddler, I don’t see why you’re not wearing something a little more appropriate under your pants.”  

I would’ve sought help for my issue sooner, if not for my stubborn insistence that there was actually an issue at all.  I squandered all my goodwill, and her sympathy eventually led to disdain.

Up to that point, I had been washing my own pants - she had put her foot down on that early on.  But the suggestion that I wore diapers was new, and every time it came up after that, it sounded less like a suggestion and more like an order.  A threat, even.  Finally, in February, a box was delivered to our house on Valentine’s day, of all days, and when she made me watch her open the box and pull out the package of adult diapers, it was as relieving as it was humiliating - she finally came through on those threats.  

“You’ll be wearing these all the time.  No ifs, ands or buts.  When you start acting your age, we’ll talk about exceptions.

The first true test of this new paradigm was a party we had been invited to. Kara and Eric, friends of my wife’s, had steadfastly held onto their youth, and their parties were the place to go when you needed to drink like you were 18 again.  On our way out the door of our house she handed me a black leather bag with shoulder straps.  “This is your diaper bag,” she proclaimed.  “No exceptions tonight either.  I already informed Kara of your little problem, and she graciously offered her spare bedroom to us if you needed to change.”  I wasn’t sure which embarrassed me more:  The fact that Kara (and Eric, by default) knew of this or that I was going to be self-conscious about my diaper all night at the party.

We walked into their house soon after, greeted with hugs and handshakes.  Kara took my bag from me, assuring me that she’d put it in a safe place, “just in case.”  Within the next ten minutes of trying to mingle, someone passed me a joint - a reminder of what kind of party this was going to be.  

Flash forward a little bit, though it got very hard to judge how much time had actually passed.  Somewhere in between the drinking and the toking, the party was a bit of a blur. And not just for me.  Strangers were coupling off and making out.  There were at least two people passed out on furniture.  And my wife was in this house somewhere, though I hadn’t seen her in a while.  The true problem was that at some point I managed to make use of my diaper.  I had no recollection of doing it, but I slowly became aware of how soggy I was, and worse, the sticky mess in the seat of my pants.  How I wasn’t attracting more attention with my smell had to have been a testament to just how loaded everyone was.

Someone whispered something behind me.  I spun around cautiously, expecting to find partygoers whispering about my dirty diaper.  Instead it was Kara, who was actually whispering at me directly.  I asked her to repeat again what she was trying to say to me.  “You…your diaper,” she finally stammered after a few false starts. “I think you need to change your diaper.”  My hearbeat raced at the humiliation of someone other than my wife pointing this out to me.  I asked if it was noticeable.  “I don’t think so,” she said.  “Not yet.  I just don’t want to see you get a diaper rash.”  I thanked her for her concern and began a slow stagger towards her guest bedroom.  

I had been making good time when I ran into my wife, who had managed to get chatted up against a wall with a cute girl named Tiffany, someone who I only knew through Kara’s parties.  Post-party conversations in the past had revealed that my wife was quite fond of Tiffany, and one day hoped to get her lips onto hers.  She seemed to be close to that goal, but the look on her face as she saw me shambling towards the guest room replaced her smugness with one of disgust.  I hoped, as hard as I could hope, that she wouldn’t make a scene.  I didn’t hope enough.

“Did you shit in your pants?” she exclaimed, loudly enough that the entire party suddenly game to a stop.  

“No, he did not,” said one partygoer.  

“Is this the guy whose wife was making him wear a diaper?” asked another.  Great, I thought, this wasn’t nearly as much of a secret as I had hoped it would be.  My cheeks were as pink as they could possibly be.

My wife, with a sadistic look on her face, decided to respond:  “Yes, that’s right.  He’s a big baby.”

The house was suddenly filled with laughter, cheers and pleas to see this for themselves.  I refused to even turn around and I made a weak attempt to continue heading for the spare room, but felt someone grab my arm.  It was Joanna, a muscular personal trainer friend of Kara and Eric’s who never failed to intimidate me. “Let’s go, baby boy,” she said with a laugh.  “The people want to see the party pooper.”

And so, against my will, I was led to the middle of the room where a small crowd gathered around us.  I could see my wife’s face, simultaneously disappointed and somehow amused.  Tiffany stood next to her, holding my wife’s hand - answering that curiosity for me.  I found Kara’s face next, she shrugged, as if to say:  “Hey, I tried to help you.”

“Did he really poop his pants?” asked Eric.

“I want to know if he’s really wearing a diaper,” chimed in another woman from elsewhere in the room.

“Should we show the people what they want to see?” Joanna asked me.  Was she really asking me for my consent for my own complete humiliation?  I shook my head no.  “Oh really?  You’re going to let down all these people?”

Maybe it was the alcohol.  Maybe it was the pot.  Maybe I was just in a terrible place emotionally, but I suddenly had this thought that my compliance in this embarrassment might just win over the crowd.  I willfully unbuttoned my slacks, letting them fall to the ground.  Silence fell across the party all at once as everyone tried to take in what they were seeing.

“He…really is wearing a diaper,” said one.

“He shit his pants!  He shit in a diaper!” said another.

Joanna firmly grabbed my bottom, getting a handful of loaded diaper.  This only seemed to confirm the truth to any of the naysayers.  “So what are we going to do with this one?” she asked the party. “Let him stumble around here and stink the place up with his dirty diaper?  Or should we get his diaper changed?”

There were some conflicting desires in my small audience, but one voice cut through the rest.  To this day, I’m not positive who it was, but I had suspected it to be my wife:  “He needs to have his ass paddled!”  The party immediately agreed and soon the room was filled with the chant:  “Paddle the diaper baby! Paddle the diaper baby!”

“You better not get anything on my hands,” Joanna muttered to me as someone slid her a chair.  She sat down before quickly pulling me by the shirt over her knee, my lumpy diaper even more clearly on display for the rest of the room.  Without even a warning, she began swatting my behind.  I could barely feel it with everything between her hand and my ass cheeks, but it still made an impressive slapping noise with every swat, and everyone really seemed to love it.

“Okay,” Kara said, finally stepping in, “I think that’s enough.  Why don’t you go use the shower,” she said to me, “and then get yourself changed into a fresh diaper.”

The party moved on, and I did my best to hang around the outskirts of the action, keeping to myself with a glass of wine.  I expected continued humiliation, but the novelty had either worn off, or the party guests had reached new levels of intoxication. Even my wife was enjoying herself, and I spied her and Tiffany passionately kissing in the dining room as I walked past to get some cake.  

Finally, as we made our way home somewhere in the middle of the night, my wife turned to me at last and put her hand on my lap, something she hadn’t done in years.  “You know, you were a really good sport tonight.  I…really do owe you an apology.”

“No,” I said with a shrug, “truth be told, I…kind of liked it.”

“Really?” she asked, her face lighting up.

“Really.”

“Well that’s good,” she responded with a nod.  “Kara thinks we should throw you a baby shower.”

I unloaded, once more, into my diaper involuntarily.