A Certain Song [Tier 3 Exclusive] (Patreon)

Freya’s humming to herself while she slathers butter on her toasted bagel. She looks up at me and offers an alarmingly friendly smile.

“Good morning,” she says.

“Hi?” My head tilts, and I feel like a dog who doesn’t understand the command its owner just gave. “I thought you were mad at me.”

“Alvin, life’s far too short to stay mad,” she says.

“So…I’m forgiven? We’re good?”

She laughs and shrugs cryptically before going back to the song she was humming. Off the top of my head, I couldn’t say what the song was. But, somehow, I know it. I’ve heard it before, and the fact that I can’t place it bothers me.

“What are you doing today?” she asks.

I had more questions locked and loaded regarding her sudden change in temperament towards me, but it seems better to let sleeping dragons lie. Instead I shrug. “I didn’t really have any plans. I’ve got to mow the lawn, but I guess I could do that tomorrow.”

“Wouldn’t you want to do that today?” she asks. “Then it’d be done and you’d have the rest of the weekend without it hanging over you.”

She’s not wrong. I could stand my ground and continue putting off the chore, but the only reason I have is: Well, see, I’m feeling lazy.

“Fair enough,” I say, pouring myself a cup of coffee. “Maybe after this cup I’ll get it taken care of.”

There’s something different about her smile, but I can’t put my finger on it. On the surface, it’s Freya’s classic smile–the same one I fell in love with eleven years ago. But there’s something else there. A smugness, maybe.

“That’s a good boy.” That’s all she says before picking up her bagel and coffee and leaving the kitchen, humming that song again.

I raise a finger and tilt my head again, ready to ask her to elaborate on whatever the hell that was. She doesn’t say things like that. She doesn’t call me a ‘good boy.’ Even when she’s mad at me, which is often enough, she doesn’t use that condescending tone. In this moment, she feels alien to me. Who is she, and what has she done with my wife?

But I sigh and let it go. It’s been a rough month or two for us, and I’ll take strange behavior over not being talked to at all. Or just another fight. She can call me a ‘good boy’ from now on, if that’s what it takes to move on. I don’t hate it.

I watch Freya from the kitchen. She’s in the dining room, slowly eating her bagel as she scrolls through her phone. I lift the coffee mug to my mouth, but almost immediately pull it away. I feel warm liquid on my pants and I’m certain I’ve somehow spilled coffee on myself.

Though that doesn’t seem to be it. I look at the coffee cup first, and it’s still filled to the brim. And I look down at my pants and see that the wet spot is somehow still growing in size out from my crotch.

I suddenly realize what’s happening: I didn’t spill coffee on myself–I’m pissing my pants.

“What the…fuck?”

From the dining room, I watch Freya put her phone down and look up at me. I could be mistaken, but I swear she’s still smiling.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

“I just…” I debate, for a moment, whether or not I should say anything at all. This is humiliating–an adult man pissing his pants like a little boy. And the last thing I want right now is to give her this embarrassing moment that she could weaponize during our next fight.

But this is weird. I swallow my pride and pray that my wife will be my ally instead of my bully.

“What happened?” she asks from her seat.

“I think I just pissed my pants.”

I don’t see the smile on her face now. She stands up, rushing towards me. “Are you serious? How did that happen?”

“I…I don’t know. I was just standing here and…it just started.”

She’s looking down at my pants, just as I am. The light blue sweatpants have a well defined wet spot in the crotch, with little wet veins that run down my thighs. Some of the urine has managed to trickle all the way down my legs, getting soaked up by my socks. I feel as gross as I do ashamed. I couldn’t even recall a time post-toilet training that I had wet my pants.

“You didn’t even feel it happening?” she asks.

I shake my head. “Do you think this is something? Like…do I need to call a doctor?”

“I don’t know,” she says. She seems more interested than she seems concerned. I watch her eyes, taking notes of what she’s seeing. “Maybe it’s just stress. Have you been stressed?”

I think about that. “Maybe? I dunno. But I’m always stressed. Isn’t everyone stressed these days?”

She puts her hand on my shoulder. Sadly, it’s the most physical contact we’ve had in a month. “Why don’t you go and change into some new pants,” she says. “Throw these in the wash and I’ll take care of them.”

“What if it happens again?”

“Maybe it won’t,” she says.

“But if it does?”

“We’ll deal with it.”

There’s still something off about her, but I set the feeling aside for now. She’s saying the right things, and she’s not making me feel like a freak. I’ll take it. I put down the coffee cup and shamble back towards the bedroom carefully, feeling warm liquid still shifting and dribbling down my legs.

From the kitchen, I hear her humming again–the same song.

***

The memory of pissing my pants is one that I can’t shake. While I change my clothes. While I take a shower. While I mow the lawn. While I take another shower. I just keep coming back to that feeling of the warm urine spilling into my pants. I could feel it happening, but I never had any control of it. It’s a terrifying feeling, having no agency over something like that. I worry that I’ll be living in fear of it happening again. It could happen at work. Or at the store. In front of my parents.

“You need to calm down,” she says as she hands me a beer on the back porch.

It feels nice to just sit outside with her. I wish that these fears weren’t so prevalent in my mind, because I badly want to just enjoy this moment.

“I’m trying,” I say. “I just can’t stop thinking about it happening again.”

She shrugs. “You have options.”

“Like?”

“Well you could go to the doctor’s office.”

I scoff. She knows me well enough to know that isn’t as likely of a possibility. I have a lot of discomfort when it comes to hospitals and doctors as it is.

“You said options–plural?” I ask.

She shrugs. “I dunno. If you don’t like the doctor-idea, you could always…wear protection?”

“Protection?” My imagination immediately conjures images of hardhats and safety goggles, which makes little sense to me.

“You know,” she says, carefully trying to spell out an idea that she seems to already know isn’t going to land well with me. “Like…undergarments? Uhm…padding?”

“Diapers?” I ask. “You think I should wear diapers?”

“I don’t think you should just start wearing diapers,” she says. “I’m just saying that they’re an option. You know, if it happens again.”

“I don’t think I could do that.”

She nods. “Well, I guess we’ll see if it happens again. If it doesn’t…I guess you’re off the hook.”

“Fingers crossed.”

We stare across the freshly cut lawn together, sipping our beers. We don’t say much, but we don’t have to. Again, it feels good just to have this moment together, even if it's a little sullied by the conversation about pants-pissing.

She starts humming again. It’s the same song from this morning.

“What is that song?” I ask.

“Oh, do you know it?”

“I dunno. You were humming it this morning too. It seems familiar to me, but I can’t place it.”

“I’m not sure if it has a name,” she says with a shrug. “It’s just a little song I picked up somewhere along the way.”

“It’s pretty,” I say. “Whatever it is.”

“Isn’t it?”

She begins to hum it again, seeming to pick up where she left off. I spend a moment or two thinking about how strange it is that she’s been humming this little ditty aloud all day–when she’s never been known to sing or hum much normally. But I let go of those thoughts, instead deciding to just focus on how relaxed the notes make me feel.

My eyes close for just a moment while I take in the song. Soon, I feel like I’m just hearing it in my head. She might not be singing it anymore. I could almost swear that I can hear her talking to me, somewhere.

“Alvin?”

I open my eyes again, and the music is gone and the world is silent. If I nodded off, it was for just a brief moment.

“Alvin?” Freya asks again.

I turn my head towards her. I’m smiling, but only to hide how strangely out of it I feel.

“Yeah?” I ask. “Everything okay?”

“You were just kind of staring off into space for a moment there.”

“Oh.”

“But, also…”

She doesn’t finish the sentence, but she nods downwards with her head, trying to lead my eyes with her gesture. I glance down to my pants. They’re wet again.

“Ah, fuck…”

“Sorry,” she says. “I happened to look down while you were drifting off and I watched it happen.”

I stood up from my chair, looking down at my soaked pants as I tried to survey the scope of the damage. “What the hell is happening to me?”

“Just calm down,” she says.

“How the hell am I supposed to calm down when I keep on–”

“I know, I know,” she says, putting her hand on my shoulder. “Look, whatever it is, we’ll figure it out. But getting mad and hollering about it isn’t going to make it any better, right?”

“I guess so, yeah.”

It’s the way she’s rubbing my shoulder, and the tone of her voice–they’re putting me at ease. I’m still upset, and I doubt much could change that, but I at least feel better. She’s right, of course. Whatever is going on isn’t going to be solved with anger.

“I guess…I’ll go get changed again.”

She nods and I make my way back inside the house. The damp cloth of my pants sticks to my legs as I walk. I’m almost afraid to think of the seat of the chair I was sitting in–I can feel the wetness had spread to my ass, and I can just imagine some sort of puddle left behind me for Freya to clean up after.

By the time I get into the bedroom, and my wet pants and boxers have fallen to the ground, I can hear something outside the window. I’m tempted to ignore it and focus on the task at hand, but I can’t help myself and I get closer to listen.

She’s outside still, looking down at the wet spot in the chair I was sitting in. She’s humming that song again.

***

“I know we’ve talked about this,” she says. “And I know you don’t like the idea of it. But I think it makes the most sense.”

“No way,” I say. “You can’t possibly expect me to wear one of those things.”

“How many more pairs of underwear are you going to ruin?” she asks. “How many more pairs of pants are going to get soaked? And what if it happens again while you’re out of the house? At the store? At work? You don’t have to like it, but you need to be smart about this.”

I grumble, but I already know the battle is lost. She’s holding a diaper in her hands; she already had the foresight to buy them. I don’t even know where she got them from, nor when. But one is in her hand and she’s pushing it in my direction.

“Fine,” I say.

“You had two accidents yesterday,” she says. “Hopefully if you have none today, maybe then we don’t have to worry about these.”

I want to take that optimistically, but…she already bought the diapers. It feels like she’s already bet against me.

“Do you need help?” she asks.

“N-no, I don’t need help,” I say. “I’m not a baby.”

“I, well…” she stops herself from saying anything more. And who knows what she was going to say. Maybe she would’ve apologized for insinuating that I needed help. Maybe she was going to say that if I was going to wear a diaper, I would lose the privilege to say that I wasn’t a baby. When she finally spoke again, she just said: “I’ll leave you to it.” She turns and exits the room, leaving me alone with the diaper.

I know nothing about diapers–adult or otherwise–but this particular one feels strange. Wrong. It’s ridiculous how large and thick it feels in my hands.

No, I think. Something is going on here.

I can’t think of a time in my life I had ever so much as had a dribble of piss in my underwear, let alone having soaked myself twice in the same day. And these diapers? And…that song?

I might be going crazy. I worry that I’m taking my fears about my health and turning them into paranoid thoughts about Freya. It’s kind of funny when I think about it like that. As if Freya could just, what, sing a song and make me piss my pants? That’s just silly.

I don’t like the diapers, and they still seem like overkill, but Freya’s thinking doesn’t seem entirely wrong. Changing some padding instead of changing my entire pair of pants–and adding to the laundry that will need to be done later–makes sense.

The plastic outer-layer crackles and crinkles with even the slightest flex of my fingers. How does one wear something like this without announcing that they’re wearing a diaper with every step? I have no idea what to do with this, and I’m tempted to just walk away from it entirely. I toss it onto the bed–it makes me uncomfortable just to hold it in my hands.

“It’s not going to bite you,” she says from behind me. I turn to see that Freya is at the door again.

“I thought you were leaving me alone.”

“I had a feeling that if I peeked into the room, I’d see you struggling. Seems I was right.”

“Where the hell do you even get a diaper like this anyways?” I ask.

“What do you mean?”

“Have you actually taken a good look at it? It looks like it was made for a 200 pound toddler.”

Her eyes scan up and down my body. “What are you, like 185 these days?”

“Is this a joke to you?”

“Put the diaper on,” she says. There’s still a kindness in her voice, though it’s missing some patience.

I want to. I would, if I could. “I don’t think I know what I’m doing with this.”

“Lie down. I’ll take care of you.”

I should be protesting. Maybe I just need a moment to catch my breath and then I wouldn’t be so flustered that I can’t figure out a simple diaper for myself. But I lie down atop the bed anyways.

She begins to hum that song again. For as strange as it is, I do find it to be soothing. I feel my defenses lowering, and the frustrated tenseness in my bones slowly dissipating. She effortlessly pulls my pants and underwear down my legs and I make no effort to stop her. She unfolds the thick diaper as she positions herself between my legs. I can’t help but feel like the baby that I swore I wasn’t just minutes ago. Is this her plan? To humiliate and infantilize me?

Don’t be a fool, I tell myself. She’s just trying to take care of me, and it seems rude to question that. As surreal as the scene is, I let her do her thing.

“Kick your feet up,” she says. “I need to slide this under you.”

I do as she asks, and I can feel the thick padding creep into place.

“You’re a good boy,” she coos as she folds the front of the diaper over my limp member. She starts humming again.

The words are simultaneously comforting and confusing. I’m an adult, I remind myself–as if I had to. But hadn’t I heard those words, or something like them, before? I stare up at the ceiling as I feel her fixing the diaper around me. I’m an adult. I hear the sticky-stretchy sounds of the diaper’s tapes being pulled open. I’m an adult. She pulls the front of the diaper taut as the back of the diaper is joined to the front. I’m an adult.

She steps back from the bed. “Okay, you’re all set.”

I sit up, immediately feeling the thick bulk under me and between my legs. I look down at the thick diaper.

I’m a baby.

“I…I can’t go out like this,” I tell her.

“Out?” she says. “I’m not asking you to go anywhere.”

It feels dismissive, like she’s missing the point of what I’m trying to say. I want to try explaining how ridiculous I feel again, but I’m not even sure what the point would be. She has to know how humiliating this is.

Right?

“Well…thanks for the help,” I say. I don’t want to be ungrateful for her help and support. As weird as this is, it’s not like she’s mocked me for wetting my pants or anything.

“What are you going to do when you use the diaper?” she asks. Not if. When.

“I…well, let’s see if I even do, right? Maybe I won’t.”

“That’s true,” she says with a smile, though her tone isn’t especially convincing. “But, if you do use it…”

“I guess I’ll…change?” The answer seems so obvious that I wonder if I need to be reading between the lines to find the actual question she’s asking.

“But you’ll let me know?” she asks.

“You want to know?”

She nods. “Please?”

Once more, I’m torn between being thankful and suspicious. She may sincerely just want to help me and make sure that I’m okay. But what if this is something else? I can’t even begin to imagine what ‘something else’ is, but I continue to feel like it’s there, just beneath the surface.

“Of course,” I say. I want to give her the benefit of the doubt. I want to trust that she’s looking after me and that she’s just concerned.

“Okay, good,” she says. She leaves the room again while softly humming to herself.

I avoid the large mirror hanging on the wall as I grab my sweatpants–I don’t want to see the baby that I fear I’ve suddenly become. I grab my underwear too, but they suddenly feel very unnecessary, and I toss them back to the bed. I don’t care for the feeling of pulling my sweatpants over the diaper, but I tell myself that this is just a temporary thing. Soon, this will be behind me. We’ll forget this ever happened. One day in the future, I’ll be cleaning out the garage and I’ll find a pack of adult diapers and I’ll laugh about how silly this one weekend was, before tossing the package into a trash can.

I can’t wait.

***

An hour later, I’ve soaked the diaper.

It happened so suddenly. Just as I had started to become less aware of the bulging garment in my pants, I felt it growing warmer and heavier. No amount of muttering “Oh goddammit, no. Please, no,” seemed to stop the flow, and soon it was drenched. A soggy blob of warm padding between my legs.

I had been wrong, of course, to think that there was nothing more humiliating than having to wear a giant diaper. Wetting that diaper is so much worse. And I’m tempted to ask if there’s anything worse than this, but I don’t think I want to know the answer.

I just sit on the couch for a few minutes, stewing in my wet diaper, as I think about everything. What am I supposed to do? Who am I supposed to call? How does something like this get fixed? How did this happen in the first place?

How do I tell Freya that I did, in fact, wet this diaper?

But that question gets answered almost immediately when she strolls into the living room. She looks…happy. It shouldn’t be strange to see her like this, but after weeks of cold-war playing out in our home, it’s a sight to behold. I’m tempted to ask if it’s my diapers, and the accidents, that are bringing her happiness–but I just know that’d be paranoia speaking.

“How is everything?” she asks.

I hesitate to answer, and that seems to be all the answer she needs.

“You didn’t…use the diaper already, did you?”

I could lie. I really want to. I try and think ahead, to see if I can predict how a lie like this could come back and bite me. I don’t have a good answer, but I also don’t have all day to answer her question.

“I did.” Hearing myself say the truth was incredibly disappointing.

“When did that happen? You didn’t come and get me?”

“It, uh, just happened. A few minutes ago. Sorry…it’s been a lot to take in.”

She sits down next to me on the couch, putting her hand on my thighs. “I’m sure it is. I’m really sorry you feel that way–it can’t be easy.”

Her kind tone warms my spirits just a little bit. I needed that comfort.

“Come on,” she says, taking my hand in hers. “Let’s go get you changed.”

I begin to nod, but I stop myself. “I…I don’t need help.”

“But…”

“I’m not a baby.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“You’re talking down to me,” I say. “Like I’m a child.”

I expect her to be defensive, or for her to lose the soft tone in her voice, but she seems unaffected by my defiance. “I just want to help you.”

I really want to believe her. And, despite my suspicions, I still can’t detect any true malice.

“How? Are you really going to…change my diaper?”

There’s no hesitation as she nods and smiles warmly. “Yes, of course.”

I stand up from the couch, following her lead. And when she pulls me towards the bedroom, I follow her. For as much as I want to protest this, it feels easier to just let it happen. I don’t want to talk about it anymore than I have to, and I definitely don’t want to fight about diapers.

“Go ahead and lie down,” she says, pointing to the bed.

I start to pull my pants down.

“I’ll take care of that,” she says.

“I…I can undress myself.”

“Lie down,” she says again.

I sigh in surrender as I do as she asks. No sooner than I’m on my back, she’s pulling my pants down my legs, finishing what I started.

“Now, let’s take a look and see how bad it is,” she says, pawing at my diaper as she inspects it. “My my, you really soaked this one, huh?”

“You don’t have to narrate it,” I say. “I know what happened.”

She shrugs playfully. “Fine, have it your way.” She begins to hum her song instead.

And I can hear her pulling the tapes up from the diaper, and combined with the sound of her song, I can’t help but feel small. Infinitely small. Vulnerable. I look towards Freya as I watch her pull the soggy used diaper out from under me and ball it up.

I don't really know what happens next. Maybe I’m dissociating or something, but I don’t even feel like I’m in the same room anymore. I have a vague idea of what’s happening, but I feel like I’m simultaneously somewhere else.

I think she’s cleaning me with a damp cloth, running it between my legs and over my bottom. Does she have…baby wipes? My thumb is my mouth. I don’t even remember putting it there–nor can I even remember the last time I sucked my thumb. But I leave it there. I can’t explain it but…I think I need it?

Her song continues. She’s sliding the new diaper under me. I’m suckling my thumb. She’s shaking something onto me, and a fine white cloud of mist drifts towards my nose. Baby powder? I try to take the thumb from my mouth so that I can ask her about it, but I can’t seem to pull it from its place. No, that’s not it–I don’t actually want to take my thumb out of my mouth.

It consumes all of my senses at once. I can hear the rustling and crinkling of the new diaper. I can feel the diaper being tightly wrapped around me. The smell–even the taste–of the baby powder that still lingers in the air. The sight of Freya hovering over me, caring for me as if I was much smaller than I really was.

All at once, it’s over. She’s finished applying the new diaper. She’s stopped humming her song. I’m completely back in my body again and my thumb is no longer in my mouth. The past few minutes might have been a dream.

“You’ve been such a good boy,” she coos.

I let it go. I can’t begin to unpack that, or much else, right now.

***

“What’s going on?” I ask.

I ask her while my diaper–the second diaper of the day–is once again soaked and sagging between my legs as I stand in the kitchen to confront her. I ask her after almost breaking down and crying in the living room as I felt myself helplessly saturating the thick infantile padding once again.

As badly as I want to believe that she’s just trying to help me, it’s far too big of a pill for me to swallow. The random and completely uncontrollable pants-wetting. The giant diapers that she just suddenly seems to have plenty of. Her insistence on putting said diapers on me.

That fucking song.

“What do you mean?” she asks. I expect her tone to be more defensive.

“I don’t know how, or why, but I think you have something to do with this.”

“This?” she asks, shrugging a little. It’s an almost playful reaction, like she’s goading me.

“The…diapers. The accidents. The fact that I smell like a big baby. You, trying to act like you’re my mother or something.”

She should be refuting me. Denying what I said and insisting it’s not true.

Instead: “What about it?”

I can barely see straight, I’m so filled with frustration. “What are you doing to me? How are you doing it?”

“I’m not doing all that much,” she says with a shrug. “It’s more you than me.”

“What does that even mean?”

“You need to calm down,” she says.

“Don’t be like that. Don’t be condescending right now.”

She takes a step forward, towards me. I’m hesitant to call it ‘threatening’ or ‘aggressive,’ but it at least feels assertive. Powerful.

“I’ve simply made some suggestions to you,” she says. “You ran with them.”

“I don’t know what you mean by that.”

She smiles, and begins to hum her song again.

“That…song,” I say. “What is this? Some sort of…hypnosis? Is that what this is? Are you hypnotizing me into being some sort of pants-wetting infant?”

She giggles. “It doesn’t matter what it is. It doesn’t matter how it works. Because it is working.”

I shake my head. “What’s working?”

“Don’t you feel it?” she asks, stepping closer to me. She reaches forward and runs her hand up my pants until she gets to the soggy bulge between my legs. She squeezes it gently. Playfully.

I stand my ground, though I badly want to recoil from her grip. “Feel what? This swampy diaper?”

“Yes,” she says. “But it’s more than that. Don’t you feel something greater pulling at you?”

I quickly think back to her changing my diaper, and how I felt I had become untethered from reality long enough to feel regressed while in her care. The sensation of sucking my thumb. The way that she applied the powder and diapered me. Those memories felt…good.

I resented the diapers and I resented her for making me wear them, but only because it felt insulting to me as an adult man. But, goddammit, there was something else there too: a longing to experience it again.

I say nothing to her, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of having agreed.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” she says with a smile. She could always see right through me.

“What is this?” I ask again. I don’t expect her to give me an answer, but my curiosity is almost suffocating. “What are you doing to me?”

“You’re such a silly little boy,” she coos, her mouth edging closer to my ear as she continues to grasp my bulging diaper. “Why do you care so much?”

“Because…I…”

“Did you ever think that maybe you’re better off being my baby than my husband?”

“I…no! I’ve never thought that before. Why would I think that?”

“Maybe you should think about it.”

She finally released the diaper and began walking away from me. Of all the thoughts swarming my mind, the loudest was that she knew I was wearing a soaking wet diaper and didn’t offer to change me again.

“What am I supposed to do about this?” I call out to her, pointing towards my pants.

I almost immediately regret asking the question, and seeing the smile on her face as she turns back around only confirms I should’ve kept my mouth shut.

“What’s wrong, Baby?” she says, her tone dipping into the sugar-laden condescension she used while changing my diaper earlier. “Can’t do it by yourself?”

I shouldn’t have said anything at all. Of course I can do it by myself. I’m not helpless. I’m not…a baby. I know the words I need to say to her: Never mind. I’ll take care of myself.

But instead, I say: “Could you help me?”

She laughs and shakes her head as her arms cross in front of her. “No.”

“N-no? But…”

“You’re not ready for your diaper to be changed yet.”

“Not ready? But, Freya, you felt it for yourself! You know how heavy it is. It’s soaked! It’s, like, sagging really badly.”

“When you’re done with that diaper–and I think you’ll know when you’re done with it–you come and find me.”

She turns and walks away again, humming her song to herself. I call out one more time, but she doesn’t respond this time.

When I’m done with it? What does that even mean?

Actually, I think I know what she means. I follow her, trailing her like a pathetic puppy dog. I don’t even know where she’s going–she might just be leading me in circles through the house because she likes having me follow her like this.

“Freya, you can’t be serious. You can’t expect me to…” I don’t even want to say the words.

“I can’t expect you to do what now?” she asks.

“To…go. In my diaper?”

“Haven’t you already done that?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Maybe I don’t,” she says. “Tell me.”

“You expect me to…poop myself?”

“I expect you to do what a baby does in their diaper, Alvin. That is what you’re becoming, yes? A baby?”

“I’m not…becoming…anything.”

But the words don’t feel right coming from my mouth. Something feels wrong overall, but I’m becoming less sure what it is.

She’s humming that song again.

No…she’s not. I can just hear it in my head. It’s like a lullaby. I fall to my knees in the living room, feeling completely drained of my energy. She slowly walks towards me, looking down at me like I’m so incredibly pitiful. Likely because I am.

“Doesn’t this make so much more sense?” she asks.

The words are hard to get out. Not just these words–any words. “No…none of this…makes sense to me…”

“It’s been a difficult few months for us, hasn’t it?” she asks, still looking down at me. “If another husband–another man–had been told by his wife that he wasn’t doing a good job of pleasing her in bed, he likely would’ve done something about it, yes? Tried to learn a thing or two about it. But not you. You wallowed in self pity, dragging our marriage down with you.”

“But…”

“You made up your mind,” she continues, not even giving me the chance to respond. “I made up mine. You want to act like an overgrown toddler? Fine, have at it. I’ll get what I want elsewhere while you fill up your diapers.”

I open my mouth to respond, but I can’t get the words out. I don’t even know what words I want to use. The world around me is getting hazier. Bigger, somehow.

“I did what I had to do,” she says. “I think you’ll come to enjoy your new place.”

It all but confirms what I had suspected–dreaded–from the very beginning. She did this. She did something to me. I don’t even know what it is. I wonder if I’ll ever know.

Hypnosis?

Some sort of drug?

As absurd as it sounds…black magic?

That fucking song. Maybe the song is nothing at all, and it’s just a red herring. Maybe that song is everything.

I feel myself slipping away again, the same way I had when I was on the bed while she changed my diaper. There’s that longing again–that need to feel myself regress and be cared for. I look up at Freya, and she looks absolutely enormous to me. She’s stories high now, towering above me.

I hear her song in my mind–maybe she’s actually humming it now–but I can also hear her words: That is what you’re becoming, yes? A baby?

I realize that my being in this pathetic state has been the only time I’ve seen her happy in a long time. And, of course, I just want to please her.

Maybe I don’t have a choice in the matter–though I’d like to think I do–but I decide to give in. It’s surprisingly easy. So easy, in fact, that it feels more natural to let myself become the baby than it does to pretend to be an adult.

I slip my thumb into my mouth as I look up at her.

In the same way that I’d just start to wet myself without even realizing what was happening, I feel a strange sensation in the back of the diaper. I detect the diaper’s expansion and increasing heaviness before I realize that it’s because I’m unloading my bowels. It’s a loud, shameful, sequence of sounds emanating from my bottom as I let it all out. I’m hesitant to even say that I’m ‘pushing,’ because it almost seems to be happening on its own.

I know, on some level, how absolutely humiliating this should be. It doesn’t seem to hit me. I’ll feel it later–I’m sure. It’ll cripple me. I bet it’s going to make me cry like an infant.

“There you go,” she says from above me, looking down. “Don’t you feel better now?”

“Y-yes.” But that word doesn’t feel right by itself. “Yes, Mommy.”

“Come on, Baby. Let’s get your stinky bottom changed.” Her hand reaches down to me and I take it.

“Yes, Mommy.”

It’s going to come and go, I can already tell. I’ll have these moments of absolute clarity and I’m going to be furious with Freya for making me into some sort of baby. I’ll insist that I’m an adult. I’ll throw a big fit about it, and I can already hear her reprimanding me while insisting that I’m having a ‘temper tantrum.’

And then I’ll be small again. And, if I was to guess, it’ll happen much more frequently. One day, it might even be permanent. The thought of this should terrify me. It does, somewhat. Truthfully, I’m kind of curious. Excited, maybe. I wonder what that’s going to be like. Would I just…be her baby? Forever?

She leads me back to the bedroom by the hand. She doesn’t have to tell me what to do next, I already know. I lie down on our bed, feeling the thick contents of my diaper squish under me as I do.

“This won’t be your bed for much longer,” she says. “The next step is getting you a nursery. With a crib, and a changing table. Would you like a rocking horse?”

There’s an infinite number of things I could be thinking about. Asking about. But the thought of my body teetering back and forth on a rocking horse sounds really fun.

I nod enthusiastically.

“What a good little boy,” she coos. “I knew you’d be okay with this.”

My thumb is in my mouth again. I feel her opening my diaper. I can smell the disgusting load I unleashed into my diaper, but I can already see that she doesn’t seem to mind at all.

She starts humming her song again.

My body tenses. For a second, right on cue, I think that this is all wrong. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. I have a job and responsibilities. I’m an adult. A man. I shouldn’t be here and I shouldn’t be allowing this to happen. Is she just going to lock me in a crib in another room, leaving me to soil my diapers helplessly, while she fucks another man in the bed I wouldn’t be allowed to sleep in anymore?

I’m not a baby.

I take a deep breath as her song soothes me.

I’m not a baby.

“Stay still, Baby,” she says. “Mommy has to clean up this big yucky mess.”

I let my body relax as I feel her wipe the area between my legs clean. I suckle my thumb. This is fine.

I’m a baby.