You and I Need to Have a Little Chat [Tier 2 and 3 Exclusive] (Patreon)

One thousand, five hundred and twenty-two days.

That’s four years–one of them a leap year–two months and a handful of days. I think that’s more than enough time, don’t you? I mean, we’ve had presidents come and go in a shorter amount of time than that, and you’re certainly no president.

I think it’s time that you and I had a little chat.

In all fairness, I put most of the blame on myself. I’m not sure what I thought would change. Well, besides your diapers. Did I think that you’d reveal qualities and traits I hadn’t yet seen in the four-plus years we’ve been together? Was I too afraid to move on from my own comfort zone?

I recently wondered if I was being lazy when it came to you. I have to be honest, I laughed out loud. There’s nothing lazy about changing a grown man’s diaper multiple times a day. There’s nothing lazy about spoon-feeding you from a jar. Keeping an inventory of diapers and coordinating when I need to order more. Planning every single trip–from going to the grocery store to going on vacation in Miami–around when and where I can change you without causing a scene.

That doesn’t seem lazy to me. But do you know what it does sound like?

Work. It sounds like work.

And you? You’ve been living the life, haven’t you? Your wildest fantasies were met by the mommy of your dreams. Diapers 24/7 on top of being treated like a giant toddler.

There must’ve been a time when I got something out of this, but it’s been a while. Your cocklette has never really been all that useful to me, especially so once we started locking up. And can you even remember the last time I unlocked it? Because I don’t. I don’t even bother wearing the key around my neck anymore. It implies I’d have a need for it. And I don’t.

It’s in a drawer now. I think. I’d have to look around a little to see which one, though. For your sake, I hope I didn’t lose it.

Oh, so are you beginning to grasp what I’m trying to say? I know, I know, your little baby brain has a hard time processing anything that’s not suckling a bottle or filling your diaper with another mushy pile. Perhaps I can make it a little more clear for you.

I’m done with you. I’m done with being your Mommy, and I’m done with you being my baby. It was fun while it lasted. Or, it was fun for a little while, at least.

But I’m ready to move on. I’m ready for new things. New men. And I do mean men.

No more little boys. No more diapers. I want a man to smell like a man and not a toddler. I want to come home with a man’s scent still on my clothes, reminding me of how he just fucked me silly. Instead of, you know, taking a whiff of my blouse and realizing that it smells like baby powder. Or a dirty diaper.

I need men with real cocks, you know what I mean? No, maybe you don’t. Imagine your little cocklette without its cage on it. Now imagine it erect. Do you imagine me laughing at it? Because you should. Now imagine that cock being twice as long. That’s what I want. I want cocks that I can actually feel when they’re inside me.

Speaking of, when was the last time you were even inside of me? Damn, it has to have been at least three years now, right?

Sorry, I’m getting a little off topic.

I can’t imagine any of this coming as a surprise to you. If you really thought that I was going to continue to dote on you and change your filthy pampers for you for the rest of my life, you’d be pretty delusional. And I don’t think you’re delusional. Selfish, maybe.

But where do you think I’ve been at night? When I lock you up in the playpen or your crib, dressed in my fancy new clothes, with all my makeup on. Surely you know I’m going out, yes? And rather often too.

Do you get jealous? Do you think about the men buying me drinks and grinding themselves against me at clubs and regret that it’s not you instead?

That used to be you. But you chose diapers. It wasn’t even my choice, remember? We made a big pile of your underwear and boxer shorts in the backyard and I handed you a lighter. And you didn’t have to burn up all your big-boy underpants, but you chose to. Because you wanted diapers. You wanted to be a baby.

That was a fantastic fire, wasn’t it? You held onto my hand so tightly while holding a baby bottle up to your mouth with the other.

So, yes, I’ve been having a pretty nice nightlife as of late. Fuck. The drinks. The men. The dancing. The fresh air. The ability to turn off my brain for a little bit and just have fun without being interrupted by a whiny little baby who needs to be changed. I’d highly recommend getting back into the ‘real’ world again.

Your results may vary, I suppose.

Right, so, let’s talk about you. The last few years have been a bit of a transition, yes? Do you remember who you used to be? Polo shirts and cargo shorts? The backwards hat? Look, regardless of anything else, you should at least thank me for throwing out the fucking cargo shorts.

But we did a lot in our four years together, yes? We actually reversed your potty training. That wasn’t easy, but we worked together to achieve that. Weeks and months of teaching you to just use your diaper the moment you felt that you had to go, without thinking about it. I mean, it’s been years since you even sat on a toilet. And now look at you–incontinent as a newborn. I’m still proud of that.

And we’ve changed your diet. You’re almost exclusively on baby food and formula now. Can you even recall the last time you had a solid bowel movement? Because I certainly don’t–and I’d remember that, since I’ve seen each and every one of your diapers.

This all leaves you in a bit of a predicament, doesn’t it? What does a giant man-baby do with himself after his mommy decides she’s had enough? You have no control over when you fill your diapers. You’ve never changed yourself before. You haven’t eaten an adult meal in who-knows-how-long.

So what do you do? Go back to work? Excuse yourself every few minutes to check your diaper in the bathroom because you think you might have had an accident?

I’ll be honest, I don’t envy you in the least.

I’ll tell you what you probably need to do: You need to find a new mommy, as difficult as I see that being. I imagine there’s a handful of adventurous women who are willing to change a diaper now and then and play along with your little adventures. But a Mommy who’s going to change all of your diapers? Who is going to feed you and bathe you? Provide for you? A Mommy who will be at your needy beck and call almost 24 hours a day?

Good luck.

Now, I can admit that I’m being a little mean. A little selfish. But I can also admit that I don’t care. Life is short, and I’m already wondering what else I could’ve been doing with myself in the time I was taking care of you. Gone back to school, maybe. Traveled more. Spent more time with my family, for sure.

You know, my mother is asking why the family doesn’t see much of me. She knows, or at least suspects, that I’ve been living with someone. And, obviously, I wasn’t going to tell her the nature of my relationship. How would I even do that? How would I approach my mother and tell her that I live with, and care for, a giant baby?

“Mother, you know how you keep asking me when I’m going to settle down and give you grandchildren? Well, have I got news for you! See, the man that I live with, he’s already a big baby. And, no, I don’t mean that in jest. I mean, quite literally, he acts like a giant infant. Diapers. Sucking on bottles. Plays with toys in a playpen. Would you like to meet him? Call him your grandson? Change his diapers and tickle his belly?”

See? I just don’t think that would fly.

But I did tell others about you. I couldn’t keep it to myself–I think I would’ve lost my mind if I didn’t start talking to others about you.

For a while, I was very selective about who I told. I told Megan, of course. BFFs, you know? We share everything together. In a way, she’s been part of this whole little adventure from the very beginning. I told her about the new guy I had met online. I told her about our first date. Remember? The one where you spilled beer on your crotch and I teased you about it looking like you pissed yourself? And then you actually had an erection from me saying that?

When I put you in a diaper for the first time? She and I talked about that. The first time you wet yourself in front of me? I told her about that too. First time you messed your diaper? You better believe we talked about that. I’m pretty sure I sent her the video I recorded of that too.

Admittedly, I’ve gotten a little less picky about who I told about you over the years. At this point, most of my friends know: Casey, Nicole, Maya, Allie… There’s more I could name, but you get the idea.

I suppose part of it is just…fatigue. It gets exhausting, having to hide everything all the time. I can’t have people over. I have to plan what I do around when I’m taking care of you. It gets to be a burden, and I think it just kept wearing on me until it became easier to start being more honest about the big baby in my life.

It’s not just that, though. The longer this has gone on, the more disconnected you’ve become from reality. Mind you, I don’t hold that against you. It’s an inevitability, I guess. You lost contact with your friends and family because you didn’t want them to see you crawling around in a diaper. You haven’t worked in years. You never leave the house anymore. Maybe it’s hard for you to do that. Or, maybe, you’re just not interested in a world outside of your infantile fantasy-land.

Regardless, the further away from reality you get, the less guilt I feel over airing your dirty laundry. Quite literally, if you consider the clothesline last summer where we hung up all your cloth diapers in the backyard. But, more to my point, it didn’t bother me to tell people about you, because it didn’t matter anymore. You had no reputation to ruin. No social standing.

So…I might have told a lot of people. Like, kind of everyone I could?

Holy fuck, can I tell you how liberating that is? Honestly, it’s the best feeling I’ve had in such a long time. Better than sex, even.

Take last week, for example. Remember that night I locked you up in the crib and I was wearing that dark blue dress? So I went downtown with Megan and Nicole, and we ended up at this bar called The River. Despite it being one of the trendiest bars in town, I’m going to take a guess and say that you’ve never heard of it? They do have a dress code–and I don’t think they allow for diapers.

The other girls run to the bathroom for a few, and I’m at the bar by myself. This guy comes up to me. Like, an absolute ‘10.’ Perfect hair. Tall. Whatever, you get the point. And so this guy buys me a drink and we get to talking. Flirting. He’s got his hands on my thigh within minutes of meeting me, and I don’t mind at all.

He asks how it’s possible that someone like me is single.

And so, I’ll admit, I don’t really love questions like that. It’s kind of condescending, on top of being corny. But I’m going to play along, because I’ve got two lemondrop martinis in me and he just offered to buy me my third.

So, I tell him the truth. I tell him everything. Something like: “So, I’m not ‘technically’ single–I’ve got someone waiting for me back at my house. There was a time I thought of him as my boyfriend, but he doesn’t really do any sort of ‘boyfriend-y’ things for me anymore. And he wants to be a baby. A literal overgrown infant. He’s in a crib right now. In a diaper. A diaper that I’m going to have to change when I get home, no doubt. And I’m here at this bar now, sucking down these lemondrop martinis and waiting for a cute guy to approach me, because I need to be distracted.”

I think he stopped listening to me after the first sentence. He didn’t give a shit, and I don’t blame him. I could’ve gone into detail about the nightly routine of bottle feeding you and changing your diaper before going to bed, and he wouldn’t have blinked an eye. I’m a pretty woman, and I’m talking to him, and that’s probably all that mattered.

He fucked me twice. Once in the bathroom and once in the backseat of his car. It was one of those electric dealies, too. Those fancy expensive ones? I told him to fuck me while he put the car into self-driving mode. That didn’t happen.

Maybe next time? He did give me his number.

Anyways, do you see the point I’m making? I just don’t have any sort of filter about who you are or what you do anymore. I tell everyone about you. I share pictures. Videos.

I had someone offer me a substantial amount of money to set up a livecam in our home so people could watch you crawling around like a baby all day. And I probably would’ve given that more thought if I wasn’t already convinced I needed to break away.

I have his number too, by the way. Maybe I’ll leave that behind for you and that’s how you can make a living once I’m out of the picture. I bet you’d make a decent amount of money, sharing your pathetic life with the world.

Would you like that? I think it’d be good for you. It’s not like you’re going to have a normal life after this anyways. You might as well embrace it. You could lean into it. Make a career out of it. The Man-Baby.

What’s even the point of holding on to the last strands of your dignity anymore? It’s gone. You lost it. So put yourself out there instead and make a complete fool of yourself. People will eat that up, I guarantee it.

And now that I’m thinking about it? That might be your best chance at meeting some other woman willing to be your full-time Mommy. You don’t try to find her, you know? You let her find you. If there’s someone like that out there–someone who wants to dedicate all their time and energy to a helpless baby like you–you can bet that they’d be watching you if you put yourself out there.

So? What do you think? Have anything to say for yourself?

Hmm, no, I suppose not. You seem content to just suckle your pacifier.

Remember when I used to have to strap the pacifier to your face so that you wouldn’t spit it out? We’ve come a long way since then. I can just pop that thing in now and know that it’s going to stay in place until I take it out myself.

Oh, there’s your tears! Can I just say that it still makes me a little wet when I see you cry? Like, it might be the only thing you do that still gets me excited. There’s just something about seeing you pushed to the absolute end of your tolerance. An actual infantile temper tantrum? It’s so fucking primal.

Go on, give me your best cry. Get it all out.

I’ll miss this. Some of this. The other stuff? The neverending parade of dirty diapers? It’ll probably take a while before I have any sort of nostalgia for it. I imagine I’ll come around on it eventually. I mean, I did have a passion for it when we first started.

I was thinking about it the other day: Maybe, once I get settled in with my new life, I’ll open the door to some new babies. Nothing permanent–I’m not interested in being a full-time mommy again. But I could invite a baby boy or baby girl to come spend a weekend with me from time to time. When I’m feeling the need to pamper someone.

Well that seems to have gotten a rise out of you. Does that make you jealous? Thinking about me playing mommy to someone else and not you?

There’s the tears I wanted to see. Fuck, that’s good stuff. You don’t mind if I take a moment to record this on video, do you? I’m going to want to see this later.

I’m just kidding, of course. I don’t actually give a shit if you mind–I’m filming your weepy face anyways.

So, yeah. The end is coming. And probably sooner than you think. It’s been a while since you’ve been in the master bedroom, right? My bedroom? I really ought to bring you over there now. It’s empty. Completely empty. It’s a little project I’ve been working on for the last few weeks. In fact, as I’m talking to you right now, I’ve got some gentlemen picking up a few pieces of furniture from around the house so we can move it to my new place.

I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but one of the movers is pretty cute. And since I’ve already told him all about the big baby nursery, maybe it’d be fun to give him a little tour when he’s done. What do you think?

Would you like it if I left you in your crib and I let him bend me over the changing table so he could fuck me right in front of you? Think of it as a little going away gift–your last time seeing my tits. Your last time seeing my pussy and my ass, even if it is getting completely filled out by another man.

And, you know what? I’m feeling extra generous. If you’re a good boy who can resist making too much of a scene while Mommy has her fun, I’ll even let you take out your pacifier to lick up all the goodies my new friend leaves behind. Won’t that be nice? Whether it’s in my pussy or right up my little asshole, you can lick up every drop for yourself.

C’mon, Baby. Surely you’re aware of how much of a privilege that is. You certainly don’t deserve it, yet I’m offering it to you anyways.

I’ve certainly given you a lot to think about, haven’t I? You wouldn’t be wrong for thinking this all seems rather sudden. Admittedly, I probably should’ve said something sooner. I wouldn’t say I was nervous about having this conversation–I mean, I hope you can see the delight on my face right now as I’m talking to you. I think I just wanted to savor this knowledge a little longer.

It’s a little naughty of me, I know, but I’ve enjoyed watching you go about your baby-business the last few weeks without any cares. All the while, I just laugh because I know the end of your little world as you know it is approaching.

Aww, does that make you sad? Does that make you want to cry and…

Oh…wait. That’s not your sad face, is it? I know that look all too well. Is baby busy pushing something into his diaper?

Go on, then. Get it all out. I can wait for you to finish.

There. All done? That little grunt usually means that’s the last of it.

I’m a little tempted to just leave you like that. After all, it would’ve been unrealistic for me to expect you not to load your diaper sooner or later while the moving men are here. I think I would’ve preferred that you had waited a little longer so that you could humiliate yourself in front of the nice young man who’ll be fucking me, but I realize that’s asking a lot of someone who can’t control themself.

But let’s get you changed. I’d rather the nursery not be an inhospitable environment for our guest when he gets here.

Don’t worry, I’ll be sure to let him know that you’ve just been changed out of a messy diaper, and it won’t be expected to happen again anytime soon. I’m sure he’d appreciate knowing that.

Or, I could have you tell him.

So let’s get your diaper changed. Will this be the last time I change your diaper? Actually, that’s a good question. If it’s not, I imagine the remaining number of times that I will change you are incredibly limited. I hope you savor every minute of this, baby.

I know all of this has been hard to listen to, so I appreciate you listening to me.

Now then. While I clean up your dirty bottom, why don’t you tell me all about how you’re feeling.