Mommy Dearest was in Town [Tier 3 Exclusive] (Patreon)

It’s the sort of thing that only seems like a good idea after your blood-alcohol level has reached a certain threshold. Because, otherwise, why would I ever agree to go to a woman’s professional wrestling match?

“Uhm, because it’s going to be fucking awesome?” says Davey. He’s drunk too, so his opinion carries little weight.

“I’ve never even heard of this organization,” I say. I read from the poster on the wall: “The League of Diabolic Ladies?”

“Goddamn, that sounds so fucking cool,” Davey says. “C’mon, Dean. Look! That’s going on tonight. And it’s just a few blocks away.”

“You honestly want to go to this thing?” I ask.

“Fuck yeah! You just know this thing is going to be crazy.”

I want to say no, but then I look at his stupidly excited face. Who could say no to that?

“Alright, fine,” I say. “Let’s do this.”

I grew up with ‘professional wrestling,’ and not by choice. Some families rally around the TV to watch football or basketball. But we were a pro-wrestling family. My father, my uncle, and my grandfather were obsessed with it. Sunday dinners were scheduled around when the men could watch wrasslin’ together. We’d all be corralled into the living room to watch brightly-costumed and muscular men toss each other around a ring.

I guess I liked it for a while. It was like a comic book come to life. It was a soap opera with more exposed pectoral muscles.

The older I got, the less appeal it had for me. It was always fake, but it seemed to look more fake as time went on. It got goofier. More melodramatic. More like an epic toy commercial. Maybe it had gotten worse, or maybe my tastes had changed. I’d be tempted to say I had grown out of it, but then I’d need to look no further to my father to see that it still managed to keep his attention just fine.

For as little interest as I have in pro-wrestling, especially low-budget amateur wrestling, I might just be the right amount of drunk for this. The poster in this bar states the admission is only $10, and I’m certain that I’ve spent more money on stupider things.

It’s a short walk there, and ‘there’ seems to be just an old warehouse, decked out with more posters and cheap Christmas lights. I hand the guy at the door $20 for the both of us and we’re in.

I’m not sure what I was expecting, but the decently-sized crowd seems to be 99% men. There's a wide range of men, however–from the curious hipsters, to the leather-jacketed bikers, to the bearded uncles in stained Pantera t-shirts. Everybody’s here.

We take some seats on a bench that overlooks the aged ring in the center of the warehouse. The entire operation seems kind of ramshackle–like everything was pulled off the back of a pickup truck this morning and by an hour after the event, the whole thing will be disassembled and back in that pickup again.

“Dude, they sell beer here too,” Davey says, pointing out one of the scantily-clad women carrying around plastic cups and pitchers of beer.

They certainly know their audience.

I’m just about ready to tell him that I don’t need any more beer for myself, but Davey’s already purchasing two cups.

“You got the admission,” he says. “So I’ve got the beer. And I’m going to keep it coming all night.”

“Great,” I mutter.

But, maybe that’s not that bad of a thing. Beer and terrible wrestling seems like it might be an entertaining waste of time. And I don’t have to work tomorrow, so it’s not like I need to be all that mindful of how much I drink.

“Ladies and germs!” shouts the man standing in the center of the ring. He’s got a look to him. Some real carny-like energy, or a trailer-park Johnny Depp. “Welcome to The League of Diabolic Ladies. Did you come here tonight because you want to see some lovely ladies beat the hell out of each other?”

The crowd, Davey included, loses their mind. Absolutely, they want to see that.

“Folks, have we got a helluva show for y’all tonight. You’re about to see some real legends in this ring. Are you ready?”

More cheering. I look around to see that plastic cups full of beer have proliferated their way into the hands of almost every single man here. I can already tell that this place is going to get crazy.

“Tonight!” continues our emcee. “You’re going to see the absolute best that gals’ wrestling has to offer. You’ll see the 6’3” monster Ursula Ironsides take on both members of The Sugar Chicks at once!”

I have no idea who any of those people are. Davey shrugs too. I’d doubt that anyone in this crowd knows who they are. But they’re yelling and cheering and it’s hard not to get caught up in that kind of excitement. We’re cheering too.

“We’ve got the one and only Iron Maiden here tonight, and she’s looking for revenge against her arch-rival Da Booty!”

“Fuck Da Booty!” screams a moustached man behind me. “Iron Maiden forever!”

“We’ve got Killary Clinton, going toe-to-toe with Much-Hell Obama!”

I’m not even sure I know what that means, but I’m cheering like a maniac.

“But,” says the emcee, “you’re really going to want to stick around for the main event. The League Championship belt is on the line tonight. Current champion, Mommy Dearest, isn’t just defending her belt against one competitor…”

The crowd is on their feet.

“...and she’s not defending it against two competitors…”

There’s an energy building in the crowd as the emcee continues to ramp it up.

“...and, folks, she’s not even going to be defending it against three competitors.”

A comical silence has fallen over the crowd as we await the announcement for what this match is going to be. He’s got us all in his hands.

“Ladies and germs, what you are going to see tonight will, quite likely, go down as one of the greatest wrestling matches of all time. Mommy Dearest will be defending her championship belt against four other women. At once!”

The crowd absolutely loses its shit. Everyone is screaming and clapping. All of us men–in various states of inebriation–are ready for the greatest night of their lives.

The matches start soon after. It’s hard to know where the contagious energy of the crowd ends and the impact of the beer begins, but I’m having an amazing time. Maybe, I think, this was always the missing link for my connection with pro-wrestling. Did I just need to see it live? In a hot warehouse with sweaty intoxicated men?

Davey, true to his word, keeps the beer coming. Coincidentally, the matches are getting a little harder to follow. Glistening women throw fake punches at each other until some arbitrary point in which one is declared a winner. I won’t pretend to have followed most of the action, but whatever it is, it’s entertaining.

“Have you ever seen Mommy Dearest before?”

I’m not even sure where the question is coming from, let alone if it's being directed at me or not. I answer anyway: “Nope.”

The head of the guy sitting behind me, the guy with strong objections towards Da Booty, slowly materializes next to mine. “Dude, she’s the fucking best.”

“What’s her deal?” I ask. “Like…Iron Maiden, I get that. Badass name. Badass looking lady. But Mommy Dearest? What’s so intimidating about that?”

“Dude,” he says. He repeats it again for emphasis: “Dude.”

“Okay?”

“I saw her up in Endicott last year. She totally took down her opponent in, like, 3 minutes.”

“Woah,” I say, hoping to stick right on the line between sounding interested and sounding sarcastic. His fanboyism towards the most amateur rung of an obviously fake sport is simultaneously endearing and cringeworthy.

“But that’s not all,” he continues. “After she beats her opponent in the ring, she puts them in a fucking diaper. Can you fucking believe that?”

“That’s her gimmick?”

He nods frantically. “I can’t wait. Can you even imagine if she beats all four women?”

I bite my tongue a little harder than usual–denying myself the chance to make a quip about the guy having some sort of weird fetish. Instead, I just nod. He seems satisfied with this and slides back into his bench.

But, I won’t lie, I’m kind of curious now. I want to see that.

The emcee is back in the ring again. “Well, folks, how are y’all enjoying the show?”

Hundreds of men, full of cheap beer and having just watched an hour or two of women getting into fake fights, offer a deafening level of cheers as a response.

“We saved the best for last! I just know you’re dying to see this match. Well? Let’s get our ladies out here, huh?”

They’re introduced one at a time. The emcee can call them all ‘challengers,’ but it’s pretty obvious what they actually are: victims to be fed to the main attraction. Tammy Two-Fists. Princess Bitch. “Mad” Marge Muldoon. Bling-Bling. The crowd cheers for them, but only in the same way that you cheer for the bug that’s dropped into a venus flytrap.

And then Mommy Dearest heads out to the ring. It doesn’t matter if most of us have no idea who she is or have never seen nor heard of her before. She has the confident strut of the biggest celebrity in pro-wrestling and her aesthetic is absurdly perfect. She looks like a 50s housewife, right down to the billowing dress, white apron, and strawberry blonde hair pulled back into a bun. The dress seems bursting at the seams, barely able to contain her hulking body.

I take a mental snapshot or two, hoping that I remember this later. I wouldn’t have ever thought that this would do it for me–yet, here we are.

She’s carrying a large purse-like bag on her shoulders, and when she makes it to the ring she throws it to the canvas and opens it up. First, she pulls out the championship belt, to the approval of the audience. Then, she pulls out four large white objects, holding them up high into the air for all to see.

I’m not entirely sure what I’m looking at, but thankfully the Mommy Dearest megafan behind me is ready to fill me in.

“Diapers!” he shouts. “She’s got four diapers! One for each of them!”

Okay, we get it. Calm down. Still, I can’t help but feel kind of excited about the idea of this myself. It’s completely bizarre and slightly naughty in a way that I can’t really put my finger on. I need to see how this plays out.

I’ll say this: All five ladies? They put on a hell of a good show. Time melts away as we continue to drink beer and watch the drama unfold before us. The concepts of ‘real’ and ‘fake’ no longer seem relevant. This is the realest, greatest, thing we’ve ever witnessed.

The four opponents initially work together to try and bring Mommy Dearest down. It’s a plan that works in the short term, but starts to fall apart as Mommy asserts her dominance.

“And don’t forget,” the emcee says from off to the side of the stage, “only one woman walks out of that ring as the champion.”

The alliance fractures, and now the ladies not only have to deal with Mommy Dearest, but with each other. Marge and Tammy roll out of the ring together, each locked in the other’s arms. Bling-Bling takes a swing at Mommy Dearest, misses, and ends up clobbering Princess Bitch in the head. Mommy Dearest takes advantage of the chaos and pulls Princess Bitch over her knees for an honest-to-god paddling.

Jesus, that’s hot.

Soon after, Tammy is the first woman pinned–caught in Mommy’s vice-like grip as she tries to climb back into the ring again. 1-2-3 and she’s outta there. And then there were three.

It’s not too long after that Mommy Dearest manages to pin both Marge and Princess Bitch at the same time–the conclusion to a convoluted set of maneuvers where all three women were rebounding off of the ring’s ropes in opposite directions. A double-clothesline, if my memory serves me right. Mommy’s arms are outstretched, clobbering both women across the chest, sending them down to the mat so they can be pinned.

There’s no effort made to remove the defeated women from the ring, and the three pinned thus far simply remain on the mat, melodramatically writhing about in faux-pain. Even in my drunken-stupor, I can see where this is leading to: a Mommy Dearest victory, followed by the ceremonial diapering of the losers. It’s absolutely bizarre, but I’m all-in on the hype. Right now? Mommy Dearest is the coolest human in the entire universe.

The final confrontation between Mommy Dearest and Bling-Bling is simultaneously peak excitement and a foregone conclusion. Bling-Bling gets the chance to look like a threat, getting a few blows in, but Mommy Dearest soon gets her inevitable comeback in, throwing her opponent around like a ragdoll.

1-2-3, the referee slaps his hand on the mat and signals that the match is over. Mommy Dearest, unsurprisingly, has reigned supreme.

The audience, myself included, is on their feet, screaming and cheering at the ring as Mommy pulls the bodies of her four defeated opponents into the center of the ring. Never in my life did I think I would be so excited to see a woman put diapers on four other grown women. Maybe everyone else in the crowd is thinking the same thing.

It’s the idea of what’s happening that resonates with me more than the actual motions. She’s just unfurling each diaper and haphazardly fastening it on each woman, overtop of their costumes and unitards. It’s conceptually humiliating. But, whatever, I fucking love it. Everyone around me fucking loves it.

“This is the coolest fucking thing we’ve ever done,” Davey says.

Right now? I’m inclined to agree.

The diapered and defeated ladies are escorted from the ring, leaving just Mommy Dearest. She’s handed a microphone.

“Well?” she asks the crowd. “Did you like what you’ve seen?”

The crowd shouts and whistles their approval at her.

“Alright, alright,” she continues. “Calm down boys. I’m glad you had a good time. I had a good time too. But you know what? I think I might want to have a little more fun tonight. What do you think?”

“Yes!” I scream, my voice likely being lost in the roar of everyone else around me. “More!”

“Well, I’m looking around at you guys,” she says, spinning around in the ring to scan the audience, “and I see a lot of strong-looking men. What do you think? D’ya think that one of you could take on a gal like me?”

The audience seems split on this query. It’s a hilarious idea, for sure, but nobody seems to have any idea on how seriously they should take this question.

“She’s a woman,” Davey says from beside me. I’m not entirely sure what that means.

“Yeah, but she just took out four women,” says the Mommy Dearest super-fan behind us.

Okay, I want to say, but you know that’s not, like, real…right?

“I know what you’re thinking,” Mommy Dearest says from the ring. “You’re thinking that I’m just some lady. Or that I’m just part of this phony-baloney act and I ain’t really all that. But I’m real as fuck, and I’ll prove it to any one of ya who will dare step into the ring with me.”

The crowd is loving it, but there doesn’t seem to be any takers.

What if…I went to the ring?

I wait a little longer, giving anyone else in this warehouse the opportunity to head down to the ring themselves.

“Come on,” she says again. “Nobody? Not a single soul? Y’all a bunch of pussies or something? Don’t want to get beat up by a girl?”

I’d like to think of myself as ‘fit.’ I work out every day. I lift weights and all that. And I think I remember a thing or two about the physical cadence of pro-wrestling from the time in my youth spent watching it on TV.

Most importantly: lots of beer.

I stand up and raise my hand straight into the air.

“Dude?” asks Davey. “What the hell are you doing?”

“You?” asks Mommy Dearest from the ring. “You think you can take me?”

“I’ll try my damndest!” I shout.

She laughs, shaking her head. “Not instilling a lot of confidence here, kid. But you’re the only fella in this crowd with any balls, so you’ve already got my respect. Come on down here.”

“Are you sure about this?” Davey asks. “She’s going to wallop you.”

I shrug and smile. “We’ll see, huh?”

I ease myself from my aisle of benches and make my way towards the ring. I pass by an assortment of big, tough-looking guys. It surprises me that any one of them wouldn’t want to take her up on her challenge–especially after being called a pussy.

But I might be able to guess why they haven’t accepted her challenge. It’s probably the same reason why I have.

The loser will, likely, be diapered too.

When I get to the ring, her hand extends down to me from over the ropes. I accept it and she pulls me up and into the ring, giving me a firm pat on the back.

“What’s your name, kid,” she says, shoving the microphone in my face.

“Dean,” I say, with a confident nod.

“That’s a pretty shitty-sounding wrestling name,” she says. “You can do better than that.”

“Uh…Dangerous Dean?”

The laughter from the crowd would suggest that this isn’t all that good of a name either.

“Yeah, alright,” she says with a shrug. “Dangerous Dean. You think you’re man enough to take on Mommy Dearest?”

Nope. But I’m drunk and stupid. “Hell yeah!”

“I’m not going to go easy on you,” she says.

“You better not,” I quickly respond. “Because I’m not going easy on you either.”

Oh, the crowd loves this. She seems taken aback by my confidence too, laughing and shaking her head.

“Yeah?” she asks. “Alright, alright. But you know what’s going to happen to you when you lose, right?”

She points off to the side of the ring, and my eyes follow her hand, landing on her black bag. Her purse. Her diaper-bag.

The audience certainly knows what she means by that. They’re chanting: “Diapers! Diapers! Diapers!”

Yeah, I know.

“Well you’ll have to beat me first,” I say cockily. I’m not entirely sure why I’m being so cocky right now–there’s no way I’m actually going to ‘win’ here.

Yeah, I know.

Mommy Dearest shrugs and tosses the mic out of the ring. “Alright. You ready?”

“Let’s go.”

She smirks and shakes her head, saying a lot without having to say anything at all. “You know I’m going to humiliate you, right?”

Yeah, I know.

I hear a bell ding and I immediately charge towards her. I have no plan or strategy. Maybe I’ve already accepted the inevitable defeat and I’m just in a hurry to get to that part.

I throw a faux-punch in her direction–an extremely obvious and well-telegraphed flailing of my arm that rebounds off her sizable chest. To my astonishment, she sells it–stumbling backwards as if I had actually harmed her.

The crowd buys it, and they're not sure how to react. Do they cheer for the drunken guy who landed the first blow? Or do they stand by their motherhood-themed overlord?

“Go on,” she says to me, smiling. “You can get a few more hits like that in. I’ll let you have them.”

I charge forward again, throwing some sloppy karate-chops at her. She lets each one land, offering the crowd dramatic winces with each.

The audience decides that they love it and they’re going ballistic. And, for a moment, I feel like a champion. I raise my hands in the air victoriously, a big stupid grin on my face. That’s right. I’m the fucking best!

“Alright,” she says. “My turn.”

She grabs me by the arm with both hands, whirling me around her before tossing me to the ropes. It’s part physics and part knowing how pro-wrestling moves work–I rebound off the ropes, letting the momentum take my body right back towards her again. She’s waiting, grabbing hold and lifting me into the air like I was nothing.

The crowd might have liked my brief moment of success, but they like this even more.

“This isn’t going to hurt nearly as bad as it’s going to sound,” she says to me.

And with that, she drives me down to the mat. From my vantage point, I’m not even sure what just happened to my body–a supplex or piledriver of some sort. I’m slammed onto my back, though she’s right that it doesn’t hurt nearly as bad as I thought it would. If anything, she knocks the wind out of me for a moment.

She pulls me up to my feet again, and I’m barely caught up with the moment when she hoists me up into the air again. She carries me around like this, walking around the ring to show the audience that I’m being manhandled like this. Like, perhaps, a baby.

“This was it, huh? This was the ballsiest guy in the whole crowd?” she screams out. “And now look at him. He’s nothing!”

The crowd was devouring it. They wanted more. They wanted…

“Diapers! Diapers! Diapers!” The chant had broken out again somewhere in the benches and had spread across the entire audience like wildfire. “Diapers! Diapers! Diapers!”

“Is that what you want?” she hollers to the crowd. “You think it’s time to show this guy how Mommy deals with little babies?”

“Diapers! Diapers! Diapers!” The crowd’s opinion on the matter was very clear.

“Gotta give the people what they want,” she says to me, her volume dropping again so that the conversation is just between the two of us. “But don’t worry. You’re going to make a cute baby.”

With a great crash, I’m suplexed back into the mat again. There’s still no pain, but there is a numbing shock running through my body that leaves me motionless. She’s in command. She can do whatever the hell she wants to me.

She stands above me, looking down at me. Goddamn, she’s the most incredible woman I’ve ever seen before–a mighty goddess who has just proven her might to me. Not that I ever doubted it. She sets a foot atop my chest, symbolically pinning me to the ground as the referee, somewhat lazily, pounds out the 1-2-3 that grants her the official victory.

“Diapers! Diapers! Diapers!” The crowd is positively clamoring for her patented victory lap. Myself included.

Just as I had seen her do in her earlier championship match, she drags me into the center of the ring before fetching her black bag, plopping it down on the mat next to my head. She reaches in, pulling out another diaper. More cheering and screaming. I see, too, that she has a microphone back in her hand again.

“You gotta give him credit,” she says. “He stepped into the ring when nobody else would. Even kept me on my toes for a minute there.”

That part was a lie, but who was I to spoil her narrative?

“But we’re going to make an example out of this one,” she continues into the mic while pointing down at me.

Gulp.

“First things first?” she says. “We gotta get rid of this little boy's pants.”

“M-my pants?” I stammer up at her. “But with the ladies before…”

“I know,” she responds, though she’s still talking into the microphone. “You probably thought I’d do something cutesy like putting a diaper on over your pants, right? Well, we’re not playing games anymore. I’m putting you in your place.”

She kneels down beside me, immediately working on unbuckling my belt to open my pants. I could probably stop her–or at least signal that I don’t want her to do this–but I remain still to let it happen.

She’s pulling my pants off of me right there in the middle of the ring. The scene is so surreal that I feel like I’m still part of the audience and this is not actually happening to me.

She holds up my pants for the crowd.

“Diaper! Diaper! Diaper!”

She then reaches into the pants and pulls out…my boxers?

“Diapers! Diapers! Diapers!”

Wait a second…what? I look down the length of my body to see that she had not only pulled off my pants, but my boxers too. There’s my flaccid penis, just dangling between my legs in front of all these people.

“Aww, don’t worry,” she coos to me, noting my sudden humiliation. “Mommy Dearest is going to take good care of you.”

“Diapers! Diapers! Diapers!”

I start to say something: “But…” I have no idea where I’m going with that thought. My brain is all over the place. I shouldn’t want this, and I shouldn’t want it here and now, of all places and times. But if this goddess wants to toss me around and put me in a diaper…well who am I to deny her that opportunity.

She kneels down beside me again, this time closer to my legs. With a single hand, she lifts my ass up off the mat by my legs, sliding an open diaper underneath me.

Holy shit. This is happening. This is actually happening.

But she has another trick up her sleeve–or in her bag, at least.

“Gotta make sure the baby is good and powdered,” she says, pulling out a white bottle of baby powder. She twists open the top and proceeds to shake a liberal amount between my legs, causing a great white cloud to rise up into the air–the warehouse’s lighting perfectly illuminating the cloud for everyone to see before it dissipates.

There’s just one thing left to do, and she pulls the diaper through my legs and seals me into it. It’s done. I’ve been diapered by Mommy Dearest in front of a crowd of, maybe, hundreds.

The crowd can’t get enough of it. Again, I’m unsure where the chant started, but a new message has spread through the crowd: “Baby boy! Baby boy! Baby boy!”

She lifts me up off the ground again, this time sweeping an arm under my legs while the other supports my back so that I’m almost held completely horizontally in front of her. I feel like–and I imagine I look like–a baby in her arms.

“Here you go, folks,” she says to the crowd. “Here’s the big baby! Remember when he said his name was Dangerous Dean? I think we all know who he really is, right?”

“Diaper Dean! Diaper Dean! Diaper Dean!”

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m getting out of here. And I’m taking this little rugrat with me.”

She casually, and effortlessly, tosses me over her shoulder and proceeds to step over the ring’s ropes, down the metal steps, and down the walkway to the backstage area, all while carrying me.

Behind us, I can still hear the crowd exploding with satisfaction. They’re still chanting–and I swear I can hear some chanting “Baby boy!” while others are still on “Diaper Dean!” I see cellphones in people’s hands, all pointed at us. I wonder how many videos of me there’ll be online by tomorrow morning. Will I have gone viral? Wrestling Fan Gets Stripped and Diapered by Wrestler in Ring. Were I any more sober, it’d likely put a sour feeling in my stomach.

For now, it just feels like future-Dean’s problem.

“You did good out there, kid,” she says to me when we’re finally out from the view of the screaming crowd. I expect her to put me down now, with the bit coming to a close. But she keeps walking, and she keeps carrying me.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

She laughs. “Do you want this to be over? Should I set you free?”

That this is even a question confuses me. “Is there…more?”

“If you want there to be.”

I can’t even begin to imagine what could come after this. And, sure, I’m a little drunk still–though her tossing me around had shaken some of that inebriation out of my body.

More than anything else, I’m curious.

“Yeah,” I say. “I want there to be more.”

“Good.”

We’re just walking down a hallway now. I keep wondering where, or if, we’re going to stop, but she just keeps going. I spot one of the other wrestlers I had seen tonight–the one and only Much-Hell Obama, though she’s now dressed in a tracksuit and scrolling through phone.

“Got yourself a baby, did ya?” she asks Mommy Dearest.

“Sure did.”

“He’s a cutie. You have fun with him.”

“Oh,” Mommy says, “I plan on it.”

There are implications here, I think. She’s done this before. And it seems like common knowledge amongst some–if not all–of the crew. I’m not sure how I feel about that. Another issue for future-Dean, perhaps.

There’s a small caravan of buses and RVs parked in the lot behind the warehouse. The League of Diabolic Ladies’ traveling armada, it seems.

“That one over there,” Mommy Dearest says pointing to a decent-sized RV near the back of the collective, “that’s mine. Most of the other gals have traveling partners. Or, god-forbid, you find yourself on one of the buses and have to share space with multiple girls. I get my own ride, of course.

It all seems well-deserved. After watching the way she riled up that crowd like nobody else could, it made complete sense why the promotion’s management would treat her like a star.

“Other promotions have tried to buy me off, you know?” she says.

It seems kind of silly to be answering any questions at all when I’m still being carried on her shoulder like a giant log. Or a toddler. I shake my head anyways, uncertain as to whether or not she can see it.

“Those big companies that are, like, on TV?” she continues. “They want me to be on their shows. And, I dunno, I’m sure the money is nice. But it’s not really about the money. It’s about…this.”

“This?” I ask from the air.

“Getting up in front of a crowd that is almost entirely there to see me? That’s all I really need. And, of course, occasionally hauling some poor boy back to my RV for some fun.”

Some fun. I have no idea what that entails, but I do know that I want it.

While I’m not entirely sure what to expect from the inside of her RV, I think that I at least expect it to be the point where her vissad drops and I see who she really is. She’ll reveal that she’s not just Mommy Dearest, but just a human being.

No.

She opens the door on the side of the RV and carries me through the threshold, revealing that her living space looks like…

“...a nursery?” I ask.

“But of course,” she responds. “How else do you expect me to take care of little boys?”

As far as I can tell, there is no separation between Mommy Dearest the character, and whoever she is as a person. Everything is in cutesy pastel colors. Everywhere I look, I see baby supplies. Baby bottles in racks on the wall. Piles of large diapers nestled into shelves. I can even glance back through the door at the far end of the RV where a bedroom should be, and I don’t see a bed–I see a giant crib.

“Did you use your diaper yet?” she asks. “I’ve got plenty more where that came from.”

“U-use? You want me to…”

She lowers me down onto a large table. It’s a changing table. A giant changing table.

“Of course, silly,” she says, giggling. “I didn’t just put you in a diaper because I thought it’d be cute.”

This is supposed to be the part where I protest and tell her that I can’t do it. She’s probably had that conversation before with plenty of other ‘baby’ boys following wrestling matches.

But 80% of my body weight feels like it’s cheap beer right now. And I haven’t used a restroom since Davey and I were back at the bar.

And, I really, really, want to be her baby.

I’m pissing myself before I even realize it's happening. Even though I was pretty sure that I wanted this to happen, the ease in which it happens feels like a betrayal by my own body. Es tu, bladder?

Her head spins around and she focuses on my diaper. She could hear me wetting it. Though, maybe someone walking through the parking lot, 20 yards away, could hear it. The sound of 5 or 6 shitty beers blasting out from the tip of my cock like a broken fire hydrant.

“You’ve come to terms with this much faster than I expected,” she says with a laugh.

“S-sorry…”

“For what? Being a baby? This is exactly what I hoped you’d do. Go ahead. Let it all out.”

It feels good to have her permission, but I doubt I could’ve stopped myself even if she hadn’t. I feel the diaper growing heavier all around me. It swells and bloats, yet continues to absorb everything I pump into it.

Oh, there’s probably a few hundred questions I could be asking. Where does she get diapers like these? How did all this start? How many diapers has she changed? Where does she sleep, or does she sleep in the crib?

I keep it all to myself–choosing to just enjoy the ride.

“That’s a very full diaper,” she says, reaching between my legs and squeezing the swollen padding. I feel little beads of moisture escaping from the leg bands when she does this. “Do you have anything else you’d like to do in your pants before I change you?”

“Anything…else?”

“Well,” she says, smirking and shrugging. “Babies don’t just wet themselves, right?”

“You mean…like… Are you asking me if I want to shit myself?”

“I’m saying that you can. If you need to. Mommy will clean you up, even if you’re a stinky-pantsed little baby.”

The idea of unleashing my bowels into this diaper doesn’t seem all that thrilling or erotic on first thought. But I let it sit with me for a few moments, and I feel like I can almost appreciate how fucking hot that would be.

Alas, either my nerves aren’t willing to cooperate, or I just don’t have enough in the tank that I can push something out for her. Which sucks, because I think I really want her to call me a ‘stinky-pantsed little baby’ again.

“You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?” she asks.

I nod, feeling my cheeks warm considerably.

“I…can’t,” I say. “But…if I could?”

“You would?”

I nod again.

“I like that,” she says. “You’re a good baby.”

“Am I?” I ask, perhaps too excitedly.

She laughs. “One of the best in a while, for sure. I almost don’t want to let go of you.”

“No?”

“Come tomorrow, we’ll be back on the road again,” she says. “Onwards to another town, with some other drunken man-baby to throw around a wrestling ring and put into a diaper.”

I sigh, not intending to sound as dramatic as I think I do.

“If it makes you feel any better,” she says as she gently rubs my belly, “not every baby gets to come back with me to the nursery.”

“Put me in the crib,” I say. “Take me with you. Take me to the next town, at the very least. I’ll crawl behind you on my hands and knees to the ring, like your little diapered pet. I’ll do anything you want.”

She laughs, leaning down so she can kiss my lips. “I wish I could, baby boy. If you’re not on the payroll, I don’t think it’s going to fly, though.”

“Yeah…”

“But,” she says. “We still have tonight.”

My eyes widen and my ears perk up. “Yeah, we do.”

“Do you want to crawl into the crib with me and fuck me in your soggy pamper? Or do you want to lie down on my changing table and cry about it? Because either is fine with me.”

“The, uhm, crib sounds nice.”

*

I asked where my pants were, but she didn’t know. Nor does she even seem to care all that much. When I step out from the RV, and see that all the lights are off in the warehouse, I can be pretty sure that I’m not getting my pants back tonight.

At least it’s close to 1 AM. If I do have to walk back home without pants on, I guess this is the time to do it.

Of course, she doesn’t just release me from the RV with nothing on below my shirt. She’s put me into a brand new thick diaper. She called it a ‘souvenir,’ and I’m not inclined to disagree. Once I get home, I’m taking the diaper off and framing it. Unless I use it–and I just might. My bladder is aching again.

“Dude. I thought you were dead.”

Davey, the dependable and loyal friend that he is, is standing at the far end of the parking lot, waiting for me.

“How’d you know I’d be here?” I asked.

“I was told that this is where the wrestling ladies are parked. I figured that wherever Mommy Dearest hauled you off to, you’d have to come out of here eventually.”

“Well…I appreciate you waiting for me.”

“Where’s your pants, man?”

I shrug. “No clue. I’ll call around tomorrow, I guess.”

“And you’re still wearing that diaper?”

I open my mouth, ready to tell him that this isn’t the same diaper and that I had been changed out of the diaper he watched me get put into. I stop myself, of course. Maybe he doesn’t need all of the details.

“Yup,” I say instead.

“There’s something on your ass,” he says.

“Huh?” News to me.

“Someone wrote something on your, uh, diaper,” he says. He crouches down, turning on his phone’s flashlight so he can read it easier. “It’s written in marker. It says, uh…’Mommy Dearest Was in Town.’”

I laugh. She sure was.

“Whatever,” I say. “Let’s go.”

“You’re okay walking back to your place in just a…diaper?”

I shrug. “What choice do I have? But I need to crash at your place.”

“Yeah?”

“My keys were in my pants,” I say.

“But I live further away than you and…”

“I know,” I say, having already come to terms with the fact that we’ve got a long walk ahead of us while I wear a diaper instead of pants.

I could probably call a taxi or an Uber. Davey even suggests it, though I turn him down. I think it's best that anyone who’s still out and about sees it as we walk to Davey’s place.

I’m going to spread the word: Mommy Dearest was in town.