The Secret Adventures of Husbands [Tier 3 Exclusive] (Patreon)

I’m already in a bad mood by the time Rita Solsworth rings my doorbell.

I had spent an hour chasing down the dog after the fence’s gate was left open this morning. It wasn’t until my bagel was finished toasting that I discovered that someone had left an empty container of cream cheese in the fridge. One of my shoes was missing. My cellphone–which I had left on the charging cable overnight–didn’t charge, on account of the cable having been unplugged from the wall, and was now hovering at about 12% battery.

And I wouldn’t even want to speak to Rita on a day when I was in the best mood.

“Rita. Hello.”

“Mackenzie, hi. How are you?”

There’s a little pause as I breathe in and hold it, debating on how honest I want to be with her.

“I’m…fine. And you?”

She chuckles to herself, like the answer is an inside joke that I’m not in on yet. I can relate, a little, as I had come close to laughing myself when she asked how I was. It disarms me, a little, to see her looking mildly distressed. She may not be my favorite person in the world, but maybe I need a moment of commiseration to help set me right for the rest of the day.

“It’s one of those days,” she says with a shrug, confirming my suspicions.

“Isn’t it?”

“Hey,” she says. “Do you have a minute or two? I wanted to talk to you about something.”

I’ve got it in my head that I don’t have a lot of time today–there are errands to do and places to be. But none of it needs to happen now.

“Yeah,” I say, a little nervous about what this is going to be about. “Do you want to come in?”

She nods and steps inside when I open the screen door for her.

Honestly, I can’t even recall why I don’t like her. I don’t think she had ever crossed me in any way. It’s her vibe, maybe. Her whole aesthetic. Almond-milk lattes. Always seems to be carrying a yoga mat with her. Hybrid car with a “COEXIST” bumper sticker. Half a second away from a speech about the benefits of veganism, at any given time. Manages to always find creative ways of working stories about her travels to South America and Australia into every conversation.

So, I’m bracing myself to be annoyed.

“Can I get you some coffee?” I ask. “Tea?”

She shakes her head. “I appreciate you asking, but I’m good. Look, I don’t want to take up too much of your time. I actually just had a question for you.”

“Okay, shoot.”

I motion for her to take a seat on the couch and I sit across from her on the recliner. I have no idea what she’s about to ask, but I’m a little worried–all of her pretensions seem stripped away at the moment. She’s raw.

“Did you know that my husband and your husband…spend time together?” she asks.

I can’t help but laugh. Her question isn’t funny–I just fail to see how this was so important that she had to come over to my house to ask. Still, for her sake at least, I try to compose myself and answer her.

“I never really thought about it,” I say. “They know each other, right? We’ve been neighbors for a few years now. I’m sure I’ve seen them chatting in front of the house or at a barbecue or two. Greg has never said anything, specifically, about going out to spend time with your husband…but that doesn’t seem too unbelievable.”

She sighs, nodding slightly while staring down at my carpet. I can’t tell whether or not she found this answer to be helpful or not.

“Why do you ask?” I say.

“I found something,” she says, lifting her head up to look me in the eyes. “I was going to just…keep it to myself. But I don’t have anyone else to talk to about it, and I don’t know if I can talk to my husband about it yet, so… Here I am.”

The last of my mild amusement dissipates. I still have no idea what she’s talking about, but I can see the stress she’s been carrying in her demeanor. In any other conversation I’d have with her, she’d probably even make a reference to her ‘spoiled aura.’

“What did you find?” I ask.

She laughs. Specifically, it’s that ‘wouldn’t you like to know’ sort of laugh. It makes me nervous.

“I’ve found a lot,” she says. “But maybe we start with just this.”

She hands me her phone. I can see that there’s already an image pulled up on the screen.

“It’s a video,” Rita says. “Just tap it and it’ll play.”

My heart is pounding as I hold her phone in my hand. This feels like one of those moments you remember forever. Someday, I’ll look back at this and recognize it as when everything changed. There’s before. And after. And this is what it all hinges on.

*

“Are you ready?” Kent yells down a hallway.

“Almost,” the distant voice of Greg calls back.

Kent, holding the phone that’s taking the video, repositions himself enough to give more context for where he is. He’s in a bathroom, and he holds the phone in front of the mirror so that he’s visible. He’s not wearing a shirt. Or pants. Just white underpants.

No... Not underpants.

A diaper?

“Goddamn,” he says to himself. “These things are so fucking thick.”

He steps away from the mirror, and seemingly out of the bathroom. He’s making his way down the hallway now, headed straight for the open door of the bedroom at the very end of it. And while it’s unclear what’s happening in that room right now, the sound of rustling and crinkling can be heard emanating from it.

“I’m coming,” Kent says. “Ready or not.”

“Come on,” Greg says. “Let’s go already.”

The camera bumbles about as Kent marches down the hallway. It’s almost nauseating–there’s no sense of cinematography here. One might get the sense that this is the first time they’re filming whatever it is that they’re doing.

The camera slides through the open door and peers around the corner to find Greg, also nude except for a large diaper. Unlike Kent’s white garment, Greg’s seems more colorful–baby blue with cartoonish animals printed on it.

“God,” Kent says. “You look so fucking cute in that thing.”

“I know, right? Just wait until I fill it up. It’ll look even cuter then.”

“What’d you use?” Kent asks.

“Suppository. I have more if you want.”

“Damn,” Kent says. “I wish I’d known, or I’d have taken one a while ago. I have an enema though.”

“Like a bag?”

“Nah, just one of those disposable deelies. But, whatever. It’s going to, uh, do the trick, you know?”

Both men laugh.

*

My thumb taps the screen of Rita’s phone as I narrow my eyes in bemusement.

Really, I have only one thing to say: “What the fuck is this?”

She shrugs, smiling slightly. It’s a ‘if I don’t laugh, I’ll cry’ type of smile. It’s a ‘welcome to my world’ kind of smile.

“No, really, Rita. What is this?”

“That’s my husband and yours.”

“Yes…I can see that.” Maybe I’m asking the wrong question. “Where did you get this?”

“That’s a slightly complicated question to answer,” Rita says. “Because I’ve known about…all this for quite a while now.”

“And you’re only now just showing me?”

“Well…” Rita says, “this would be the first time I saw that somebody besides my husband was involved.”

“Oh.”

I could finish watching this video, but I’m a little afraid to. I feel like I’m missing some sort of context that will somehow make two grown men waddling about in diapers–talking about taking laxatives–make more sense. As if there was such a thing.

“A few months ago, I found a, uhm, giant diaper in the trash can in my kitchen,” Rita says. “And, you know, we don’t have children. And if we did…these diapers aren’t for children.”

“Did you ask Kent about it?” I ask.

“I probably should’ve. But I also didn’t want him to feel uncomfortable if it was, like, a medical issue, you know?”

It occurs to me that I probably would’ve thought the same thing if I found that Greg left a giant used diaper in the trash can. But I’ve seen enough of that video to know that there was nothing medical about what they were doing.

“I could’ve let it go,” Rita continues. “Or, I could’ve confronted him. But I didn’t do either. Instead, I tore the house apart looking for more clues.”

“Honestly,” I say. “I probably would’ve done the same thing. And what did you find?”

“An entire world,” Rita says.

“Alright,” I said. “Maybe I should finish this video.”

*

“If you want me to help you,” Greg says. “Just bend over. I’ll give you the enema.”

“Yeah? Alright.”

*

I changed my mind. I’m not sure that I want to see more of it. I hand the phone back to Rita.

“You don’t want to finish it?” she asks.

“Not now,” I say. “I’m not ready for that yet.”

She nods. “I get that.”

“Maybe you start me at the same point you started,” I say. “Ease me into whatever this is.”

Rita laughs, nodding. “I get that too.”

“Is Kent home?” I ask.

She shakes her head.

“Maybe you show me this ‘entire world’ you found?”

“Perfect,” she says. “Let’s go.”

*

I’ve been to Rita’s house twice, that I recall. Once was when Rita and Kent invited us over for dinner not long after we moved in. The second time was for a barbecue that we were invited to last summer. Neither time had I seen much of their house beyond the living room, dining room, kitchen, and bathroom. Now, we were traversing into their basement together.

“This is kind of like Kent’s, uh, ‘man-cave,’ though I find that term to be kind of idiotic,” she says.

In a very short amount of time, I’ve learned two things. The first is that Kent and Rita aren’t as alike as I thought they were. I always believed that Kent was a regular hippy-dippy Captain Planet like Rita was, but stepping into Kent’s man-cave suggests that this may not be that true. The walls are cluttered with sports paraphernalia and posters for movies and bands that feel a bit obvious for any man who would want a space like this. Reservoir Dogs, Scarface, and Pearl Jam? At least have a little originality.

The second thing I’ve learned is that Rita might not actually be as bad as I thought she was. Removed from the setting of a party, where she probably feels like she needs to impress everyone, she seems surprisingly…human.

And, maybe, the fact that we now share this connection via our husbands’ strange secrets helps some.

“I don’t come down here all that often,” she says, as we walk through the ‘manly’ space. “I’d bet that he banks on that, too.”

“So you don’t think he knows that you know?”

“Oh god no,” Rita says, shaking her head while laughing. “I’m sure he thinks quite highly of his secret-keeping skills.”

Considering that I had no idea about any of this either, I can only imagine that Greg feels the same way. That arrogant prick is somewhere, right now, thinking that I know nothing of…whatever this is.

“Over here,” Rita says, beckoning me over to a closet that’s partially obscured by a vintage Space Invaders arcade game.

I have to laugh, because when we first entered the basement, my eyes glazed right past the arcade machine without a second thought. As Rita had, perhaps, countless times until she started digging for answers. Yet as we stand in front of the closet door, there are tell-tale marks in the carpet from where the arcade cabinet had been slid back and forth to allow access to the door.

I imagine that you don’t put an arcade game in front of a door unless you don’t want anyone to open that door.

“I know what he was thinking,” she says as she pushes the sturdy cabinet out of the way. “He thought that I had no reason to snoop around down here. And if I did, I wouldn’t want to bother with trying to push a big arcade game out of the way. Because, you know, I’m a helpless little lady. But yoga isn’t nothing.”

I grit my teeth a little, annoyed at how badass Rita manages to look at this moment.

“So,” she says, opening the door. “Imagine you’re me. Thinking that your husband might have some sort of…bathroom issue. And you open up this closet and see this…”

“Holy shit,” is all I can muster.

Would my reaction have been much different if Rita had shown me this before showing me the video on her phone? I suppose she needed to show me that my husband was involved in this first.

The closet is bigger than I imagine it being, coming close to ‘walk-in’ size. Except that it’s packed with packs and boxes of more diapers. White diapers. Pink diapers. Blue diapers. Diapers with infantile prints on them. All of them sized for adults. Outfits hang on hangers–oversized onesies and dresses. I see bonnets. Pacifiers. Baby bottles. Stuffed animals. And this is just the stuff that I can immediately see. I wonder what sorts of things I’d find if I dug around a little.

“Quite the collection, right?” she asks.

I shake my head in disbelief.

“And you didn’t know that Greg was into this?”

I laugh out loud. “This has never once come up in the years we’ve been together. Like…not once. And this seems like the sort of thing I’d remember.”

Rita laughs too. “Yeah, I get that.”

“So what then? How did you get to this video?”

“This is the part where I probably overstep a line or two,” Rita says. “If I hadn’t already by going into his closet.”

“Well it’s your closet too,” I say. “And it doesn’t sound like he ever explicitly told you not to go in there, right?”

Rita nods, smiling a little. “If my weird baby-husband had to drag any other neighborhood husband into his fantasy land, I’m glad it was yours.”

It’s as endearing as it is surreal, but I take the compliment.

“So I started getting more nosey,” Rita continues, closing the closet door and pushing the arcade cabinet back into place. “Like, we have our own laptops, right? And I figured that if there’s more to the story, I’ll probably find the answers on his laptop.”

“I’d have thought the same thing.”

“Again, I think he just assumes that I have no reason to be suspicious of him, because he does the bare minimum in terms of security. All I had to do was walk over to his laptop…”

She points to a table in the center of the room, where a laptop sits next to an empty pint glass and a video game controller. We both walk to the table so that Rita can open it.

“...and then I just need to enter his password. Which I got on the second try–it’s our dog’s name.”

She types the password, which allows us access.

“And, voila, here we are. The digital world of Baby Kent–with little-to-no effort made to hide his internet history from a curious wife. Not that I even have to look that hard, because–as you can see–all the juicy stuff is already pulled up in these tabs here.”

She gives me a quick tour of Kent’s cyberlife. There’s his email, filled with notifications from various message boards and social media platforms with names like PaddedLuv, Nappy-Boys, and Baby Space. The next tab seems to be a discussion thread on Nappy-Boys, titled “How can I mitigate the smell of a messy diaper when I’m around my wife?”

I cringe a little.

“Do you see the username that asked that question?” asks Rita.

“MrPink29?” I say.

She nods. “Remember that.”

The next tab is an online storefront–Bottoms Up, apparently–selling large diapers.

“More diapers?” I ask. “It looked like he had enough in the closet.”

“Well sure,” Rita says, snidely. “But, judging by what he has in his cart, he still thinks he needs some diapers in the…Furry Friends style.”

Onwards to the next tab. A social media feed, it seems, on a site called Fumblr. Rita quickly scrolls through it, demonstrating the near-endless marathon of young men and women posing in diapers and infantile apparel.

“I’m not some hacker,” she says. “He just left it all out here without a single care in the world.”

But I’m wondering if I can guess how this led to the discovery of the video she showed me earlier. “So, that video…”

“Right,” Rita says, clicking an icon to open up Kent’s profile.

Ah, yes. There’s that name again. MrPink29. I wince a little, recalling the question that he was floating out to his diapered friends: How could he wear a messy diaper around his wife without her knowing? And here was Rita, standing right next to me–she was the wife.

“As you can see,” Rita says, scrolling through Kent’s profile, “he has a lot to share with the world.”

She’s not kidding. It seems like he posts multiple times per day–close up and poorly angled selfies of himself, usually just wearing a diaper. Peppered throughout are a few videos too. Rita stops on one long enough for me to watch as Kent squats down and hurriedly pushes a mass into the back of his diaper with an echoing PBPBBBT sound that gives me second-hand embarrassment.

“Jesus.”

“Well there’s a lot of that,” Rita says. “I swear. It’s like he films every single bowel movement. And this certainly gives the impression that he goes through a lot of diapers, right? Like, when’s the last time my husband has even used a toilet?”

“So it’s safe to assume he’s just wearing a diaper often, right?” I ask. “Or at least while he’s at home. Like, he’s wearing a diaper when he’s spending time with you?”

Rita nods. “Once you know what you’re looking for, it’s not too hard to spot. Crinkling pants. Extra junk in the trunk. Maybe some careful and sheepish movement on his part when he’s feeling especially self-conscious about it.”

I’m thinking about how much attention I’ll be paying to Greg’s pants from now on.

“And, of course,” Rita continues, “here’s the post that made me seek you out.”

And there it is, posted on the World Wide Web for anyone who wanted to see it–the video of Greg and Kent waddling around in just diapers while talking about taking suppositories and enemas to induce shitting themselves.

“There’s more,” Rita says. “If you want to see it.”

“Does Greg have a profile?” I ask.

“Maybe. Probably. Kent doesn’t directly link to one though. Maybe we could find it if we look around a little.”

“No,” I say. “I think I’ve seen enough of that.”

She nods as she deletes the last few minutes of browser history before closing the laptop. She’s looking like she can completely relate to how I feel. She’s been here before.

“How do you feel about it?” she asks.

That’s a surprisingly difficult question to answer. “I’m not mad. Maybe…disappointed?”

She laughs, shaking her head. “Spoken like a true parent of a toddler.”

“I still need to wrap my head around Greg wanting to wear–use–diapers,” I say. “But the idea that he’d willingly put that out there on the internet for everyone to see? I just can’t make sense of that.”

“Welcome to the party,” Rita says.

“So how do you feel about it?” I ask. “It sounds like you’ve known about this secret little world for a while but have kept it close to the chest. To what ends?”

She laughs. “At first, I kept telling myself that I was going to make this big scene of showing him that I knew everything. But, I don’t know, I find myself addicted to just…hiding in the shadows and watching it happen.”

The more I think about it, the less sure I am of how I feel about it. On one hand, it doesn’t look like Greg or Kent are hurting anyone. But, there’s a strange intimacy about this that I’m not a part of–that I wasn’t even informed of–and I can’t help but see it as a betrayal.

Too, I’m a little miffed with Rita coming to my house and dumping this all into my lap. I get why she wanted to show me what she had found, but I almost wonder if I’d be better off not knowing about any of this.

“I think I need to go home,” I say. “I need to think it over a bit.”

*

Damn Rita.

I’ve been thinking about diapers all night. From the second that Greg got home from work until the moment I undressed for bed, all of my senses seemed devoted to the detection of them. Was Greg being extra careful about sitting down at the dining room table for dinner because he was wearing a diaper and didn’t want it to crinkle too much? Or was his back just giving him trouble again?

I might have heard some crinkling. I might have imagined it.

Did I smell baby powder? Or is that just the scent of the hand soap in the bathroom?

When he said he had to do some work in his office, was that the truth? Or did he need some time with his diapers?

My mind fills with questions again as I stare up at the ceiling. Had Greg always been into diapers, or did Kent somehow convince him that this was a fun thing to do? How did the two connect? How often do they meet up? Were Greg and Kent in a relationship?

Maybe I could’ve dug a little deeper. But I wasn’t ready for that just yet.

*

As soon as Greg’s car pulls out of the driveway so that he can go to work, I take a little walk over to Rita’s house. She’s sitting on the porch, sipping from a teacup. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was waiting for me.

“Mackenzie. Can I pour you some tea?” she asks. “It’s Tibetan baicao. I actually got the tea leaves while I was in Lhasa this past fall.”

I’m momentarily reminded why she pushed the wrong buttons in the past. “No, I’m good.”

She shrugs. “What brings you back?”

“Misery loves company,” I say, taking a seat next to her.

“I was thinking about you this morning,” she says.

“Oh?”

“Well, maybe not you, but I was thinking about what you asked me yesterday. You asked me why I kept this all to myself without confronting him.”

I nod.

“I think I have a better answer for you–one that I wasn’t ready to divulge yesterday.”

“Oh?”

“I think I keep hoping that one day I can…be a part of that. That maybe he can find room in his little fantasy for me.”

“You want to…wear a diaper?”

She laughs, shaking her head. “No, probably not. But, maybe, I could…help him?”

“Like, change his diapers?”

“Right.”

For only a second does this sound preposterous. Yet it almost immediately resonates with me as well.

I don’t care that Greg’s doing that. I care that he didn’t invite me to play along first. As weird as it is, I might still have considered participating if he had at least asked.

“That actually makes a lot of sense to me,” I say.

“I have something else that I could show you,” she says.

My head fills with visions of new semi-hidden closets, revealing even more absurd fetishes and desires of Kent’s. Maybe one of those furry costumes. Or maybe a bucket where he keeps all of his used diapers.

But I’m far too curious to say no. “Okay, sure.”

To my surprise, we don’t go inside her house. Instead, I follow her down the steps of her porch and we walk around the outside of her house and into the backyard. She points out a quaint shed at the far end of it.

“Maybe you can relate,” Rita says as we walk towards the shed. “But Kent and I–we have these unspoken boundaries. He has his basement lair. And I have this shed over here. He used to keep his lawn-mower and tools here, but I convinced him to move them all to the garage so I could use it as an art studio instead. Part of the negotiations for his basement, actually.”

“What kind of art do you make?” I ask, slightly fearful that she’s going to subject me to an impromptu art show.

“Painting, mostly. I like the idea of sculpture, but that doesn’t come as easily to me. But, too, I don’t really use the shed for art anymore.”

She has my attention again. “No?”

She pulls a key from her pocket and opens the lock on the shed door. Already, I see the difference between her efforts to hide her secrets, and Kent’s.

The shed door opens, and Rita reaches in to flip on a light.

“Oh wow,” I say, already seeing what it is that she probably brought me here to look at.

“I didn’t build them,” she says. “I wish–I just don’t really know my way around power tools. But I found a guy online to do the building part. I’ve just been painting them.”

There was a giant crib. A large high chair. And a large table that appeared to be, if I was to guess, a… “Changing table?”

“Yep,” she says, smiling and nodding.

“I see a lot of…commitment here.”

She laughs, walking over to the crib to spot-check a few areas of baby-blue paint. “My husband is fearful of telling me the truth because he thinks that I wouldn’t get it. Not that I blame him–it is a lot to take in, as I’m sure you now know.”

She’s probably right. I think about how Greg certainly hasn’t ever told me about this side of himself. And, yeah, he probably was fearful of telling me. Still, it’s not like he’s cowering in the corner in his diaper from fright. He’s out there, living his best baby life. Making friends–local ones, apparently–and having a grand old time with his droopy drawers.

This little project of hers feels like it might be rewarding bad behavior. But I bite my tongue.

“But I’ve come around,” she continues. “It’s why I haven’t come forward to him yet about knowing everything–I’m not ready yet. Because when I do approach him, I’m going to make sure that he knows to call me ‘Mommy.’”

My first thought is: Well, Rita, you drank the damn Kool-Aid.

My second thought is: Maybe…there’s something there?

It’s too early to say just how her plan resonates with me, I only know that it does. I want to know more.

“So how do you plan on doing that?” I ask.

“I think a complete remodel of the basement will be in order,” Rita says with a casual shrug. “Kent might get a little fussy that his precious man-cave is gone, but I think he’d be happy to see what I replace it with.”

“A nursery,” I say, thinking out loud.

“Exactly. And, you know, maybe he’d want to invite a friend over to play with him in his new nursery. And with two babies crawling around, I’d probably need some help…”

I laugh as I run my hand along the surface of the wooden changing table. I’m trying to imagine my husband lying on top of that, nude except for a thick and bloated diaper in need of changing. His legs would be kicked up in the air. Maybe his thumb would be in his mouth.

The very concept is still kind of hilarious and absurd to me, but not so absurd that I just dismiss it.

“I could be convinced,” I say to her.

*

Anonymous asked:

I loved that video you shared the other day with you and the other guy in diapers. Who is that? Will we see more from you two?

MrPink29 answered:

That’s my man, LilBabyGreggy! He actually moved into my neighborhood a few years ago. Funny story–he approached me at a party because he actually RECOGNIZED me from my blog. I can’t begin to tell you how cool it is that I have a baby friend who lives so close to me. It took a bit of convincing to get him in a video with me. But now that he did, I think he’s hooked. Yes, you will absolutely see more of us playing together!

*

Rita had sent me home with a list of websites and usernames of Kent’s, giving me a jump start in getting a more hands-on look at the baby-men’s online presence myself. The very first thing I did was to create an account on Fumblr, just so that I could present an anonymous question to Kent’s account. I hoped for just a little more information than I already had–but he gave me a lot.

It was hard to know what to do with that information. My husband–perhaps for as long as I’ve known him–has also been into diapers. And he had clearly done a better job of keeping it a secret than Kent had.

Rita seemed ready to embrace Kent’s lifestyle. She wanted to participate.

I wasn’t so sure yet. I had thought a lot about it, but I kept reaching the same stumbling block. A question, one that I’d need answered before I could get back to deciding if I wanted anything to do with oversized diapers or not.

Was there a place for me in his fantasy?

I can’t find any direct links to Greg’s presence online, not even with the moniker ‘LilBabyGreggy’ that Kent mentioned in his response to my anonymous question. I make my way through the list of links that Rita shared with me, searching for Greg’s name in each.

I finally find what I’m looking for when I arrive at PaddedLuv–The Best Online Dating Site for ABDLs.

LilBabyGreggy, indeed, has a profile there, and it is, indeed, my husband. There’s his smiling face in his profile picture, wearing just a striped onesie with a rather obvious diaper-bulge.

*

Looking for:

Mommies and friends LOL. I’ve had to keep this all to myself for so long, so I’d really just like to connect with other like-minded ABs and CGs. Mommies to the front of the line, of course. Baby needs his milkies and a diaper change!

*

I need to close the browser tab and take a few deep breaths before I do anything else. I sought answers, and the ones I’ve found have made me rather bitter. He bemoans having to keep his little fetish all to himself for ‘so long,’ yet there has never once been a conversation between us about it. He has never asked me to participate. He hasn’t even asked me how I felt about it. Everything he’s looking for now–in someone else, apparently–he might have had here if he had just opened his mouth.

What was his best case scenario? A part-time ‘Mommy’ on the side who existed solely for wiping his ass, but didn’t have to figure out grocery budgets or file taxes with?

I send Rita a text: “Whenever you’re ready to build your nursery, I’m in.”

I re-opened some of the tabs, remembering that I had one more box I wanted to check off–I wanted to go back to the moment I was introduced to this. Kent’s video of him and Greg. I found the place I had left off the first time I watched it, or thereabouts, and hit play.

*

“Damn,” Kent says. “I wish I’d known, or I’d have taken one a while ago. I have an enema though.”

“Like a bag?”

“Nah, just one of those disposable deelies. But, whatever. It’s going to, uh, do the trick, you know?”

Both men laugh.

“If you want me to help you,” Greg says. “Just bend over. I’ll give you the enema.”

“Yeah? Alright.”

“Well I’ve had this suppository cooking inside me for a while,” Greg says. “I can feel some cramping. Let’s hurry up so we can see if you can hold it longer than I can.”

Kent places his phone down on top of some sort of table or dresser, aiming it at the bed so that the action can continue to be captured. He hastily waddles over to it–and flops his chest onto the bedspread, leaving his padded ass sticking up in the air behind him.

Greg seems to have it from here. It isn’t clear if this is something he’s done before, or if it’s just a combination of confidence and excitement that makes it seem so effortless. He tugs down the back of Kent’s diaper–just enough as to reveal the mildly furry skin of his bottom.

“Alright,” Greg says. “You ready?”

“Always.”

Greg pulls the orange plastic cap from the enema’s applicator, discarding it on the ground. He carefully guides it to, and then into, Kent’s ready and willing hole.

“Oh fuck,” Kent says. “That’s cold.”

“What was I supposed to do? Warm it up for you?”

“Consider it for next time,” Kent says, laughing.

It’s hard to know exactly what’s happening–Greg’s body blocks the camera’s view of most of the action, leaving just Kent’s words and noises to tell the story.

“Fuck,” he says. “Fuuck. You just feel it, you know? Like…filling you up.” He groans again. “Goddamn.”

“You just have to hold it,” Greg says, patting his back. “You can do that.”

Greg steps back, letting the camera see that he’s holding a now-empty enema bottle. He tosses it aside, before helping Kent hoist is diaper back up and into place.

“And now,” Kent says–this time talking to the camera directly, “we wait and see what happens. Who do you think is going to fill their diaper first?”

*

I opt out of watching the tension build, fast forwarding the video. In a matter of seconds, minutes pass. The two men float around the room like anxious hummingbirds, occasionally pausing to hold their bellies or their bottoms. It’s only when Greg finally stands still and starts to squat–with Kent scrambling around him to get the best viewing angle–that I resume the video at normal speed.

And then it happens: I watch my husband push an enormous load into the back of his diapers. It’s a chorus of frightening noises. The rippling drum-fill of his bowels giving out. The soft splatter that follows. HIs grunting and moaning.

I barely know how to process this scene, nor can I stress just how surreal it is. This is Greg. The calm and composed guy who obsesses over french-press coffee, pumpkin ales, and science fiction films.

We had sex last week. Was he thinking about loading his pampers with Kent while he fucked me?

There’s more to the video. Kent still needs to poop his pants too. But, once again, I think I’ve seen enough for now.

*

Two days later, and as I help Rita ease the dolly underneath the arcade machine so that we can move it, I wonder–and not for the first time this morning–why am I doing this?

I think I know, but it’s not something I’ve been able to put into words. Up through now, it’s been a vibe–maybe a series of vibes.

The word ‘revenge’ keeps popping up in my mind. I don’t think I actually believe that my motivation is revenge–nor am I sure that I’ve even been wronged in a way that calls for retaliation–but it feels like the closest concept to what I’m feeling. You wanted to go out and find someone else to do all the things your mean ol’ wife wouldn’t do for you? Despite not having bothered to ask her about it in the first place? Fine. Now that I know everything about your little fantasies, I’m just going to insert myself into them.

Things actually come together very quickly. The two of us haul the games and furniture out from the basement, exchanging them with the oversized baby furniture in the shed. There were points in which we seemed over our head–like trying to wheel a heavy arcade game across the lawn–but our determination seemed plenty empowering. With the supplies that Kent had stowed away in the closet, Rita had an entire infantile arsenal ready to go. New baby bottles. Wipes. Pacifiers. Baby toys. Baby food. Onesies. Bonnets and booties. Mits. And tha

But she had a few surprises of her own, too. Things that she had ordered herself: an assortment of locking straps and spreader bars. Wooden paddles. Enema bags. Butt plugs. Phallic toys of all shapes and sizes–some attached to harnesses and belts.

“Oh, so, you’re not just going to be, like, coddling him?” I ask.

Rita laughs, smacking her hand with one of the new wooden paddles. “Oh, god no. If he just wanted to be cuddled all day long, he’s more than welcome to call his grandmother and explain to her that he still needs diapers. I’m sure she’d be more than happy to change his ‘diapies’ and warm a bottle of milk for him.”

I doubt that’s true, but I get the sentiment.

This feels like the equivalent of catching your kid smoking a cigarette and forcing them to smoke the whole pack in front of you. Did you like pooping your diaper? Good. Now poop in the rest of these.

But it doesn’t matter. Rita’s plan might be the most ridiculous thing, but it’s a reaction to the, arguably, just-as-ridiculous world that Kent and Greg have been keeping from us.

The plan is as follows: Rita and I have proposed a double date tonight. Myself and Greg, with Rita and Kent. We scheduled it shortly after Kent would get home from work–minimizing the chances he has to stumble into the basement to see the nursery before we were ready to show it off. After some wining and dining, the four of us will return to Rita’s house for some cocktails. Inevitably, Kent will want to have Greg join him in his basement ‘man-cave’—as is customary for him when entertaining. Gotta show off the toys and cigars, you know? Rita and I will follow closely behind so that we can see their reaction when they actually walk right into the new nursery.

Then? Everything is out on the table. They’ll know that we know everything. Everything. And we’ll be happy to share with them all the details that they probably don’t want us to know. Like, for example, LilBabyGreggy’s online search for a new mommy.

“If we told them to strip off their clothes and put on diapers,” I ask, “do you think they would?”

“Oh, in a heartbeat,” Rita says. “But that’s not how I see it playing out?”

I laugh. “Go on. How do you see it happening?”

“We tell them to take off their pants–but we don’t tell them to put a diaper on. Instead…”

“...we put them in diapers,” I say, nodding. I’m picking up what she’s putting down.

“Exactly,” she says, pointing to the changing table. “That thing isn’t just an expensive centerpiece for a room. We’ll drag them over there and powder their asses before putting them each into the big thick diapers they like so much.”

“The enema bag,” I say, pointing over the red rubber bladder with the long white tube emerging from it.

Rita’s lips curl into an excited and mischievous smile. “What about it?”

“I was thinking about the video you showed me the other day. The one that prompted you to come seek me out in the first place?”

“Ah yes,” she says. “I remember.”

“They were having, like, a little competition, right? To see who would fill their pants first.”

“Yes,” Rita says, her smile growing. “I like where you’re going with this.”

“We give them both an enema and sit them next to each other. We see who blows their load first.”

“An actual contest,” Rita says. “This is excellent. And, uh, who do you propose the ‘winner’ of such a contest is? The one who poops first? Or last?”

“Last, I think,” I say. “Well, at least that’d be the winner from my perspective. Maybe they’d feel different about it.”

“And how do you feel about changing diapers?” she asks.

I laugh, shrugging. “I have no idea. Maybe I won’t know how I feel about it until there’s a stinky diaper right in front of my face. And you? I mean, judging by the changing table and all the diaper supplies…you’re ready to go?”

RIta laughs. “I think so. Maybe you’re right, and I won’t really know how I feel about it until my husband’s diaper is filling up with sludge and I realize that I’m going to have to wipe it all up.”

“I mean, assuming they let us…”

“Oh, they will,” Rita says confidently. “Of course they will. They may not even realize it yet, but they’re going to want this. This is going to be the greatest thing that ever happened to them.”

This, I can wholeheartedly agree with. They probably don’t know it yet. They might not even realize it when we get to have the big reveal of the nursery. But they’ll come around, and likely pretty quickly.

We form a loose schedule to follow for the evening: Come home from dinner. Drinks. Follow the men into the basement and unveil the new nursery. Diaper them. Feed them bottles and coddle them. Then comes the punishment. Sp*nking. Tying them up–I’m very curious about that spreader bar. We get the enema game going. Change some dirty diapers.

It all feels pretty tentative and best-case-scenario. We’re not accounting for resistance from the babies. Well…perhaps a good paddling helps to take care of that. Truth be told, I’m much more excited for that than I am about the prospect of changing a giant diaper.

All this to say–maybe I do know why I’m doing this with Rita.

Last night, rolling around in bed while trying to sleep, I queued up the video of Greg and Kent messing their diapers together–while Greg slept next to me. This time, my panties felt damp, and I sent my fingers between my legs to investigate for a while.

It’ll probably take a little more unpacking to figure out why I’m coming around on the infantile-husband fantasy. But it’s working for me.

We’ve got more work to do. We’ve got walls to paint. Rita wants to get some colorful foam padding for the floor. More shelves to put up. Some hanging harnesses, maybe.

We’re even tossing around the idea of taking some videos of our own. That’d probably attract a sizable audience, right? Two foolish babies caught by their wives? Made to live out all their fantasies in the new nursery?

*

Greg texts me: “I’m heading home from work. I just need to change and then we can go meet Rita and Kent for dinner.”

Poor Greg. Poor little baby Greg. He’s driving on the highway now. I’m imagining that the windows are down and the radio is turned up. He’s blissfully ignorant of how much Rita and I know. In fact, he’s probably having a little laugh over the fact that I proposed we go out to dinner with Rita and Kent in the first place–thinking that there’s no way that we know about his and Kent’s secret life.

He’s just hours away from being led into Kent’s basement. The new nursery.

I think back to my reaction when Rita showed me that video. Without being able to predict anything that would happen after, I still knew it was an important moment. I wonder if tonight will be similar for Greg–when he steps foot in the nursery, and realizes that not only is his secret out, but it’s been fully embraced.

I lose a bit of time. My hand seems to have slipped into my panties again, thinking about what’s to come. It’s the jostling of the front door’s handle that stirs me from my momentary distraction.

“Hey,” Greg says as he steps inside. “Ready for tonight?”

“Quite,” I say. “Are you?”