Painting Auntie's Barn, Part 2 of 3 [Tier 2 and 3 Exclusive] (Patreon)

Day 3

“Good morning, Ms. Holcomb,” Emile says.

I’m happy to see him smiling still. After yesterday, I was nervous that things had been pushed a little too far and he’d have a change of heart about allowing me near his infantile fantasies. Yet here is, looking like a little boy who only wants to please his Auntie.

“Good morning, Emile.”

His backpack–diaper bag–is thrown over his shoulder. Again, this brings me satisfaction. Our game is not yet over. Maybe it has yet to really begin.

“I’ve got a little more scraping to do today,” he says. “But I should be able to get to sanding by the end of the day.”

“I have no doubt you’re doing a very good job.”

“I’m, uh, taking my time,” he says, his earnest smile suggesting that he’s craving a little more of my approval.

“What a good boy.”

His cheeks flush red, yet he beams with pride.

“I went to the store last night and got a few things for the spare room,” I say. “Or, as I’m calling it now, the nursery.”

He mulls over my words aloud: “The…nursery?”

“Well, as I think I mentioned yesterday, it doesn’t see much use as a bedroom. It’s good for the room to have some purpose again, and so I thought it’d be best if we call the room what it is now.”

He nods.

“I wanted the nursery to feel more like…well, I didn’t want it to feel like just a spare bedroom,” I say. “I got some more supplies–things I thought a baby might need.”

I watch him swallow slowly as he nods. I can almost hear the gulp.

“I look forward to seeing it later,” he says. Perhaps not realizing the implication of that statement, he spins his wheels a little: “I mean…maybe I’ll just look at the room? Or…I’ll…”

“You can see it when you need to change your diaper,” I say, saying it for him.

“Yes, probably,” he says, laughing. “Thank you. I, uh, should probably get started.”

“Of course.”

“But…if you feel that you need to come and, uhm, check my diaper again–you know, because I’ll be working so hard–I think that, uh…”

“I think that’s an excellent idea,” I say. “You let Auntie worry about your diapers and you just concentrate on the barn.”

“Yes, thank you. Auntie.”

***

How soon is too soon?

I watch him from the deck with my cup of coffee. I’ve refilled the cup twice, and even after it's empty I continue to sit there, staring across the grass while I hold the mug. I want to check his diaper now.

I do my best to compose myself, deciding that at 11:00, I’ll check in on him and his diaper. That gives him about two hours, which seems like plenty of time to give me something worth checking.

Of course, this begs the question–if he does use his diaper, was it because he had to? Or was it because he wanted me to catch him in a dirty diaper? The answer probably doesn’t matter. I suspect that this curiosity is linked to a more recessed fear of mine that I like this budding arrangement more than he does.

I head across the lawn at about 10:45. A little earlier than I had planned, but there was just no way that I could stand waiting any longer.

I feel my dress billow in the wind as I approach him. Nursery supplies weren’t the only things I bought last night. For the first time in a long time, I invested in some new clothes. Dresses, mostly. Cute things that felt like something Auntie Nancy would wear and that little boys like Emile would want to see her wearing.

“How are things going this morning?” I ask.

I seem to have caught the poor boy by surprise as he quickly whips himself around from the barn, his eyes wide and skin white.

“Oh, uh…”

“I’m so sorry, did I just frighten you?” I ask.

“Well, no, but…”

No, it’s something else. I have nothing to base this on–call it Auntie’s intuition. I think I can guess as to what I’m interrupting.

“I was just stopping by to check on your diaper. But it looks like I might be interrupting you mid-stream?”

He sheepishly looks down at his feet. “I might have just…wet myself, yes.”

“Aw,” I coo. “There’s no reason to look so bashful about it. This is what babies do. And you are a baby, right?”

He offers a very small nod as he continues to look down. I step closer to him, lifting his chin with my hand so that we are looking eye-to-eye.

I ask again: “You are a baby, yes?”

“Y-yes, Auntie.”

“Go on, then. Show me what you’ve done in your diapers.”

“Yes, Auntie.”

It would be tempting to label his willingness as obedience, but I don’t believe that’s all it is. Yes, he wants to be a good obedient boy for Auntie. But he also just wants to show me his diaper. He wants to show someone–anyone–his diaper. I imagine that after years of having to hide his shameful secret, he’s exuberant to have this opportunity.

There’s still a little hesitancy in his movement. A few moments where he pauses, seemingly contemplating what he’s doing. But I say nothing and give him all the time he needs. Slowly but surely, he lets his shorts drop to the ground.

Once more I’m looking at his diaper. And, two-for-two, I’m looking at a soaking wet diaper–the stained padding sagging under him pathetically.

With a little less self-restraint, I’d be salivating.

“This one looks pretty soaked, dear.”

“I…might have wet it twice, Auntie.”

I love his continued use of ‘Auntie.’ I doubt I’ll ever get sick of hearing that.

“Twice? My word. I should’ve come to check your diaper sooner.”

He shrugs, his cheeks looking a little more pink than they were a moment prior.

“You can take a break from the barn,” I say. “You can head on over to the nursery. I’m worried you’ll get a diaper rash if your diaper isn’t changed now. And can you imagine how uncomfortable that would be while working?”

He nods again. “Yes, Auntie. I’ll change myself now.”

I think back to the day before last–just after I had found out about his baby-side. I had offered to help him with his diaper. He had rejected the offer, which wasn’t especially surprising at the time. But I wondered if enough had changed since then. Was he as eager to take the next step in this game as I was?

“I know my way around a diaper,” I say. “I’ve changed many other little nieces and nephews. So if you’d like some help, my offer still stands.”

He nods and shrugs at the same time. It doesn’t seem to be indifference, it seems more like: “I would very much like that, but I don’t think I can bring myself to ask.”

“Come with me,” I say, my hand stretching out towards him. “Auntie will take care of you.”

Without delay, he reaches out himself and puts his hand in mine. I lead him back towards the house, watching him step out of his shorts and leaving them behind. I grab his diaper bag as we walk past it together.

***

On top of the dresser in the guest room, where there were once a line of framed photos of old friends, relatives, and dogs, there’s now an assortment of baby-care supplies: baby wipes, baby powder, baby lotion, and I even got a tube of diaper rash ointment. On the floor next to the dresser was my all new Diaper Genie, which was just waiting for some dirty diapers to be shoved into it.

I had considered getting things like bottles, baby toys and jarred baby food, but opted not to for now. I had yet to see what the bigger picture looked like for the diapered Emile. Did he want to be treated like a baby, or did he just want to wear diapers? And just how much of a baby did he want to be?

I did buy a pacifier, but only because the idea of him suckling from a little dummy in his mouth was far too cute to pass up. For now, the pacifier was stashed away in one of the dresser drawers.

I have bigger plans for the room, of course. I also bought some paint–yellow and powder blue. Maybe that’ll be one of Emile’s projects this summer, if he wants to stick around after the barn is finished. The very thought of watching Emile waddle about the room, fixing up his own nursery, excites me far more than I can put into words.

“It’s not much yet,” I say as I pull him into the nursery, “but I think it’s a good start. Don’t you?”

“I do,” he says.

“May I open your bag?” I ask. “I’d like to see what you think is essential to bring with you.”

He nods, though his nervousness is noted.

I place the bag on the bed and open it up. Right off the bat, I find three more thick white adult diapers, still factory-folded.

“How many more diapers do you have at home?” I ask.

“About a pack and a half? Maybe, like, 18?”

“Well you’re welcome to store some here if you want. As many as you think are necessary.”

“Really? Thank you so much, Ms. Hol–...er, Auntie.”

“Of course,” I say. “Now, let’s see what else we got in here.”

I reach into the bag again, but I’m a little surprised by how little else there is. I pull out just a cell phone charger, a bottle of water, and a badly worn copy of Stephen King’s The Stand.

“That’s it?” I ask.

“Well…what else should there be?”

“For starters, don’t you have any baby wipes?”

“N-no,” he says, shaking his head.

“So, yesterday, when you came in here to change out of your wet diaper, you just…took off the wet one and put a new one on?”

He shrugs. “I guess so, yes.”

I shake my head, laughing to myself. “Do you see? This is why you need Auntie to care for you. You peed all over yourself and then just jumped right into a clean diaper? I bet you stunk something awful by the end of the day.”

He offers a small knowing nod.

“Onto the bed, Baby.”

He offers no refusal or rebuttal, he simply eases himself onto the bed on his back. His feet dangle off the end of the bed, and I pluck each of his shoes off before peeling his socks. He can have them all back when we’re done, of course, but I want to see his little feet wiggling like a baby’s while I change him.

There’s an energy about him that seems different now. Still a little nervous, but it's a different kind of nervous. He’s eager and excited. He can barely contain the pent up desire he’s harbored for who-knows-how-long.

“Has nobody changed your diaper before?” I ask.

“N-no,” he says, shaking his head. “Well…not since I was an actual baby.”

I laugh. “I’d argue that you’re an actual baby right now.”

Initially, it doesn’t seem all that different from changing a baby’s diaper–and I’ve changed many of those. Kayleigh, Ashlynn, Mason, Margot, Tyler, Mia, Gregory–many children have been in the care of Auntie Nancy before. I’ve been told I’m a natural too–usually followed up with: “So, when are you having children of your own?”

My answer, for a long time, was: “When the time is right,” but the older I got, the harder it was for people to accept that. Slowly, people just stopped asking me. Which was fine with me, if I’m being honest. The truth–the actual answer to their question–was far too complicated. Maybe even for me. I didn’t want a husband, I didn’t want a baby of my own, and I didn’t want to raise a child. I liked being by myself and having my own space. I like babies and I like taking care of them–but only when they belong to someone else.

And now, with someone else’s baby in front of me–on his back and in his diaper–I find myself wondering if this was what I wanted the entire time.

I begin peeling back the tapes of Emile’s diaper. With each tape I pull, I feel a little more excitement building in me, and I sense that he feels the same way. When I finally pull back the front of the diaper, there it is–his excitement, manifesting itself in the form of the hardened cock of a 19 year-old.

I’m thankful that I’ve never experienced this before in all my years of changing diapers. But I’m also thankful to be experiencing it now.

“I wasn’t expecting this,” I say, playfully running the back of my hand up his shaft. He shudders and wriggles, clearly loving the attention but having no clue how to process it.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I…I can’t help it.”

I bend over, leaning towards his face and place a single finger over his lips. “Shh. Silly baby. Auntie doesn’t mind. This is all very exciting, isn’t it?”

He nods.

“I’m very excited too.”

“A-are you?”

“Want to see for yourself?”

He nods again.

It’s the friskiest I’ve been in a bit. It might have been a year or two since I’ve been in a bed with someone else–and it’s certainly a first for that someone being in a diaper. I hike up my dress as far as I can and crawl over top of him. I stop only when my bottom is positioned right above his face.

“Do you see?” I ask. “Do you see how wet my panties are?”

It shouldn’t be too hard for him to see. Someone could probably see the wet spots on these gray cotton panties from the next state over.

I hear him moaning beneath me. “Yes.”

“Would you like a taste?”

“Yes,” he says quickly.

“But just a taste,” I say.

I reach down between my legs and pull aside my panties, exposing my dripping pussy. I lower myself further until I feel myself sitting atop his face. I am curious if he’s ever eaten out a woman before, but I keep the question to myself. He can show me what he knows. Or, he can learn.

I feel his tongue exploring. He’s being reserved and cautious. As much as I’d like for him to be a little more assertive, I let him go about it at his own pace.

“Just a taste,” I say again, pulling myself up and away from his mouth.

I can hear the faint muttering of disappointment below me, and it’s music to my ears. I want him to want more. He’ll get more, eventually. For now, I slowly reverse back across his body until I’m off of the bed again.

There’s his hard cock again. I can see the faint glimmer of the room’s natural light shining off a bead of moisture on the very tip of his head. I can’t resist it, of course, and I bob down to lick it off of him. It tastes perfect.

“I can’t put you in a diaper when you’re like this can I?”

He shakes his head.

I’m not sure how long it’s been since I’ve given a man a handjob. The older I’ve gotten, the less likely it’s been to appear in a sexual transaction. It’s either a skill that you don’t lose, or it’s an action that never quite qualifies as a ‘skill’ to begin with. You probably can’t fuck up touching a man’s cock.

He seems not to care. The more I fumble about, experimenting with where I want to put each of my hands, the more he moans. I try and follow his noises as a guide–a little game of ‘Hot and Cold’ to see what works best. When he finally does blow his load a minute or two later, my right hand is stroking the head of his cock while the other cups his balls. I make a mental note of this as my starting point for the next time.

“There we go,” I coo. “All done? Get it all out of your system?”

He nods again, a seemingly labored movement while he’s still awash in ecstasy.

“See, this is the good thing about baby wipes,” I say. “Now, I can wipe away all the tinkles on your skin and clean up this new little mess.”

He has no response to this, not that I expected him to. I let him reel in his refractory period while I clean him up. His manhood shrivels down to just about nothing as I wipe away the sticky remnants.

“Bottoms up,” I say. He may not have had his big diapers changed by an adult before, but he seems to know what is expected of him. Before the words have fully left my mouth, he’s kicked his feet into the air and has raised his ass for me so that I can thoroughly clean his undercarriage.

The old diaper is pulled out from under him, rolled up, and deposited into the Diaper Genie with a satisfying thunk. I pull a fresh diaper from the ones he brought with him today, and I unfold it before sliding it under his still-elevated bottom.

“Isn’t this better?” I ask. “Having someone do all this for you?”

He nods.

“Shall I change all of your diapers while you’re at my home?”

He nods again.

“You’re a good boy,” I say, dusting the inside of his diaper and behind with a light coat of baby powder.

The diaper’s front is pulled up through his legs and taped in place. I can see a marked difference between this diaper’s straight and tight application, as opposed to his more haphazardly-taped earlier diaper. I presume he can feel and see the difference for himself as well.

“There you are, then,” I say to him. “Run along now. Back to work you go. I’ll come fetch you when I’ve made some lunch.”

“Thank you,” he says, smiling as he sits up. I’ve never seen him look happier than he does now. He says it again: “Thank you, Auntie.”

Day 4

This morning, he arrives with a box.

“What have we here?”

“The rest of my, uhm, diapers,” he says, his face turning red.

I find it cute that even now, after days of me inspecting and even changing his diaper, he’s still bashful about just saying the word.

“You can put them in the nursery.”

“Yes, Auntie. Thank you for letting me keep them here.”

“Well, they belong here, don’t you think?”

He nods, smiling.

***

While he works on the barn, I’ve got my phone in my hand, and I’m doing some online shopping. His little diaper supply will certainly get us through a few days, but I suspect that we’ll be going through diapers more frequently as the summer goes on. We’ll perfect our routine. Diaper changes will become the norm. I’ll be giving the Diaper Genie a workout.

There’s a robust number of options in the adult diaper market, with a surprising amount seemingly designed with the fetish community in mind.

A number of options catch my eye. There’s a pretty pink diaper, in particular, that I linger on for a bit. A soft pastel pink with white and lavender designs on it. A little girl would be nice.

A future project, perhaps. For another baby. Because now that the box is opened, I don’t see myself closing it anytime soon. And Emile will be going back to college eventually, and then what?

I’ll need another baby.

I add the feminine diapers to my cart, deciding that I’ll probably be happy that I have them on hand later. Eventually.

I pick out two other styles–’Little Sluggers,’ with baseball-playing cartoon animals, and ‘Wheelz’ with silly tire track prints criss-crossing the thick padding. I order enough to last a while. A few weeks, maybe. Probably more than I actually need, but I have high hopes that they’ll see use.

The order is placed. I sit back in my chair again, watching Emile work. I do love watching that big bottom move about.

***

“Hello, Auntie.”

“I thought I’d bring you a glass of lemonade.”

“That was very kind of you.”

“And…well, I think that I should check your diaper while I’m here, don’t you?”

“Y-yes, I think that’s a good idea.”

He didn’t need directions from me anymore–he knew exactly what to do. With no further prompting, he let his shorts fall down to his ankles, exposing his obviously wet diaper.

“Reliably wet,” I say, reaching between his legs to gently squeeze the heavy padding.

“You always seem to know exactly when to check,” he says.

“It seems that way, doesn’t it? Maybe we should get you out of this and into a clean diaper. It already feels like you might have been waddling about in this one for longer than you should’ve.”

“Well…” His thought, whatever it is, doesn’t get any further than that. But it’s clear that he has something on his mind.

“Yes?”

“I was just thinking…”

“Emile, darling, I’ve changed your diaper. I’d hope that by this point you know you can say anything to me. Whatever it is, can we not drag it out too much? Just say what’s on your mind.”

“I was thinking about, you know, if I ever had to…” He pauses and takes a deep breath to center himself before starting again. “If I have to, uhm, poop? Would you rather I do that in the bathroom? Because I don’t know if that’s the sort of thing that you’d want to deal with or…”

“Is that what this is about?” I ask. “Do you have to poop?”

He shrugs, his face bright red from being so flustered. “I mean…maybe. I just…well, I wanted to be sure, just in case.”

“Do you want to make a messy diaper, baby?”

He kicks at the ground a little as he considers his answer. “I’ve done it before.”

“I’m sure you have. It’s what diapers are made for, yes?”

He nods.

“You’re sweet to ask,” I say. “I imagine there are other big babies who wouldn’t hesitate to load up their diapers without any care for what the person who changes them thinks.”

“If you don’t want to deal with that, Auntie, I’d understand.”

“I’m sure I’ve said it before, but I’ve changed many diapers in my aunt-ing career. And they’ve run the gamut from little dribbles to full-on blowouts. This is certainly a bigger scale, but it’s not all that different. Emile, I can assure you that I’ll be able to handle whatever you want to put in your diaper.”

“You’re sure, Auntie?”

“Positive.”

“Thank you.”

“So…do you have to go?” I ask. Do you need to make poopies in your diaper?”

His cheeks flare again as he takes a series of short, nervous, breaths. “M-maybe…”

“Because I wouldn’t want to change your diaper now if you’re just going to go and immediately dirty a new one.”

“I…I could probably do it,” he says. “I could use this one again. Before you change me.”

“Why don’t you do that,” I say. “Mess your diaper and then Auntie can get you all cleaned up.”

“Yes, Auntie,” he says. “But…it might take a while. I’ve never had to do it in front of anyone before.”

“If I go back to the house and leave you be, do you think you can do it?”

He nods.

“Very well. Why don’t you come back to the house when you’ve done your business in your diaper. And then we’ll get you changed into a new one. Does that sound good?”

“Yes, Auntie.”

***

I watch him from my chair on the deck. He attempts to be productive for a few more minutes, casually poking at the walls with some tools. But it’s clear–even from this distance–that his mind is somewhere else entirely.

Soon, he stops doing anything else and just stands there. Then, his legs bend a little so that he’s squatting.

My heart is racing. I don’t know exactly what is happening, but I can guess. I try to imagine what it sounds like as he’s filling his diaper. What it smells like.

He stays in this position for a while before finally standing straight again. He again returns to the barn wall, as if he was going to go back to work. But he doesn’t, he just sort of paces back and forth. His steps look a little more awkward now, and I suspect he’s accounting for the new weight of his diaper.

He glances towards the house once or twice. I think I can read his mind–he’s debating when he wants to head back for his diaper change. He’s working up the courage to face me with loaded pants. I’ll smell it all. See it all. I’m sure that’s a lot for him.

But I’m ready, and I can’t think of anything I’ve been more excited about in a long time.

Slowly, he begins to shuffle his way towards me.