Picky Eater (Patreon)

“Here comes the airplane!”

The spoon is guided through the air in a series of exaggerated loop-the-loops and spins. As a 25-year-old man, this shouldn’t delight me. But my inner 2-year-old seems to be in charge for this moment, and I feel an embarrassingly large smile spreading across my face as I watch her elaborate maneuvering of the spoon. I find it hard to believe that there’s anyone with a pulse who wouldn’t be thrilled by this air show.

All aircraft must land eventually, of course, and the end of the baby spoon plunges into its hangar–my mouth.

I have no idea what this flavor is. Maybe something…apple-y? Apples and…something else. Something else that I do not care for at all.

“What is that disgusted face for, mister?” she coos. “Do you not like your num-nums?”

I open my mouth to reply, but I quickly think better of it. When I’m a baby, I’m only allowed to use baby-talk. I’m still feeling the welts on my ass from the last time I tried to break that rule, and I’d rather not do it again.

I’ll play by the rules. “Nuh-uh,” I say. “Yucky.”

She’s never really said if she thinks I’m getting better with the baby-talk or not. I think I’ve come a long way since the beginning. I feel like I have a better idea of what words I need to skip over in a sentence. Which letters in a word I should be slurring over. The tone and cadence for my infantile speech.

“Aww, you don’t like it?” she asks.

I shake my head.

“Well, that’s too damn bad. You’re going to eat this, or else.”

I don’t know what ‘or else’ entails, but I’m not entirely sure I want to find out, either. I think I’ve reached the quota for punishments this week. There was my paddling for using adult-talk while in a diaper the other day. And the paddling I got for reaching into my diaper to play with myself. And the paddling I got for lying about not having made a stinky in my diaper.

One more paddling, and I think my ass would just fall off of my body.

And so I obediently open my mouth, signaling that I’m ready for another heaping spoonful of vaguely-apple-flavored mush.

“That’s a good boy,” she says. “Here comes another airplane.”

I can do nothing but watch the spoon twirl through the air again. It’s still entertaining to me, though slightly less so now that I know the taste of the goop that comes at the end of this air show.

My body is stuck in place, by design. We spent a good amount of money for this experience–a custom-made adult-sized high chair, complete with locking straps for both my shins and wrists. Even if I wanted to run away from this terrible food, there would be no escape.

Her spoonful of goop lands in my mouth again. It’s even worse than I remember it being just seconds earlier. It’s revolting–it tastes like a basketful of vegetables that had been left in the sun for a week before being pureed in a blender, mold and all.

I really want to swallow it for her, but I just can’t do it. My body is literally incapable of letting this foul-tasting paste get any further into my body. I open my mouth so that it can ooze out, a disgusting gel of baby food and saliva that seeps down my chin and drips onto the wooden tray of the high chair.

“That’s not eating the food, baby,” she says, her hands mounted on her hips.

Again, my mouth opens, ready to explain how badly I want to eat the food, but that I just can’t. But the nerves in my bottom remind me that I can’t physically take another paddling, and so I just close my mouth.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

“Me no like,” I babble, hoping it sounds as infantile to her as it does to me.

“Well,” she says. “Let’s see. I’m the one making all the money anymore, right? I’m the one who still goes to work so that I can come home and take care of my husband who has been reduced to a pathetically overgrown toddler, yes?”

I slowly nod, sensing the direction this is going.

“So if it’s my money that’s keeping you in diapers and baby food, then I think it’s only fair that you eat whatever the hell it is that I try to feed you. Am I making myself clear?”

I nod again.

“I will not tolerate any of this food going to waste.”

She places the glass jar down on the high chair’s tray, revealing its flavor to me for the first time: apples and avocado. Who on earth decided that this was a good combination?

Her spoon is at my chin, scooping up the spit-up remnants of the food that I couldn’t swallow before shoveling it right back into my mouth again. I can’t decide if it tastes worse because I had already expelled it from my mouth once or because I actually know what it is now. But the answer is irrelevant, because all that’s important is that it tastes vile.

I swallow it begrudgingly, using up all the energy I can muster to allow it to pass down my throat.

“Is it going to be like this for the whole jar?” she asks?

I’d love to shake my head and promise that I wasn’t going to give her a hard time for the rest of the meal–but I just can’t do it. I’m not sure I could take another spoonful of that toxic gunk, let alone the rest of a jar of it. Instead, I just shrug.

“Is it that bad?” she asks.

I nod.

“Well your feedback is appreciated,” she says, laughing to herself. “Maybe I won’t buy this particular flavor again.”

I sigh in relief. It’s rare that I get a victory these days.

“But,” she continues. “I can’t exactly throw away the rest of this jar, can I?”

I don’t react at all, terrified of where she’s going with this. I thought we just landed on the fact that I despised this particular flavor.

“Some other little baby would love to have this jar of food,” she says. “And think of all those poor babies who have mothers that can’t afford food at all, right? And yet I’m supposed to just throw this mostly un-eaten jar into the trash? You can’t possibly expect me to do that.”

I sigh through my nose, unsure of how to respond to this.

“You’re just going to have to suffer through this,” she says with a casual shrug. “I know you think it’s gross, but all you have to do is finish this jar. You can do that, right?”

And when she puts it like that–yeah, maybe she’s not asking all that much. It’s just one jar of baby food. If an actual baby can eat it, then surely I can choke it down too.

I offer a little nod, signaling that I’m ready to continue.

“Good boy,” she coos. “Look! Here comes another airplane!”

A new spoonful of pink-ish brown sludge spun through the air. I was less impressed by these aerial maneuvers–all I could focus on was the unpleasant taste I’d experience once the spoon entered my mouth. But I try to remain strong. Just swallow it. That’s all you have to do. No matter how bad it tastes, no matter how gross the texture–you just swallow. That’s all there is to it.

Seems easy enough.

But then the spoon makes its landing in my mouth, and my tastebuds are again assaulted by the offensive taste. I try so hard to just let it slide down my throat, but my body won’t allow it.

I spit it up again.

I can feel my butt cheeks clenching inside of my damp diaper–already sensing another paddling coming.

“Really?” she asks. “You’re not going to just eat it?”

I shake my head. I just can’t do it–no matter how badly I want to.

“Fine,” she says.

Fine is never the word I want to hear her say. Because fine never, actually, means ‘fine.’ She’s frustrated with me, which means that there’s a punishment coming. I just don’t know what that punishment is yet.

To my surprise, she loosens the straps around my ankles and wrists. She then lifts up the tray to the oversized high chair. Apparently, I’m free?

“Go on,” she says. “Get down.”

I step down from the high chair’s seat slowly. I feel extremely apprehensive. I know her well enough to know that there’s going to be some sort of punishment, I’m just not sure what it’s going to be yet.

“You are going to eat this baby food,” she says. “One way or another. And that–just then? That was the easy way, me nicely spoon-feeding it to you. But if you couldn’t handle that, then we’re going to have to do it the hard way.”

I have no idea what the ‘hard way’ is, but I’m already certain that I’m not going to like it.

“Bend over,” she says.

I open my mouth again–another foolish moment where I think I'm actually going to audibly protest her command. No–there’s no way in hell I’m going to make things any worse for myself. I close my mouth, choosing to just bend over.

She walks behind me, the jar of baby food in one hand and the small baby spoon in the other. I feel her pulling open the back of my diaper.

“A little wet, baby?”

I nod slightly. I wet myself just before she beckoned for me to get up in the high chair in the first place. The diaper is far from soaked, but it’s thoroughly damp.

“That’s a shame,” she says.

I can hear the spoon rattling on the sides of the jar. At first, I’m not really sure what to make of the sound–it sounds like she’s loading up another spoonful–but she’s nowhere near my face.

That’s when I feel it–the plop of something soft and mushy dropping into the back of my diaper. It’s the baby food. She’s spooning the disgusting mush into the back of my diaper.

“I have to be certain,” she says, pausing mid-sentence to scrape at the jar with the spoon some more, “that I get every single drop out.”

I’m not entirely sure where she’s going with this. For all her talk about not wasting baby food, it seems like a little bit of a waste to just empty it into my diaper. Which only leads me to believe that this is not it. We’ve only just begun.

She squeezes the bottom of my diaper, forcing the squishy food against the skin of my butt cheeks. “Do you like that?”

It pains me to admit that I do. But she knows this, of course.

We’ve learned a lot about each other in the months spent playing this game. She, for example, learned that I’m most happy with a giant and disgusting load in my diaper. And I’ve learned that she’s most happy when I’m humiliating herself for her pleasure.

“Does the naughty little baby have a mess in his diaper?” she coos in a mocking tone.

My cock springs to life in the front of my diaper as I feel her pushing around the mushy baby food in the back of it. I wish that this didn’t turn me on as much as it does, but I’m sure that she was counting on this.

“See, this isn’t so bad,” she says, playfully poking at the diaper. “I’d be happy to change a thousand of your messy diapers if they were filled with food instead of stinkies.”

It’s not quite the same as having a messy diaper, but it’s close. It lacks that humiliating scent, nor does it leave me feeling completely infantilized by sitting in my own filth. But, feeling the lumpy mush get pushed around the inside of my diaper by her, it certainly reminds me of my mess’s more tactile qualities.

“Oh?” she asks, reaching around to feel the firm lump in the front of the diaper. “Are you enjoying this?”

The answer is incredibly embarrassing, but I give it anyway–knowing that it’ll make her happy while adding to the level of exciting shame that I feel for myself.

“That’s what I thought would happen,” she says. “Naughty little boy sure does love his diapers being loaded, doesn’t he?”

I offer an enthusiastic nod.

“Don’t you think we should take care of that?” she asks.

“Huh?” I say. The word–more a sound, really–just pops out of my mouth.

Her hand glides up and down the bulge of my erection in the diaper. She doesn’t do this very often. In fact, she’s recently gone out of her way to minimize how often she gets me off–putting much more emphasis on all the things that I could be doing for her. And so, while I’m happy to feel her rubbing the front of my diaper, I also don’t trust her intentions.

“Oh come now,” she says, perhaps sensing the tension in my body. “I know you like this, right? Don’t you want Mommy to make you feel good?”

I take in a deep breath and let it out slowly, feeling my body loosen up some as I do. I’m not entirely sure what’s happening here, but maybe it doesn’t matter. I’ll enjoy the moment and worry about the consequences later.

Her hand seems to have a tighter grip on my shaft now through the diaper, and she’s working it like a champ. A few months ago, it would have taken her a long time to get me to climax in my diaper just by rubbing the front of it–the thick padding blocking most of her hard work from reaching my skin. But it’s been an especially dry few months in the bedroom and I could count the number of times I’ve been allowed to get off on one hand. I suspect a good gust of wind could probably get me off right now if I stood outside without pants on.

I can see the sadistic look of glee in her eyes now. It makes me nervous, but not enough to stop her.

“How is that?” she asks.

I come dangerously close to talking out loud–asking if she would consider slipping her hand into my diaper to finish the job. For one, I know better than to say anything aloud. Too, she’s not going to put her hand into my mushy diaper–even if it is just baby food.

Speaking of…

“Sit on the ground,” she says.

“Buh–” It’s not really a word, but it is a noise of hesitation.

“I won’t tell you to do it again,” she says. “If you want me to keep stroking your diapey, you’re going to sit down.”

I nod, lowering myself down towards the carpet.

“And maybe put your thumb in your mouth,” she adds. “Maybe then you won’t be so tempted to try and talk back.”

My thumb slides into my mouth just as my bottom makes contact with the carpet. I may not have pushed a load of my own into the diaper, but it’s hard to tell the difference between that and the baby food. It’s a similar sensation–the soft mass spreading and squishing beneath me as the bottom of the diaper flattens beneath me.

“That’s a good baby,” she coos. “Ready for me to continue?”

I nod, but she probably doesn’t actually need any sort of response from me.

Her hand works the front of my diaper again, sliding up and down my padded shaft. There’s a new element to the pleasure now–one of my own doing. As her hand caresses me, the rest of my body is gently shifting back and forth on the slippery sludge in my diaper. Between the two of us, we quickly find a rhythm and she strokes me at the same pace that I’m sliding inside of my diaper.

Regardless of whether or not I’ve been in a sexual drought the last few months, this rhythm is working for me. All it takes is a minute, maybe less, for me to reach my limit.

“Oh my,” she says, sitting back a little to watch my body convulse. “Has someone had enough?”

I keep my thumb lodged in my mouth–I’m even biting on it–as my body shivers in ecstasy, my sticky deposit squirting into the diaper.

“That’s a good boy,” she says, standing up. “Seems you’re better at wriggling around in your dirty diaper than you are at eating, hmm?”

I remove my thumb from my mouth as I nod. I’m not completely present while recovering from what she had just made me do, but I’m present enough.

“Now then,” she continues. “With that out of the way, we need to get some food in your belly. You didn’t eat all of your lunch.”

I feel a wave of relief wash over me, thinking about how she’d need to open a new–and hopefully tastier–baby food jar after having spilled the rest of the last jar down my diaper.

But she doesn’t reach for a new jar. Instead, she starts to untape my diaper.

I sputter a few more almost-words out of confusion: “Wh-wha…”

“I meant what I said. This food will not be wasted.”

I can’t even begin to wrap my head around what she expects to happen here. The food is already wasted–and she’s the one who wasted it.

But my diaper is off and in her hands. I feel a thin layer of baby food still clinging to my ass cheeks, but I can see that most of it is still in the diaper–spread and smooshed about the padding.

She throws it down on the ground in front of me, and it makes a light SPLAT noise.

“There you go,” she says. “Your lunch is still there.”

“Buh…”

“Do you need me to explain to you what I want?” she asks.

I think I know what she wants me to do. But because I don’t want that to be true, I hesitate–hoping that if I wait just another second or two, she’ll reveal that the truth is actually something else.

“You’re going to get on your hands and knees,” she says, “and you’re going to lick that diaper clean.”

Again, I come extremely close to responding. My mouth is open and I make a concerned grunt that might have blossomed into a word if given the chance.

“I don’t care if you like it or not,” she says. “You’re going to do it.”

And she’s right. I am going to do it. Because the soothing cool of the baby food on my blistered ass serves as a reminder of what will happen if I don’t.

Still, I don’t want to do it. It’s bad enough to have to eat that baby food again–regardless of the vessel that it's in now. But it’s not just baby food in that diaper anymore. It’s sweat. Urine. C*m.

“Tick tock,” she says. “Hurry up and finish your lunch or I’m going to have to fetch the paddle.”

This is motivation enough. I get down on my hands and knees, crawling forward a foot or two to the open diaper on the ground. Honestly, I’m not entirely sure what she expects me to get from this–half of the baby food is still caked on my ass, and the other half seems ground into the padding of the diaper.

Of course, that’s probably the point.

“Lick it clean,” she says. “And I’ll tell you when it’s clean.”

Deep breath. I can do this.

I lean forward, slowly steering my face towards the open diaper. The scent of its contents hits me sooner than I expect, and I come close to retching. I hold it together, and when I’m within range, my tongue extends from my mouth, ready to start this shameful exercise for her pleasure.

“Good boy,” she encourages. “Go on. Lick it all up for me.”

Something changes in my brain–a flip is switched, maybe. Suddenly, I decide that I’m not going to suffer through this like a punishment. I’m going to savor this moment out of respect for her.

Does my diaper taste good? No, probably not. Any other time, I’d likely want to vomit if a taste like this hit my taste buds. But I’m in that lustful haze–that place where I allow myself to do humiliating things without a second thought–and suddenly my face is in the diaper, slurping and snarfling like a pig at a troth.

I lose track of time. Maybe it’s just minutes, or maybe it’s a lot longer than that, but my tongue has been in every nook and cranny of the padding–likely multiple times. I’m still picking up traces of that shameful taste with every pass, and so I keep going.

“It looks like you’ve cleaned out your diaper pretty well,” she says, staring down at me as I remain hunched over the slobbery garment.

I nod, grateful for her approval.

“Now then,” she continues. “How about dessert?”

Dessert? I’m simultaneously terrified and excited.

Without missing a beat, I watch as she sticks her thumbs into the sides of her yoga pants before pushing them, and her black panties, down her slender legs. I’m even more uncertain of where this is going.

“Scooch back, won’t you?” she asks, shooing me away with her hands. Still on my hands and knees, I skitter backwards, feeling like a threatened crab.

She positions herself over the diaper, squatting so that her bare bottom hovers just over the diaper. She takes a deep breath, exhaling loudly–melodically. Whatever she’s doing, it seems to bring her great pleasure to be doing it.

I see it at the same moment I hear it–she’s pissing into the diaper. A heavy stream pours into the already-abused padding. I can’t see the inside of the diaper from this vantage point, but I can imagine it–the heavy saturation spreading out in all directions from the ground zero of her stream.

“Come here,” she says.

I crawl to her as she turns her body, directing her dripping bottom towards my face.

“Lick me clean.”

I don’t need to be told twice. My face is in her pussy from behind as she bends forward, swallowing every drop I can find.

“Now now,” she coos. “Don’t get carried away.”

I back up from her a little, stopping myself before I get into another feeding frenzy.

She points down to the diaper after pulling up her pants. “There. Clean it again.”

There’s no hesitation on my end, I’m already scrambling back towards the diaper so I can suck out the treat she’s left for me.

Later, when it seems like an acceptable time to talk again, I might mention that I did not care for the ‘apples and avocados’ flavor of baby food. Or, maybe, I’ll advise that I’d prefer all my meals being served out of my own diaper.

I’m certain she’d be fine with that.